Dawin Windan

Jungle after midnight!

Emilio Santos peeked carefully from behind a wooden shed. The busy activity at the Manaus port seemed as usual. He didn’t see any police around. Feeling a bit calmer, he left his hiding spot and walked tensely to his boat tied up at the river. He carried a backpack full of stolen money on his left shoulder, and his right hand was ready to grab the gun under his loose shirt.

However, no one paid much attention to him. With his torn jeans, oversized shirt, and stubbly beard, he looked like one of the many day laborers working there. He didn’t look like someone who had just robbed a bank in broad daylight less than an hour ago and shot a security guard.

Santos threw the backpack into the boat, untied it, and tried to start the old outboard motor. But it only made coughing sounds and didn’t start. Now, of all times, the motor had stopped working. From a distance, he could hear police sirens, getting louder and louder. Santos nervously looked towards the main road. They would be here soon. He pulled the starter cord again. Still nothing. He checked the fuel gauge quickly. Empty. Someone had drained his tank completely. These bastards …
The sirens were getting closer. Sweat ran down Santos’ thin face. He rushed to the locked box on the side of the boat where he kept a spare can of fuel. Luckily, the lock was still intact. Santos unlocked it, grabbed the can, and poured the fuel into the tank with shaky hands. He tossed the can aside and pulled the starter cord again. Finally, after three tries, the engine started.

Moments later, he sped away through the water, moving between other boats. The police sirens faded behind him. He glanced back and saw the flashing lights on police cars, with officers jumping out and searching the area. Santos sighed in relief. He had escaped just in time. He slowed down to avoid drawing attention. Minutes later, he had left the port behind and was heading down the Rio Negro into the Brazilian jungle.

The river’s current helped him move quickly. He thought about how far the fuel would take him. If he made it to the small village on his way, he could buy more fuel. But luck was not on his side ...
About two hours later, the engine suddenly stopped. Cursing, Santos tried to restart it over and over, but nothing worked. There was still fuel, but now the engine itself was broken. He didn’t have any tools to fix it, and his paddle was missing too. There was nothing else he could do. After struggling to reach the shore, he shouldered his backpack and began walking through the jungle, staying close to the river.

As if things couldn’t get worse, a big storm soon hit. Thunder cracked in the sky like explosions, and lightning flashed as heavy rain poured down, making it hard for him to see. Within seconds, he was completely soaked. By chance, he found a small cave hidden by bushes and trees. Exhausted, he sat down in the dry shelter, pulled off his backpack, and took out a piece of sausage to eat. As the rain continued outside, he chewed in leisure. Only now did Santos feel how tired and drained he was. He would rest here for the night and follow the river again tomorrow. Lying back on his backpack, he listened to the rain. With all that money, his life of poverty and crime was finally behind him. Shortly afterwards, he fell asleep with a smile on his lips ...

A sharp pain woke him suddenly. Groaning, he sat up and touched his lower back. His fingers felt two small, swollen lumps. Confused, he looked at his hand in the dim morning light and saw blood.

"Santa Mãe! What the hell…?"

Something had bitten him in his sleep. But what? Santos grabbed his gun from the backpack and looked around. If it was a snake, it could still be close. But why would a snake bite him? They only bite if they feel threatened or are hunting. He hoped it wasn’t poisonous.

From the back of the cave, he heard a scraping sound. Small stones rolled down from the ledges. Santos raised his gun and aimed it into the shadows. Nothing moved. As he was about to lower the gun, he noticed a blur of movement. Blinking, he focused his eyes on the dark area. Then, a strange shape moved into the light. Santos gasped, his jaw dropped, and his eyes widened in shock and fear.

A giant spider stood a few meters away, staring at him with many shiny black eyes. Its yellowish body was the size of a large watermelon, supported by eight thick, hairy legs. Two huge venomous fangs hung from its head, dripping with dark liquid. Santos’ heart raced as he realized that this creature had bitten him while he slept.

Santos tried to jump up, but his legs wouldn’t move. He hit his thighs with his hands—nothing. He couldn’t feel them anymore. Then it hit him: the spider’s bite had paralyzed his legs.

Frustrated and panicked, Santos screamed. But his arms still worked, and he had the gun. He fired at the spider, and the bullets echoed in the cave. He was sure he hit it, but the spider had disappeared.

"Where did it go?" Santos whispered, terrified. The answer came from the cave entrance, where he heard a loud hiss. At first, he thought it was a jaguar, but then he saw the spider again. Its powerful fangs opened and closed with each hiss. It was a terrifying sight.

One of its legs was bent and bleeding. So, he had hit it, but not enough. Now, it seemed even angrier. In the daylight, it was an easy target. Slowly, to not alarm it, Santos raised his arm to fire again, but his hand began to shake. A burning sensation spread through his arm, and his fingers went weak. The gun slipped from his grip and fell to the ground with a thud.

His arm dropped, useless. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pick up the gun. His upper body muscles gave out, and he collapsed. His neck stiffened, bending his head back unnaturally. He struggled to breathe, and white foam formed at the corners of his mouth.

The spider watched him closely, until he stopped moving, then slowly moved towards him. Santos could only move his eyes as the spider stood over him. He saw its fangs open wide, ready to strike. Panic surged through him, but he was helpless.

Then, something sharp pierced his stomach. It didn’t hurt, but Santos tried to scream. Only a weak croak escaped his throat. Unable to move or cry out, he could only watch as the spider injected its digestive juices into his body, which began to gurgle and dissolve from the inside.

Soon, the spider would feast on what was left of him ...

© Dawin Windan, 2024. All rights reserved. reproduction, distribution, or use of this story is not permitted without the express permission of the author.
 

 

All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Dawin Windan.
Published on e-Stories.org on 10.10.2024.

 
 

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