On September 5, there’s a real humdinger of an idea. Presented by one real upstage French-Canadian noodle juice-drinker: the [human] owner of the Owen Sound Transportation Company and the Manasoo. Although resented by every sailor aboard the steamer, they credited him reluctantly for his remarkable solution to the spider infestation.

“Two words: Bluebird.”

“It’s one word, pres.”

“Ah, who gives it?” and sucked down another glass of Captain McKay’s giggle water.

Now you’re on the trolley, pres. Kill the spiders before they kill the crew. The ship was dolled up for its date with the winter storage shed (a real bear-cat), but the summer was stubborn; and if the weather still allowed, then hell, there was money to be made. The Manasoo would do one more voyage if she could, a week or two from now. But first, there were eight-legged ants to destroy. 

As it was, the owner’s two-word solution. 

On a day in the cargo hold, when even the dust didn’t want to get up, he sat the fattest bird in the universe down right in between the two stables.

“Sic 'em,” he said. Then left.

She was bright blue, quite a pretty little thing, and rounded such that she could easily be knocked out of the park by the Babe. 

Boy, could she scream. 

It took a moment. One single moment of confusion, when the door slammed shut and it was just her and the thousands of spiders. The place was dead calm. The inside of a fireplace without any fire in it. Ash, splinters of wood, and brambles anxiously waiting.

A spark.

A single spider, maybe an orb weaver, parked himself in front of the great, bulbous beast. A challenge. He was so tiny, she couldn’t possibly see him. What could this thing possibly be doing down where the cattle weren’t? Is this the load for Manitoulin? Pathetic.

Then —

A snap.

A flash of the black beak, and the orb-weaver was gone. Every last leg sucked down the throat of the owner’s two-word solution.

A moment.

A spark.

Those humans sent this thing, everyone thought.

Chaos ensued.

If one can imagine a spider being chased by a football-shaped bird, imagine that, and then multiply it by 10,000 or so. The obvious question may arise: how on Earth could one bird chase 10,000 spiders at once? The obvious answer is that one bird can’t. But this was no ordinary bird. This was the earthly embodiment of every bird, human, or other animal that had ever been bitten by a spider. This was the embodiment of the families of those who had died, and the embodiment of every snake, rat, or bird that had ever choked on a spider or been  killed by those fun little methods of last-ditch defense that many spiders have. This was a round, squeaky ball of lost dreams and souls. When murderers arrive in Hell, this is what meets them.

Surely, although guesses vary, the bluebird inhaled around 1,500 spiders in the first two minutes of its attack. Whoever was in charge of keeping track had been eaten. 

The bird was a fiery little ball of anger. 

Floor to wall, to wall to stable.

Rebounding and flapping. 

The cargo hold was a scene of battle. 

A squash court of vengeance. 

Early September 1928, of course, was before the practical use of exposure therapy. However, had it been developed at the time, the cargo hold of the Manasoo would have been a fantastic place for arachnophobes to face their fear. The floor was black with rushing spiders; the lower walls, too. Although even now, they stayed away from the rafters. The clitter clatter of mini legs was a deafening roar, and the current of spiders flowed with no particular direction. 

Against the porthole, Murray evacuated his web, which was being torn open by spiders seeking to evacuate. He had tried to stop them, but his efforts were in vain. Even the dumbest of spiders knew that birds could fly, and no one was safe so long as they remained between these walls. Murray lingered on his wrecked home for mere seconds before crawling down to Theresa's cave, where she and Steven watched the chaos unfold.

They wore fear like a clown wears face paint. 

Thick, forced. 

Down below, the bird screeched and flapped and ate everything. Its beak was sharper than anything anyone had ever seen.

“This is it?” Murray asked frantically, his breath fleeting.

“The thing?” Steven replied. “The day Elsa spoke of. Surely this is the day. I’ve never seen such chaos.”

“I don’t know if this is it ... ” Theresa answered. If spiders could cry ... “But we need to stay hidden here. Stay hidden in here or leave.”

Steven shook his head. “We can’t stay hidden here for long. That beast will fly up here and devour whatever’s in the walls. With eyes that keen and a beak that sharp, we’ll be trapped.”

“Then we need to leave,” Theresa answered. She stared at the rotting wood. Murray nervously turned away from his friends and looked down at the battlefield. A battlefield, he thought. A battlefield and the enemy is fleeing. This can’t be a battlefield, because there is no fight. Simply stated, it was no battle — it was an extermination. 

Murray watched and saw many of his own kind. Fellow spiders, even White Woods — spiders he had known. They were running in terror, searching desperately for any exit, while the ball of anger and chaos gained on them. There was no way of knowing who had already been killed. 

Murray realized, here, now, that the time for a hero was current, and that this was a chance to do something, even if it meant certain death. 

He stretched his legs. 

He readied his fangs.

 It was time to step up. 

The following can be described as a miraculous 60 seconds of heroism, courage, and absolute willing sacrifice. The minute of terror and chaos, bravery and stupidity, insane strategy, is best summed up through seven numbered events.

Murray jumped off the cavern and spit out a line of silk, which he used to carry himself over the stampede. Steven and Theresa called after him.

Murray sailed over the crowd of spiders, bee-lining for the blue beast in the middle of the deck. 

Murray landed on the bird, which was bobbing up and down, gobbling up spiders, moving faster than light.

Murray climbed up on the quick-moving beak and looked the beast right in its slippery red eyes. It stopped its devouring for a second, giving the eight-leggers time to run. 

Murray stared at the beast. 

The beast stared right back. 

Murray was promptly eaten. 

A plan, however. 

To those thousands who watched, it didn’t look that way. 

But the bird, like the fear, had failed to chew Murray up. Inside the grime and cartridge of spider sauce, Murray was doing what he did best. Faster than he had ever done it. 

Within seconds, the beast began to choke. Its screams became gurgles, and it began to hack and heave and roll all about the cargo deck. It took almost three full minutes. The remaining spiders looked on as the bluebird’s eyes grew dimmer. 

Then, two fingers on the wick. The life was snuffed out. 

Blackness to emptiness. 

It fell over, waking the dust. 

The thing was dead. 

Out of its throat, covered in slime. 

Murray’s legs touched the deck again. 

He had just spun the most important web. A method of killing still, though not used to trap bugs, but to trap air.