Silk

A tickle on her cheek, then, and Daria brushed at her face, brushed back hair and stared at the thing that had fallen into her lap, eight legs drawn up tight like a closed umbrella, spider fetal, and she almost screamed, thumped it away from her. Touched her face again, and there were others waiting there, ru

Daria beat at her face, her chest, the scream continuous now, waiting for their jaws, the hypo sting, waiting to drown beneath them. She remembered the can of Hot Shot and sprayed herself, the bed, stinking pesticide mist everywhere, wet mist falling with the recluse shower.

“I’m not done with you…” whispered next to her ear. “I’m not done with you, bitch,” and she screamed for Claude, for Mort, screamed for Keith. They were inside her clothes, touching her everywhere, at every orifice, and soon they would be inside her. So many legs moving together they made a sound like burning leaves. Daria bashed herself against the wall, spidervelvet-papered wall, head thump against the Sheetrock, and through the pain she saw her silver Zippo lying where she’d left it on the table by the bed.

Just like Pablo had taught her years ago, cans of hair spray or whatever and a lighter, just for fuckin’ kicks, just to see the noisy rush of fire, Daria aimed the can of Hot Shot at the foot of the bed, thumb on the striker wheel and fwoomp, bright splash of flame, gout of flame and spiders crisping, curling to charred specks, charred lumps of specks. The blanket caught, the sheets, and she aimed the flamethrower at the wall.

The can spat up a last dribble of fire and was empty, but it didn’t matter, because the flames were crawling away on their own, devouring a thousand fleeing bodies every second as they spread.

And then Mort, reaching through the smoke, strong boy arms, his hands, dragging her off the burning bed, bump, bump, bump across the floor like Pooh, and she let him, let him drag her all the way across the apartment and out into the hall, too busy beating at the spiders still clinging to her to stop him, the spiders carpeting the floor. He left her lying on the landing, grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall and rushed back inside. Muffled sound like a giant espresso machine steaming milk, steaming a whole goddamn cow, and he was right back, coughing, his eyes watering and black smoke all around them.

“Get them off me,” she sobbed, begged. “Please, Mort, get them off me,” and he squatted down next to her, into the cleaner air beneath the smoke.

“Get what off of you, Daria? Tell me what the hell you’re talking about,” but she was raking at her face, now, raking at the spiders trying to burrow their way into her skin to escape the fire. And he slapped her, slapped her so hard her ears rang like Sunday morning bells, and she fell over; Mort picked her up again, held her hands in his fists and talked slowly.

“You got the fuckin’ DTs or something, Dar. That’s all. There’s nothing here to hurt you. Whatever you think you’re seeing, it ain’t real, okay? I absolutely fuckin’ swear it ain’t real.”

“No, let me go,” fighting him, coughing and trying to pull her hands free before the spiders were in too deep to pull out again, like they’d gotten inside Keith. “Can’t you see them?”

“Don’t make me hit you again, Dar. Please god don’t make me have to hit you again.” And he pushed her hands, her straining arms, down to her sides and held them there until she stopped struggling. Until she was only crying, sobbing, and she could hear thunder and the wail of sirens, end of the world wail.

“We gotta get outta here, Dar. You need a doctor, and I couldn’t get the fire out in there.”

Mort picked her up, carried her down the stairs and out into the freezing clean night air, the water rain that peppered her skin like liquid ice, bringing her back. Back to herself and Morris Avenue, the buildings washed in scarlet waves of fire-engine light, blue and white cop-car light.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

1.

T hree hours sitting in the emergency room, and if Daria had actually been hurt, she’d have died a long time before Mort finally lost his patience and demanded that a doctor look at her, yelled at a couple of nurses and stomped about. Nothing but scratches on her arms and face, though, welts irritated from the Hot Shot, eyes red from the smoke. A sleepy-looking intern had given her antibiotic salve for the scratches and a halfhearted speech about drinking so goddamn much, although he’d assured her that it was very unlikely that she’d actually had DTs; questions about acid and shit and she’d shaken her head, no and no, not lately or not ever, just booze, and he’d stuck a couple of Band-Aids on her face and hands and sent her on her way.

Out sliding glass doors into the cold again, past ambulances and other injuries to the van, waiting for them where Theo had parked it: vast and mostly empty parking deck, feeble yellow light and concrete, blocky red numbers almost black under the lights, to tell them the level and row, like they could miss the shitmobile. Mort helped Daria inside, into the passenger seat, and Theo climbed in the back.

“We’ll go to my place, Dar,” Theo said. “In the morning, we can have a look at whatever’s left of your apartment.”

Daria shrugged, yeah, whatever, took a slightly bent cigarette from a pack on the dash and let it dangle unlit from the corner of her mouth. Mort opened the driver’s-side door. “You sure you’re feelin’ okay?” he asked. “What a useless bunch of sons-of-bitches in there…”

“I’m fine, Mort. Can I get a light?” she said, and he reached in his shirt pocket, passed her his lighter; orange flicker of butane flame and then the reassuring smell of the Marlboro and she closed her eyes and slumped back in the seat.

“What time is it?” but she looked at her wristwatch before anyone could answer. Nine forty-five in oilgray, but it felt so much later, forever since Mort had carried her down from the smoke and fire. The fire and the spiders going dreamy in her head, unreal and far away.

Mort tried to start the van and the engine hacked and sputtered like an old man with double pneumonia, was silent. “Fuck, fuck, and fuck,” and he hit the steering wheel.

“That’s go

“It’s just a worthless piece of crap,” and he tried again, turned the key and the old man wheezed and coughed deep in his watery steel chest.

Daria squinted out at the parking deck through cigarette smoke and the van’s dirty, bugsplotched windshield. Two or three other cars and the fluorescents left little space for shadows, for secrets or hiding places.

“Can we just sit here a minute?” and Mort sighed, big, exhausted puff of white breath. “We might not have a choice,” he replied.

“I don’t suppose you happened to grab my bass on your way out?”

“There wasn’t time, Dar,” he said. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’ll be okay.”

“Maybe,” and she pulled another drag off the Marlboro.

“Are you sure you’re feelin’ all right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Sure. Just a little freaked out, that’s all.” And quick, before she could talk herself out of asking, “If you can get the van started, will you drive me to Spyder’s house?”

An astonished, disgusted sound from Theo, and “Christ, why in hell would you want to see Spyder Baxter?”

“I don’t want to see Spyder. I need to know if Niki’s okay.”

Mort made a doubtful face, doubt and worry, and he looked as bad as she felt, almost. “Wouldn’t it be a better idea to call?”