Free City Of Ruin by Mark Charan Newton

thick veins. Many of them were littered with waste and scrap metal, and appeared no more than slivers of apocalyptic landscapes. Every night the city’s poor would scavenge them for the chance of survival, and for a moment it considered selecting one of them . . . but no, they were too poor, too undernourished.
    Only healthy, lean cuts will do.
    Besides, they weren’t on the list that Doctor Voland had been given.
    Through the streets again and up onto the metal railings running along outside one building. Tap-tap-tap up to the top, and soon it had a perfect view of the windows opposite, squares of light signifying ordinary people’s lives.
    Red lanterns glowed inside two of the nearest rooms, with fires roaring in their grates in the background. In one of them, an old woman was reclining in a chair with a book laid to one side of her. In another on the floor above, a blonde woman in underwear was staring out of the window, her blue mask pressed up against the glass. She seemed to be peering directly at the spider, but it knew it was too dark to be seen, for the creature had the advantage of the night. A bald man with a pencil-thin moustache approached her, slapped her behind and she giggled. She removed her mask, turned and kissed him, who then took off his shirt to reveal a skinny frame.
    The spider seethed at the indignity of the woman’s behaviour. This man was one of the union leaders – he was therefore on the list. The lantern sputtered out as the couple merged into the darkness of the room behind – and the spider waited.
    *
    As Larkin kissed the nape of her neck she realized she didn’t really care about her husband any more. That sorry loser was nothing compared with her visitor. She had watched as Larkin, eloquent and passionate, had earlier that day called for strike action from the fishermen and stevedores. The portreeve had reduced both their pay and their prices in order to help fund the war effort, so he said, but everyone knew this was just an excuse to worsen the conditions of the workforce. Her husband, the dickhead, had walked away from the meeting, insisting that he wanted to work, and the rest of them could fuck off. She hated his lack of commitment to the movement, and his small-town opinions. She now felt a faint thrill at the fact that Larkin was so popular with the ladies – yet he had chosen her.
    She’d be rid of her husband by the morning.
    She kissed her way down Larkin’s lithe body, unbuckling him, basking in the warmth of the fire to one side. Breeches slid off slowly, then his socks, and she slowly teased him to arousal, then finally wrapped her mouth around his expectant cock. As her hair fell forward to cover this act of intimacy, he groaned the way most men did, but did not push her head down so she was forced to gag. He seemed almost grateful for her skills – and why not? She knew how to give good head.
    Something rattled at the window and she paused for a moment, but now heard only the sound of the festivities taking place two streets away. Must be the snow , she decided.
    Bang.
    She flinched at the sudden noise.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ Larkin reassured her, running a hand tenderly through her hair. ‘It’s only a firework.’ His eyes were so sensitive, so big and blue. She turned her attention to him once again, prolonging the moment, while enjoying the sense of his mounting excitement. His breathing started to quicken and . . .
    Bang.
    ‘What the—?’ Everything seemed to happen so slowly: the ceiling collapsed and debris clattered around the room, then a monstrous beast descended through the continuing rain of plaster, and pinned them to the bed as the rubble smothered the fire.
    It can’t be . . .
    A monstrous spider loomed above them.
    ‘Dear Bohr, no!’ she screamed, and found her hands were pinned tight by a couple of its massive hairy legs, and she was now pushed flat on top of Larkin. ‘Get off me, please, no!’ And the eyes – those horrible, countless eyes