Nasty Little F___ers-Kindle Read Online Free PDF Page A

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