'Gross! I hate these creepy little things...'

Malcolm squished the small spider against the door jamb of his office. It made a small crunching sound as its body gave way and gushed under the pressure of his big thumb. The beefy man pulled his hand back to examine the chitin and internal fluids covering the whorl of his fingerprint. He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped off the mess in absent-minded distraction as he stared at the logo of his shared firm.

Angste, Horrowicz & Gaunt
Attorneys at Law
Criminal – Civil – Industrial

The lettering was blocky and unadorned, as much as they could afford when they started the business. The door itself showed signs of age and weathering, and the glass in the upper third lay behind a series of crosshatched metal bars that partially obscured the words.

Not much longer, thought Malcolm. This'll all be different. We'll be established and get more notice because of the GenCom case. Give the door a face-lift. No, get a new door. Better yet, move the office uptown.

As if to start the renovations immediately, he passed his hand through a spider's web angling down from the lintel to just above the door handle. The filaments tore apart and clung to his fingers, adorning them with fine silver tracings, like intricate shining tattoos. Again, he had to use the handkerchief. The strands of web took a few moments to remove; they were sticky and clung to his skin.

Yeah, move uptown, out of this rat-hole. I'm amazed we haven't killed each other in an effort to be rid of this place and move ahead, mused Malcolm.

He put the 'kerchief away and fished out his keys. The tumblers in the lock didn't initially engage and, when they did, they ground with a metallic grumble before releasing the latch. Malcolm pocketed the keyring, then picked up his leather attaché from before the stoop, and stepped into the hallway of his office. The light within was dim and flickering, and he wondered if they’d have to pay to replace a ballast for the overhead fixture.

Doesn't matter. We can afford to, now we've got GenCom under wraps.

He thought back on how they'd blundered into the case. Actually, had it served to them on a silver platter. A representative—Gordian—had come to the office several weeks ago to enlist their aid in dealing with some litigants attempting to defame the company.

'My... supervisor has suggested we may have need of your particular... expertise,' said Gordian in careful measured tones, peering over the steeple of his fingertips at the three partners. He'd addressed them all, but his gaze stayed upon Malcolm when he said it.

'It has been noted by several of your past clients—whom we seem to have in common as.... acquaintances... —your firm has had more than a modicum of success in bringing about... resolutions to the benefit of both parties.'

'We're good at what we do.'

Gerald, contrary to his family name, had no qualms about his abilities in his chosen profession. He was a man of sturdy build, tanned year-round, always with something to say about any subject, a man accustomed to the risks of living a fast pace.

'Mr Gordian, what would you like us to do?'

You do cut right to the chase, don't you, Mr Angste?'

Gordian narrowed his eyes and folded his hands across the crisp lines of his expensive business jacket. He paused for several seconds, as if weighing the words he would use, preparing to disburse only those necessary to suit his purposes.

Albert Gaunt squirmed in his chair, his lanky thin-boned body ill at ease with what their client might propose.

'It's a fair question, Gordian. We need to know what we're walking into.'

Albert's close-set dark eyes flashed from behind his long thin nose, and made him appear as a hawk scanning for an opportunity to pick off easy prey.

'A simple matter of... persuading a small handful of our detractors that their energies might be better served in... other areas. Help them realise the... benefit to all parties concerned if they allow GenCom to move forward with our research.'

Here, Gordian excised a thin dossier from his briefcase with one deft hand. He slid it to the centre of the expanse between them, never once letting his gaze stray from Horrowicz.

Malcolm's mouth was dry when he spoke. He'd dealt with questionable clients before, but Gordian set his teeth on edge. There was obviously more to this legal struggle than this very carefully groomed man let on.

'What's in it for us? What's your company's stake in this?'

Gordian was already pushing several large stacks of hundred dollar bills across the table to follow the dossier, even as Malcolm's last words fell from his lips.

'Six hundred thousand dollars,' said Gordian.

Gerald drew in a sharp breath, Albert's jaw swung open and remained slack, and Malcolm involuntarily pushed back from the table. Gordian pressed his advantage.

'Our stake, as you put it, Mr Horrowicz, is what we consider a reasonable... investment. Your track record of... finesse is worth... well, do the maths'

He leaned back to gauge their response. It was a few moments in coming.

'Mr Gordian, we’ll do our best,' said Gerald as he reached toward the stacks of promised riches.

'No, Mr Angste,' stated Gordian.

The precision of his words raised cold hackles on Malcolm's neck, and caused Gerald to stop his reach scant inches from their prize. Albert's mouth clicked shut, and he looked from Gerald to the money to Gordian.

'You'll do more than your best... or you'll forfeit more than your retainer.'

There was a protracted silence, and Gordian did nothing to shorten it. Whatever he might or might not have said at that point didn't matter. The three partners hazarded to glance at one another, furtive sweeps of the eyes, and saw what each of them now recognised. There was no margin of error in this deal. What Gordian intimated was an all-or-nothing outcome.

'Good.' Gordian drew a breath and packed away all but one short bundle of cash.

'We have an understanding then.'

He pushed the solitary pile forward an inch, to butt up against the dossier, with two of his perfectly clean fingers.

'For initial expenses...'

It wasn't long after their silent goodbye that each of the partners chose one of the 'contacts' detailed in the files. Gerald took the lead by setting his sights on a state government official responsible for environmental issues. Albert opted to broach the subject of a change in position to the CEO of a major investment firm. Malcolm chose to deal with a union leader in the neighboring district whose stand had been to delay construction of additional facilities for GenCom.

Each of them knew the drill. Collect all the info available to provide the necessary leverage, set an impromptu appointment with the contact, then 'sweet talk' the individual in favor of their client's wishes on the matter. Only rarely did they have to resort to tactics on a more personal level. Just a hint of skeletons in the closet, or the opportunity to 'do the right thing', kept them from having to remind their contacts of how much they valued family and friends.

For Malcolm, it had been one of those rare occasions. Osborn Wilkens had been a man of principle and, unless his contractors were part of the action, he wasn't going to negotiate any further construction deals. Malcolm still felt the bruise on his ribs where the guy had gotten in a lucky punch. Wilkens, on the other hand, wouldn't feel anything ever again. The body was well hidden at one of the union boss's next job sites and would doubtless be layered with cement when construction resumed on Monday. Malcolm had kept himself anonymous and disappeared directly after 'sealing the deal', so to speak.

The challenge of the set-up and rush of the final execution almost made it feel mundane to come back to the office. Malcolm grimaced at the thought of what he was returning to, but then brightened at the prospect of Gordian's full payout. A web-covered door with peeling paint, and flickering lights in the hallway, would soon be things in their past.

Malcolm pushed the door closed behind him, turned to walk down the hall, and called out to see if his partners were in.

'Hey, guys? I'm b..aa..gack.'

With his first few strides, he walked into another spider web, his mouth wide open. He spasmed and spat, trying to expel whatever wriggling object he'd almost swallowed. His attaché case skittered along the floor; he'd flung it with the first convulsion. Now he scrabbled at his face in an effort to clear away the strands gumming his eyelashes, clinging to his cheeks, matting his hair, and hanging in limp swatches over his ears. Something moved between his tongue and his teeth, something whose spindly legs stabbed in syncopated rhythm against tender flesh and enameled bone. Malcolm cried out, spat again, rammed several fingers into his mouth, almost wretched, but managed to dislodge it.

A spider the size of his thumbnail, glistening in dark green hues, flopped on its back onto the floor. Malcolm whimpered as he watched it struggle to right itself, its jointed legs weaving in short arcs, feeling for the floor. Just as the spider gained its footing, it also gained Malcolm's. He crushed it with a resounding thump that shook the walls in the narrow foyer. He slid his shoe back, noting the oily streak and detached appendages in its wake. He shuddered as he wiped at the gauzy film coating his sleeves, his chest, his shoulders.

'Mother—ffthpt... that’s just... ugh!'

Shaking, he stepped to retrieve his attaché. Damning the flickering dim light, he grumbled to himself:

We can’t keep working in conditions like ....

He stopped to watch yet another spider, at eye level as he bent to pick up his briefcase, walking nimbly over the ridge of the old wainscoting. After several jerky sprints, it joined three more making their way up the wall. Something's not right, thought Malcolm. His gaze travelled ever upward until he stared... aghast... at the ceiling.

It was seething with tiny-limbed bodies, swarming and coalescing as if it were billows of living smoke. The fluorescents weren't flickering because of faulty wiring; their light was being blotted out by undulating waves of arachnids.

Ohmygod, they’re everywhere!

It flashed through his mind as incontrovertible truth, but the more logical part of his brain pointed out the walls didn't have too many spiders crawling on them, and the floor was practically devoid of the little critters. Then the rational part of him noticed a spider the size of his own ham-fisted hand, squatting at the far corner of the hall.

The huge arachnid had two legs touching the wall, while three more rose and fell against the floor, much as an impatient man might drum his fingers. A twisting motion of its carapace suggested it was observing him. Black pellet eyes glinted from a muddy brown body streaked in ochre bands. The spider let the two legs descend to the floor, then began the unmistakable hand-over-hand locomotion peculiar to their species.

Part Two

Fiction Archive

Blue-Eyed BiPedal Bookworm from Betelgeuse

05.06.08 Front Page

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