Here's another idea that came out of the blue – it's so much fun to be writing again! I briefly considered picking on a different brother – but decided that I'm having too much fun with Gordon.
I should point out that I am not a medical professional; the jargon that I use in this story came from a couple well-written articles and there's always a chance that I used some of the terms improperly.
Thanks to my sister for reading this (even though she's not a part of the Thunderbirds fandom) and for pointing out a few things that could use improvement or clarification.
As always, I do not own the Thunderbirds or their operatives, and I am making no profit from this story.
The klaxon jolted Gordon from a sound sleep. His bedroom lights turned on automatically, and he squinted against their harshness for a moment. The adrenaline of an impending rescue kicking in quickly, he flung his covers back and vaulted from his bed – although he did heave a little sigh when he noticed that it was 11:30 pm, meaning that he'd only been asleep for a few minutes.
He grabbed at his communicator watch, but grumbled as he merely succeeded in knocking it off the bedside table. Dropping to his stomach, he fished around blindly in the narrow gap between the nightstand and the bedframe.
"Ha – gotcha!" he exclaimed. "Ouch!" He withdrew his hand quickly as something pricked his finger painfully. A tiny red mark was visible. "Must've dropped a thumbtack back there, or something."
With no time for further thought on the matter, he dashed from the room, strapping his watch on as he went.
His delay, though short, had caused him to miss the briefing – Virgil, Scott and Alan were already headed for the entrances to Thunderbirds One and Two.
"C'mon, Gordon, we'll brief you on the way!" Alan called.
Five minutes later, they were already several miles away from the island and Alan was concluding Gordon's briefing.
"So Scott will be on the shore monitoring the stability of the dam, and I'll be manning Two's rescue platform to take away the victims as you bring them up in Four," Alan told him.
An experimental submarine, built by an overly ambitious inventor, had gotten itself into trouble in the Mississippi River after its sonar system failed. Due to the almost nonexistent visibility in the river, the submarine became entangled in underwater wreckage before it could surface. Incapacitated by the crash and washed helplessly downstream, it had ended up wedged in one of the openings of a dam, too big to fit through, but held there by the strong current. Extraction of the sub would be necessary, but the crew of eight had to be removed to safety first.
Gordon frowned. This was going to be a tough one. He pressed a button on his communicator watch that would allow all his brothers to hear him. "I have a suggestion," he said. He rubbed his right hand absently as he spoke; it was cramping painfully for some reason.
"Let's hear it, Gordon," Scott replied.
"I want Alan in Four with me," Gordon said. "That current's gonna be really hard to swim against, and even if this submarine crew has all the necessary underwater equipment, I'd feel more comfortable if I was in the water with them as they transfer to Four."
"Hey, how about if we run a line between Four and the downed submarine?" Virgil suggested. "That'll give you something to hang onto."
"Yeah, that's a good idea," Gordon said. "That makes it even more important to have Alan along, though – the autopilot's great, but I trust Alan a whole lot more to keep the proper amount of tension on the line."
Alan looked startled, and then rather proud of himself.
Gordon rolled his eyes at him. "Don't let it go to your head," he muttered.
"All right, Gordon, sounds like a plan," Scott said. "I'll take Alan's place on the rescue platform. Virgil, what's your ETA?"
"45 minutes," Virgil replied.
At ten minutes out, Gordon and Alan headed down to Four to double check their equipment and strap in for deployment.
Once they were out of earshot of Virgil, Alan nudged Gordon. "Hey, what's with you?" he asked. "You've been rubbing your arm like it hurts."
Gordon grimaced. The cramping pain had intensified considerably over the previous half hour, and oddly, it seemed to be traveling up his arm. "Yeah, I must have pulled some muscles somehow. It's okay, though. I've worked through worse."
"Well, keep me in the loop, okay?" Alan said.
Gordon shrugged noncommittally. "Whatever." He took the pilot's seat, even knowing he'd be turning it over to Alan in a couple minutes. Just because he knew when he had to give control of his Bird over to a brother didn't mean he liked it.
"Thunderbird Four ready for action," he stated, injecting more energy into his voice than he felt.
"FAB, arriving at the danger zone now," Virgil replied. "Deploying Thunderbird Four in 3…2…1!"
The door of the pod opened; Four was being dropped from a bit of a height, since if Virgil set the pod down on the surface of the river, it would just be swept along by the current and crash against the dam.
They entered the water smoothly, although Gordon had to hide a grimace as the slight jolt sent pain shooting through his right arm. The pain was gradually shifting into his shoulder now, and he briefly wondered what exactly he'd done to himself, but had to quickly shove aside such thoughts – he needed to focus entirely on the task at hand.
As he fought the current, he had to rely entirely on Four's sophisticated scanners – the water was brown and murky, with visibility of only a foot or two. It occurred to him that Virgil's suggestion of a cable would be more than something to hang onto – it would also ensure that he didn't get lost trying to find Thunderbird Four in the dark water.
The solid wall of the dam showed up on his scanners, along with the projecting outline of the downed submarine. He eased as close as he dared and turned Four around so that she was in the position of least resistance against the rushing water.
He handed the controls over to Alan, resisting giving him words of instruction. He trusted his little brother, he told himself. Really. The kid was smart, and had good instincts, and wouldn't mess up his Bird…oh, why did he even bother trying? He whipped back around. "One scratch," he growled threateningly, "and I'm painting Three with pink polka dots!"
Alan rolled his eyes. "Relax, Gordo, I won't let anything happen to her. Just get out there and do your thing! I've totally got this!"
Gordon huffed and stalked away, pretending he didn't hear Alan's muttered, "Besides, this was your idea!"
In two minutes, Gordon was suited up and letting the current tug him downstream; he held onto the end of the cable and used its slight resistance keep him from going too fast. He frowned and rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the pain that had now spread into his neck and upper chest.
Spotting the downed sub, he changed course a little so that he'd land near the airlock. The current snatched at him at the last minute, slamming him up against the metal vessel a little harder than he'd intended to land. Wincing, he shook off the pain and let the magnetic end of the cable click into place just above the airlock door. That accomplished, he entered the airlock and prepared to face the victims – one never knew what sort of people they might be, and how they were handling the crisis.
The interior door slid open after a moment, and he removed his helmet as he stepped inside. "International Rescue," he said briskly. "Is everyone okay?"
A man flung himself forward, latching onto Gordon's arm – Gordon hid a flinch at the pain – and sobbing, "Please, please, you have to get me off this thing! I can't take it! I don't want to die down here!"
"Calm down, sir," Gordon ordered. "I'll have you out of here in just a few minutes, but I need you to pull yourself together."
With a shaky nod, the man let go and staggered away to lean against the wall, his arms wrapped around himself.
Gordon surveyed the other men who were watching him – thankfully no one else was in hysterics, although most looked tense. The floor was canted at an angle; some of the equipment had torn loose and was piled at the far end of the room. A few of the men had obvious injuries, although they were all able to stand.
Another man stepped forward, his hand held out for a handshake. "Welcome," he said. He appeared quite calm, and was clearly the leader of the group. "Thank you for coming. Please let us know what you need us to do."
Gordon smiled – that kind of attitude made his job so much easier. "Okay, here's the plan," he began. "You have full underwater equipment for everyone here?" At the answering nod, he continued. "I have a cable suspended between this sub and Thunderbird Four. I'll escort you across the cable one at a time, with a limit of two per trip to the surface. On the surface, Thunderbird Two is waiting with a rescue platform that will transport you to shore. Understood?"
The men nodded, and began extracting diving gear from the battered lockers. Gordon helped the distraught man into a suit, double checking to make sure nothing had been damaged in the crash.
"I never realized it would be like this," the man mumbled to himself. "Trapped underwater, running out of air, no way out…"
"You've got a way out," Gordon reminded him. "And you're going to be the first to go. Ready?"
The man cast him a terrified glance, but nodded. "Anything to get back on dry land," he said. "I'm giving up on trying to build submersibles. They're a terrible invention!"
Gordon had to bite back a laugh as he realized that the frightened man was the inventor – not the calm man, as he had thought. "All right, then, here we go!" He turned toward the other men. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
They stepped into the airlock, and Gordon brushed moisture off his brow before replacing his helmet, wondering why he was so sweaty – he hadn't worked very hard yet, and he wasn't particularly nervous. He shivered as the water closed around them, which was odd, since he was in a dry suit and shouldn't be able to feel the cold temperature of the water. He considered bumping up the temperature control in his suit, but a slight stirring of nausea made him change his mind.
Focus, Gordon, he told himself sternly. Grabbing the man's arm, he guided his hand to the cable overhead. Keeping close behind the victim, he pulled himself along the taut line, appreciating the help in fighting the current.
Thunderbird Four appeared out of the gloom when they were a few feet away; he ushered the man into the airlock and immediately turned back around, loosely gripping the cable and letting the current do most of the work of getting him back to the experimental sub.
The men had formed a line, so Gordon didn't bother to take off his helmet; he just pointed at the victim closest to the door and led the way to the rescue vehicle once more.
Gordon returned to the downed sub while Alan retracted the cable and brought the first load up to the surface. It was a ten minute wait, and Gordon had to resist the urge to sit on the floor. He was glad that most of the lights were out in the sub, so the men couldn't see that he was practically dripping with sweat. He was beginning to feel quite unwell. The pain now encompassed not only his right arm and shoulder, but his entire torso, and an ominous throbbing was beginning in his head. The nausea had increased a bit, too, and he found that he was trying to calculate whether there was any way to squeeze more men onto Four so as to make fewer trips. He shook his head to get rid of that thought – two extra passengers at a time was the safety margin, and there was no way he would let any of them into the cockpit. He sighed – if they kept up the same rate, it'd be another hour of shuttling people before they could attempt to raise the downed sub. And he knew from his brief glance that that task would be far from easy, undoubtedly requiring his skills with his Thunderbird, perhaps in combination with lines from Two.
He shrugged and, with an effort, pulled himself together. He might not feel well, but he had a job to do. Men's lives were depending on him, and as much as he wanted to be in bed right then – he'd even welcome Scott and Virgil's fussing – he had to finish the job first. Self-pity could come later. His brothers always commented on his stubborn streak; well, now was the time to let that aspect of his character come to the fore.
"Thunderbird Four to Gordon," Alan said over the wrist comm. "I'm back in position and sending out the cable."
"FAB," Gordon replied. "I'll catch it." He gestured to the next man in line, and together they went through the airlock and waited just outside the sub, grasping handles next to the door to keep themselves from drifting away.
The end of the cable almost hit Gordon in the head. He caught it at the last second and fastened it back in place. "Coming over now," he reported.
The second load was transferred smoothly, as was the third. Gordon steadfastly ignored the fact that he now had chills and a seriously pounding headache as he stepped back inside the downed submarine to prepare the fourth and final load of men for Alan's return in a few minutes.
The last load included the calm man – Rick, Gordon had heard one of the others call him. Gordon smiled tiredly at the two remaining men. "About ten minutes, and then it's your turn."
Rick stepped forward. "Sir, you should know that it may take me a little longer to get over there," he said. "I broke my arm in the crash."
Gordon blinked at him, just now noticing that the man's left arm hung limp at his side. How had he gotten into his dry suit? More importantly, how was he going to be able to grasp the cable to pull himself along?
"All right," he said slowly, having to give his tired mind a bit more time than normal to come up with a new plan. "Here's what we'll do – I'll go in front. You" – he pointed at Rick – "will come next. Hold onto my belt with your good hand, and I'll tow you. You" – he gestured to the other man – "follow along behind and make sure that Rick doesn't lose his grip. Sound good?"
Both men nodded. Gordon glanced at his watch; he had a few minutes to kill, so he raided the first aid locker and immobilized Rick's arm, hoping to minimize the pain and make the trip to Four easier on him.
Alan announced his return, and they all trooped together into the airlock. This time the end of the cable did hit Gordon, although he was glad that it struck him in the chest rather than shattering the faceplate of his helmet. Hastily, he attached the end to the downed sub, eager to be done with this rescue.
"We're on our way, Thunderbird Four," he said. "All three of us are coming at once, and be advised that one of the victims has a broken arm."
"FAB," Alan replied. "I'll have Virgil notify the ambulance on shore."
Making sure Rick had a secure grip on the back of his belt, and that the other man was able to hang onto the cable, Gordon started toward Thunderbird Four once more, feeling the now-familiar burn in his arm and shoulder muscles as he pulled himself along – more so this trip, as he had Rick's deadweight dragging behind him.
He was panting by the halfway mark, and faltered as a wave of nausea swept over him. You are so not getting sick in your suit! he told himself sternly, and forced himself to keep going – pull after pull after pull…
He was so focused that he almost ran into Four. Shaking himself, he opened the airlock and swam inside, relief washing over him. He'd done it. Even if he needed to help retrieve the sub, at least he could do that from his pilot's seat. Then Rick tapped his shoulder, and as he turned to see what the man wanted, his heart suddenly leapt into his throat – the third man hadn't made it!
Shoving past Rick, he shut the airlock door in the man's face, and dove back along the cable. "I've lost one," he snapped to Alan. "Where is he?"
"I've got him on my scanners," Alan exclaimed. "Looks like he lost his grip on the cable. He's being swept back toward the dam!"
With a growl, Gordon let go of the cable and shot through the water with all the speed he could muster. He couldn't let the man get sucked into one of the openings in the dam!
"You're almost there," Alan muttered encouragingly.
Something bumped against Gordon in the murky water, and he automatically snatched at it. He found himself gripping the arm of the lost man, who immediately clamped himself around Gordon.
Gordon wiggled free, and the man calmed down, allowing Gordon to hang onto his arm again. They turned and began fighting upstream, but Gordon sensed that it was a losing battle.
"Al, send us that cable," he panted. "Just try not to take my head off with it!"
"Cable on its way," Alan confirmed.
A moment later, the cable snaked its way out of the darkness.
"Watch it!" Alan snapped. "Can you see it?"
Gordon snagged the end of the line. "Got it! Now reel us in!"
The cable slowly but surely pulled them back through the water. Gordon sighed with relief at the welcome sight of Four's airlock – that had been too close.
Rick looked up with a smile as they joined him in the passenger area. He stood to shake Gordon's hand again, and the other man pumped his hand too, thanking him profusely.
Gordon didn't have energy to give them anything other than a nod and a smile, and a muttered, "Just glad to help," before he ducked into the cockpit.
"All right, Al, take her away," he said, dropping into the copilot's seat.
Alan twisted around to look at him, worry clouding his crystal blue eyes. "Really? Are you all right? I thought you'd want to take back control as soon as possible." He frowned as he studied his brother. "Why are you so sweaty? And you're really pale – are you sick?"
"Just get moving," Gordon growled, dropping his head back and closing his eyes. "Remember, one of the victims needs medical attention."
"I don't think he's the only one," Alan muttered under his breath, but he obeyed. "Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird Two, Gordon has secured the final two victims and we are on our way to the surface."
"FAB, Thunderbird Four," came Virgil's voice over the radio. "Why are you still driving, Al?"
"Gordy's sick," Alan informed him, squaring his shoulders and not allowing himself to glance back at his brother again, undoubtedly fully aware that he would see a glare trained on him. To rat a sick brother out to Virgil was a dangerous game, but then, Alan wasn't exactly known for playing it safe.
"What?" Virgil demanded. "Why didn't he tell us? Gordon, why didn't you tell us you were sick?"
Gordon sighed and activated his own radio. "I'm fine," he snapped. "Just a little under the weather. It didn't start until a little bit ago, so I just pushed on through it."
"We'll talk about this in a few minutes," Virgil replied grimly.
In a moment, they bobbed up to the surface alongside the rescue platform. Gordon was surprised to see that the sun had risen, then remembered that the rescue hadn't taken that long – they were just in a different time zone. It made him feel even more tired, though.
Scott helped the two men onto the rescue platform and Gordon stood with a sigh. It was time to recover his dignity after his brother's traitorous behavior. "All right, I'll take my seat back now," he said sternly.
Alan twisted around again, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like he wanted to refuse to let Gordon drive, but if alerting Virgil to an illness was dangerous, then keeping a brother from his own Thunderbird was practically deadly. "You sure?" he asked. "You look terrible."
Not for anything would Gordon admit that he probably felt far worse than he looked. "Thanks, Sprout," he said dryly. "Good thing I'm not on the team just for my good looks, then, huh?"
Alan rolled his eyes and moved so that Gordon could reclaim his seat. "How did you get sick?" he asked.
Gordon dropped into his seat and immediately began adjusting settings that Alan had changed. "Well, Alan, there are these little things called germs…"
With a snort, Alan took the copilot's seat. "Yeah, thanks, professor. I mean, you seemed fine before the rescue." He frowned thoughtfully. "Other than your arm hurting. I mean."
"Well, Virgil's not getting his claws into me until after we extract that sub," Gordon said, sighing, and then flinching. Great – now it hurt to breathe! "Diving now."
Trying to take shallow breaths because they hurt less, he guided his little sub back below the water. As they approached the downed sub, he studied the situation on his scanners. He'd have to pull the sub back out of the opening in the dam, and continue to apply backward force while Virgil provided lift. Thunderbird Four could do both, but why risk straining her engines when Two was available to help?
"Virgil, you ready?" he called, too tired to bother with formality.
"Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Four, ready to assist," Virgil replied, a touch of irritation in his voice. "What's the plan, Gordon?"
"I'm going to pull the sub back out of the hole," Gordon said. "As soon as it's clear of the dam, I need you to shoot a couple lines in and help raise it to the surface."
"FAB, Thunderbird Two standing by," Virgil said.
Taking a deep breath – and then wishing he hadn't – Gordon extended Four's grasping arms toward the downed sub and felt them magnetically latch onto the other vessel. "Pulling back now."
Four's powerful engines built up to an intense whine as she wrestled with the current for the possession of the downed sub – which was more than twice her size. After a moment, Four won the tug of war, and the damaged sub was pulled free of the opening in the dam with a grinding sound that echoed through the water.
"Clear, Virgil," Gordon panted. "Shoot those lines!"
A couple thwacking sounds later, and the whine of Four's engines died down a bit as Two took some of the strain of the damaged sub's weight.
"Cables secure," Virgil announced. "Let's bring her up!"
Working together, they eased the sub up through the water, pulling it further back from the dam as they went. In just a couple minutes, they reached the surface; Gordon released the sub from Four's grasp and watched as the mighty Two lifted the other craft with ease and deposited it gently on the shore.
"I'll drop the pod upstream so it doesn't hit the dam before I can pick it up again," Virgil told Gordon.
"FAB," Gordon replied wearily. He guided Four automatically, his eyes almost closed. Despite his exhaustion, he smiled – he had done it. Every crew member was safe on shore, and even the sub had been successfully extracted. Now he just had to make it home, and then he could go back to sleep. Everything would be better in the morning…uh-oh. His eyes widened, and he scrabbled to undo his safety belt.
"Take the controls, Al!" he barked, and dove past Alan, aiming for the toilet in the tiny head. He made it just in time to puke miserably.
He huddled there, shivering, only vaguely aware of the familiar sounds and feelings of re-entering the pod and then being pulled up into the underbelly of Thunderbird Two. Then Alan's hand was gently rubbing his back.
"C'mon, Gords," Alan murmured softly. "Let's get you to the sickbay."
Gordon had no strength to protest as Alan helped him stand, supporting most of Gordon's weight on the walk over to Two's small sickbay. He groaned as Alan lowered him onto the narrow bunk, and curled onto his side, arms wrapped around his cramping stomach.
Virgil hurried into view a minute later, his medic face on, though he could never quite hide the glimmer of worry in his eyes when it was one of his brothers who needed his help.
"He puked a minute ago," Alan told him. "He was rubbing his arm a lot before the rescue, and he's really sweaty. His pulse is a bit fast."
Virgil nodded, appreciating Alan's concise version of all the facts that he knew. "Gords, talk to me," he said. "What's going on?"
"I don't know," Gordon said. "I felt fine before the rescue, other than a weird pain that started in my hand and kept moving up my arm."
"Weird how?" Virgil asked, picking up Gordon's hand and inspecting it carefully. There was a tiny red mark on one of Gordon's fingers, but nothing else. He began checking Gordon's vitals and hooking him up to assorted monitoring machines.
"Like cramping," Gordon said. "It hit different muscles all up my arm and into my shoulder and neck. My arm still hurts, but the cramping's in my abdomen and chest – it hurts to breathe. The headache and nausea have kind of come and gone, but they're definitely getting worse."
Virgil activated a video screen by the bed. "Thunderbird Two to Tracy Island, come in Tracy Island," he said.
"Tracy Island to Thunderbird Two, reading you loud and clear," Jeff replied immediately.
Virgil didn't waste any time. "Dad, I need to talk to Brains right away. Gordon's sick, and I need help diagnosing him."
"I'll get him," Jeff said briefly, a lowering of his brows the only sign of worry on his face.
After a moment, Brains came into view. "Wh-what is it, Virgil?" he asked.
"Brains, Gordon says that on the way out to the rescue, he got a cramping pain in his right hand. The cramping traveled up his arm and has settled into his chest and abdomen. He has a headache, is nauseous and finds breathing painful. In addition, he's experiencing diffuse diaphoresis. He's mildly hypertensive, tachycardic and tapychneic, but his temperature and oxygenation are normal."
Brains bowed his head in thought briefly, then looked back up. "Is his ab-abdo – uh, midsection rigid to the touch?"
Virgil was quick to check, his fingers gentle but firm. "That's affirmative, Brains." He stared at the genius. "What is it? Peritonitis? Or food poisoning? But no – the pain started in his hand…"
"Does Gordon, uh, have any ma-m-, um, wounds on his hands?" Brains queried.
"A tiny red mark, yes," Virgil said, picking up Gordon's hand once again and pulling an overhead light closer to shine a focused beam on the spot.
"With clearing in the center? Like a, uh, target?"
"That's also affirmative," Virgil reported. "What is it, some kind of a bite?"
"If I'm not mi-mistaken, Gordon is experiencing Latrodectism," Brains pronounced.
Light dawned in Virgil's eyes. "A black widow bite!" he exclaimed.
Remembering the sharp pain in his finger that he had blamed on a stray thumbtack, Gordon interjected, "That totally makes sense! I dropped my watch behind my nightstand right before the rescue, and something pricked my finger when I was reaching for it. There must have been a black widow down there!"
"Or perhaps a close cousin – the Australian Redback," Brains suggested. "I was not aware that either of these species li-li, um, inhabited the island, but it is certainly not, uh, impossible."
"But aren't black widow bites deadly?" Alan asked, looking worried.
"Not, uh, not often, Alan," Brains told him. "Most bites resolve themselves with only symptomatic support. For the more, uh, severe cases, there is an antivenin."
"I know we have antivenin for the Black Widow on board," Virgil said, "but I'm not sure about the Australian Redback."
"The antivenin has been found effective for both Latrodectus species," Brains assured him. "Not all patients need the antivenin, but Gordon's, uh, symptoms are consistent with Grade Three envenomation, so I, uh, highly recommend that you go ahead with treatment. Ad-admin-, uh, give him one vial of antivenin in 250 milliliters of normal saline, infused at one milliliter a minute for fifteen minutes, and the remainder over, uh, one hour."
Virgil nodded, scribbling notes on a pad. "Got it. Thanks, Brains!" He quickly gathered some supplies and efficiently set up a saline IV with the antivenin added, adjusting the drip to the correct rate. "All right, Alan, in fifteen minutes, change the drip like this."
Alan nodded, setting a timer on his watch.
Virgil gently squeezed Gordon's shoulder. "Hang in there, Squirt. You'll be back to your normal self in no time!" He headed back up to the bridge to begin the descent to Tracy Island.
The rest of the trip was a blur to Gordon. He wanted to sleep, but the pain was still severe enough to keep him awake. He was aware of Virgil's feather-light touchdown on the island, and then of his bed being wheeled into the hangar. He caught a glimpse of Scott bent over him, eyebrows knit with worry, before another cramp hit and he curled up tighter around himself, fighting back a groan with every painful breath. A hand brushed over his hair, and he heard his father's voice trying to soothe him.
The cramping finally began to ease as they got him situated in the infirmary, and he was gradually able to uncurl and lie flat on his back as Virgil fussily adjusted the sheets and blankets around him and checked to make sure the IV line was still properly in place.
It took nearly all his energy to keep his eyes half open as he stared around at his worried family. "I think it's working," he said, unable to raise his voice above a whisper.
Jeff was sitting closest to him, although Scott was hovering in the background, clearly awaiting his turn in the chair by the head of the bed.
"I'm glad," Jeff said warmly, putting his hand gently on Gordon's shoulder.
John's face was visible on the TV screen in the monitor. "Hey, Gords," he said in a light tone that belied the worry in his eyes, "I'm beginning to think that this island has it in for you. First the landslide, and now a poisonous spider?" He smirked. "You might want to hire Scott as a bodyguard or something!"
"Hey, neither of those was my fault!" Gordon protested weakly. "Well, I guess parts of the landslide thing were – but this one's totally on the spider!"
Jeff broke back into the conversation. "And speaking of the spider, tomorrow we're going to be moving every piece of furniture in this house, and getting into every dark corner, to make sure there aren't any more poisonous spiders hiding anywhere."
"Good thinking," Gordon murmured. "I can tell you that spider venom isn't much fun." His eyes wouldn't stay open anymore. "Wake me up when the spiders are all gone."
Alan suddenly laughed. "Hey, we'll have to watch out that he doesn't get arachnophobia form this," he said.
"Yeah, that'd be a problem, considering how many spiders we run into on the job," Virgil said.
Gordon's lips twitched in the tiniest of smirks. So his family thought he would be afraid of spiders? Well, he was willing to bet that they could be coaxed into feeling a bit of arachnophobia themselves. It might be time to use a certain prank idea he'd been saving…
A week later, John was back on the ground, having just traded with Alan for their normal rotation of shifts. As he was unpacking, he looked out his window and was glad to see his fully recovered redhead brother swimming laps in the pool. He shook his head ruefully – Gordon had certainly given them a couple good scares in the past few months.
He opened his dresser drawer – and his quick brain barely had an instant to register eight hairy, moving legs and some really big fangs before he was hurtling backwards, propelled by his own panic and accompanied by a shriek that threatened to shatter his windows.
His pulse was still racing as footsteps thundered in the hallway; his door burst open, and Scott and Virgil clamored for answers. They quickly spotted the spring-loaded fake tarantula on the floor between John and the dresser, and their serious faces broke into wide grins.
"I see you've been introduced to Ethelbert," Scott said.
"Ethelbert?" John repeated incredulously, wincing as his voice cracked. "What kind of a name is that?"
Virgil eyed the distance John stood from the dresser. "I think he beat both of our records, Scott. That's gotta be all of six feet!"
"Not Alan's record, though," Scott replied. He turned to John. "It turns out the Sprout actually does have arachnophobia – poor kid." His grin turned wicked. "Your scream had a couple octaves on his, though."
John rolled his eyes. "Scott, before you continue, I want you to think of just three words: The Pancake Incident."
That shut Scott up – instantly.
Virgil looked between them. "What? Pancakes? Scott, what is he talking about?"
Gordon's arrival saved Scott from trying to come up with an answer. The redhead strode into the room, dripping chlorinated water everywhere. "Johnny!" he exclaimed. "Welcome home! I trust you didn't experience anything too, uh, hairy when you were unpacking?" He saw the tarantula. "Why, Ethelbert, there you are! I've been looking all over for you!" He swooped down and scooped up the toy. "What have I told you about jumping out at people? I know you like to hear them scream like little girls, but-"
"Hey!" John exclaimed. "I did not scream like a little girl!"
"Uh, John," Scott muttered. "Yes, you did."
"We could hear it all the way from the kitchen," Virgil added helpfully.
John sighed gustily. "Well, I bet you two and Alan didn't exactly sound like tough he-men when you were introduced to Ethelbert!"
Scott and Virgil's faces reddened.
"Well, it's great to have you home, Johnny," Scott said hastily. "We'll see you around!"
He and Virgil ducked out of the room, and Gordon disappeared with his spider too.
John shook his head and went back to his unpacking, although he opened each dresser drawer with caution. His heartbeat was still working on slowing down, and he thought wistfully of the peace and quiet of Thunderbird Five – far away from Gordon's clutches.
Then he brightened as an idea came to him – as long as he was stuck on earth for a month, he might as well have some fun…and some payback. What would Gordon do if he couldn't open the drawer that held all his swimming trunks? Clutching a tube of super glue and trying to suppress an evil chuckle, he crept down the hallway toward Gordon's room.
It's on, little brother! he thought. You want war – you've got it!
He was unaware of two people observing his actions from a distance.
"Uh-oh," Virgil said to Scott. "Looks like Johnny's on the warpath – again."
Scott shook his head sadly. "You'd think he'd learn."
"There's just one thing I hope he never learns," Virgil replied.
Scott shared a knowing glance with Virgil. "Yeah, me too – that if he and Gordon ever work together on a prank – "
"We're all doomed," Virgil finished.
They walked back toward the kitchen, never noticing slight movement behind a nearby large potted plant. After a moment, a redheaded figure crept out from behind the plant, a huge grin on his face, and a mischievous glint in his eye. He softly addressed the fuzzy little monster sitting in his palm.
"Ethelbert, let's go talk to Johnny." He frowned slightly. "Before the glue sets."