“Aonghas! We’ve got to help him.”
Aonghas kept his foot all the way down, overriding the eco function that was supposed to improve the Range Rover’s miserable gas efficiency, overriding the computer in the engine that wanted to shift to a higher gear. He cranked the wheel and passed uncomfortably close to a middle-aged woman wearing a floral dress that looked like it belonged in the museum of “things from the 1970s that you wouldn’t ever want to wear in public.” Thuy was turned and looking out her window, and Aonghas, wrestling the steering wheel, stole a glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t see the Indian man anymore, but the people who were outside near the entranceway seemed to be screaming, flailing their arms. He could see the black balls—spiders, he knew even without being able to make out the details that they were spiders—moving and jumping and crawling on people. One woman’s face was streaming blood and she was clawing at her cheek.
“Oh my god.” Thuy turned back in her seat. “What the shit?”
“Buckle up,” he said. He lifted his foot off the gas and tapped the brakes, dropping from fifty kilometers an hour to thirty so he could take the corner at the end of the row of cars. With his foot off the gas for that brief instant, the Range Rover shifted gears. The tires gave the beginnings of a screech before he straightened it out.
By the time he came to the exit he was doing seventy. He didn’t even think of touching the brakes. He took the wooden arm off the exit gate.
As he turned right onto A866, Thuy spoke again. “Those were . . . those were spiders, right?”
“I think so,” Aonghas said. “Yes.”
“And they came out of his chest and stomach.”
“Yes.”
“The Indian man.”
“I suppose he could have been Pakistani.”
“He could have been Pakistani. Yes. I suppose.”
“But probably not,” Aonghas said.
“No. Probably not.” She was quiet for a few seconds. “That really happened?”
“I’m afraid so,” Aonghas said.
“And?”
“And I write mysteries for a living,” he said. “All I’m doing is connecting the dots.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Thuy scooted on the seat until she was turned to face him. He was driving the speed limit now, since he didn’t want to get pulled over, and those things didn’t seem like they could keep pace with a car. He risked looking at her. She reached out and touched his cheek.
“Okay,” she said. “That was impressive. You just reacted.”
“I’m not normally like that,” he said. “In fact, I don’t think a girlfriend has ever called me impressive.”
“Well, I’m not your girlfriend anymore. So what are we doing now? Where are we going?”
“Back to Càidh Island,” he said.
“What about my flight to Edinburgh?”
They passed a house with a small plastic toddler slide in the front. There was a part of Aonghas that wanted to stop and bang on the door and yell at the family to run, to get the hell out of there, but he didn’t stop. He kept driving. “Thuy,” he said, “even if your flight wasn’t canceled, we’re getting out of here for now. Think about what we’ve been listening to on the radio. That video they keep talking about. I mean, we haven’t seen it, but if the video is anywhere near as bad as it sounds, and if the pictures they’re talking about are real—and now this, well, this . . . It seems like . . .”
“And China.”
“China?”
“You don’t think they’re connected?”
“Why would they be connected?”
“I don’t know,” Thuy said. “But don’t you think?”
Aonghas was quiet for a second, and then he turned on the radio and tuned in to the BBC. They were talking about Los Angeles.
It sounded terrifying.
The CNN Center,
Atlanta, Georgia