‘I reckon we can take him down,’ Karim shouts. ‘And get out of the door.’

235 And maybe we could. It’s seriously risky, but I think it’s worth taking the opportunity. We have a better chance of escape if half of us go out the door and half of us down the hatch. It’ll be quicker, and there will be less chance of someone getting hit or left behind. ‘Karim, join up,’ I shout, and we move towards each other until we’re side by side, with the protection of the cushion and the tray. Chets is still pawing at his eyes, and I reckon we can rush him. ‘On three,’ I say. ‘One, two…’ But I don’t make it to three. I have eyes on Chets and I’m not liking what I’m seeing. He’s started to shake, really hard.

‘What’s he doing?’ Karim says.

‘I don’t know. This is new. Guys!’ I call, and I glance over my shoulder at the others. The looks on their faces reflect how I’m feeling right now. Scared and disgusted, but also intrigued. We watch as Chets shudders, like when you disturb a cocoon and it goes nuts and you think it’s going to explode caterpillar entrails all over you or something.

There’s a ripping sound, and I can’t make out what it is exactly – clothes, or skin, or something else. Chets turns, so that his head is closest to the 236 wall, and his feet towards us, then he peels his feet from the ceiling and slowly lowers himself down so that he’s vertical – his hands still stuck on the ceiling and holding all of his bodyweight like it’s nothing. He’s not just dangling there, though, his knees are bent up towards his stomach, like he’s halfway through a pull-up. It’s like he’s poised. Ready.

And then something starts extending down from Chets’ butt area that makes the mandibles look tame. It’s black and covered in vicious-looking hooks, about ten centimetres thick at the base and tapering in a curve to a knifepoint at the tip. Imagine Wolverine having one large black claw, coming out of his lower back rather than his knuckles. It’s the nastiest looking thing I’ve ever seen.

‘A stinger,’ I say, unable to tear my eyes away from it. ‘He’s got a stinger.’

21

Truth

Karim grabs my arm and we take a step back, our eyes fixed on the nastiness in front of us. ‘It’s covered in tiny thorns,’ he says. ‘That’s gotta hurt coming out. Worse than a peanut poo.’ I don’t speak, I just watch transfixed as Chets uses his hand to pull himself forward across the ceiling, his back curled so that his butt tilts forwards, the stinger pointed at us.