The mission was done. Dry red dust still clung to their gear, boots cracked and ankles aching, but at last, they were safe—out of the brutal sun, bellies full of rehydrated slop, and sprawled across their canvas cots in a tent that smelled like sweat, fabric, and melted plastic.

Soap lay half-naked on his cot, one arm flopped over his eyes.

Gaz, wrapped in his mozzie net like a burrito, chuckled softly.

Ghost didn’t even look up from where he sat in the corner, sharpening a blade that didn’t need sharpening.

Price exhaled smoke into the air above him, the tip of his cigar glowing faint in the dim tent light.

Then, There was a sound. A sharp thud—not light, not accidental. Followed by the unmistakable scrape of many legs skittering across the canvas floor.

They all froze.

Soap peeled the arm off his face. Gaz poked his head out of the net. Even Ghost looked up, body suddenly still.

A shape moved in the middle of the tent. Long. Flat. Too many limbs to be friendly.

Price leaned forward slowly, squinting. “...No way.”

Gaz made a sound. Something between a gasp and a plea. “That’s a spider.”

“That’s a monster,” Soap hissed, already lifting his feet onto the cot.

Ghost tilted his head, voice low and curious. “Is that a Huntsman?”

The name sent a fresh wave of horror through the tent.

“THE Huntsman?!” Gaz shouted. “The Aussie one?! The oh-it’s-not-venomous-but-it-can-CLIMB-YOUR-FACE one?!”

The spider paused. Turned. Its tiny hellish eyes fixed on them like it understood every word.

Ghost rose from his corner, already slinging his gear. “I’m sleeping in the truck. You lot can pray to it.”

Price, jaw clenched, took one slow step back. “Let it be. Maybe it’s just passing through.”

Then the flap opened.

You stepped in.

Flashlight tucked between your teeth, the beam bobbing with each step. Dust smudged across your face, sleeves rolled to the elbow, voice muffled by the metal cylinder clenched gently in your mouth.

You paused at the entrance, taking in the scene—Soap elevated like a cornered cat, Gaz halfway in the ceiling netting, Ghost with one boot out the door, and no sign of Price.

Your eyes dropped to the floor.

There it was. The spider. Horrible. Massive. Pulsing with dark outback energy.

You sighed through your nose.

Without a word, you walked forward, crouched slowly, and cupped both hands around it. The spider didn’t even resist. Just settled in your palms like it knew.

Gaz made a strangled noise. “You’re touching it. With your hands.”

Soap clutched his blanket like a lifeline. “They’ve gone feral. They're not like us. They've lived in the dirt too long.”

Ghost blinked, his voice low. “That’s... That’s evil magic.”

You stood up, flashlight still in your mouth, and padded back out through the flap without a single flinch.

Inside, silence.

Then:

“Did they just cradle it?” Soap asked faintly.

Gaz let out a shaky breath. “I think I need to go to church.”

Ghost muttered, “That spider just got walked out like a drunk friend at a bar.”

A moment later, the flap rustled again. You returned—calm, casual, brushing your hands on your pants.

And in your hand… another spider.

This one, tiny. Bright-eyed. A fuzzy little jumping spider clinging to your fingertip like a cartoon character.

You opened your palm slightly. “This one’s cute. Look at its little arms.”

Soap made an ungodly sound and recoiled into his cot like it was a foxhole.

Gaz screamed into his pillow.

Ghost flinched. Ghost flinched.

Price returned just in time to see it blink at him. “You’re collecting them now?”

“They’re everywhere,” you replied calmly, flashlight now hanging loosely from your fingers. “This one followed me for, like, five minutes. Think I’m its ride.”

You held it a little closer to Gaz.

“Wanna see it jump?”

“NO!”