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by Tim Wilhelm & Jack Mingus

            As quiet as a secret whispered between corpses, he moved through the shadows of the cargo hold.  Large wooden crates, stacked three high and lashed to the walls, towered above him.  Inside those boxes was the wellspring of corruption and wealth that had allowed these men, who he was here to punish, to live so well.  These crates were filled with the weapons that the United States and other oh-so-benevolent nations had supplied their “freedom fighters”.  However, packed in amongst the guns and grenades were also generous quantities of plants which, when properly manipulated, could be turned into potent drugs — plants to which his village had the misfortune of being too close.

              His people were simple and peaceful, so when the soldiers were first sighted, there was little cause for alarm.  His people had no interest in a war whose outcome would not effect them.  No matter who won, they would continue to live their quiet lives tucked away in the green mountains.  Or so they had thought.  Even as the first shot was fired, the people of his village only looked on in stunned confusion. Then the soldiers swarmed over his village like an army of red ants, destroying everything in their path.  The village was engulfed in an inferno of hatred and greed his people could never fathom. When it was over, his people were left to rot in the sun and feed the insects.  And feast they did.  Uncountable swarms of insects stripped away the villagers’ remains to the naked bone.  Upon them, the birds and smaller spiders took their fill.   And the tarantulas who fed upon them now stood unchallenged at the top of the food chain.

              The curtain separating the cargo hold and passenger cabin barely whispered as he moved through it and took up a position behind a row of seats.  He surveyed the area before moving on.  The murdering, drug smuggling “freedom fighters” were lounging about the cabin.  Obviously they had been celebrating their great victory over his people, and most of them were so doped up that he could have crawled up and bitten their noses without getting a response.  Most was not all, however, and he spied a few who were more disciplined than their comrades and still had their wits about them.  Noting their location, he slunk along the edge of the compartment, staying as low as possible.

              There were several naked women among the men, a few of them being forced to perform...despicable acts upon some of the drugged out soldiers.  After watching for a moment, a twinge of doubt crept into his mind.  If these women were yet more victims of these vile men, would it be right to bring down the plane in order to kill the murderers, if in doing so, it meant the death of these innocents?  Was his quest for revenge so righteous that he could justify their deaths as well?  These were questions he would have to ponder before the day was done.

               A cursory inspection confirmed what he already knew, none of these women were from his village.  This he knew with utter certainty.  Not a single person had escaped the slaughter that those men had brought down upon his former home.  Normally these kinds of men do take a handful of women with them as “spoils of war” following a “battle” like the one in his village.   But this time, for whatever reason, rage and lust had filled these soldiers with demonic fury.  Any woman — or girl — who crossed their path was brutally raped right in the middle of the burning village.  In the gore and dirt the women were stripped of their most precious gifts, and afterwards they were stripped of their lives with a bullet to the head.  Their life blood, and that of his friends and family — the very essence of his people — was spilled unceremoniously onto the ground that day.    It stained the rich earth red as it flowed unimpeded from a thousand wounds and became one with the natural world.

              As these thoughts swam through his head he felt his self begin to fade away.  He wanted to flow into the ground just as the blood flowed in his memory.  The trip had been grueling and he wanted so badly to rest, just close his eyes and let it all slip away.  A woman’s squeal brought him out of his lethargy, and he silently cursed himself for his weakness.   He had come to far to fail now.  Slowly, with the patience of a spider, he crawled along the floor and made his way to the front of the cabin.  Here, he encountered his first real obstacle.  The door to the pilot’s cabin was closed.  There was no way to open the door without calling attention to himself, and truthfully, he doubted that he could even reach the handle from his position.  Despair settled upon him like a wet cloak, and he began to twitch uncontrollably.  The emotion of the moment made his mind wander, but before the details of his mission could be swept from him, he offered a quick prayer for guidance and strength.  Since the beginning of his difficult journey he had been provided with the gifts necessary to continue on, and he held faith that God would let him see this through to the rightful end. 

              No sooner had his prayer ended, opportunity arrived.  One of the concubines, her shirt front open and her eyes glazed from the effects of whatever drug she was using, screeched as she was pulled roughly to her feet by one of the bandits.  Barking something unintelligible at the girl, the man shoved her toward the cockpit door.  The girl stumbled from the force of the push, but then righted herself and glared at the soldier.  The soldier never saw the look, though, having already turned his back on the girl, confident that his command would be obeyed.  He was right.  Turning back to the door, the girl straightened her hair and fastened the top button of her shirt, a move that did little to conceal her naked torso.

              Although he didn’t understand the brute’s language, it was obvious that the soldier wanted the woman to go see the pilot.  Moving as close to the door as possible without being seen, he waited for the scenario to play out.  After muttering something under her breath, the woman opened the door to the cockpit.  She didn’t go in however, she just stood in the doorway and leaned in toward the pilot, her shirt now concealing, then revealing her breasts as she swayed from side to side.  While performing this shameless display, she also talked with the pilot in lilting, coquettish tones. 

              When he first entered the passengers’ area and saw the naked women servicing these men, he had assumed that they were being forced to do so against their will.  But now...now he wasn’t so sure.  Granted, they were not the murderous beasts that their men were, but if this vixen was any indication, they too carried about them a taint of evil.  They may not deserve the same fate as the men they were servicing, but he would be surprised if any great tears would be shed for them.  As he watched the young woman preen and entice the pilot, all of his earlier questions about the moral implications of his mission were pushed away.

              His resolve now set, he darted through the doorway using the woman’s body to hide his entrance.  Quickly, he scurried to one side and hid.  At this point, if he was spotted he would have to make an awkward lunge for the pilot and risk being intercepted before he was able to deliver the killing blow.  As it turned out, however, his fears were ungrounded.  The pilot was as boorish as his compatriots, and he had eyes only for the breasts that were swinging to and fro before him.  The girl and the pilot spoke for a moment more, before she leaned forward to kiss the man.  Letting go of the control wheel, the pilot turned and cupped one of her breasts in his hand.  After another moment of awkward groping, the woman pushed herself away from the pilot, turned and left the cockpit, the door swinging shut behind her.   A lecherous smirk crawled across the man’s face as he turned back to the plane’s controls.  The assassin was stunned.  He could not have asked for a better distraction, he was now within striking distance, and his target was completely unaware of his presence.  He said another silent prayer, this time in thanks, and began his final approach toward the pilot.

              Glancing forward to get a better measure of the pilot, he was suddenly gripped by a terrible, all consuming fear.  In all his simple life, he had never been above the tree line, but now, poised behind the pilot as he was, he could see the clouds whizzing by at unbelievable speeds.  Again he felt his consciousness slipping away — strong emotions were not his friend — and he stared down at his legs, trying to regain his composure. After a seeming eternity of uncounted seconds, his clarity of focus returned, and he was able to move again.  Making sure to keep his gaze low to avoid seeing the scene beyond those great panes of glass, he crept forward.

              As quietly as he could, he scaled the back of the pilot’s chair until he reached the level of the headrest.  Scuttling a few inches to the side, he was presented with an unobstructed view of the pilot’s neck.  Hungrily, he stared at the pulsing of the man’s carotid artery, and in a flash, he had lunged off the chair and sank his fangs into the soft flesh of the soldier’s neck.  Venom sacs filled beyond capacity pumped their poison into their victim.

              The pilot clawed at his neck and swatted the tarantula away.  It arced through the air and crashed into the cockpit’s main window, crushing its fragile carapace.  Nearly lifeless, the spider fell atop the plane’s control console.  As it lay there dying amongst the flickering dials and buttons of the bandits’ tomb, it saw with satisfaction that the venom had worked it’s magic.  The pilot reeled and flailed like a marionette controlled by a psychotic puppeteer.  He swatted for the auto pilot, but this attempt to deny the inevitable failed, the venom already shutting down his nervous systems.  The pilot fell back in his chair and then pitched forward, falling across the stick and sending the plane into a terminal nose dive. 

              The spider’s last sight was of the green mountains rushing up to meet it.

            He was going home.

©2001 Tim Wilhelm & Jack Mingus