Operation Syria

— 9 —

By the time Banks and the three other men reached the heights of the escarpment, they were sweating hard in their suits. Any dampness from their soaking on the river had already dried off in the rising heat of the sun during the thirty minutes it had taken them to reach the old city.

He’d kept them in the river long enough to get well clear of the town and to ensure that none of the spiders were following them along the bank. Once on dry land, he’d run them hard up the hill, both to doubly ensure escape from any pursuit from below and in worry at what might be happening to Wiggins and the rest back inside the walled town above. Despite checking over their shoulders every few steps, they’d seen no sign of any more of the spiders; they’d got free and clear on that front. But as they approached the town walls, they heard the familiar sound of weapons fire from somewhere in the warren of high alleyways of the old city.

Banks tried his headset radio.

“Wiggo? Come in?”

He heard only static in response. If it was Wiggins doing the shooting, he wasn’t going to hear much of anything above the sound of his weapon.

“Double time, lads,” Banks shouted and led the squad forward.

They were stopped in the first alley by a wall of gray web that reached from ground to rooftops some twenty feet above.

Hynd tried hacking at it with his knife but it was inches, perhaps feet, thick; an impenetrable wall. The sarge wiped the knife on his trouser leg, leaving a thick gray smear.

“No way through this way. It stinks like shite too, Cap, so don’t get any on you.”

They retreated away, quickly found a second route in another alley but found it too blocked to any access. The sound of gunfire intensified, a second shooter joining the first.

Something doesn’t want us to see what’s going on inside.

Banks tried to part the web with the barrel of his rifle but succeeded only in embedding the last inch of the barrel in the sticky fibers, needing all his strength to recover the weapon. Hynd had more luck this time with his knife — this web wasn’t as thick or deep as the last one and he successfully cut a long slit vertically that could be widened with two of them carefully using their rifles to hold the lips of the slice apart. Banks slipped through first, taking care not to get tangled, then turned to do his bit holding the cut web open for the others to come through.

Wilkins was the last through but before he made it a shadow fell on them, cast by movement on the rooftop above. Two spiders, each as big as a large dog, fat bodied and with red-eyes fixed on the four men, descended fast over the parapet and scurried down the walls with a scrape of hooked talons on stone.

Banks and Hynd took out the closer of the two with a volley of three shots each. Their target fell, twitching, at their feet and Hynd buried his boot right over its red eyes, grinding it into the sand. They turned their attention upward but they were too late to get the second. It stopped scrambling and dropped, a dead weight, to land on top of Brock. The private tumbled and rolled in an attempt to get out of the way but was immediately caught in a new thread of web from the spider’s rear end that tangled his hands around the rifle. Chattering, clacking black fangs, each as long as an index finger reached for his face.

“Get this fucker off me,” Brock screamed.

Banks stepped forward and put his weapon at the beast’s eye, making sure he wasn’t going to hit Brock before putting three shots into it. The front of the beast blew apart in gore and tissue but the legs kept kicking and it continued to weave web around Brock’s arms before Banks and Hynd kicked it aside and put three more rounds into it to keep it quiet.

Brock rolled and tugged but his arms were completely encased in gray fiber.

“Lie still, lad,” Banks said. “You’re making it worse. Let the sarge get at it.”

Hynd had to use his knife again to try to free Brock, while Banks turned to Wilkins. The lad had tried to get his gun up to help in the fight and in the process had become completely tangled in the web that ran across the alley. His whole left side, from shoulder down to knee, was encased in a thick mass of the webbing. Like Brock, his frantic struggles to free himself were only making matters worse.

“You too. Stand still, lad,” Banks barked. “That’s a bloody order.”

He had to lower his rifle to get out his knife and with Hynd likewise busy untangling Brock, they had nobody covering them. Banks’ back felt too exposed as he worked at the web, having to put all his strength into the cuts and slices. He left large patches of web attached to Wilkins’ clothing and gear and it stank like wet shite but he was more concerned with getting the lad free quickly than with doing an aesthetically pleasing job of it.

He was cutting, having only managed to free Wilkins’ left arm when the lad looked up and all color drained from his face.

“Sir, I think we’re in trouble.”

Banks followed his gaze. Spiders, at least a dozen of them, lined the rooftops on both sides of the alley.

“Sarge,” Banks said, glancing down. “You about done with Brock?”

“Five seconds, Cap, on the last strand.”

He turned back and looked Wilkins in the eye. He spoke as he cut.

“No sudden movements now, son,” he said. “I reckon it’ll take another minute to get you out of there. So calmly does it. No shooting unless they start to come at us. Give me some warning if they make a move.”

He went back to cutting, working faster now.

“Clear,” the sarge said below him. “We’ve got your back, Cap.”

Hynd stood away from Brock to allow the younger man to roll to his feet. The movement stirred the spiders into action and two of them leaned over the edge of the parapet, the clicking of their fangs sending a rat-a-tat echo along the alley.

“You need a hand with that, Cap?” Hynd said.

“Nearly done. Keep us covered. Don’t wait for an order, shoot the fuckers if they move.”

His gloves were covered in web that felt like heavy-duty glue under his fingers, it stank to high heaven, and the knife was being blunted with the work, less efficient with every cut and slice. He was down to Wilkins’ knees and had to kneel on the ground to get at the last piece holding the youth in place.

He got lucky and was in the right place at the right time to see, dimly through the gauze of the web, more spiders advancing towards them from the far end behind Wilkins’ back. It had gone quieter now; the shooting deeper in the town had stopped and the only sound to break the silence was the rat-a-tat clicking of the spider’s communication. It was getting more rapid, more frenzied. An attack would come at any time.

He was cutting at the web at Wilkins’ knee when the shooting began; he didn’t know whether Brock or Hynd fired first but it hardly mattered. The alleyway filled with the roar of weapons fire and pieces of spider legs, bodies, and a slimy, foul-smelling gore fell in rain around them. Above Banks’ head, Wilkins had enough freedom to train his own gun up toward the roofs and joined the action, adding another thunderous roar of fire to the chaos.

Behind Wilkins, beyond the web, the alley filled with more spiders, a black mass of them scuttling quickly forward. Banks cut the younger man’s knee free of the web as the first of the attackers reached the web and, using its fangs as scissors, began cutting its way through.

“Time to go,” Banks shouted and, knowing they’d follow him, set off at pace along the alley, firing as he moved at spiders which were now coming over the lip above and making their way down the walls in a black wave.

He had to slow long enough to discard his gloves; the web had made them too sticky to be of any use. Hynd overtook him and took point. Banks let the two younger men pass and looked back. The spiders had made short work of their web and now filled the alleyway behind them, coming on fast, even while more dropped to join them from above.

He’d taken too long to get his gloves off and the others had moved some five yards ahead of him. A spider, even larger than the others, dropped from the rooftops and fell into the gap between Banks and the others. It made directly for him, on him before he could get a shot in. He managed to put two in its body but it didn’t slow, barreling onto him and knocking him off his feet. He remembered how Brock’s hands had been taken out of commission and realizing he couldn’t get into position to take another shot, dropped his rifle by his side, reaching for his knife as the twin black fangs lunged for his throat. He threw his weight against the spider and was surprised to find it weighed very little. He easily rolled the thing over and stabbed again and again into the widest part of its belly while dripping wet fangs chattered and clacked right in front of his eyes. If he shifted his weight, even for a second, it would tear his face off. He stabbed and tore with the knife, feeling fluid run over his hand and wrist, a new acrid stench threatening to assault his throat and nose. Finally, the thing fell still.

He rolled away from it, retrieving his rifle in the same movement and rose, breaking into a run when he saw that the pursuing mass of spiders was only yards from catching him.

Farther up the alley the other three men were standing, back to back, sending volleys up to the rooftops. They too were covered in dripping gore and stood amid a growing pile of twitching spider bodies but they had cleared most of the beasts from above by the time Banks caught them.

“Try to keep up, Cap,” Hynd said as they ceased fire. “I thought we’d lost you there.”

Banks took the lead as they headed off at speed down the alley. The attack from above had been nullified but the swarm at their backs was coming on fast.

We need to get out of this alley. We’re sitting ducks in here.

He upped the pace until they were full-out running. The end of the alleyway was in sight twenty yards ahead and he kept his eyes on the gap, trying not to think about the beasts at their back.

Almost clear.

A spider as large as a small car scuttled across the open end of the alleyway, totally blocking their escape route. Its rat-a-tat clacking was answered from behind them and from the rooftops in front of the running men, as a score and more of the black-bodied beasts crept over the parapets.

We’re trapped.