The spider's angry cry vibrates through Chuck's body and he shudders. He wins another couple metres across its back -- he can see the eye clusters even through the icy wind -- when his walkie talkie crackles.

"-- n -- with Dejah, this -- Park -- have both m--".

Chuck doesn't feel relieved. Really. Why would he? He clings tighter, shifting his shoulder to block the wind as he depresses the button with his cheek. "Thanks," he says, tone terse but with an attempt at clarity "we're --" the spider bucks, and he yelps. After he's regained his hand hold: "kind of busy. Out!"

He's going to get closer, and shoot this bloody thing in is ugly face.