The Deadfall Conundrum

Saturday, October 9th, 1779

At approximately four a.m. South Carolina militiamen decided to launch a dawn attack against the British troops controlling the city of Savannah. British Commanding Officer Major General Augustine Prevost sent four of his Regulars out after a member of the Charleston militia who had been spotted shooting officers from a hidden area near Spring Hill.

They were never seen or heard from again.

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When the young militiaman stepped out from the swirling bank of greenish fog, the four British Regulars sitting before the smoldering fire were stunned. Now, all five of them were trapped within the deadfall that had become their cage, their prison. Now, the truth would be revealed—truth disguised as betrayal and lies.

“I know what you did,” Adley, the Redcoat, grimly stated as he trained his rifle on the rebel.

*****************************************

Adley was the first to arrive. The bloody British soldier sat around the small fire. It had taken him almost a full hour to light it due to the fact that four of the fingers on his right hand had been completely shorn off. He heard footsteps approaching and raised his Ferguson rifle toward the sound.

“Reveal yourself,” Adley called out, “or prepare to be shot.”

He was relieved to see another Redcoat emerge.

“Lower your weapon,” Foster said, his hands in the air. “I have no weapon, and I’m British.”

As Foster emerged from the thick fog, it became obvious that he was also in poor shape.

“You have any water?” Foster asked.

“Here,” Adley answered as he handed over his tin-plated sheet-iron canteen. “Whatever’s left is yours.”

He then opened his waistcoat to reveal a bloody nightmare of torn cloth.

“I fear my drinking days are over.”

Foster sat before the fire and drank from the canteen until it was dry.

“You kill him?” Adley asked. “The damned Yankee?”

“I’m not sure,” Foster stated as he displayed a series of bloody gashes that ran from his left foot all the way up to his shoulder. “But before that Rebel son of a bitch did this to me, I gave him a pelt on the mush he’ll never forget.”

He finished by striking a bare-knuckle pose and throwing several mock punches.

“Ho!” came a thick British voice from the fog. “Friends or foe?”

Adley raised the rifle toward the voice.

“That depends on you.”

From the fog, a tall Redcoat emerged, helping another who was hopping on his right leg. His left leg was nothing more than a heavily bandaged stump above the knee. What made it worse was the bloody bandage that hung loosely beneath his nose. The carnage beneath was only partially hidden, for he had no jaw—literally nothing below the roof of his mouth.

Foster quickly rose and helped the wounded man sit beside the fire.

“Thank you, mate,” said the tall wounded Regular. “My name’s Thomas.”

He then removed the two rifles slung over his shoulder.

“This here is Williams.”

He nodded in a way that explained that Williams couldn’t speak and sat down. He uncorked his own canteen, took a long sip, then held it out before Williams, who held out his hands in a cupped manner while water was poured into them. The others looked down to avoid the grim sight they could only imagine from the slurping, wheezing sounds that followed.

“I can’t believe we’re still alive,” Thomas said as he recapped the canteen.

Adley gritted his teeth in shame.

“I can’t believe a lone Rebel did all this.”

Thomas looked at all the men in disbelief as he removed his hat and shook his head.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Adley quizzically tilted his head.

“He was alone,” Adley answered. “There was no one else out here. Except…”

Thomas quickly turned toward Foster, hoping for assistance.

“You had to have seen her,” Thomas said knowingly. “The witch.”

“Aye.” Foster nodded. “It was that foul hag that did all this,” he said, gesturing to his mutilated body.

“She took off his leg and face,” Thomas said as he turned toward Adley. “Then she tried for my heart.”

He opened his waistcoat to reveal a bloody gash in the center of his chest.

“I’d wager she took off those fingers of yours as well,” he said, nodding toward Adley’s bandaged right hand. “Am I right?”

Adley settled back and removed his hat. Then he laid the rifle across his lap and scanned the fog, ready to share his story.

ADLEY

“Yesterday morning I ran out into this blasted fog. I could see the Rebel, and I immediately ran after him, determined to claim victory in the eyes of my comrades.

“I followed him through the swampy underbrush into what seemed to be a thicket of trees. He ran like a madman through the thicket. Every time I thought I’d lost sight of the Rebel, I’d catch another fleeting glimpse of him and find myself continuing on.

“When I saw him duck into a fallen tree, I knew I’d have him. I approached the area where I saw him enter and shoved my rifle inside and waited for a response. Nothing. I then slowly leaned down to get a better view and vantage point. He must’ve been right there because my rifle was pulled free from my grip and into the tree. Without thinking, I reached in to retrieve it.

“He must’ve used a bear trap because my hand was pinned between something sharp. It felt like iron blades. I quickly pulled my hand free in a shower of my own blood, for all my fingers save my thumb had been ripped clean off.

“I staggered back and fell face-first onto the jagged roots of the fallen tree. Bleeding out like a stuck pig; I pulled myself free and retrieved the rifle. I stumbled through the fog until I made my way into this hollow. I couldn’t take another step, and I was so bitterly cold that I had no choice but to make a fire and rest. Then you arrived.”

FOSTER

“This isn't a hollow. It's a death trap. I spent hours in the maze-like swamp surrounding this hellhole. The smoke from your fire, got the best of me. Now I’m stuck here. You want to hear my story?

“I was also chasing that Rebel bugger. I saw you running after him. I knew he’d be focused on your pursuit. I thought it best to run ahead of him. I’m fast, and I knew I’d pass you both before you caught up. Then I’d be waiting, my rifle ready to fire a round right through his head.

“I waited on a patch of ground surrounded by green swamp. He’d have no choice but to approach me on that patch. But he didn't. Nor you. I’d wager he hid in that log of yours. Because when I heard someone rushing up from behind me, I spun around…

“It wasn’t a Rebel I faced. It was a pale, haggard, unsightly beast with white, bony talons for hands knocked the rifle free from my grasp like a violent squall. Her voice, if I can call it that, was a screeching howl. I tried to fight her off, but those hands pierced every part of my body they touched. They burned right through my clothes and scorched the very skin beneath. She soon had me on my back, lunging down at me as though she were digging madly into the ground. She gouged me from foot to shoulder before she seemed to tire.

“I found buried strength, grabbed her by the neck like a Christmas goose, and hauled myself to my feet. The pain was incredible, but it fueled my resolve, and I swung her body against the nearest tree.

“When I turned around, the Rebel emerged through the thicket and landed a single blow against my jaw. I then raised my bloody fists and laid into him. My final blow sent him reeling back into the fog and, I’d hoped, into his grave. That’s when I smelled the fire and followed it, lost as it made me, to here.”

THOMAS and WILLIAMS

“Williams and I ran behind you sorry lot. I figured that once you caught him, we’d take over. Clean-up crew. Williams was fast, but I kept up. When you disappeared into the fog, we slowed down. Not because we couldn’t muster the pace, no. It was because we were hard-pressed to listen.

“For some reason, be it the density of the damned fog or the loudness of our heartbeats, we couldn’t hear a bloody thing. We both took defensive stances and moved forward into that nightmarish swamp.

“Before long, the fog thickened. I was about to signal for us to turn back when I saw the Rebel. His face was bloody, yet he moved like a tiger and ducked as I fired my rifle at him. There wasn’t any sound. Just the thumping of my beating heart.

“The Rebel leapt into the air, grabbed my shoulders, spun himself around, and kicked poor Williams in the back of the head. Then he pulled me down, settled onto my chest, pinned my arms beneath his knees, and began pummeling my head with his fists in an attempt to knock me out. The last thing I saw before I was rendered unconscious was Williams falling face-first into a shallow patch of blackened swamp. But something rose out of the swamp—something so horrible that, when I eventually awoke, I was screaming.

"Screams that I’d never heard myself make before.

“I saw an old woman hovering above Williams. She was nestled against his neck, obscuring his head. I quickly sat up in fear that the Rebel would return and attack. But he wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity. I remember shouting at the woman, only to have her spin her head in my direction. It was an old, weathered head with white hair and a mouth filled with sharpened teeth, covered in blood. I could make out Williams beneath her, trembling in shock.

“She then lurched up onto her haunches like an animal and tossed what she was holding straight at me. It was Williams’ leg, torn free at the knee. I screamed again, but this time it was more of a horrid howl. I backed away as swiftly as I could, the sound of my heartbeat growing louder with every foot I gained to separate myself from what I now knew to be some kind of swamp witch.

“I believe she was blind but could sense my heartbeat. The one organ I possessed that was keeping me alive was now going to doom me. The witch crawled toward me on all fours, then leapt into the air and landed on my chest. She tore open my waistcoat, revealing the vest and white shirt covering my heart. I knew that my life would soon be over.

“Then I remembered my musket. It was loaded and ready to fire beneath my belt. I was able to pull it free just as the witch bit into my chest. I assumed she was drawn to the sound of my heart, so in one quick motion I turned to the side and fired the musket directly into her face. The shot caused her to recoil from me, but not before taking a piece of my chest—partially blown apart by my musket—with her.

“I patched up Williams, as well as myself, the best I could, grabbed the rifles, and hobbled away from that cursed swamp. Or so I thought. We soon fell into this thorny trap with no way out, only to find you two here. But at least we’re safe. And now we know the truth.”

*****************************************

“That’s not the truth, exactly,” stated the Rebel still standing before the group. “Nor are you safe.”

“I said earlier that I knew what you did,” Adley reminded the Rebel. “You lured us into this festering swamp of yours so that you and that crone could kill us off one by one. That and you’re not a Rebel. You’re British. You’re a spy!”

Adley attempted to raise the rifle from his lap only to find that he was unable to fire it.

“Kill him, damn it!” Foster roared as he tried to stand, only to find himself paralyzed and unable to move. “What’s happened to us?”

Thomas slowly turned toward Williams, only to find him slumped over. Asleep or worse.

“I can’t move,” Thomas exclaimed. “And I think Williams is dead.”

The Rebel neared the fire and squatted down before the frozen Adley.

“He’s not dead. Not yet,” the Rebel said, moving the rifle’s muzzle to the side. He then began to warm his hands before the fire.

The Rebel took a moment to think about how he was going to explain what had actually transpired in a way they all could comprehend.

*****************************************

THE REBEL

“Yes. You are absolutely right. I am a spy. Let it be known here and now that I am not a Patriot, nor a Rebel. My name is James Roberts. I am—or rather, was—a British soldier who, under the disguise of such, became better known as a spy, scout, or provocateur. I operate undercover in a Patriot uniform that was taken from a Rebel body months ago by her, in her nest. His corpse is still there, hanging from a tree, surrounded by others. So many others.

“No. This festering swamp is not mine. It belongs to her. I first made her acquaintance soon after the Battle of the Rice Boats on March 3rd, 1776. This war wasn’t official yet, but I was a British solider, and we were chasing Patriot Militiamen as they fled into these very swamps. Very much as you had been chasing me yesterday morning. Although there were many more Patriots and many more Redcoats. And she had her way with each and every one of them.

“I was the last one to fall into her trap. And luckily for me, her never-ending thirst for sustenance had been slightly satiated by the number of victims she’d obtained.

“For some reason, she found me attractive. I surmised that it was due, in part, to her loneliness, being so far removed from society. I was enamored by her inner beauty as well as her immense power. I found her strange nameless persona appealing. I would never know her name because she didn’t have one.

“We decided to create an arrangement. If I provided her with meals, she would reward me with her love. She made it quite clear that this was not normal. That symbiosis within her species was unnatural. Not normal by any means. Mainly because her biology wouldn’t allow such a thing.

“I provide the food.

“She provides the love.

“I should also say life. Because if I ever tried to leave her, the eight hundred dormant eggs that flow through my bloodstream would sense her absence and begin to hatch.

“If I killed her, they would hatch.

“If you were to kill her, they would hatch.

“You see, she’s not what you would call a witch.

“She’s much more than that.

“She’s better known as being a spider. The likes of which haven’t been seen in centuries. The Greeks would’ve had a proper name for her, but she left no survivors to create such. The closest they came to recognizing her was as a Dryade, a tree witch. Her Latin name is Latrodectus genus mactans. Yet she hails from the giganteus variety. She has many sisters in many places. All of them distant and remote, and they are always hungry. And more than likely, they always will be.

“I must leave you all now, for I must return and formulate another plan to bring back more food for my love. I’m not sure if it’ll be English next time. Perhaps some Yankee blood will suffice.”

*****************************************

For the first time in twelve hours, the remaining three British Redcoats opened their eyes. They couldn’t speak, for they were paralyzed. They each possessed their own specific malady, the very same ones they had in their venom-induced hallucinations.

Adley was missing his fingers. Foster displayed numerous lacerations. Thomas still had a gaping hole in his chest. Williams was dead. His missing lower jaw and right leg proved fatal, and her venom, powerful as it was, wasn’t able to prevent his passing. She would consume him first. The others would have to wait.

They were all cocooned in the sticky, thick webs spun by the nameless spider witch.

Upon her approach, they all shuddered. The sight of her black, bulbous body, held up by eight needle-tipped, stake-like legs, was horrific. She wore the same garments over her arachnid shape as she did when she appeared as a witch. The human brain can’t fathom the horror of such a monster, so it can’t help but replace it with an image of something more malleable, such as an old woman. In reality she resembled a human-sized black widow spider, except she bore no red hourglass. Her eight eyes, arranged in two rows of four upon her head, scanned the cocooned meals. It took her some time to focus on Williams’ cocoon, as only five of her eight eyes still functioned. Two were lost decades ago, while the third was recently taken by Thomas when he fired his musket into her face. She decided to make him suffer when it came time to liquefy his tissues and feed upon him.

The venom she injected through her fangs would keep them paralyzed and supple while she fed on them. Four would be more than enough to get her through the winter and beyond into spring.

And she was certain that, as long as humans thrived on destructive acts such as war, callousness, and sadistic, psychopathic narcissism, her love would return to provide more meals. And if he didn’t, she’d find another love to cater to her hunger. She always had.

The End