1
From a distance, the tiny object made its way serenely and gracefully toward the Earth kilometres below. It was canister shaped, metallic. Sunlight that had yet to find its way to the surface of the planet glinted off it.
It looked like a shooting star moving at its own leisurely pace.
Up close, of course, it was a different story. The canister thrummed and glowed as it forced penetration of the atmosphere, the sudden friction of the descent causing a build up of energy that poured off it like fire.
Far above the clouds that blotted out the dark land below, the canister trembled like a living creature as the wind buffeted it, shrieking around its terminal velocity as though enraged at the intrusion.
Up close, the descent was a thing of howling, relentless violence.
The night side of the Earth loomed below, curved at first, gradually flattening out as the canister approached, filling the horizon in all directions.
The canister-shaped object was not self aware.
There was no moment of self congratulation as it headed straight for the target, the journey from space to ground unwavering. Perhaps even if the canister had a mind it would have realised that there was nothing particularly impressive about its precise journey.
Nothing unique.
For in the distance, invisible at this range, other canisters were falling.
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8:47 AM
It's Tuesday morning.
Eight-forty-five-ish.
Thereabouts.
We're stuck in traffic on the way to school.
Again.
Every day I say we need to start leaving earlier.
Every day we don't quite get around to it.
The car is hot, even with the windows rolled all the way down.
Horns blast all the way down Clare Road.
It's the heat, the damn heat.
We're not used to it here.
It makes people crazy.
Even the air-conditioning has given up the ghost.
The hot air it blasts at me when I switch it on feels like laughter in my face.
At least the kids are quiet.
Carian's deep into some handheld video game. He's got that fire in his eyes that only comes out when he's shooting video people in the head.
Breannah's reading, even though reading in the car usually makes her throw up.
"You sure that's a good idea, honey?" I ask. "Don't want you blowing chunks before you get to school."
"It's OK, I only get sick if the car's actually moving," she says without looking up, and I can't really argue with that.
Don't even know how long we've been sitting here.
Longer than usual, and there's no sign of the traffic even starting to move.
I straighten my arms and push myself back in my seat, trying to fend off the back cramps before they can start.
It turns into a stretch, which leads on to a yawn.
That's what I get for staying up late and shooting people in the head.
Still, it was a gratifying experience. I can see why Carian's so hooked.
There's a movement in the car, just below my line of sight. I look down at my lap, and that's when I see it.
That's when I see the spider.
It's dark and shiny. And big. Real big. About the size of my phone, maybe a little bigger still. It's on my thigh, right by the steering wheel. Even through my trousers I can feel its gangly legs trip-trapping against my skin.
I gotta admit, insects aren't really my strong point.
I don't like them. In fact, I loathe the creepy-crawly little bastards.
My natural instinct is to bash them on sight with whatever happens to be closest to hand.
But I'm not bothered by this one.
I gaze down at it and get the distinct feeling that it's gazing back up.
But I'm not afraid.
Not a bit.
There's no revulsion, no disgust, no urge to smash it with my fist.
The spider is just there, but in my head it's like it has always been there, right there on my lap.
Gazing up.
Nothing for me to worry about.
I blink and it vanishes.
There one second, gone the next.
I don't know how, exactly, but I guess it must be inside me, because first I can feel it, then I start to hear it.
Chattering. Whispering. Telling me to do things. Terrible things.
To my kids.
I watch them in the rear view mirror, clicking buttons, flipping pages.
Click-click, flip-flip.
They don't look up, don't acknowledge me.
Drive them this damn road every day and they never acknowledge me.
I watch them in the mirror, and the spider keeps whispering softly in my head.
A car horn blasts.
The woman in the 4x4 behind me points angrily ahead. The traffic is on the move. I grip the wheel and grit my teeth and lurch us as quickly as I can towards the school.
I turn the radio up loud. The kids complain, but the spider stays quiet.
I can still feel it though, wriggling around inside me.
My hands shake all the way to the front gate. I brake hard and the seatbelt goes tight across my chest.
"Steady," Breannah says, sounding just like her mother.
"Go or you'll be late," I tell them. Have to get them out of the car. Have to get them away. They gather their bags and I wave them goodbye. No kisses. Not today.
The spider won't let me.
I watch them walk – not run, why don't they run?
Other kids swarm in the doors beside them.
I keep watching until they're all inside.
Keep watching until long after all the other parents have left.
I move to drive away, but then I hear the spider begin to whisper again, its voice soft but urgent in my brain. It tells me my children are careless. Tells me they've forgotten something. Tells me I should bring it to them.
The door beside me opens.
Was that me?
I try to fight, to resist, but then I'm standing on the sidewalk, and my feet are taking me to the back of the car.
The boot opens with a squeak.
There's not much in there.
A couple of scrunched up carrier bags, a sunhat I bought in January and have only worn once.
My eyes fall on the tire iron. I look at it for a long time, listening to the spider as it squirms and whispers, whispers and squirms.
This is good, it says. These are the things a good daddy does.
The iron is heavy in my hand, the pitted metal rough against my skin. There's a clunk as the boot closes, although I don't remember doing it.
Now bring it to them, the spider says, and its squirming makes my face go hot and my insides itch.
Bring it to them, and show them what we do to careless little children.
So I bring it. And I show them.
God forgive me, I show them.
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Tosh is drinking her coffee with a soft sigh as she watches Owen storm across the hub, Gwen obviously about to be on the receiving end of a tirade.
The screen lights up as Mainframe starts opening multiple screens showing emergency service callouts.
Tosh starts to read and her blood runs cold.
She is yelling for Jack before Owen gets to Gwen.