BASSER

 

Friday January 10 - 2035 PST

Five days until Turbocharger activates

 

"My cell's not working." Warren Gibbs stared dumbfoundly at his flip phone not understanding why his expensive toy suddenly decided to stop working. It was like he didn't understand that this was all a coordinated attack. The pops we heard earlier were probably remotely detonated charges that took out power and phone lines. Judging by the lack of reception bars on his phone's tiny screen, they'd hit the peninsula's lone cell tower too.

Maybe, the blinking warning about no signal is a clue you pompous idiot.

But it would have spelled the end of my relationship with Gibbs if I was that honest with him. And I most certainly wanted to be on his good side. My retirement was coming soon and unless I wanted to be some piss ant middle manager I would need his influence to land a senior exec spot in one of his companies. So I stowed my opinion. Besides, if I wanted to even make it to retirement I would need to make it out of this mansion alive. And there were six terrorist bozos who were an obstacle to that at this moment.

"They knocked out the cell tower. Your phone won't work." I dug out my phone and unfolded its ungainly hot dog sized antenna. Then I dialed the CTOC's Ops Desk.

Gibbs looked at my phone with the kind of face I'd expect him to make after sucking on a lemon. "I thought you said cell phones won't work anymore."

"This isn't a cell phone. Its a satellite phone. Different system."

Someone picked up. It was C.J. "Logistics Support Squadron."

That was the cover term they used to keep from tipping off our real designation. "C.J., listen up. I'm in big trouble. I need you to send help to—"

A five round string of gun shots cut me off. The mousy looking gunman with the bushy mustache held his stubby submachine gun high above his head so everyone would know who had fired. "I said Shut. Up. Next one who talks will be shot."

I left the line open so the CTOC could at least hear what we were up against. We were crouched down behind an open air display for some ghastly trophy that Gibbs had collected. This one was a massive disk, like some giant's coaster, made of transparent orange stone a lot like amber. It was four feet wide and standing on end so guests could see the aberrant animals trapped within: a dozen enormous spiders as large as both of my hands side by side. Warren Gibbs had the most screwed up sense of artistry that I've ever seen. The man was a real piece of work.

I really wanted to get away from the grisly display but so far it was the only thing I saw on the mezzanine that even vaguely resembled cover. For now I was stuck with it.

Carver latched onto my arm like a drowning man clinging to a lifesaver. "Shoot them already, Doug."

"I don't have a gun on me, Senator."

Did these imbeciles think everyone in uniform was an infantryman?

Warren Gibbs took his turn at snarling at me from the other side. "What the hell kind of soldier doesn't have a gun?"

A little bit of saliva flew from his mouth. Both of them were utterly clueless about what a general did for a living. I signed policies and budgets. And those budgets paid for armed men so I wouldn't have to carry a gun.

"Enough!" Mr. Mustache with the shorty Kalashnikov had enough of the gibbering from the two idiots that were on either side of me. I was in a sandwich of stupid. But unlike me the guy with the AK was actually going through with the thought of killing them. "Now one of you dies."

And all that stood between him and us was a flight of stairs and the creepy decoration filled with arachnids.

"Both of you shut up and help me push." I braced both hands against the vile display and pressed with all I had. Gibbs joined in, but Carver just stared with disgust.

"Those spiders are as big as my head. There's no way I'm touching that."

We needed his help because the damn thing was too heavy for just the two of us. As much as I wanted to hold my tongue, the good senator needed a kick in the pants to get into the game. "With all due respect senator, put a tampon in it. And help us knock this modern art masterpiece over. Besides, those spiders are long dead."

Surprisingly it worked. Carver's strength was just enough to topple the four foot tall disk over. As it began to fall Mr. Mustache emptied the rest of his magazine into it. Somehow it held together and none of his small caliber rounds penetrated the ancient transparent stone. But the shots had done some serious damage, the thing was covered in fractures that enveloped its entire surface like a giant spider web. The big saucer flopped once onto its side at the top of the stairs and for a brief, heartstopping moment I thought we hadn't pushed it hard enough to get it down the stairs. Mr. Mustache thought the same too because he kept advancing up the stairs toward us while he fished a new magazine out of his sport coat's pocket.

Then the disk tipped over the lip and began sliding down like a toboggan on a ski slope. Mustache dropped the magazine and turned tail to flee. He made it to the bottom and leapt at the last moment before the huge disk could crush his ankles into the hardwood floor.

The colossal amber saucer hit the floor hard and with a crunch shattered into a thousand pieces. It sounded like a waiter dropping a hundred wine glasses. Little bits of orange-gold danced across the wood and imported rugs tinkling like the rain. All eyes were on the center of the room, not only because of the ear splitting cacophony but because of what was wriggling around inside it.

Carver's eyes had gone wide and his voice was that of a man suddenly gone very sober. "You said they were dead."

Gibbs was several shades paler as well. "That's impossible. Th-that relic is over three thousand years old. They can't be…"

One by one the spiders stood up, slowly shaking off millenia of restless sleep. And one by one each singled out a nearby person. Then they attacked.

It had been thousands of years since they had last fed and they were about to satiate that impossible hunger.