Supernatural: Night Terror (10 page)

He leaned into a left turn and entered the parking lot of the first structure. To his right, the beige one- and two-story buildings presented dark lobbies behind Plexiglas doors with official office hours posted in the form of black stencils on the glass or on freestanding message boards. To his right, beyond the parking islands, grassy mounds rose to vinyl privacy fencing. For Dufford, taking the shortcut back to his townhome instilled the claustrophobic sensation of running through a long tunnel.

A two-lane entranceway adjoined the next block of offices without providing any street exit. At regular intervals, signs were posted discouraging through traffic. Pedestrians were limited to narrow grass-covered gaps between clusters of connected buildings. The layout discouraged street and foot traffic for anyone without official business or a medical appointment. In the evening, hourly patrol car sweeps deterred loitering teenagers and would-be vandals.

But a lot can happen in an hour.

So focused was he on maintaining his brisk pace that several moments passed before Dufford noticed the thin layer of mist that puffed and swirled around his running shoes. Because he turned his attention to the unusual phenomenon, he failed to hear the padding sound coming up swiftly behind him until it was almost too late. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he had a premonition someone was about to jump him.

Being mugged while jogging was something he often worried about, especially since he carried no wallet while exercising, relying on the emergency contact bracelet he wore in case of an accident. A mugger faced with a penniless victim was likely to react with extreme prejudice. Another reason he avoided deserted sections of town. But he couldn’t have been less prepared for his attacker, not in his wildest imaginings.

As he whirled around, raising a forearm for protection from a blow he was certain was imminent, he stared in horror at the monstrous shape bearing down on him. Its body was the size of a minivan, each of its eight red-banded legs as thick as a fire hose.

One part of his science-teacher brain identified the giant spider as a Mexican red-kneed tarantula while another part rationalized that it couldn’t survive at that extreme size—it would be crushed under its own weight. But somehow it
did
exist and it was chasing him. The most primitive part of his brain triggered his flight response.

Unfortunately, he had effectively run himself to near exhaustion before the threat had materialized. His heart raced wildly, he had a stitch in his side, and his legs felt like blocks of wood fastened awkwardly to his hips. He’d never felt closer to sixty years of age before.

He spun on his heel and veered to the right, narrowly avoiding a swipe by one of the creature’s hairy front legs. But one of the retractable claws at the tip of the leg tore through his soaked sweatshirt and caused him to stumble. Catching his balance on the round cement base of a parking lot lamppost, he placed the vertical obstacle between himself and the enormous spider—and immediately realized his mistake.

The tarantula wouldn’t have to move. Its legs were long enough to reach around the pole.

* * *

Lucy Quinn sat on one of the matching pair of Adirondack chairs, with her feet up on the porch railing, mirroring the relaxed posture of Tony Lacosta. The weight of the long night kept prodding her to get up and walk home. Inertia kept her seated. Tony’s parents had come home from work hours ago, whipping together a mix-and-match dinner of several nights’ leftovers to which they had invited her. Afterward, they had retired to the family room to watch TV, while Tony and Lucy returned to their porch chairs, each with a can of Coke. From the look Tony gave her when he took them out of the fridge, she could tell he wished they were beers.

Lucy didn’t think his parents minded her hanging out here with their son, even if they would never think of her as a good influence. But they probably figured he had fewer opportunities for trouble or mischief if he stayed close to home. And after what had happened to Steve, they were a bit traumatized by the occasional randomness of fatal accidents. Of course, Tony and Lucy, along with Steve, had been complicit in the accident that had cost Teddy his life. They had somebody to blame for that. And it made sense, when you factored in the carelessness of teenagers and driving under the influence. But Steve... run down by a stranger, out of the blue, like a bolt of lightning that could strike down anyone. How could a parent rationalize that? Or come to terms with it?

Lucy took a sip of her Coke. Shook the can. Not much left.

“So, have you talked to Steve’s parents?” she asked.

“Earlier,” Tony said. “They’re messed up about it, naturally. Weird thing is, I felt like I should apologize.”

She turned to look at him, his face almost amber in the wan streetlight, and he had a faraway look in his eyes.

“You feel guilty,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. Don’t you?”

She nodded. “They call it survivor’s guilt.”

“It was him or us, right?”

“Right.”

Tony tilted his Coke back, finished it off.

“Maybe we should have stayed together.”

After a long moment, she said, “Maybe.”

Reluctantly, she dropped her feet to the wooden porch floor and pushed herself out of the low chair.

“So... I should go.”

“Want a lift?”

“That’s okay,” she said. “A walk will clear my head. You going in?”

“In a few minutes.”

“See ya,” she said, taking the three stairs slowly, as if she had been drinking alcohol instead of a soft drink for the last few hours.

Tony waved when she glanced back from the bottom of his driveway.

“Later, Luce!”

After a few blocks, the weight of sadness she carried whenever she was around Tony eased. It wasn’t his fault. She’d felt the same sadness with Steve, though it hadn’t seemed as bad when all three of them were together. Now Steve’s absence reminded her of Teddy’s absence, not that she ever needed a reminder of that. Though they put her in a melancholy frame of mind, she craved those connections. They helped her keep Teddy in her thoughts.

A fine white mist drifted across the street, undulating across the asphalt, spreading across the sidewalk like a living veil.

She hugged herself against the chill night air, rubbing her arms to generate some warmth and missing Teddy’s arm across her shoulders. It came as a surprise to her that she was trying to live in the past, trying to recapture those days of a year gone by, before the accident. And that past was forever lost to her. Her town, her neighbors, had that in common with her. They built a memorial to help them remember the past, but their past was fresher, only six months gone.

Every day, they placed flowers and stuffed animals at the memorial and lingered in their lost past as she lingered in hers. But few placed flowers at the site of the factory fire. The scorched brick of the crumbled building surrounded by the teetering wrought-iron fencing was too harsh a reminder of what had been lost and how horribly it had been wrenched from them. She would have to decide how long she’d cling to her memories of living while Teddy was still a part of her life. Would a day come when she looked forward to the future more than she longed for the past?

Ahead of her, a car engine raced with a throaty roar. A moment later, high beams flared, blinding her. She raised her forearm to shield her eyes. The car, a dark boxy shape cloaked behind its headlights, sat in the middle of the street, unmoving. She wondered how long the driver had been sitting there. Lucky somebody hadn’t crashed into him already. The street wasn’t busy but cars passed at regular intervals.

The engine raced again, and the car lurched forward.

“Jackass,” she whispered.

As if the driver heard her disparaging remark, the car swerved across the street toward her, along the shoulder and—

—jumped the curb!

As the car barreled down the sidewalk toward her, she had a horrifying thought.
He’s trying to run me down!

If not for the parking lot lamppost between Harvey Dufford and the giant tarantula, the creature was close enough to pounce on him. Any move to the right or left and the spider would be on top of him in a heartbeat.

The tarantula brought its front pair of legs down on either side of him, boxing him in. For a moment he stared at the eye mound, the size of a cake box, with its two rows of four beady black eyes. The tarantula hunted by sensing vibration and sound rather than detecting movement with its relatively weak eyes, but they were alien and unnerving nonetheless. Dufford imagined they saw well enough to classify him as a meal.

Abruptly, the spider raised its two front pairs of legs high in the air, elevating its cephalothorax in a threat posture. Its pedipalps, bristling feelers that also served as food handlers, waved in front of his face like a pair of truncated legs, just out of reach. The spider’s double-segmented chelicerae extended, twin fangs at the tips dropping down but too far away to inject him with venom.

The venom from a normal tarantula wasn’t fatal to humans, but a tarantula of this extraordinary size would produce a proportionate amount of venom. Dufford figured he would fare no better than a field mouse. And if this monster managed to grab him, the chelicerae would coat him with corrosive digestive juices. The spider would wait for his flesh to liquefy, then suck it into its straw-shaped mouth.

Dufford barely had time to catch his breath before the tarantula dropped down onto all eight legs and scampered around the pole. Backing away, he put distance between himself and the giant spider before turning his back and running full speed. As he scanned ahead, looking for a weapon or a gap between blocks of buildings, he saw a rustpocked blue Ford F-150 pickup truck parked in front of an orthodontist’s office. A white rag tied to the door handle indicated the truck was disabled and awaiting a tow, or possibly that the driver planned to return with a container of gasoline or a replacement part.

Harvey tugged desperately at the passenger door handle. Unfortunately, it was locked.

He circled around the truck and tried the driver’s side— also locked. Ducking behind the bed of the pickup, Dufford listened for the sound of the tarantula and marveled at how stealthy it was despite its enormous size. On hands and knees, he peered under the truck to track its movement. Thick bristling legs pranced around the other side of the Ford, but too few of them. Not nearly enough on the ground, with more rising out of view by the second.

The pickup creaked on its worn shock absorbers a moment before a broad shadow fell across Dufford’s hiding place. Almost too late, he dropped to his back and looked up. Bristly pedipalps swept over his head, while the creature’s fangs sliced the air, dripping venom as the tarantula strained to reach him from its perch in the truck bed.

As one leg, then another came down on the driver’s side of the Ford, Dufford rolled underneath it. When the spider seemed committed to his side of the truck, Dufford rolled twice and emerged from the passenger side. He climbed to his feet and pumped his exhausted legs back the way he had come.

Behind him, the truck’s suspension groaned under the weight of the monstrous spider. Dufford tried to put the sound out of his mind and focused on getting the hell away from the area. Nearly doubled over from exertion, his breathing became harsh in his ears, his stride erratic. But he was almost out in the open again.

Once he exited onto Bell Street, he could flag down a car or, even better, a police cruiser. He could find a store that hadn’t closed yet, a nightclub or tavern, and take shelter there. The tarantula was too big to fit through a doorway but not big enough to burst through walls. At least he hoped that was true. If its strength was proportionate to its size...

He chanced a look back over his shoulder—

—and nearly screamed in terror.

The tarantula was close enough that he could make out the individual hairs on its waving pedipalps. The red-banded front legs were a blur of motion, their tips touching down several yards behind him. And the gap was closing.

Ahead, he saw Bell Street. A white panel truck zoomed by before he could even raise an arm to try to catch the driver’s attention. But that flash of contact gave him hope that he could escape—

He stumbled, the sole of his right running shoe sticking in the asphalt as if he had stepped in deep mud. He pulled it free, but lost the shoe. Then his left foot became mired. Tugging against that resistance, he lost the other shoe—and promptly planted his right foot into more clinging softness. The ground gave way under him. Incredibly, he was sinking into the asphalt, knee deep, then mid-thigh, then up to his hips before it stopped.

The ground was solid again, and he was trapped.

Pounding the asphalt until his fists were bloody, he twisted around and moaned as he saw the tarantula looming over him, rearing up on its two back pairs of legs in its threat posture. It slowly lowered itself over him, the cephalothorax coming down like the lid of a coffin.

For a brief moment, he hoped—prayed—that it would lose interest in him, and move away. A moment of stillness in which Dufford heard another car breeze along Bell Street, then the ominous rustle of the descending pedipalps.