It was a pleasantly untroubled trip from the Visitors Center to the mountain. Birds were singing and flying through the trees, dinosaurs trumpeted in the distance every so often, and a gentle breeze was keeping the heat and humidity down.
An uninterrupted walk was all it was though; neither of us spoke more than a handful of times. The silence wasn't exactly awkward, but more that we didn't have anything to talk about and Artur seemed to be content in taking in our surroundings. I imagined another part of it may have been him having evidently settled on treating me as he would a relaxed superior officer and having nothing important to say; though that was only a guess.
Save for that lingering awkwardness however, the trip went uninterrupted except for the occasional break or stop so I could retrieve a handful of one plant or another. Before we were even halfway along, my satchel had been filled with all number of plants and whatever else might be usable as a dye to tarnish the orb weavers' silk.
I was certain that bracken fern shoots should give me a nice reddish-pink, and from eucalyptus bark a light tan, but aside from those two, I didn't what would make what. Neither of those colors were quite what I wanted, but if the other plants didn't work out I could always mix everything together and see how that worked out. It shouldn't be an issue though, I had more than enough samples that I was sure I'd find something that worked. But utilitarian clothes aside, it would be nice to have some variety once I had the time to put together some more casual articles.
Sure, having only the most basic knowledge of how to make or use natural dyes I was under no illusions that my efforts would be anything but amateur at best. I needed to figure out so many minor factors and account for them in order to get the color I wanted—what plant resulted in which color after being fixed with which type of mordant and so on. Whatever my initial results though, they would still be better than the gold sheen that the silk naturally took on in the light.
We reached the mountain around mid-day, and, half dragging the hand-truck over the bumpy, sun-dried red mud that'd spilled out from the gap in the fence base along the road, I looked up the mountain and glowered at the thin haze of fog shrouding the treetops and obscuring the peak.
With the Sun high overhead, our climb would be a wet slog. There was something to just toughing it out and getting it over and done with, but behind me I watched Artur knead at his thigh with the heel of his hand and surreptitiously pull out that tic-tac container. There were other factors to consider.
I glanced down at my new watch, ten to two. "Let's take a breather. Ten minutes."
Artur sighed in what could've only been relief and all but dropped his pack where he stood before moving toward the trees.
Parking the overloaded hand-truck on level ground, I shrugged off my small patrol-pack and sat down against a nearby tree. Artur did the same and, digging into one of his cargo pockets, tossed me a bag of trail mix.
Accepting it with a small smile, I held it in my teeth while I arched forward and pulled out one of the two green, plastic canteens hooked to my belt. I was forced to pin it between my knees to unscrew the cap, but getting it undone I sat back a bit to relax while sipping from the canteen.
My eyes were drawn back to the hand-truck.
When setting out a few days ago I hadn't given much thought as to how I'd haul everything up the mountain, just that I would. Now that we were here though? It was going to be a problem no matter how we went about it. The tubs were a bit lighter than when I'd originally packed them due to Artur swapping in the lightweight camping equipment his group had brought with them, but that weight reduction had been offset by more stuff being mounted to the outside of them.
Instead of just a three-high stack of tub-totes as it had originally been, Artur had tied the rope in such a way that the tubs were all lashed together with a heavy rake, shovel, and fire-ax helping to support the stack—improvised scaffolding of sorts.
My gaze shifted upwards, to the mass of blankets and bedrolls tied to the topmost tub. And then there was that, a five-gallon water cooler jug with padding to keep the glass bottle intact. Empty save for dust, but its size and shape made it awkward to carry and it would require a trip in itself.
Maybe it could be carried along with the tools though? It would still take a minimum of three trips.
I sipped from the canteen and turned to look up the mountainside.
A few minutes later the relaxing atmosphere that had slowly come about was broken. A sharp Crack! echoed through the trees and Artur jerked upright, his head snapped up from where he had been resting to scan our surroundings while his hand grasped at where his thigh holster had been.
I grimaced as the whiptail just barely caught itself, and I activated the flightpack for a split second to let it regain its footing as one of the branches it had been standing on fell from the canopy. I relocated it to a sturdier position and waited for the orb weaver it'd been picking up to come to it.
"Ma'am?"
He was looking to me for direction, or reassurance.
I opened my eyes to look back at him. "It's fine," I said, and made the effort of slouching back a bit.
"Boot—"
"It was just the whiptail," I said, interrupting him before he could get started. I realized I might have been a bit harsh. "I've been having it patrol our perimeter since we left the Visitors Center," I added. "It just broke a branch is all."
"Ah," he said, and after a pause, "I 'ad been vondering vere it vas." He was quiet for a bit longer and I was settling back when he looked into the jungle again.
"Boot, how break branch? Ven see, spy'dare no more zan twenty kilo ate' moost."
I opened my eyes to look at him again and considered how to respond to that before deciding that honesty was the best course. He'd see the thing eventually after all, and I hadn't exactly been subtle with either it or the Green when I'd been searching for the Blue; I had walked through the lobby twice while he'd been in there after all.
"That sounds about right. But I made it bigger since then."
"Beegar?"
"Bigger." I sighed. "I figured it would better to keep it out of sight for the time being."
A look of consternation crossed his features a moment after my explanation and he shook his head. "Eet is vine, Ma'am. Do not need to keep avay on my behaf. Is no pro'blem. Is just beeg spy'dare."
I raised my eyebrows. "Are you sure about that?"
He frowned but nodded. "Da."
I considered him for a few seconds before shrugging. "Alright then." I was pretty sure he was just putting up some false bravado, but if that was how he wanted to play it, fine.
Giving the order, it waited until the orb weaver was aboard and a minute later it appeared among the branches overhead. Its movements were nearly silent, and the only sign of its arrival was a gentle creaking as some of the branches it spread its legs strained under the weight of it.
Artur didn't react until I looked up and, following my gaze, he flinched back. His breath caught at the sight of it and I had the thing shift, ever so slightly, so he had a better view of it from an angle. I was posing it, putting it on display. In the dim light under the canopy the barbs on its legs shone dully, once fine hairs coarse and the size of a dog's whiskers, and the organic plate armor that was its carapace spread ever so slightly to expose faintly glowing green veins throughout its fleshy joints as it shifted its weight.
After a few more moments I had the now wolf-sized spider descend by way of a tree trunk.
Its thorax was wider than the trunk.
It took Artur almost a full minute to relax, though he did a commendable job of faking it while the whiptail unloaded its yellow passengers onto me then departed to pick up more.
"I zee. Beeger." The bluntness with which he said it almost made me laugh.
Taking up my canteen I took a slow sip while taking a second to think about how to answer before recalling the quick measurements I'd taken late last night after dumping most of the Green into it. "Overall it's about thirty percent larger than when you first saw it. Not quite what I wanted though."
At an inquiring look from him I elaborated: "It can't really carry much, spiders aren't made for that , but"—I gestured with my canteen at the weavers in my hair—"it has its uses."
His expression turned thoughtful at that and he hummed, glancing back the way the whiptail had left. "And is… safe?"
I shot him a reassuring smile. "It's safe."
I don't think he believed me, but he did seem more thoughtful than afraid. It was something.
-I-
Our break didn't last much longer, but the brief reprieve turned out to be a necessary one. The ascent began simply enough, Artur and I dividing the work with him carrying two of the lighter tubs and my patrol pack while I took his rucksack with the tools tied to it. The pack was heavy and strained my ribs a bit, but otherwise, the bulky, protruding pack was downright manageable and nowhere near as cumbersome as the large tubs looked once Artur picked them up.
Things began getting more difficult before long, in large part due to the tubs being so cumbersome but also because the footing was still poor from the rains. It wasn't as tenuous as the last time I descended, but cutting through the jungle to bypass the washed out sections of road hadn't been easy and at multiple points I needed to grab one side of the stack while he held the other.
In, retrospect we could have put together some sort of a sling and a carrying pole, or something similar. Eventually though, we rounded the last switchback and started up the last bit of road leading to the airlock-style gate set into the tall fencing around my little bunker.
Mine. My thoughts caught on that as I walked up the road under the overhanging tree canopy..
It felt... unexpectedly nice to be back here. The former radio bunker needed work, a lot of work. The place was little more than a hole in the ground and had reminded me of my prison cell when it'd been raining. It very much needed livening up and creature comforts. Still, the feeling remained. Maybe all the ideas I'd jotted down while I was away had something to do with that? Or… maybe it was because this was the first place I could actually call mine? Home hadn't been home for a long time, not since mom died; the boardwalk apartment had been provided by Coil, even as it was my base and where I'd slept; even my room at the Chicago HQ had never felt like it was mine.
The bunker was different. I had retaken it, and I had cleaned it up. Compared to my efforts to fix things in the past, it was simpler, more… personal.
Was this what getting your first apartment was supposed to feel like?
As the gate came into view I sensed Artur perk up. He looked left and up, his head turning to follow the overgrown fencing that cut through the trees, then to the airlock-gate. His attention was grabbed by the fencing again once the hole in it beside the gates came into view, the tangle of twisted metal poles and cables partially hidden by the overgrowth, but he seemed to relax once we passed through the gates.
I guess having only one hole in the perimeter was better than having a dozen.
Rounding the bend where the mountain had been terraced, I directed him to drop the tubs by the double doors as I moved to them and shrugged off his pack. Leaving the pack against one of the angled buttresses supporting the front of the bunker, I stretched a little and turned to him as he put down the supplies, about to thank him. As soon as he set the tubs down though he turned away and he picked his way through the weeds, little trees and other plants in front of the bunker until he made his way to the edge of the retaining wall holding the lot up and looked out over the treetops at the island beyond.
I watched him for a few moments and in that time it seemed as if he shrank a little, tension I hadn't noticed that had been there the entire time just draining away… Shit. He'd been wound up and I brought out the Whiptail like it was nothing. And why, because he thought he was being tough and I was calling his bluff? For what? Because I could? To get him used to it? To try and get him used to me?
I turned away as an ugly knot formed in my stomach and let him have his moment.
A pair of orb weavers ferried by dragonflies were sent into the bunker to remove the thread securing the doors. While they got to work, I set about unpacking what I needed from the tubs. Pots and pans for the most part, as well as strainers and colanders and other irregularly shaped salvage that hadn't allowed room for much else even after Artur repacked it.
I set aside everything I needed with my satchel of plants and a few cast iron grill tops before turning to the double doors. By the time Artur returned, it felt like he was comfortable for what might have been the first time. Heartbeat down, walking easier, less tense—more at ease. That I was dragging out the second of three filing cabinet drawers I'd used to collect rainwater seemed to amuse him somehow but he looked away as I backed up toward him, the heavy drawer in tow.
Shrugging off my pack and putting it against the angled concrete support buttress jutting out beside the door, he examined the front of the bunker before stepping inside. Then he stopped. He stood in the doorway, back stiffening again as his eyes roaming across the cave like room and only moving to let me drag the drawer outside.
The back corners of the drawer screeched and scraped over the concrete until I wrestled it onto the dirt beneath the bunker's barred window.
"You say you here a veek, da?"
I glanced up at the non sequitur question and stood to face him once I moved the drawer beside the first. "That's right. Well, a week and a half since I left for the Visitors Center a few days ago actually. It was a bit of a mess when I found it, but not so bad that a some work and my swarm couldn't clean it up. There was some mold and the hatch at the back of the hall has a pretty bad leak, but I managed to get it all cleaned up."
He looked back into the building, his lips pursing into a thin line.
Something about that nettled me, I'd worked hard to clean this place up. "What's wrong," I asked, sarcasm coloring my voice, the new possessiveness of the place rising to the fore. "Don't tell me it isn't up to your standards." Was it the air? It had been a bit musty when I'd opened the doors. Not so bad now, but should I have left the back hatch open so it could air out while I was gone?
He flushed and quickly shook his head. "Niet… No." Looking back inside, he stepped through the doorway, hesitated, then ventured further into the bunker with his head on a swivel.
I sensed his movements through my swarm and watched through the fogged window as he took in the subterranean building; he didn't go in very far, remaining in the main room while he looked to the ceiling, the doors, vents, and briefly peered down the hall to the bit of light coming in through the rusted-through back hatch.
He glanced back at me through the window before coming out and going to his rucksack.
"And… did use anyzing else to clean?" Without waiting for me to answer he opened his rucksack and reached in. Pushing things aside, he pulled out several items only to drop them while he kept searching for something.
I went to cross my arms, then put my hand on my hip and watched him dig through his pack. "Well, there wasn't much to work with," I admitted, "just a bit of soap and some old bleach, but I made do and everything I didn't get to my bugs did. Why? What's wrong?"
He stopped and looked back over his shoulder, "If vas all did, zen no, it not clean. Ma'am."
I blinked and ignored his hastily tacked on 'Ma'am'.
"Pardon?"
Reaching deep into the rucksack, he pulled out a full face gas mask and gestured into the bunker with his free hand.
I moved to join him at the doorway and he pointed to one of the many darker-than-normal splotchy spots left on the cinder-block walls even after cleaning them as best I could—water stains and where the mold had eaten into the concrete. "Your… svarm, zey did not clean. Mold still in cone'crete. It is... po'rus, like spoonge. And mold, vas black, yes? And vite? Hoomid. Dark. Door close? Yees? Leetle air vlow. Eet vould grow vell 'ere. Spore remain in air. Very baed"— He touched at his throat then tapped at his chest—"vor loong. Lun-guh. Bad for breeth."
I blinked and it took me a moment to parse his increasingly mangled English, but when I did I turned and followed where he was gesturing to a dark stain on the curving ceiling. Then I looked around to the multitude of nearly identical spots scattered all around the ceiling and walls.
Ah. Bad, yes, if those were all mold colonies then that was… bad.
"I see."
There really wasn't much more I could say about that.
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