syllable. “They want you, now. All they need is a queen.” Bock started to rise.
“They? They who? What queen? And sit the fuck down!” Then Colby noticed something that froze his blood. Bock’s shirt had come unbuttoned during their scuffle, and a patch of his chest was now visible. There, mired in with the sparse growth of Bock’s chest hair, several grubs hung like leeches. Not eating, but just hanging there, like remoras on a shark. They pulsed and throbbed while Colby watched, and he felt the bile rising in his throat. The sight of a dead, rotting Jared hadn’t moved him to puke, but watching the grubs hang on to Bock’s chest almost did.
“Rip ‘em out, Bock,” he said. “Rip those fuckers out.”
Bock shook his head and smiled. “I like them,” he said, and started toward Colby.
Colby squared his feet and his shoulders, then raised his hands to the level of his solar plexus. He didn’t make a fist yet, he’d save that for when he made contact. For now he just got his hands and legs into proper alignment. He wondered about Bock’s mental state; the man must be out of it to attack a trained hand-to-hand fighter.
“I don’t want to hurt you. Bock,” Colby said. It was true; he didn’t.
“Bock’sh not zhe one who’s gonna get hurt, Sharge,” a new voice said from behind him.
Colby whirled to face the newcomer, and couldn’t suppress a gasp when he saw Harper standing there. Then his heart rate skyrocketed. It wasn’t the sight of Harper covered in fat, two-inch grubs that bothered him, nor was it the fact that those same grubs were chewing at his face, hands, and everything else.
What bothered Colby was the rifle, his rifle, which lay in Harper’s hands, pointed right at his chest.
Chapter Seven
“Damn it,” Colby swore. He’d left the rifle back in the tiny clearing. Had Bock known? He must have. But how did Harper know about it? Unless he’d been following the two since they left their last camp. Colby should have paid more attention; he’d never once considered that anyone, or anything, might be trailing them. Stupid.
Bock grabbed his arms from behind, while Harper kept the rifle trained on his chest. Colby didn’t have a lot of time, could he twist out of Bock’s grip? Maybe, but Harper would almost certainly get a shot off first. He scanned the immediate area, looking for anything he could use to escape.
“Don’ do it, Sharge,” Harper said. As he spoke, a grub popped through his cheek from inside his mouth and crawled across his face toward his ear. “Zhey don’ care if you dead, firsht.”
“They, who?”
“The grubs,” Bock said in his ear. “They’re hungry, and they’re pissed.”
How could bugs be pissed? Colby didn’t want to know. Maybe the grubs had some kind of narcotic in their saliva or something, because Bock sure sounded high. But Harper…there really wasn’t an explanation for that. The guy was covered in grubs. They were eating him alive. On top of that, there was a huge chunk of flesh missing from his throat, and another from his thigh, visible through the ragged, bloody hole in his pants leg. How the fuck was he even walking? Something big had torn away pieces of him, but what? Then Colby remembered Jared, shuffling through the camp and chewing on his wrist. By all rights, he should have been dead by that point, too. So what was it?
Colby searched his memory. He thought he remembered hearing about a substance that could make people not feel pain, but what was it? It was on the edge of his mind, but he couldn’t quite remember. Not that it mattered.
Bock shoved him toward the carcass of the dead bear. Clearly, he wasn’t going to be given time to figure it out. He turned and took a step or two closer, keeping his eyes and ears open for an opportunity to escape. Bock stepped in behind him.
“No, Och,” Harper said. “Don’—”
Colby took advantage of Bock’s position to launch a roundhouse right at his face. His fist
“They? They who? What queen? And sit the fuck down!” Then Colby noticed something that froze his blood. Bock’s shirt had come unbuttoned during their scuffle, and a patch of his chest was now visible. There, mired in with the sparse growth of Bock’s chest hair, several grubs hung like leeches. Not eating, but just hanging there, like remoras on a shark. They pulsed and throbbed while Colby watched, and he felt the bile rising in his throat. The sight of a dead, rotting Jared hadn’t moved him to puke, but watching the grubs hang on to Bock’s chest almost did.
“Rip ‘em out, Bock,” he said. “Rip those fuckers out.”
Bock shook his head and smiled. “I like them,” he said, and started toward Colby.
Colby squared his feet and his shoulders, then raised his hands to the level of his solar plexus. He didn’t make a fist yet, he’d save that for when he made contact. For now he just got his hands and legs into proper alignment. He wondered about Bock’s mental state; the man must be out of it to attack a trained hand-to-hand fighter.
“I don’t want to hurt you. Bock,” Colby said. It was true; he didn’t.
“Bock’sh not zhe one who’s gonna get hurt, Sharge,” a new voice said from behind him.
Colby whirled to face the newcomer, and couldn’t suppress a gasp when he saw Harper standing there. Then his heart rate skyrocketed. It wasn’t the sight of Harper covered in fat, two-inch grubs that bothered him, nor was it the fact that those same grubs were chewing at his face, hands, and everything else.
What bothered Colby was the rifle, his rifle, which lay in Harper’s hands, pointed right at his chest.
Chapter Seven
“Damn it,” Colby swore. He’d left the rifle back in the tiny clearing. Had Bock known? He must have. But how did Harper know about it? Unless he’d been following the two since they left their last camp. Colby should have paid more attention; he’d never once considered that anyone, or anything, might be trailing them. Stupid.
Bock grabbed his arms from behind, while Harper kept the rifle trained on his chest. Colby didn’t have a lot of time, could he twist out of Bock’s grip? Maybe, but Harper would almost certainly get a shot off first. He scanned the immediate area, looking for anything he could use to escape.
“Don’ do it, Sharge,” Harper said. As he spoke, a grub popped through his cheek from inside his mouth and crawled across his face toward his ear. “Zhey don’ care if you dead, firsht.”
“They, who?”
“The grubs,” Bock said in his ear. “They’re hungry, and they’re pissed.”
How could bugs be pissed? Colby didn’t want to know. Maybe the grubs had some kind of narcotic in their saliva or something, because Bock sure sounded high. But Harper…there really wasn’t an explanation for that. The guy was covered in grubs. They were eating him alive. On top of that, there was a huge chunk of flesh missing from his throat, and another from his thigh, visible through the ragged, bloody hole in his pants leg. How the fuck was he even walking? Something big had torn away pieces of him, but what? Then Colby remembered Jared, shuffling through the camp and chewing on his wrist. By all rights, he should have been dead by that point, too. So what was it?
Colby searched his memory. He thought he remembered hearing about a substance that could make people not feel pain, but what was it? It was on the edge of his mind, but he couldn’t quite remember. Not that it mattered.
Bock shoved him toward the carcass of the dead bear. Clearly, he wasn’t going to be given time to figure it out. He turned and took a step or two closer, keeping his eyes and ears open for an opportunity to escape. Bock stepped in behind him.
“No, Och,” Harper said. “Don’—”
Colby took advantage of Bock’s position to launch a roundhouse right at his face. His fist
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