Los Angeles, California
Andy Anderson never thought he’d be pleased to have his dog take a shit on the kitchen floor, but all things considered, he was happy not to take Sparky out for an early-morning walk. He’d spent the night huddled under the covers with the dog, listening to the sounds of sirens and gunshots and screaming. But for the past hour, it had been quiet.
He decided to risk it. He clipped the leash to Sparky’s collar, gingerly opened the door, and stepped out onto the walk. The sun came down unfiltered, but there was a nice breeze to cut the heat. He took a few more steps until they were on the sidewalk. Sparky seemed unconcerned, so Andy decided to walk past a few houses. Nobody was out, though he could see a station wagon that had smashed against a tree partway down the block, and past that, two lumps in the middle of the street. He started to walk closer but then, realizing what the lumps were, stopped. The breeze gusted into a stiff wind, and he heard something skitter and bounce behind him.
He stumbled and twisted, trying to turn, knowing he’d made a dumb mistake, that the spiders were still out there, but it was nothing. Just a few leaves skating across the pavement. One of them landed against his shoe and he realized it wasn’t a leaf. It was a dead spider. A husk. He looked around him more carefully. There were carcasses everywhere.
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Mike had never seen so many uniforms in one place. As near as he could tell, every cop, fireman, EMT, National Guardsman, and federal agent in three states was painstakingly searching each and every inch in the two square miles surrounding where Henderson’s jet had crashed. But so far? Zip. Nada. Nothing. Just the three egg sacs from the warehouse, and those were already in insectariums and winging their way to Washington and Melanie’s lab.
He double-checked with the bureau chief that he was good to go, told Leshaun to head home and get some rest, and started driving north.
American University,
Washington, DC
And there it was, in the insectarium at the lab. An egg sac. Chalky looking, a fresher version of the one that had been sent from Peru. She wanted to put her hand in, to feel it, to make sure it was as cool as she expected it to be, but there were still two spiders alive and moving around the insectarium. The rest were dead. The two live ones didn’t have the markings, but they were big—bigger than the dead ones—and after what had happened with Bark, she was keeping the fucking lid closed. There were more egg sacs coming, from the microsite in Minneapolis and from the giant brood in Los Angeles, plus a sampling of dead spiders from all over the world. Manny promised he had jets scrambling everywhere to get her what she needed.
But it didn’t matter. She’d figured it out.
It was worse than she expected. Much, much worse.
Alex Harris had called it: they were fucked.
Càidh Island, Loch Ròg,
Isle of Lewis, Outer Hebrides
Aonghas put his hand on Thuy’s shoulder. She was sipping a cup of tea and pretending to read a mystery. A rather inferior mystery, in Aonghas’s opinion, but he knew he was biased. Not that Thuy was actually reading it. She was doing the same thing he was, which was keeping part of his attention on the BBC and part on looking through the windows at the old man walking circles around the rock.
Desperation, California
Gordo was pretty sure Amy had thrown the last round of Catan. Fred never won, and he seemed extraordinarily pleased with himself, but they were all glad for the distraction.
Shotgun tapped his tablet and changed the music to Lyle Lovett while Gordo filled a bucket with ice and beer. Amy and Fred reset the game. In the corner, Claymore let out small moans in his sleep, his legs twitching, running from something in his dreams.
The CNN Center,
Atlanta, Georgia
“I don’t know, Teddie.” Don played the loop again. “I don’t think we can go with it yet. It’s barely been twenty-four hours since Los Angeles got quiet, and it’s time to start thinking about stories of the aftermath. We’ve got dead spiders everywhere. People want to see positive stories. Stories of survival. It’s over.”
“Come on,” she said to her boss. “You can’t tell me you don’t see the pattern?”
He shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s just . . . What’s it mean?”
She let her chair rock back. He was the only real boss she’d ever had, and he’d told her to go for it, but she knew this was a little out there. Still. She could feel it. She was right. “They aren’t moving randomly. Like stupid bugs.”
Don hit the button again, the loop playing across the screen once more. “Okay. But what does it mean?”
“They’re hunting.”