They listened, almost hypnotized, as the bat-sounds played over their heads. And then a bat passed right over their fort, with a whoomp of velvet wings. The sound of the animal’s sonar as it passed almost deafened them, and left their ears ringing.

“This world scares the hell out of me,” Karen King said. “But somehow I’m glad to be here anyway. I must be nuts.”

“At least it’s interesting,” Rick commented.

“I do wish we had a fire,” Erika muttered.

“Can’t do it. It would advertise us to every predator out there,” said Peter.

Erika Moll was the person who had advised them not to build a fire. But even so, the ancient human in her longed for a fire. A simple fire, warm and bright and comforting. A fire meant safety, food, home. But only darkness and chill and weird noises surrounded her. She began to notice the sound of her heart thudding in her throat. Her mouth had gone dry, and Erika realized that she was terrified, more frightened than she had ever been in her life. The primitive part of her mind wanted to scream and run, even when the rational part of her mind knew it would be certain death to run blindly through this super-jungle at night. The rational thing was to stay silent and not move, yet her primitive fear of darkness threatened to overwhelm her.

The darkness seemed to coil around the humans and watch them.

“What I’d give for a light,” Erika whispered. “Just a small light. I would feel better.”

She felt Peter’s hand close around her hand. “Don’t be afraid, Erika,” he said.

Erika began to cry silently, gripping Peter’s hand.

Amar Singh sat with the harpoon across his knees. He smeared more curare on the point, working by sense of touch and hoping he wouldn’t cut himself. Peter began to sharpen his machete with the diamond sharpener. They heard a whisk, cling sound as Peter passed the sharpener back and forth over his machete. The others slept, or tried to sleep.

The sounds changed. A blanket of quiet dropped around them. The quiet woke the sleepers. They listened, straining their ears. The quiet seemed worse than any noise.

“What’s going on?” Rick Hutter said.

“Take up your weapons,” Peter whispered urgently.

There were clinking sounds-machetes being grappled, held, poised.

Then a strange, soft whistling noise began. It seemed to come from several places at once. The whistling came closer. Something was approaching.

“What is that?”

“It sounds like breathing.”

“Maybe it’s a mouse.”

“That’s no mouse.”

“It has lungs, anyway.”

“Yeah-too many lungs.”

Peter said, “Get your headlamps ready. Turn them on at my signal.”

“What’s that smell?”

An acrid, musty reek filled the air. It grew stronger, and thicker, until the smell seemed to coat their skin like oil.

“That’s venom,” Peter Jansen said.

“What kind, Peter?” Karen asked sharply.

Peter tried to summon from his memory the odors of different venoms. He didn’t recognize it. “I don’t know what-”

A very large, heavy animal began rushing toward them, making crashing sounds.

“Lights!” Peter shouted.

Several headlamps came on, and the beams crisscrossed over a vast centipede, rippling toward them. It had a blood-red head studded with four eyes. Under its head, a pair of red fangs with black tips were held open around a complicated mouth. The centipede traveled on forty legs moving in waves, and its body was encased in segmented armor the color of mahogany. It was a Hawaiian giant centipede, a Scolopendra, one of the largest centipedes on earth.

Chapter 23

Fern Gully 30 October, 2:00 a.m.

The Scolopendra burst through the wooden palisade, scattering splinters, while the people leaped and tumbled aside, screaming and shouting. The centipede had a keen sense of smell, and the humans’ scent had provoked it to attempt an ambush. The centipede mistook the leaf-bed for its prey, and sank its fangs into it as the humans scattered. With astonishing speed, it coiled itself around the leaf-bed. Gallons of venom gushed from the fangs, splashing, and filling the air with a foul odor.

The individual legs of a giant centipede end in pointed fangs-foot-fangs. Each foot-fang is loaded with venom, and can deal a sting. The Scolo’s forty legs hammered around, dribbling venom.

Amar had been sitting on the leaf roof of the shelter. When the centipede crushed the roof, Amar fell down among the coils. He threw himself facedown to the ground, trying to protect himself.

Karen knew something about centipede anatomy. She shouted to Amar: “Watch out for the legs! Each leg has a poison barb!”

Amar rolled over, and began writhing this way and that while the foot-fangs danced and thrust around him, dribbling venom. He was going to be pierced by one of those feet.

“Amar!” Peter shouted. He advanced with his machete and began hacking at the centipede, trying to draw the centipede away from Amar, but the machete had no effect, only bounced off the armor. Amid shouts and crisscrossing headlamp beams, the others struck at the centipede with their machetes, trying to distract it and give Amar a chance to escape. Karen sprayed the benzo spray, but the animal didn’t even seem to notice.

The centipede suddenly let go of the leaf-bed and began lashing its head back and forth, opening and closing its mouth-fangs, looking to seize prey. It had poor eyesight but could detect smell with its antennae, which it now whacked around. An antenna slapped Karen, knocking her into the wall of the palisade.

The centipede swung around and faced her.

Amar, lying on his back on the ground, rolled away as the centipede turned on Karen. He struggled to his feet, still holding the harpoon, and shouted, “Hey!”

That had no effect, so Amar jumped up onto the centipede’s back. He stood on the armored shell, trying to keep his balance as it heaved around, holding the harpoon, uncertain where to thrust it.

“Aim for the heart!” Karen shouted.

He had no idea where the heart was; the creature’s body was divided into many segments. “Where?” he shouted.

“Segment four!”

Amar counted four segments down from the head and raised the harpoon, but then hesitated. There was something magnificent about the creature. In that moment of hesitation, the centipede heaved its back. Amar drove the harpoon down deep into the centipede’s back, but was thrown off. He tumbled to the ground, the harpoon still lodged in the centipede’s back. The centipede whirled around, twisting and writhing, and its fangs snapped shut, the point of one fang slashing across Amar’s chest, tearing apart his shirt and covering him with squirting venom. The venom drenched Amar.

Amar curled up, moaning in pain. He felt as if his chest had been dipped in flames. The centipede went into a flurry while the harpoon clanged around. Rick and Karen rushed in and dragged Amar away. The centipede uncoiled, coiled up again, hissing. The harpoon stood in its back.

“Go up!” Karen shouted. “Centipedes don’t climb trees!”

They had camped at the foot of a tree, and the tree was covered with moss. They jumped up into the moss, grabbing handholds and footholds, and started to climb. Because gravity was less powerful in the micro-world, they could climb quickly and easily. Amar tried to climb, but shooting waves of pain were running through his body, and he couldn’t grip anything. Peter hauled Amar up, lifting him under the arms and trying not to touch the wound on his chest. They quickly reached two feet above the ground, and they stopped in a sort of cave of moss, looking out and down, trying to see the centipede.

The centipede was crawling out of the ruins of the fort, the harpoon waving in its back. They could hear it hissing. It did not get very far. It became still, and its breathing ceased. Amar had dealt it a fatal blow with the harpoon. Rick’s curare had worked.