Spiders from the Shadows

TWENTY-FOUR


Four Miles West of Chatfield, Twenty-One Miles Southwest of Memphis, Tennessee


He lay with his eyes open, listening to Caelyn breathing, wanting to reach out and touch her but not wanting to wake her up. Through the bedroom window, the stars formed a huge, bright saucer that stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, a myriad points of light. The moon had waned to hardly more than a sliver on the southwestern horizon, but there was just enough light to allow him to see as he slipped out of bed and moved quietly toward the bedroom door.

The first thing he wanted was to get clean. After years in the ickiest of the Ickistans, it had become an obsession, and he was always aware of dangers of bacteria and disease now. The old farm was blessed with several springs that had been used to water the small herd of cattle, and over the past couple of days his father-in-law had rigged a holding tank, curtain, and showerhead in some trees out past the hay field. He grabbed a towel and slipped down the stairs, out the back door, and across the porch, where he stopped and took a deep breath, drawing the cold air into his lungs. Soon it would be morning and it was chilly, maybe only 40 degrees Fahrenheit, but dry and clear. As he sniffed, he smelled smoke, its acidic fragrance tingeing the air. Campfires. The people from the cities were getting closer. Hordes of them, some of them camped together, some of them trying to make it on their own, some in families, some with others, some forming larger groups with guns, some with money trying to buy their way with paper bills nobody valued anymore. They had abandoned the cities and were moving through the country now, searching for food and water.

What would a good man do to save his children once he realized they were going to starve to death? What would a mother do to help her infant while holding her baby’s weakening body in her arms? He sniffed the smoky air and wondered, then headed across the grass.

The water from the spring was ice-cold but invigorating, sending the adrenaline surging through his blood. He lathered up, rubbing the cake of soap against his body, rinsed in the icy water, sputtered from the cold, then lathered and rinsed again. Feeling better, he dressed in his military fatigues and headed back to the house.

The sun was just breaking across the horizon when he got back, the eastern sky having turned from deep purple to pink. He’d already positioned his gear on the back porch; now he pulled his heavy pack over to him and sat down on the steps. Opening the pack, he extracted its contents and laid the equipment out to check and organize it. He started with the clothes: two sets of camouflage fatigues; a heavy jacket; thick socks, reinforced in the toes and heels; three sets of gloves, one insulated, one heavy leather, one a pair of fire-resistant Nomex™ that an Air Force pilot had traded him for a set of Iraqi playing cards; a rain poncho; a knit hat that covered his ears; and another with a hood that snapped onto his military jacket. The clothes were clean, having been thoroughly hand-washed the day before. He folded them carefully, then rolled them into tight bundles and packed them into the zippered compartments on both sides of the pack. His leather boots were drying on the porch from the waterproofing he’d applied the night before. He checked them, satisfiedI want to be like you fell silenting the reached, then pulled them on. Next he extracted his military gear: knee and elbow pads (considered by many soldiers to be the most important pieces of gear they had), a GPS receiver (with encryption to prevent the user’s location from being triangulated by enemy forces), emergency satellite locator, protective eyewear, first aid kit, sunglasses, whistle, fire starter, space blanket, pencil and tiny notebook, two heavy-duty trash bags, chemiluminescent sticks, wire saw, fifty feet of nylon webbing, Ensolite™ pad, and a signal mirror. On top of the pile of gear was a six-inch knife, razor-sharp, along with his own custom-built M1911 .45 pistol as well as a military-issued 9 mm Glock. Already strapped to his leg was the tiny pearl-and-plastic .22 pistol that he’d been given by a buddy in New York City the day before his first deployment to Afghanistan. The pistol wouldn’t kill anything unless shot at short range, but it had great sentimental value and, like many soldiers, he was suspicious enough to believe the Saturday Night Special had become one of his good-luck charms.

Other gear would follow once he got back to his unit: an HK416 Delta-issued assault rifle, lighter and smaller than the older M-4s and M-16s, more reliable and easier to shoot, especially in close quarters. When he got in-country again, he’d pick up another AK-47, partly to blend in with the locals, but mostly to take advantage of the plentiful supply of ammunition. Before leaving his unit he would also take up his Interceptor Body Armor; a Laser Target Location System, which would provide both day and night capability to locate targets; miniature binoculars; and an Improved Spotting Scope with a tripod and a monocle lens that would attach to his helmet and fit over his right eye, allowing him to see a digital image of his own men superimposed over a satellite-powered map. The same monocle could also be attached to his weapon, allowing him, in effect, to shoot around corners without exposing himself.

It was a boatload of equipment, all in all. And though it was designed to be as light as possible, allowing the soldier to fight and move more quickly, taken together it weighed more than sixty pounds.

He had just finished checking, cleaning, and packing his combat gear when the back door opened and Caelyn looked out. He glanced over his shoulder at her, the Glock in one hand, a velvet-soft cleaning pad in the other. She looked out at him, saw the backpack and guns, then frowned and stepped onto the porch.

“You’re getting ready to go?” she said.

“Not really, honey. I’m just keeping things in shape.”

“No, babe, you don’t have to try to hide it. You’re getting ready.”

“Not getting ready. Just making sure that I’ll be ready. There’s a difference.”

If there was a difference, she didn’t see it. She looked away. The sun was just above the tree line and the morning was growing warmer.

Bono slipped the pistol into the backpack, knowing it made her uncomfortable. “Ellie still asleep?” he asked.

Caelyn nodded, then knelt on the wooden porch and cuddled up behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest. “You smell nice,” she whispered.

He leaned back against her. “It was a little nippy, but the shower sure felt good.”

She breathed, her nose pressed against his hair. “I’m going to go and take a shower, too.”

He turned and smiled at her. “If you wait a couple of hours the water in the holding tank will heat up to thirty-six degrees or so.”I want to be like youtro finger

Caelyn shivered. “That bad?”

“Wait until you feel it.”

“OK, don’t come running if you hear me scream.”

“I’ll know you just turned the water on.”

She laughed, then put her lips to his hair and pulled gently. It was long, black and smelled like soap. “I don’t know about you Special Forces guys. What do they call you now? Last I heard, it was Cherokees. Look at you, baby. Long hair. Never clean-shaven. Dark sunglasses and lots of ugly gear. If I’d wanted to marry a Hell’s Angel, I would have stayed in California.”

Bono lifted his jaw. “You should see me on my Hog. It makes me sexy, baby.”

She laughed and pulled his hair again.

They heard it at the same time, the rotors first, then the whine of the twin jet turbine engines. It came in low, barely over the tree line, the scream of the engines beating on their ears, the massive black rotors sending miniature shockwaves that thumped against their chests. It swooped over the house, then rolled quickly onto its side while slowing, completed the 180-degree turn, and came to a hover over the grass in the backyard. Bono was already standing. Caelyn struggled to his side and grasped his arm, her other hand shielding her eyes against blowing leaves and sand. The Army Blackhawk settled to the grass, the thick, black tires bouncing lightly. Then the cabin door shot open.

Caelyn gripped her husband’s hand more tightly. “No, baby, no!” she called above the roar of the blades and engines. “Not yet! Not now! You’re supposed to have more time!”

Bono felt her fingernails digging into his arm. He kept his eyes on the helicopter. The pilots didn’t roll the engines back, though they’d taken the pitch out of the blades, and the sand and blowing debris weren’t biting their eyes anymore. A soldier jumped out of the rear cabin and started running toward him. Bono recognized the face and long strides. Sam ran up and stopped before him.

Caelyn was panicked. She leaned toward her husband, almost falling into his arms. “No, no, not yet!” she cried as she beat her fists lightly against his chest. “Not now!” She put her arms around him and held him closer. “You can’t leave me here. I don’t know what I’ll do. How am I going to protect Ellie? What are we going to do?”

The back door to the house swung open and Greta was standing there, holding her fingers in her ears. Ellie hid behind her grandmother’s knees, then ran out and jumped off the porch into her father’s arms. He barely caught her with Caelyn holding him so tight.

Bono held his daughter while feeling Caelyn’s weight as she leaned against his shoulder, her tears wet against his cheek. He stared at Sam, who took off his dark glasses to look at him.

“What are you doing here?” Bono shouted.

Sam nodded to the helicopter. “Something’s come up.”

“What something? We had two weeks.”

“Not anymore.”

Bono nodded to the farmhouse behind him. “I can’t go now,” he yelled.

Sam shook his head.