Spidergoats and Parachutes

Orlando sloppily separated some lines from the large batch of powder on the table. If this stuff was as pure as the Colombian gear flooding the streets recently they might be able to carve themselves a market, get back on top – the Kings of New York - just like the old days. Orlando dreamed of the big time as he diced the pile into 3 lines, one for Luis, one for El Bicho, and the largest one for himself.

The small camp somewhere East of Caborca seemed to creak in unison, the wooden huts groaning under the hot Mexican wind. Even at night the humidity burned its way through your skin and laid to rest like dust. The beams of light from outside were intermittently cut by the armed guards roaming the site. The camp was extremely well protected, and Orlando could feel the professionalism with which he was dealing.

As the coke shot up Orlando's nose and into his bloodstream, and the synapses in his brain began to fizz and click their fingers, discovering new thoughts and avenues of adventure, the sound of confusion rose from outside. Orlando was aware something was very wrong, even before the noise grew, and the sounds of human screams became clearer. His hand moved of its own accord to the handgun strapped under his arm and he stood abruptly, careering his chair noisily across the room.

The door burst open and José fell to the wooden floor in frenzied hysterics.
Luis picked him up, "José! What is happening?"
Wide-eyed and with his mouth straining to one side, José replied in what could only be abject terror. "He's here Luis! The Devil has come to collect his due! Such horrible things," he wrenched his arm from Luis' grip, "You don’t understand! They're coming for us!" He stumbled back against the wall.
"Calm down José! You’re not making any sense."
"José!" El Bicho walked towards him. "You'll answer us or I will fill your face with my knuckles. There's nuthin' out there worse than me, amigo."
"I'll take my chances!" he cried

Orlando was nervous. No, not nervous. Anxious - but thinking clearly. He unholstered his handgun, walked calmly over to José, pushed his shoulders hard against the wall and placed the barrel dead centre on José's forehead. "Tell me what I want to know, José."
José breathed heavily for some time, his eyes flicking about, taking everything in as if his life depended on it. He took one last deep breath and spoke.
"All of the guards are dead Orlando. These things came from the sky! Enormous beasts," José responded to the added pressure from the gun barrel, "It's true amigo! Giant monsters with eight legs, horns on their heads, and beards on their chins, shooting pellets of steel from their giant udders! They move silently and are on you before you even knew they were there, man! I heard screams, and I don't know why but I looked up, and they were coming down from the sky! They're everywhere man! Orlando, please! We've got to leave! Now!"

Orlando had heard of such things. "Spidergoats. They're real." The mutated brethren of the spidersilk industry. He uncocked the gun and lowered it absently. He stared over José's shoulder imagining the monstrosities that the US military had adopted to combat South American drug running. He brought his gaze back to José's.

José was transfixed on a point in space above and behind Orlando's shoulder. He was trembling so much beads of sweat from his cheeks flicked off his face as if leaping to their deaths in terror.

José's eyes - Orlando had never seen such horror - a horned spider crawling out of their reflection.

"Dios me perdone."