David Robbins - Dallas Run

The Warrior glanced at the floor and halted, puzzled by a set of six-inch-wide tracks in the dust. “Maybe not.”

“Why?” Melanie asked nervously, and then saw the tracks. “What made those?”

Hickok knelt on his left knee and inspected the prints. They were almost circular and there was no indication of toes or nails. “Beats me. I’ve never seen any like these.”

“What if the thing that made them is still in here?” Melanie asked, scanning the machinery.

“It could be,” Hickok admitted, standing. “Try not to wander off,” he advised, advancing warily.

“I’m right behind you,” she promised.

The gunfighter probed the spaces between the machines. Where could a critter hide, he wondered, when the gigantic gizmos, the benches, and the floor were all clearly illuminated? The tracks weaved among the machinery and were all over the place. Maybe, he hoped, the creature was nocturnal.

They covered 35 yards without incident.

“Look!” Melanie declared, pointing at a pair of doors visible far ahead.

“A way out!”

“Keep the racket down,” Hickok cautioned. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Then let’s get our butts in gear,” Melanie said.

Hickok trekked another 30 yards. He paused next to a looming machine, staring at the dials and the gears, curious about its purpose.

He’d studied books during his schooling years at the Home on various aspects of the industrialized societies dominating the globe prior to the Big Blast, and he knew there were once factories that manufactured everything from buttons to bombs, from toys to automobiles, but he had no idea what might have been constructed by the machines surrounding him.

A loud rustling noise interrupted his reflection.

“Did you hear that?” Melanie whispered.

“Yep.”

“What was it?”

“How the heck should I know?”

“You’re a big help.”

Hickok stepped forward, mystified. Oddly, the rustling had sounded very near, yet nothing was in sight. The floor consisted of cement, eliminating an underground source. There was only one other direction from which the noise could have come.

Overhead.

The gunman looked up and froze, his skin crawling.

“What’s the matter?” Melanie demanded, and bent her neck backwards. Her breath caught in her throat. “No!”

They were suspended in webs attached to the ceiling, from one end of the chamber to the other, patiently waiting for any prey to appear. Over a dozen bulky, squat, brown spiders fixed their multiple eyes on the pair of humans. Each spider had a body as big as a full-grown German shepherd and thick, hairy legs. Each rested in its own web, the strands encompassing a 20-foot section of the ceiling. And the repulsive features of each were accented by two large fangs protruding from the center of a thin mouth.

“What do we do?” Melanie queried breathlessly.

“Well, it’s a cinch we can’t step on them,” Hickok replied.

“Why haven’t they attacked?”

“Maybe they’re all takin’ naps.”

“Be serious!”

“Okay,” Hickok said, placing his left hand on her back and shoving.

“Run!”

They sprinted for the far doors.

Cocking the hammer on the Henry, Hickok ran on her heels, watching the spiders. If he survived, he planned to inform the Elders about the giant insects proliferating in Dallas. Giantism in insects and their close kin, arachnids, had become a common occurrence in postwar America. No one knew whether the giantism was a consequence of prolonged exposure to enhanced levels of radiation, or whether a genetic imbalance had been triggered by the chemical weapons employed during World War Three.

The spiders hadn’t moved.

The Elders could ponder the issue of why there were so many giants in Dallas. Since the city had not sustained a nuclear strike, Hickok guessed the cause must be chemical in nature. He wasn’t about to waste time puzzling over the matter in depth. Discovering the reason for mutations wasn’t his bailiwick. Killing them was.

A spider suddenly plummeted from the ceiling and dangled directly in their path, ten feet above the floor, affixed to a thin, silvery strand. Its mouth opened and closed, its fangs dripping saliva or venom.

Melanie stopped and screamed.

Stepping to the left so the woman wasn’t blocking his aim, Hickok sighted on the arachnid’s eyes and fired. The thunderous shot knocked the spider from its strand, the slug tearing completely through its body, and the creature fell to the floor on its back, its legs kicking spasmodically.

The shot served as a signal for the remaining spiders to launch themselves at the floor.

“Go!” Hickok shouted, pushing Melanie, and she dashed forward.

Another spider materialized to their left, on top of a hulking machine, evidently intending to leap on them as they passed.

Hickok snapped off a round as he ran, and he was gratified to see the arachnid slammed backwards by the impact and disappear from view. He spotted another spider to the right, but it ducked behind a bench before he could shoot.

“There’s one!” Melanie yelled, jabbing her left forefinger at a mutation hanging from a thread approximately 18 yards to the left.

The Warrior fired, the bullet unerringly on target.

Struck in the eyes, the arachnid swung wildly, its body spinning clockwise.

Three down.

Where were the rest?

Hickok scrutinized the chamber, hopeful the others were in hiding. He felt confident the Henry could keep those that appeared at bay.

“Look!” Melanie said, nodding at an object stretched across the aisle in front of them. She slowed, recognized the object as a skeleton, and jumped over the bones to continue her race for the double doors.

The gunman glanced down as he leaped over the dusty framework of bones, noticing several busted ribs and two prominent punctures in the cranium. Near the outflung right hand lay an old sword. Whoever it was had gone down fighting.

They came within 40 feet of the doors, and still the spiders had not launched a concerted assault.

“We made it!” Melanie cried prematurely.

Hickok wasn’t so sure. He wouldn’t feel safe until they were outside the factory. With the cockroaches downstairs and the spiders upstairs, the plant served as a breeding ground for mutations. Possibly the cause was in the factory itself, either toxic chemicals or some other element the roaches and the arachnids were exposed to.

Melanie giggled as she rushed to the exit and placed her hands on the horizontal bar in the center of the right-hand door. She pressed on the bar but the door refused to open. “Help me!”

The Warrior reached the left-hand door and applied pressure on the sturdy bar with the same result.

“Kick it open,” Melanie suggested.

Hickok took a pace backwards, about to enact her recommendation, when the nape of his neck suddenly tingled. He whirled, leveling the Carbine.

Less than 30 feet from the exit, forming a half circle and creeping toward the gunman and the woman, were 11 spiders.

“What about my weapons?”

“You heard me tell Brother Ezekiel to collect them.”

“Yeah. But will he bring them to wherever you’re taking me?” Blade inquired.

Aaron glanced at the giant on the horse beside his. “You seem rather attached to that machine gun and those knives.”

“I’m fond of the knives,” Blade conceded. “I’ve owned them for more years than I care to remember, and they’ve saved my life.”

“They won’t save you now.”

Blade stared at the tall man. “So what about them?”

“Yes, Ezekiel will bring them to the Temple.”

“Is the Temple your church?” Blade asked.