    Ignoring his wounds, Johnson turned back to the window. Grabbing at the board, he yanked and pulled, to no avail. Already the venom was having its effect. His hands were numb and his arms felt like lead. Gasping for air, he threw himself at the boards again and again. But it was no use. He was beaten. Great sobs shook his body as he slumped to the floor.
    This can’t be happening to me, he protested. It’s ridiculous.
    Looking back at the spider, he could see that it still had not moved. What is she waiting for? he wondered. Why doesn’t she finish me off?
    He soon had his answer. Shimmering like a great overcoat, there was something on the spider’s back. It moved and undulated like a small wave flowing back and forth. Then a piece of the wave pulled away and dropped to the floor. It was another spider, only a lot smaller – about the size of a rat. Johnson recalled that some spiders carry their young on their backs. Horrified, he realized that he had stumbled into their nursery and it was feeding time. Another one dropped to the floor and then another. Soon there was a long line of spiders slowly crawling towards him. Through fading eyesight, he saw the first one reach his foot. Tentatively, its foreleg probed the air, until it found his leg and patted it. It was light and delicate like the touch of a child. Johnson opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. The last thing Johnson saw before he lost consciousness was a spider tearing a piece of flesh from the back of his hand.
    Back at the farmhouse, the old man picked up the whisky bottle from the kitchen table, poured himself another drink and plopped down on the ancient Lay-z-boy recliner.
    “How long it take, Jake?” asked the old woman.
    “Not long,” he grunted. “They ain’t et since Sunday.”
    “Git a better sign. Attract mo’ folks.”
    “Nah, the sign’s okay. Anyway, we don’t need a crowd,” said the old man, taking a long, hard swallow.
    “What yer goin’ do with his car?” she asked, standing at the window admiring the now ownerless Lexus.
    “I hear young Dougall needs one for runnin’ moonshine. Willin’ to pay a good price, too,” said the old man.
    “Won’t he ask questions?” wondered the old woman, pouring a drink and easing herself down onto a dusty couch.
    “Nah. He don’t care,” snickered the old man. “I’ll talk ta him tomorrow. Meanwhile, pass the remote. Let’s see what’s on Dr. Phil.”
