The pain in his ribs jolted his whole body straight, and this time he did retch, spewing his most recent meal to the forest floor in a puddle of half digested jerky and bile. When he was empty, his stomach dry heaved, sending waves of agony through his torso. He almost passed out again, but managed to hold on long enough to calm his freewheeling innards.
Several ribs were broken. That much he could tell already, and the gash on the back of his head felt serious. He’d need to get that stitched up as soon as possible. The possibilities for infection out here were astronomical. And, God help him, he needed something for the pain. The First Aid kit had a small bottle of aspirin. But his bag, which he’d left by the tree, contained a handful of more potent painkillers. In a pocket on the inside flap, he had hidden small bottles of Vicodin, Darvocet, and even Percocet. He’d brought them along just in case anything happened.
Something fucking happened, all right. Something big. And he longed for the little brown bottle with the Vicodin. A couple of those should help put him right. First, he had to get down from the damn tree. He looked down, hoping to see his pack. It only took a second to spot it, leaning up against the trunk of the pine, just where he’d left it. Twenty feet down, sitting on the forest floor.
He shifted his weight again, and pain shot through his ribcage. Yep, definitely broken. Twenty feet might as well be twenty miles; there was no way he could climb down in his condition.
Then something clicked inside his mind and he realized he didn’t see Janice. Where the hell was she? If she still had her rope, maybe he could fashion some kind of harness and lower himself down. Even without the rope, she should be able to climb up high enough to hand him a couple of pills. Once they kicked in he could climb down and wait for the chopper. Fuck finding a clearing, let the pilot worry about that, when he got to the ground he was going to lay there and not move.
“Janice?” he called. “You there?”
After a few seconds with no answer, he heard footsteps in the leaves and needles of the forest floor. Moments later Janice stood under the tree craning her neck to look up at him. He’d never been so happy to see anyone in his whole life.
She smiled when she spotted him. “I’m here, Colby. Are you okay?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Even through the pain, he stared at her. The top three buttons of her shirt were unbuttoned, revealing a view of the pale flesh of her breasts, which rode high and firm on her chest. Her full lips surrounded her words, letting the sound filter out like notes from a violin. Her dark brown hair fell down around her shoulders. Colby could not recall ever seeing her wear it in anything less severe than a ponytail, not even when she was naked. Even from his position twenty feet up in the tree, her eyes sparkled, blue and moist, in the fading glow of the day. His breath caught in his throat and for a moment he forgot what he was about to say.
“Colby?” she asked. “You okay?”
He shifted his weight again, and the sudden flare of pain reminded him of his predicament like a bucket of cold water to the face. He grimaced. “You still have your rope?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“Yeah, it’s in my pack. You need it?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“Okay,” she said, and turned around. She was back right away, a coiled length of rope in her hand. One end of the rope was tied to a grappling hook. Janice started to swing the hook around in circles, building up momentum. Colby hoped she would be able to toss the hook – which weighed about ten pounds – high enough for him to reach it. He looked at her slender arms and thought she’d have to make several attempts at it, and even then she might not be able to get the rope to him.
He needn’t have worried, Janice swung the hook a few times and let loose, sending it up and over Colby’s branch with ease. He took a few seconds to marvel at her strength and coordination, wondering why he’d doubted her. Was he that much of a sexist? He’d have to get out of that habit, and fast. Janice was quite a woman.
He reached over and grabbed the rope, then he untied the hook and let it fall to the ground with a solid thump. Colby regarded the rope. He had to make a harness that would hold him, but wouldn’t put any pressure on his screaming ribs. After a moment’s thought, he took the rope and wrapped it around his waist, tucking one end under the loop at his waist and looping twice more around each thigh, then bringing the end around and tying it in a double knot. It was similar in nature to the ‘swami belt’ type harness he and his friends once used for rock climbing, but of course he had to make do without a carabiner.
Now came the worst part. The part he’d been dreading ever since he thought of this plan. He looked down to see Janice standing directly beneath him, staring up.
“You might want to move over,” he said.
“Why?”
“I’ve got to swing myself over the branch to lower myself down. With my broken ribs, it’s going to hurt. If I pass out I don’t want to fall on you.”
“You won’t pass out, Colby,” she replied, smiling. Still, she shuffled a few steps sideways, which was what he wanted.
He clenched his jaw shut, mentally counted to three, and swung himself over the side of the branch, holding on to the rope with both hands.
The rope jerked him to a sudden stop, and the pain was as immediate as it was intense. He gasped as it flared through his chest like a swarm of fire ants. His eyes squeezed shut, pushing out a tear that ran down his cheek. Despite his fading grip on consciousness, he somehow held on to the rope, knowing that if he let go he would plummet fifteen or more feet straight to the ground. In his current state, he might not be able to get up again afterward.
After an agonizing minute or two, the pain lessened, and he opened his eyes to assess the situation. He swung, fifteen feet from the forest floor, with one end of the rope tied to his waist and the other end strung over the branch and clutched in his hands. He said a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn’t passed out, and began the slow, painful task of lowering himself to the ground. The hand-over-hand method still hurt his chest, and the skin of his hands burned from gripping the coarse rope, but Colby found it bearable, especially after the pain in his ribs.
He reached the floor a few minutes later and released the rope, noting the rising blisters on his palms. Janice moved to hug him and he held her off with an upraised hand.
“Ribs, remember?” he said.
She stopped in her tracks, nodding. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“There’s some Vicodin in the inside flap of my pack, can you hand it to me, along with my canteen?”
“Of course.” She rummaged through his pack and came up with the small bottle of Vicodin and the canteen. She opened both and handed them to him. Colby took them, glad she was there to help. If not for her, he’d still be stuck up in the tree, puking his guts out. Except…
For some reason, the scene at the base of the tree bothered him. He couldn’t quite get his finger on it, but it seemed like something was missing, or maybe he just forgot something. If only he could remember what. He chided himself for being concerned with minor details while his ribs were on fire, and resolved to try and figure it out later, when the pain wasn’t so distracting. Colby shook out two of the little white pills, hesitated, then added a third. He popped all three into his mouth and washed them down with the canteen.
Colby sat, his back to the tree, looking at Janice. The Vicodin would take a few minutes to work, but as long as he sat still, it didn’t hurt as much.
Janice smiled at him, her dazzling teeth reflecting the fading sun and sending it back to him in a warm glow. He sighed. Definitely not going to move anymore, he thought. I’m gonna sit right here and look at Janice. If anything comes by to bother us I’m going to blast it right out of the…
Then he remembered what had been bothering him earlier. The gun. Where was it? And didn’t he hear a shot just before he fell?
“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t I hear a gunshot?”
“That you
did, Colby,” said a second voice. A male voice. Colby heard a rustling in the bushes directly in front of him and watched as Allen stepped through the brush and into the small clearing. Something wearing Moretz’s shirt, but crawling with grubs, stood just behind Allen amidst the waist high bushes. Colby recalled Bock, Jared, and Harper, and he knew what had befallen Moretz, although he didn’t quite understand why most of the man’s head was missing.
Then Edison stepped out from the bushes to his left. Colby stared. Edison’s corpse stood, impossibly mobile even in death. The shredded remains of his bloodstained shirt drifted in the slight breeze, and Colby could already smell the rotten stench of decay. Like Moretz and all the others, tiny grubs crawled all over his body.
“Allen,” Colby began, trying and failing to find his feet in order to fight off Moretz and Edison. “Where have you—” The words died on his lips as something else got Colby’s attention. In his hands, Allen held Colby’s Colt AR-15, and he pointed it right at Colby’s head.
“Oh, I’ve been around,” Allen said, smiling.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Colby raised his hands over his head, his pain forgotten for the moment. He didn’t know why Allen would be pointing a rifle at him, but he knew he didn’t like it. At least the guy doesn’t want me dead, Colby reasoned, or he would have shot me by now. He put his feet under him and started to rise, slowly.
“I wouldn’t do that, Sarge,” Allen said. “You’re just fine where you are.” To emphasize his point, Allen thumbed the safety off the rifle, making a show of it to ensure Colby saw him do it.
Colby slid back to a sitting position and stared at the gun, noting with some alarm that Allen’s hands held steady and unwavering. Not a good sign. Colby was no stranger to gunpoint situations; in the Marines he’d had guns pointed at him on several occasions, and as a civilian he’d been robbed more than once. In his experience, when most people pointed a gun at another human being, their arms and fingers twitched, marking them as inexperienced or nervous. Twitchy fingers could be dangerous, true, but a nervous man was also easier to manipulate. Colby had talked his way out of several such situations.
But Allen’s hands held rock steady, the gun never wavering. Colby had no doubt that if he did anything sudden, Allen would send a bullet through his skull. He took a deep, slow breath, feeling the effects of the Vicodin in his blood as the pain in his chest and arms dulled somewhat. He’d have to be ready. If Allen tried to hurt Janice, Colby meant to do something about it. He wasn’t quite sure what, but he’d try his damndest to make sure that at least one member of the team got home safe. He kept his hands up, making sure Allen could see them, and turned to Janice.
She smiled sweetly at him, and a light bulb went off in his head.
“You knew,” he said.
She nodded. “It has to be done.”
“What? What has to be done?”
“You’ll see,” Allen broke in. “For now, put your hands behind the tree.”
Colby did so, circling his hands around the trunk. The pain in his ribs flared, but he forced himself to remain steady. The trunk was too wide for him to touch his fingers, but Janice still had plenty of rope left. She walked behind the trunk, keeping a safe distance from Colby, and tied his hands together behind the tree. Allen watched him through the gun’s sight the whole time, almost daring him to twitch.
When Janice finished securing his hands, she moved around to the front of the tree, trailing the rope behind her. She made four loops, snugging his upper body to the trunk, then she tied his ankles together and ran a length of rope from his feet to another tree. By the time she finished, he could not move anything except his head.
“What’s this about, Janice?” He asked.
She ignored the question and walked up to him, placing her hands on either side of his chest and unbuttoning his shirt. He had a flashback to a few nights before when she did the same thing, but in a much more pleasant manner. That night they’d been in her tent, with the crickets chirping and owls hooting. This was different. He hoped that whatever was going on, she didn’t expect a repeat of the other night’s performance while he sat tied to a tree with a gun pointed at his head. Would Allen want to watch that sort of thing? Somehow, Colby doubted it. It didn’t involve bugs or bear shit, so Allen probably wouldn’t care.
When she’d undone the top three buttons and exposed his chest, she backed away. Colby was still wondering what the hell was going on when Janice turned around to face Allen. “He’s ready,” she said.
“Good,” Allen replied.
Colby barely heard. He stared at the back of Janice’s neck, comprehension dawning on him like a punch to the gut. Janice had a grub stuck to her neck, just above the shoulder level. It wasn’t big, yet, but it was there. The damn thing looked like a cartoon water hose, pumping furiously forward and injecting whatever fucking chemical it manufactured into Janice’s blood.
Son of a bitch, he thought. Son of a fucking bitch.
Allen and Janice walked to the edge of the small clearing, and Allen whispered something to Moretz’s body that Colby couldn’t hear. Moretz turned and walked back into the brush. Janice stared after him, her eyes glistening. The pain in his body continued to fade as the Vicodin’s influence increased.
No one said a word. Colby couldn’t bring himself to speak, and instead wondered how much time he spent unconscious in the tree. It had been nearing dusk when he started the climb down. Now twilight had come and gone, leaving the world in the pale fading light of the last bit of day. Somewhere behind him, an owl hooted. Crickets chirped in the background, adding their song to the rising chorus of cicadas, which hadn’t reached full volume yet, but soon would. Somewhere above him, a bat flapped its wings in search of food; its tiny wing beats audible above the other noises, if only just.
That meant he’d been out for at least an hour. His cell phone still sat in his back pocket; he could feel it, and since he hadn’t turned it off Anzer would be able to track its GPS signal. But would the chopper arrive in time to help him? Probably not.
A rustle up ahead drew his attention back to Allen and Janice. Moretz crashed back into the clearing, holding something small and black in his hands. He shambled up to Colby, arm extended, like he was bringing a present to a party.
“We barely made it,” Allen said. “She’s almost dead.”
“She, who?” Colby asked, but they both ignored him.
“Is she strong enough?” Janice looked worried.
“I think so,” Allen replied. “She should do fine.”
“She, who?” Colby asked again.
“Good,” Janice said. “I’d hate to think of her baby going to waste.”
“Whos’ fucking baby?” Colby asked, shouting now. “What the fuck are you guys talking about?”
Allen and Janice both looked at him, staring needles into his skin, but he didn’t flinch. The look on Allen’s face spoke volumes about what he would rather do to Colby than tie him to a tree. Something kept his trigger finger in check, but Colby didn’t know what. The silence stretched on for several heartbeats. It was Janice who finally broke it.
“The queen,” she said, as though that explained everything.
Colby was just about to ask her what the hell that was supposed to mean when Moretz arrived at his side, and he could finally see what the black object in Moretz’s hand was.
A big, fat, fly, just like the ones he saw at the bear carcass.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“What the hell is that?” Colby asked.
“That’s the queen,” Allen replied.
“The queen of what?”
No one answered. Instead, Moretz ambled up to Colby and squatted next to him, putting one larvae-infested knee into the soft earth beside Colby’s leg. Moretz then reached out his hand, dropping a few grubs onto Colby’s pants and shirt in the process, and placed the black fly on Colby’s chest.
Colby tried to buck and shift, but the ropes held him secure as the fly limped of
f Moretz’s hand and onto Colby’s flesh. The grubs Moretz dropped onto Colby’s clothes looked like they were about to head for his exposed skin, but the moment the queen set her feet on Colby’s chest they stopped, turned around, and wriggled their way off him and onto the ground. Moretz picked them up and gently put them back on his skin, after which the little buggers dove into his flesh with rabid abandon.
The queen looked ill. She walked on only four of her six legs. The weight of the thing surprised him. She circled a handful of times, and then, to his horror, laid an egg in the skin of his chest. He felt a sharp pain as she burrowed a small hole into his left pectoral muscle in which to deposit the egg, then she fell over and rolled to his crotch, unmoving. Her last remaining energy spent in the birthing process, if you could call it that.
Colby wondered how long he’d have to wait for the egg to hatch, and was just beginning to think of some plan he could use to break free, when the question was answered. The little egg, about the size of a grain of rice, cracked open, and a tiny grub slithered out. It looked just like all the others, red tips and off-white in the middle, but much smaller. Even smaller than Janice’s. Had the queen been forced to use some of her young’s nutrients to sustain herself long enough to lay her egg? Possibly. Not that it mattered to him.
The little grub dug it’s head into Colby’s flesh, and he felt a tiny prick in his skin. Then a warm numbness began to spread from the location of the bite. As the feeling spread, Colby’s anxiety eased. He looked at the grub not in fear and loathing, but wonder. The grub wasn’t ugly, like he thought before. How could the idea have ever crossed his mind? She was a thing of beauty. Fragile and delicate, but regal. Amazing! He smiled, and looked up at Janice and Allen.
“She’s… she’s beautiful,” he whispered. It was all he could think to say.
Nasty Little F___ers-Kindle Page 14