This one was for Richard Griffiths, of Crafty Butchers fame, who just wanted “spidermonkeys”.

We live to serve …

Cliff reloaded his rifle as quickly as he could, letting the spent cartridges join those already scattered about his feet. The barrel of the gun was hot enough to scorch the wooden parapet of the outpost as he propped it there, glad for a moment not to have the weight against his shoulder.

“How many of them are there?” asked Delilah.

“Depends,” replied Cliff. “If they breed like monkeys, we’ve got to be getting to the end of the troupe by now. If they breed like spiders …”

The words hung in the air as thick as the tropical heat.

“If they breed like spiders …?” Delilah asked meekly.

“Then I don’t have enough bullets.”

There was a crash out in the jungle, and the familiar screeching of the spider monkeys. Cliff had tried to work out where the nest was, considering in his darker moments that maybe the only way to survive this was to take the fight to them, to find their home and burn it out, but every part of the jungle seemed to be their territory. This was their place.

“Cliff, maybe we should take the other jeep, try and –”

“They know where the road is,” said Cliff flatly. “You didn’t see what happened to Clint, Helen, and the others …  Trust me Delilah, you don’t want to end up like that.”

Cliff closed his eyes for a moment. Hunting was a dangerous profession, he’d seen people hurt and killed before. He’d seen the things that an animal can do to a human in a matter of moments, he’d seen how inhuman the things that were left behind looked. What he had seen on the road out of the jungle though, what he had seen in the spider monkey’s web… that was something different entirely. That was a human level of cruelty.

The crashing in the jungle grew closer, and the screeching grew louder. Cliff cocked the rifle back up to his shoulder and peered down the sight.

“I can help,” said Delilah, awkwardly hefting up a pistol.

Cliff sighed. They were dead, of that he was certain. Delilah may as well die on her feet.

“Remember to aim low,” he said, with an uncommon note of kindness. “If you hit the poison sack, that seems to do the trick.”