Nasty Little F___ers-Kindle (4 page)

Only Colby.

She hurried to the shower. If he got back ahead of schedule, she would be ready. If not…well, she had let her fingers do the walking before; she could do it again.

***

Moretz watched her go. She would tell herself the razor was for Colby, but he knew the truth. Janice was shaving her legs just in case Moretz decided to pay her a visit tonight. He just might, too. But for now he contented himself with following her to the shower. He passed Allen and Steinman on his way, and overheard a snatch of conversation regarding the propagation of prions. Figures, a gorgeous woman is on her way to get naked and all those guys could think about was diseased proteins. At least Edison had noticed her go, then went into his own tent. Probably crying again.

By the time he arrived at the stalls, Janice had already started showering. He climbed the tree on the other side of the stall. The water was loud, Janice wouldn’t hear him; she never did. He reached a limb about twenty feet up and scooted to the edge, just far enough to watch Janice as she ran the soapy loofah all over her body, lathering herself in suds and bubbles. The smell of steam and lavender drifted up to him, and his erection returned with a vengeance.

The balance in the tree was too precarious to indulge himself, but he enjoyed the show, nonetheless. He felt the tightness in the crotch of his pants increase as the minutes went by, especially when Janice’s fingers drifted down to her crotch. When they stayed there, and started moving quickly back and forth in short, practiced movements, Moretz knew with absolute certainty that she was thinking about him.

Chapter Three

Colby heard the noise long before its source reached the camp. Harper and Bock snored the night away – Harper had managed to buy his way into Bock’s tent with the promise of a loaner intern – but over their chorus he caught the sound of something crunching through the brush just outside the reach of the firelight. He couldn’t see anything because the fire destroyed his night vision, but twigs crunched and leaves crackled to his left. The sound circled the clearing, moving at a slow, deliberate pace. A bear? Would Allen get his wish?

Not tonight
, he thought. Colby kept his ears trained on the sound while keeping his hand on the .45. Whatever the thing was crawling around outside the camp, it had already lost the element of surprise. As soon as it showed its face, Colby meant to put a bullet in it. Maybe two. He thumbed off the safety with a quiet click.

The noise moved to a point exactly opposite Colby’s position in the camp, then it stopped. Colby tensed, thinking the critter would probably pounce through the clearing any minute. He raised the pistol to the level of his chest, pointed the barrel upward to the treetops, and waited, peering across the flickering light of the fire and straining his ears for any further sound. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, and the smell of burning poplar filled his nose as the wind changed. Burning poplar and something else; something rotten, like an uncooked ribeye that spent a few days out in the sun.

The minutes stretched on and the only sound he heard was the steady
tick tick
of his Seiko and the crackle of burning firewood. His legs and arms began to ache from the strain of holding in so much potential energy; like compressed springs ready to expand outward but held in place by twine. Sooner or later, you just knew the fucking twine would snap, and then all Hell would break loose. He waited, ignoring the mosquito that landed on his forearm in search of a meal.

Then the thing that was once Jared shuffled into the camp.

It stumbled into the clearing on one booted foot and one stump, chewing on its left wrist as it came; its right hand was missing. Grubs crawled all over the thing, squirming and loping along the landscape of its flesh like herds of wildebeests in the savannah. The Timberland boot on its remaining foot and the remains of Jared’s blue Columbia jacket told him readily enough who it was, but he couldn’t quite reconcile the knowledge with the apparition moving through the makeshift camp. It shuffled along in the flickering light of the fire, eating the flesh of its own wrist and dripping larvae as it walked, leaving a trail worthy of
Hansel and Gretel.

“Holy shit,” Colby whispered, struggling to catch his breath. His arm, the one holding the gun, lowered to his side as his mind refused to believe what his eyes told him. He stared, dumbfounded, at the thing as it moved deeper into the clearing. No hurry, it just shuffled along at its own pace, seemingly unconcerned with Colby or his gun. It stopped when it reached Bock’s tent. Then it lifted its head and sniffed, sending more and more grubs to the ground with a sticky wet plop.

“Och,” it said in a hoarse whisper. “Och.”

Its voice sounded like creamed corn in a blender, and it took Colby a minute to translate.
Bock
, it was saying, slurring the hard
ck
sound like a drunk. It wanted Bock.

“OCH!” It shouted, and Colby heard movement from inside the tent.

“Sarge?” Bock’s voice. All the guys called Colby Sarge, even though he’d told them countless times he was an officer in the Marines, not Enlisted. The sound of Bock’s voice pulled Colby from his trance, and he raised the .45 and pointed it at the grub-thing,

"Stay in the tent, Bock,” he warned.

“What’s going on?”

“Just stay in the fucking tent.”

The grub-thing looked over at him and shook its head. Then it smiled, or tried to. Most of its jaw muscles were shredded by grubs, but what was left of its lips turned up in a grotesque mimicry of a smile, anyway. Colby thought he heard it take in a breath, but then a spew of larvae fell from its mouth and he realized it was laughing at him, croaking out hollow, wheezing chuckles that sent shivers up Colby’s spine.

Staying in the tent wasn’t going to be an option for long.

It turned back to the tent and reached for the flap. “Och, Ish Zharid.”

“Jared?” Harper this time, and the sound of the zipper being pulled whizzed through the camp like a bullet. The Jared-thing tensed, seemingly uninterested in Colby, and sniffed at the air one more time. Then it reached for the tent flap.

“Don’t do it, Jared, or whatever the fuck you are,” Colby said. “I won’t warn you a second time.”

Just then Harper’s head poked through the flap. He looked ridiculous with his hair sticking out at all directions and his glasses perched at a haphazard angle on his face. “Where’s Jared? I thought I heard—Holy shit!”

The Jared-thing lunged for Harper. God, it was quick! Much faster than Colby expected. He leveled the .45 at its head and squeezed off a round. It sounded like a cannon in the small clearing, and the sudden
crack
of the shot sent night birds scattering in all directions.

A .45 caliber hollow point round will do a mess of damage at a distance of fifty yards, but at close range, it’s almost like a miniature apocalypse. The Jared-thing’s head exploded in a cloud of blood, brain, and bits of bone, but it’s body kept moving forward, propelled by the inertia of its charge. A second or two after the shot, as Harper hid his face behind his hand, a headless lump of flesh and larvae fell to the ground in front of him with a loud splat, sending up a spray of grubs and blood that painted Harper’s exposed flesh a sickly red color.

Colby kept the gun pointed at the body, just in case it moved again, while Harper remained true to form and puked his guts up, adding his vomit to the general mess in front of the tent.

“What the fuck was that?” Bock asked, shoving his head through the opening.

Harper finished throwing up and stared at the corpse, whimpering Jared’s name over and over.

“Fuck Jared,” Colby snapped, and replaced the gun in its holster. “We had company, Bock. You dressed?”

“No,” Bock replied. “Harper and I are spooning, and clothes just get in the fucking way.”

Colby smiled in spite of himself.
Nice
, he thought. At least Bock still has his sense of humor. “Get your shoes on and give me a hand. There’s a mess out here.”

"Be right out.” The sound of shuffling came from the tent as Bock pulled on his socks and shoes.

Harper knelt at the tent flap still, his upper body outside the tent, but the majority of him still inside. “Jared,” he said, shaking his head.

Colby stepped over to the tent and grabbed Harper’s face in his hand, forcing him to look away from the body. Harper winced – Colby wasn’t gentle – and tried to break free. He almost made it. The blood and gore on his face made it slippery, but Colby squeezed harder and managed to keep hold.

“Listen to me, Harper,” he said. “Whatever that was, it wasn’t Jared. Not anymore. Understand?”

“Then…then what—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter. But the three of us are getting out of here right now, and you are going to keep it together until we get back to camp. I can’t carry you the whole way, and neither can Bock, so snap out of it, all right?”

Harper, his face held in Colby’s vice-like grip, nodded. A single tear fell from his right eye and rolled down his stubbled cheek. “OK.”

“Good. Now clean up, you’ve got bugs and blood all over your face."

As soon as Colby let go of Harper’s jaw, the scientist started swatting at his face, trying to get the grubs and blood clear. Colby noticed a few red welts on his skin, and remembered what he and Bock said about the grubs biting. Harper probably didn’t feel anything just yet due to shock, but Colby would have bet money in a few minutes the man’s face would sting like a bastard.

“Move it, Harper,” Bock said from inside the tent. “I can’t get out.”

Harper slid out of the tent, stepping around the body in an almost dainty fashion, then Bock’s head poked back through the tent flap. He looked at the body in front of the tent, but didn’t throw up. “That Jared?” he asked.

“It was,” Colby replied.

Bock studied the body for a few moments, then his eyes narrowed. “Those grubs look familiar.”

“They should. My guess is they’re the same as the ones we found on his hand and foot. Which reminds me, you might want to back off a bit. Remember how far those little fuckers can jump.”

Bock, who’d been leaning over the body to get a better look, raised back up in a hurry and rammed the back of his head into the tent fabric. “The little bastards are still eating him.”

“Of course they are,” Harper said. He seemed to have recovered himself a bit, for which Colby was thankful. “That’s what larvae do. But I’ve never seen this species before.”

“We know that,” Colby said. “You told us already.”

Colby felt a sudden sharp pain in his right shin, and his leg gave an involuntary jerk. “Ow! What the fuck?” He reached down and pulled up the leg of his pants. There, about five inches above his ankle, one of the grubs was going to town on his leg. It really stung, too. The little bastard got him good.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said as he reached down and pinched the critter between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re not making a meal out of me.” He tried to pull it off gently, but it had a strong hold on his skin, so he took a deep breath, steeled himself, and gave the thing a quick jerk. A bright flash of pain followed, then the grub came free with a slight pop and a barely audible rip. It managed to take a small piece of his leg with it, a chunk of flesh about a quarter of an inch around.

After checking to make sure there were no more grubs near enough to get to him, Colby held the squirming thing up to his face and examined it. It was just an ordinary looking grub, albeit a big one, about the size of a mealworm, and pale yellow in color with bright red spots on its head and ass. While he watched, its mouth opened wide and the piece of Colby’s leg disappeared in its gullet. His eyes gaped when the grub opened its mouth. The thing had teeth! Nasty little sharp ones. No wonder it was able to pull that chunk of his leg away with it. Colby grimaced at the sight of a piece of his body being swallowed.
Stupid little bastard
, he thought,
not very good at knowing who it can and can’t fuck with, that’s for sure.

“I hope you enjoyed that, you little shit,” he said. “It was your last meal.” Then he squeezed the thing until it gave a slight pop and burst open like a tiny water balloon. The piece of his leg, along with a sticky mess of guts, fell from the grub’s ruined body and slid down his thumb.

“Damn it, Sarge,” Harper said. “I wanted to examine that.”

“Here,” Colby replied, and flicked the remains at him. Harper ducked and swore, then gestured toward Bock.

“Hey,” he said, “Grab a sample jar out of my bag, would you?”

“You brought sample jars along to find Jared?” Bock asked.

“I bring sample jars everywhere. Just in case.”

Bock shook his head, but ducked back inside the tent. He came back to the flap a minute later and tossed a small glass vessel, about the size of a Gerber Baby Food jar, at Harper. Harper caught it, unscrewed the lid, and leaned over Jared’s body.

Colby noted the sweat pouring off Harper’s face and knew the man must be thinking about the piece of flesh the grub took from Colby’s leg. He hid his grin as Harper gingerly reached down toward the writhing mass of grubs, his hand inching closer and closer to the nasty little things.

“Boo!” Bock yelled just as Harper’s hand got close.

Harper screamed, jumped, and fell backward into the grass. The glass jar flew out of his hand and landed in the brush somewhere off to the right.