Home, Laced in Web

I follow behind Butcher. A lot of nights spent imagining what I’d say to him. But there’s not been much talk on the road. Pretty used to silence anyway. Don’t hate it. Leaves room for possibilities, for what could happen when the right moment comes. Already know he’s lied though. Could hear the pause in the words my friend when he spoke of the patient in question. Didn’t elaborate. I didn’t press. Sets me off a little, though try not to show it. Don’t want him thinking I still love him, seeing as I don’t. 

The cart rattles as he tugs it along. Kind of him to take it, though there are few I would leave my equipment in the care of. A cleaver dangles from his belt. His seven-foot frame kindly shading my eyes from the smoke-red sun—his antlers standing another two feet above that. Considered not coming. Bet he never doubted he could get me. And here I am, in step. The trees around us getting taller. The fog thicker as we head north.

We’ll be in Deep Wells soon. What once was home. A place where people know my name whether I want them to or not. Where I’m alone and unwelcome. 

Alone back in Old Haven too, but there’s people like me at least, other phenos. Not so like me in morphology—less spidery, could say. Not that I chose how my body would change, only that it would. Even amongst the other phenos, I’m not the most well-liked. Not the type that folks are drawn to, the type to spend more than a night with. My house there feels empty. Nobody shares it with me. “Too many cobwebs,” I’ve overheard others joke. Had someone stay the night only a month ago. Body covered in the softest brown fur. Claws that raked across my back. Left before daybreak. Said they had a good time, sure, but it was hard to sleep next to me. Nothing personal. Something innate, a fear they couldn’t shake. 

“So, which part of me will sell best?” I say. A nervous attempt to break the silence.

He snorts. No answer. Tough to read—always has been. Keeps his eyes forward, alert. Knows the road round here is hostile. There’s a comfort in that, knowing he can fear the world too. Began to think it was just me. 

Wonder if he really could find a seller with more acquired tastes. Have heard rumors of a northern baron who finds the eyes of phenos a delicacy. Can’t imagine Butcher would dabble in that business. Never been the type. Good for him. He’ll live longer that way. 

Still, strange to have my services requested like this. Would usually never agree to return to this city on the moors. My body marks me for death here, changed as it is. Reason I had to leave in the first place. 

Butcher stops. Lets go of the cart. I follow suit, hunched over beside him. Reach up to place a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t mind—I’ve always liked that about him. Most find me so repulsive. The way they shiver. Something about the coarse hairs. The stick of my hands. Not him, but still, there’s risk in the touch. That he could pull away.

Automobiles, grown over and rusted, litter the sides of the road. Abandoned for a long time. Won’t ever move again but make good cover. 

I catch the scent, lean up to his ear. “Eight o’clock.”

The creature charges out from the brush. He rolls away. I jump through a car window. Creature runs straight through where he was standing. Slams into the car I’m crouched inside. Shakes itself. Looks pissed. I’d be pissed. What was born a deer. Antlered and all that. Stomping the ground. No fur on it though. Half the lower jaw missing. Skin covered in lesions. The work of the Knock. Thing’s probably crazy with pain with no blockers or sifter to ease it.

Takes another charge at Butcher, who holds his ground. Lowers his own antlers. The clack of them connecting echoes out. Lock into each other. Butcher’s feet are sliding back on the road. Gets pressed up against a car. The two stay like that for a bit. Stalemated. Looking like mirrors of the other. Like brothers in a quarrel.

Beginning to wonder if I need to intervene when a shot comes from up the road, hits the stag in the rear. It screeches. Awful sound. Butcher thrusts his head, throws it off-center. An antler of his gets caught in the tangle though. Force twists it enough to snap, breaks like a tree branch, leaving a jagged stump. Grabs the cleaver from his belt. Cuts clean through the throat. Can’t help but wonder at that. Whether there’s any conflict there. Probably a mercy, but still, would think it’d be tougher for him to kill a creature he looks like, shares genes with. Maybe not. Most folks think the Knock an invasion of their bodies. Something to detest, reject. Guess I thought Butcher was different. Maybe if the deer had grown a human face he would have hesitated. 

Climb out onto the roof of the car. Look up the road. Notice the rifle’s still up. Not pointed at me though. Strange. Figured it would’ve been. 

“Butch, you know this city ain’t welcoming to phenos.” She’s grown a beard since I last saw her. Scruffy and orange. Not a bad look for her. Wears her father’s necklace. A scrunched up bullet on a chain. The man used to get drunk and tell the story of the beast he’d killed with it. Not something he ever took off, prideful as he was. I’ll sleep better knowing he’s in the ground. Used to have to keep a wide berth from that family. He caught me speaking to his daughter once. Smashed in all my windows that night. 

“They won’t harm anyone, Culler,” Butcher assures. 

Rolls her eyes. “Ain’t what I’m worried about.” 

Catch a familiar smell in the air. Not one I’d expect up here. Take a slow look around. No one there. Don’t notice the stag beginning to stand. Butcher doesn’t either. It’s quick. Lunging straight for him before it’s fully up. Second shot comes from behind a tree. Not ten feet from me. Gets it through the head. Stag slides to the ground an inch from Butcher. 

“Go on and thank Zito, Butch.”

A kid steps out from the tree. They’ve grown in the decade since. Gotta be in their mid-teens by now. Didn’t even hear them. Must take after Culler. She’s a quiet one too. Zito kid goes to Culler’s side, giving me side-eye the whole time. They look normal enough. Not showing any other signs. But the odor’s the first giveaway, though people don’t know it. Maybe Butcher can’t tell. Maybe Culler can’t either. Tough to say.

“This the sawbones you went galloping out of town for?”

Culler’s looking at me, full-on staring. Frowning. Takes a lean back. Eyebrows raise. Only just recognizing me, seems like. Suppose I look pretty different from last time she saw me. “Well, well. How long you planning to be back in town for, Weaver?”

Butcher speaks for me. “Only for a night. They’ll be gone by morning.” 

Something sour there. New info. Good to know Butcher doesn’t want me sticking around, I guess. Just thought maybe it wasn’t like that. 

She nods. Eyes still on me. More frowning. Looks back to Butcher, questioning. Two of them share a look that’s not for me. Toes are being stepped on. Not sure whose. Then she nods, turns heel. Zito goes with, giving me one last look through the fog.

#

Close to midnight when we arrive. Haven’t been back to Deep Wells in a long time. No one left for me. Not many people in general. Ghost town, could be called, but everywhere’s a ghost town since the Knock. Population takes time to recover. 

Butcher walks through the gates, hands over his papers. I climb the stone wall, follow along the rooftops when he reemerges. People wander below the streetlights. Some nod to Butcher if they’re not too drunk. Pass by a factory. The smokestacks smokeless. Pass a church with barred windows. Know this path well. So he still lives there. 

Houses in this part of town mostly vacant, waiting to be reoccupied. Nice and quiet. Butcher always did value privacy. Takes out a key and enters the home we shared way back. I wait up above awhile. Wonder if he’s telling his “friend” that I’ve arrived. Wonder if they share the same bed that we once did. 

The window opens. Don’t move. Nothing keeping me here but my word. Thought I’d decided to move on a long time ago. Thought I would have felt more numb to this, returning to a home that is no longer mine. Knew Butcher would find someone else. Probably never would have even considered me if not for the Knock, pushed us together like it did. When our friends and families died so quickly. When we had to hide away, even though the viral plasmids had already rewritten our genes. Until the blockers were made to stop all that, until I stopped taking them, switching out for the less potent sifter that would let my body change safely. Was still early days when I left this house. Thought Butcher might come with me. 

Tell myself to get it together. Too much time spent in my own head. Slink down and crawl through the window. Butcher draws the shades. I inspect my apparatuses. No cracks in the glassware. No solvents leaked. The reagents and the— “The brown bottle that was sitting right here?”

Opens his freezer and pulls out a slab of meat. Throws it on a pan. “Hm? Oh. Confiscated. Watchguards didn’t like the look of it.”

Something off when he says this. Voice is flatter.

“And did you try to pay them off or anything?”

“Didn’t want to make a fuss, did I? They would’ve started asking questions.”

“So you just gave them my sifter.”

“Oh.” Frowns. “Sorry. Didn’t know.”

Sorry, he says. Fucking great. Not like I need that stuff to live. Got more at home, sure. I can last. But hate to miss a dose. Have to take it twice a day so I don’t turn into a pile of cancer, like that deer Butcher left dead on the road. Stupid for not keeping it close. For entrusting anything in his care. Barely even aware of what he’s done. Just standing there heating meat. 

Notice the photos on the wall. Almost leave right then and there. Don’t have to be here. He’s the one that asked for my assistance. Reached out, put his hand on mine when he asked. Leaned in real close. Not like that now. The more we walked, the more distant he got. Now in this house, his whole demeanor has changed. Won’t even look at me. 

Some pre-Knock photos. His family and all that. Seen them before. The rest are newer. Polaroids. Of him and this friend he’s brought me all the way out here to treat. Used to be me on that wall. Photos we took together. Wonder what he’s done with them. Spot the camera sitting on a shelf. The one I grabbed while others were shoveling food from the store shelves. Not mine anymore. Should have just said though. And shouldn’t have let the watchguards take my fucking sifter.

“Might at least take me to the room.”

He nods. Plates the steak—barely cooked. Pulls out a couple bottles of plasmid blockers. Offers me, tactless as he is. I wave it off as he pops one of each, shakes out another pair onto the plate. Walks down an unlit hall. Taps the door twice. The scent tells me there is flesh putrefying. Tells me, too, that my presence is detested and that I’m dealing with a carnivore. There’s a lot people say through smells.

“No.” Snarling at me. So aggressive. Another thing Butcher failed to mention. Have met this type before. All that meat changes the brain chemistry, makes someone think they’re an apex predator. Also makes them smell like a locker room. Doesn’t help that he’s drenched in sweat. “I told you no.”

“Please, Piper. They’re here to help.” Butcher gives Piper’s hand a squeeze. A kiss on the forehead. Such tenderness. I could puke. Sets the plate down. Begins cutting into. Feeding him. Hands over the pills with water. 

“I don’t care if you used to fuck this pheno freak. I don’t ever want to see another goddamn spider in my life.” 

Wait to see if Butcher will say anything. He doesn’t. Thought Butcher had better taste. But nothing beats the ease that must come with choosing someone normal to couple with, someone who takes their mandated blockers. Move to the bedside. Gesture for Butcher to show me the damage. Pulls back the covers. Piper bites into a morsel. All canines. Stares like he wishes it were my neck. 

See the scars. Not uncommon for folks to excise the small changes left by the Knock. Try not to look at them. Don’t want this pheno terf to see my eyes linger. Focus on the side of his ribs. Two puncture holes. Should have at least crusted over, but no. Reach out to touch the blood. Give it a sniff. Almost want to lick it just to piss him off. Thinks I’m here to suck him dry I bet.

“Need to take some samples. Lot of possible reasons for why it’s not clotting.” 

Piper notices the antler missing from Butcher’s head. Looks concerned. Reaches up for his cheek. Feel like my presence has been entirely forgotten. The pheromones being released from both of them. Finish up. Step out. Can barely stand being in that room. The way Butcher touches him. Looks at him. Whatever. Not my damn business anymore. 

Set up my stuff around the kitchen. Tie a string around one of the vials. Spin it round and round with one hand. Could only bring so much. Had to leave the centrifuge at home. Pour coffee with two other hands. Feels good to keep them busy. Place a drop under the microscope while I centrifuge. Looks like a mess. Platelets and red cells torn to shreds. 

Butcher’s behind me. Waiting for my attention. Make him wait. No right to interrupt my work. Gracious of me to even be here.

“Sorry about Piper.”

Pull a jar out. Hand it to him. “Get some urine.”

He takes it. Stays standing there. Apparently would rather bother me than assist in getting this over with. Thought he wanted me gone by morning. 

“You think this is something you can fix?”

“Is Piper pregnant?”

Butcher pauses. “No.”

I grab the jar back. “Then never mind.” Stop centrifuging. Looks separated enough. Check out the sample. Will need more than just Piper’s blood if it’s a— “Spider bite?”

Butcher nods. “Big one.” Holds his hands out to his full wingspan. Big one for sure. “Got him at the factory pretty late. Piper went to go check a tank that broke. Didn’t see it till it bit him. Full paralysis. He barely managed to scream. It was crawling on top of him for good long minute before someone came running and ...” Pauses. Maybe considering his words. “I’m just glad he’s alive.”

I hear what he doesn’t say. That it’s dead now. Shot through. Stomped on. Incinerated. Probably thinks I would take offense. Maybe that’s why he’s not mentioned it till now. Maybe thinks I live amongst spiders. That there’s a whole subcommunity of spidery phenos. Nope, just me far as I know. Tough to say what he thinks of me. If he thinks of me. Not heard from him in all this time. Not until he needed me to come back to treat his husband. 

 Can’t stop thinking about the spider sitting on top of Mr. Carnivore. The schadenfreude’s amusing, yes, but also doesn’t seem right. He should be dead if that thing was sucking out his insides for a full minute.

“Where’s he from? Don’t remember him.” 

“Further north.” Another pause. “I hope you know he didn’t mean what he said. He’s in pain.” 

A rancid apology. “You love him, I can see.”

“I do.”

“Happy for you two. Never call on me again.” Out the window. Wrapped up in my coat. Hides my extra limbs somewhat. Need to be careful round here. 

The fog is a comfort. The smell of Culler less so. She’s out here. Decide it’s better to pretend to think otherwise. Make for the factory. Let her follow. Wonder if I should just ask her to let me in. Seems risky. Not yet sure how she feels about me. Whether she’s taken on her father’s mantle.

#

The smokestack surely hasn’t been cleaned since the factory was repurposed. Climb down through the soot. Smells of sulfur and gasoline. Have to remove a grate or two. Crawl through the ducts. Find the main hall. Emergency lights glow a steady red. Take a look around at the rows of tanks. Mostly cows and pigs suspended inside. None of them conscious. Never have been, never will be. Easier to farm meat like this these days. Less chance for a Knock variant to contaminate the livestock.

No broken tanks here. Head back into the ducts. See what other rooms I can find. Climb down into an office. Nothing of interest. Computer needs a password. Not my specialty, old tech like this. Check the drawers. One locked. Bust it open. Keycard inside. Nice of them to leave it here for me. 

Get to walk down the hallways this time. Open every door. Offices, mostly. A laboratory. A metallic-scented room where the meat gets packaged up. No broken tanks, don’t care. Until a door opens and there one is. Glass cracked like an eggshell. Tarps have been hung around it to block off the rest of the room. Can’t see past them, but the length of the ceiling says there’s more here. The insulation of it is weirdly textured. Up above the lights and the pipes. Up in the rafters. Tough to make it out clearly from down here.

The smell of Culler cuts in. Don’t hear the footsteps though. Have to respect that. Don’t trust anyone who stomps about wanting to be noticed, no fear of the attention of others. Much easier to trust someone who’s wary of it. 

“Hold it.” Rifle’s on her back. Arms across her chest. 

“Gonna follow me all night?”

“You’re the one trespassing.”

Give the air another sniff. “Didn’t bring the kid this time?” 

“Teenagers need their sleep.” Something in her tone. Caution. She reaches into her pocket. Pulls out the bottle the guards took. “Sifter ain’t so legal in this city. You know that?” 

“Will be sure to take it far away if you give it back.”

“We’ll see how the night goes.” She re-pockets it. “If you’re looking for the fella that did that to Piper, then I’m afraid to say the laboratory boys already burnt it, panicked as they were, like headless chickens, so no hopes for an antivenin.” 

I’m less sure of that. Something in the air. Sterile mostly. Hint of formaldehyde. But living odors as well. Push past the tarps. Rows of tanks like the main hall. A few dozen. Creatures inside look messed up. Not like they should. All too big. All invertebrates. Insects mostly. Huge bee in the tank nearest. Size of a puppy. Stinger could probably puncture to my heart. 

I turn back to Culler. “What’s this?” 

Shrugs. “Scientists doing weird shit like normal. Not that anybody tells me anything.” 

Knock experiments looks like. Almost want to laugh. To hate me for what I am but still do shit like this. Bet they’re using sifter or some equivalent to get it done. Bet they have it all reasoned out in their trash logic brains why I’m disgusting but this right here is important work. Thinking about why it would be a quality idea to go ahead and let all these things loose. Don’t actually. Would make a lot of work for Culler. 

That’s when something hits the floor behind me. Culler’s swinging out the rifle. Fires. Dead on. Guts everywhere. She looks freaked. Points the muzzle up. Another one drops. Hits it in the air. The ceiling’s moving now. The hundreds of hairy bodies crawling over each other, brown against the cream color of their eggs. Only just hatching. Culler is yelling run. She already is. Pulls out a walkie-talkie. Pulls the fire alarm. Telling me to pull myself together. 

Plenty more are dropping now. Feel the crawl of one as it moves up my back. Sitting on my shoulder. We stare at each other for a second. It’s as big as my hand. Must be pretty huge when full grown, I suspect. 

Culler swings the rifle like a bat. Sends it flying. Drags me by a hand toward the exit, into the hall. Stops before a keypad in a glass case with a hand-written sign that reads IN CASE IT ALL GOES TO SHIT. Smashes it. Yells at whoever’s on the other end of the walkie-talkie for the code. Punches it in. Blast doors slam shut, crushing a spider that was on its way out. Can hear the incinerators going. The collective scream on the other side. Not the type Culler would recognize, but screaming nonetheless. Hurts to hear. To think I did nothing to stop it. 

Culler is resting against the wall, sliding down to the floor, still talking to whoever’s on the other end. We notice it at the same time. Crawling down the wall toward her. Poor baby can barely see, such fresh eyes. Culler swears. Goes for her rifle. Tell her no. Pause. Staring at me like I’m crazy. Tell her I need it for the antivenin. Grab the creature by the back of the thorax. Like grabbing a cat by the neck scruff. Wriggles a little in my hand. Culler still gripping the rifle.

Dawns on me then. Why Piper isn’t dead. Why mama spider let him live. Didn’t think of it at first because it’s atypical for spider behavior, but nothing acts normal after the Knock. 

Can feel the adrenaline kick in—funny that it hasn’t until now. Telling me to run. I don’t. Don’t hate myself for hesitating. Always good to take an extra second when there’s a fork in the road, is what I tell myself. Only a moment of Piper’s time. Let myself sit in the temptation, but it’s clear what I have to do. More than one life on the line here. No other way about it. Not doing this for Butcher. Not doing this for his dog-toothed husband. 

Don’t bother to explain to Culler. Start running. Pass by the laboratory door, skid to a halt. Notice the sealed bucket in there. Need that. Reach in quick and grab it. Dump out the sand that’s inside. Sorry to whoever cleans the floors. Gently place the spider pup inside.

Make it out onto the street. All eight limbs on show. Don’t care who sees me. Someone screams. Another throws a bottle that sails overhead, smashes against a wall.

Window’s been left open for me. Kitchen’s empty. Scrub four of my hands, glove them. Piper’s sweating, grunting, writhing. Butcher’s panicked. Bags under red eyes. Dumbass needs to sleep at some point. 

“Hold him down.” Bleeding faster than before. Abdomen distending. Already hatched then. Put a scalpel to the skin. Piper’s swearing at me. Grab a shirt from the floor—shove it in his mouth while making the incision. Have to go deep. Ignore Piper’s muffled screaming. My bad for not bringing anesthetics. A lot of bleeding. The little ones in here are going to town. Three total. Pluck them out one by one, discreetly tuck them into the bucket with their sibling. Seal the lid. Not the difficult part. Spiders have to liquidate the guts before they can eat. Half the liver’s gone already. A kidney too. Worried how much more he can lose before it’s a lost cause.

“Is there an actual surgeon in this town?” 

Butcher nods. Yell at him to go fucking get them then, but he’s already sprinting out the door. Piper’s gone back to flailing. Won’t do. My fangs are out, give his neck a little bite. Movements get slow. Limbs go limp. Will still be conscious for everything that happens, but at least won’t be able to move. Much easier that way. Not all that sorry for making him relive his trauma. Try to stabilize. Pump out the fluid. Do what I can. Well and truly. Know that I’ll get the blame if he goes under. I’ll be that petty ex forever. Would rather not have my name dragged over his grave, if possible. Fuckface better live so I can never think about him again.

#

Long night. Standing in the kitchen as the sun begins to rise. Will be another hour before it crests over the city wall. Finish measuring out the antivenin. Butcher’s staring into his coffee. 

“Might lose some muscular function for a while. Should come back.” Least of his problems. Will likely need a transplant or two. Not my job though. Surgeon’s in there now. 

“Thanks.” Reaches to take the sealed vial. “And thank you for coming. I know it was a lot for me to ask, but I really appreciate it.”

The smell he emits is gray. Featureless. Withholding. Known him a long time. He was the first I ever told. Before I even stopped taking the blockers. I’ve not met many who can lie through their smells. Don’t think he does it consciously. Just an old habit. 

Begin to step away, but his hand is on mine. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

He’s looking at me. It feels so good. The warmth of being seen, touched. I’ve missed this, the way he can make me feel loved and wanted so easily. Same way he looked at me when he asked me to come back to Deep Wells. Treat some friend of his.

Pull away. “Maybe another time.”

Doesn’t pull me back. No point in sticking around. Feelings have been made clear. For the best. Lot of things I want to say. Don’t say any of them. Would only take a few words to burn this bridge for good. But I don’t. Would rather not cry in front of him. 

Pack up the cart. Out the door. Don’t head for the gate, not yet. Try to take the back ways. Some small kids are chasing each other around the street. They go still when I get near. Run inside. Can hear at least five more voices in there. Someone yells. Another tells them to keep it down. Then an adult steps out. She smiles at me. First time since I got here that someone has. Waves me around to the back where there’s a yard. Zito’s putting a sheet up on a clothesline. Goes on edge when I approach, gives a look to Culler who’s sitting by the wash basin.

“All right that I’m still here?”

“What do I care? Not like I’m working today.”

Stand there for a sec. Know I’m being a little awkward. “Maybe I can help with that then.” 

Sit down next to her. Take the basin. Eight hands make light work. Zito running back and forth between me and the clothesline. The kid smells like unease. Much as I would like to feel a sense of kinship, they probably don’t know what to think of me. Is what it is. Not friendly country out here. Don’t want to make too many assumptions either. But a person’s odor is different when they’re on plasmid blockers, almost citrusy. And this kid don’t smell that way.

Say to Culler, “Sorry about your dad.” 

She gives no acknowledgment. Only touches the bullet hanging from her neck. Then reaches down and pulls out the bottle of sifter. “You here for this?”  

“Might be.” Look over at the Zito kid. Their clothes are a couple sizes big on them. Lot of skin hidden. Look back to Culler. “But I can make more.” 

“You cooking up contraband?”

“Only what’s needed to live.”

Smiles as much as I’ve ever seen her, which is to say not much. Stopped after the Knock took out her teeth. The fake ones look pretty good, I don’t say. “Well, you’ll just have to come back so I can confiscate more. Know some folks round here who would also like to live.”

#

City gates close behind me. One guard glares. The other one won’t even look my way, white-knuckling the strap of his rifle. 

“Till next time, fellas.” 

The glaring one spits on the ground. 

Head a few miles down the road, cart rattling behind. Deep in the firs. Morning fog all around. The buck’s corpse still dead in the road. Untouched since Bucher cut its throat. Take the bucket from the cart, hold it over, crack the lid. Four hairy bodies fall upon the corpse, crawling over the furless flesh. 

Watch the spiderlings drink their fill. Their hair soft and new, pups that they are. But that goes away. Already growing. Consider a year from now, the firs above laced in web, invisible against the fog. Not a bad place for them. Though folks of Deep Wells might not like that. The forest made more hostile—to them—if teemed with spiders.

Consider, too, my home back in Old Haven, full of webs, of growing spiderlings. A home filled. Might be nice, to have company. Already thinking of names.

Reach down to stroke the thorax of Skitter. Hairs bristle. Sinks its fangs into me. Don’t flinch. Let it pull away, shuffles out of sight behind the buck corpse.

Maybe am wrong to think them like me. Me like them. That they would not grow to spin me up in my sleep, to liquify my intestines. Would not fault them for it. Might wonder how many mutations until they considered me not other. Considered me friend. But that’s wrong thinking. Doesn’t matter if I were like them. Never mattered. That’s the way of it. The world was always meant to be hostile. 

CJ Shuttle (they/them) is a trans, queer writer living in the Boston area, and a recent MFA grad from Emerson College where they were the managing editor of Redivider. Their fiction has previously been published by The Other Stories podcast. They hope you can find something a little off-putting in every story they write.

Published July 15 2024