Slither (30 page)

"Well, how did they get on the island themselves?
Do they have a boat too?"

"I don't know," she said. Her shoulders drooped.
"And I don't care." She began to choke back sobs. "I
just want to go home."

"Don't worry, we'll get you home..." Then Loren
looked down at the boat, and blinked at the incongruence of what she'd just said. "How come you're still
here? If you knew your friends were all dead, why
didn't you just take the boat out of here yourself?"

"No keys. Alan's got them, and he's long gone."

A hope glimmered. "Where's his body? We can still
get the keys."

"He's out rotting in the woods somewhere!" she whined. "I don't know! You want to go digging
through a dead man's pockets when he's full of those
things?"

She's right about that, he realized. "We don't even
need the keys. We can push the boat out of the cove if
we have to, let the current take us-one way or another, we're getting out of here. Come on, I'll take you
to where my friends are."

Leona stiffened. "I-I don't think I want to do that.
I'd rather stay here."

"You'll be perfectly safe," Loren assured her.

"How do you know your friends aren't infected by
now?"

"They're not, trust me. I just saw them a little while
ago--

She was shaking her head. "You don't understand.
Those little yellow things are all over the place. They'll
fall on you from the trees if you're not careful. And
some of the worms are really big. I'm not going back
into those woods; I'm lucky enough to have made it
this far without one getting me." She paused, eyeing
him. "Why don't you and I leave right now?"

"That's impossible," Loren told her. "My friends
aren't infected. I guarantee it. But I can't just leave
without them."

"I think you should," she said, fingering the gun.

Oh no. This is going to be a problem, Loren realized.
Should he go for the gun? Loren knew his karma didn't
work that way. I'd get my skull parted . . . "Okay, look.
You stay here and wait for me to get back with the others. Will that work?"

The lost gaze searched his face. "Yeah, I guess. I'll be
able to tell if any of them are infected."

Loren assessed her comment. Interesting. "How can
you tell, by the way? You seem to know a lot about
this. If a person's infected initially, how do you know?"

"By looking at him," she said. "My boyfriendHowie-he turned real fast. Had to have been less than
an hour before the signs started showing."

"What are the signs?"

"Your skin turns to this mucky yellow-same color
as the eggs. After a while you even develop red specks
along with the yellow."

More information of interest. She's talking about the
mutagenic element. Contagion would depend on the
level of viral admission, and also antibody resistence of
each infectee. And Loren also knew-based on his
knowledge of the Trichinella order itself-that a positive infection could bring about much, much more than
a change in skin pigmentation. No need to tell her that
part, he considered. Then he remembered Annabelle.
Hopefully Trent's already found her by now. I'll just go
grab Nora, and then we can get the hell off this island.
But-as- he was about to do so he thought he noticed ...

Wait a minute ...

Her dull gaze came alert. "Why are you looking at
me like that?"

Loren was looking at the crotch of her bikini bottoms.
"What's ... what's that? Down there?" He pointed.

The girl slowly looked down at herself. An uneven
crescent of skin emerged right at her bikini line.

The crescent was yellow, almost like a stain, or a rash.

Then dread seemed to bloom over her head like a
halo. "Oh no, no, no!" she groaned.

She yanked up her T-shirt.

"No, she whispered.

Her abdomen had turned yellow, with bloodred specks.
Her eyes welled with tears as, next, a dozen motile ova
began to inch out of her bikini bottoms.

Loren didn't even have time to lunge for the gun-or
even implore her not to do it-when she put the revolver's barrel to her head and-

Bam!

Leona's horror was gone, along with the side of her
head. Loren could do little more than stare through the
shock. The woods froze around the lagoon, the silence
now somehow more deafening than the discharge of
the bullet.

Shit, was all he could think.

He quickly pushed her body overboard, then picked
up the gun and made a swift exit off the boat ...

Darkness was beginning to sift into the woods when
Trent heard the shot.

He froze in place, eyes snapped open.

Yes, it sounded like a single, distant gunshot.

No. It couldn't be. He patted his gun belt, felt the
butt of his army-issue 9mm strapped snugly into the
holster. There's only one person on this island who's
armed, he reminded himself. Me.

The mainland was only a mile or two away; sounds
could carry in strange ways, especially over water.
Probably a truck backfiring, he considered. Or maybe a
sonic boom from a jet flying back to the air force base.

Yes. Maybe.

He stomped through most of the island's western
end, but still no sign of Annabelle. This shit is getting
old, he thought with a gripe. I don't care how goodlooking she is. I'm tired of bushwhacking through
these woods ...

And in the back of his mind he remained all too
aware of Nora's and Loren's concerns. Maybe this
worm stuff really is serious, too. They seem to think so,
and they're experts.

But during his annoying trek, he hadn't encountered
any worms, nor their accommodating ova.

Trent began to feel like an idiot before long. A wildgoose chase, only the goose is a brick shit-house
blonde. His watch told him it was almost time to be
heading back. Nora would have more information
about the dead body out in the water-If there really IS
a dead body. The kid could've been mistaken. Annabelle was probably back at the campsite by now ...

Probably drunk, he added the thought, from that
flask full of rum. And I'm running around out here
looking for her ... More irritation bristled.

Yeah, he thought. I'll bet she's passed out drunk somewhere, so to hell with this. I'm going back to the camp.

Just as Trent turned to abandon his search-

whap-

Something landed on his head. He flinched away,
aghast, swatting about his head. What the fuck was
that! Did one of those worms just land on me?

He flung something long and stringy off his neck.

"I thought that might get your attention," a sultry
voice said from somewhere. Trent's shock faded when
he saw what had hit him in the head ...

Not a worm. A white G-string.

Annabelle grinned coyly at him. She leaned against a
tree, stark naked, her tan lines raving at him.

"Where the hell have you been?" he almost yelled.

"Just wandering around. Where have you been?"

"Looking for you!"

Her eyes narrowed a little, she pouted at him. "You
sound mad."

"I am mad! We've been looking for you for almost
two hours! Nora and Loren think these worms might
be dangerous to humans. We all need to stick together
and think of a way to leave the island."

"Oh, let's not leave yet." Her voice remained singsongy, flirtatious. Trent noticed her beach bag at her feet,
and the uncapped and obviously empty flask. Just as I thought. "Come on, you're drunk. Something serious
might be going on, and you're out here getting loaded."

"There is something serious going on," she said. "Me
and you. Right now."

Trent couldn't help it, but at least he was fairly sure
that no other red-blooded man could either. His anger
dissolved and then he was walking right up to her. Here
we go again ... His gaze slid up over her body, lingering over every perfect curve. Suddenly, worms, dead
bodies in the water, and inexplicable electronic jamming were the furthest things from his mind.

He just couldn't help it.

The image of her body and its accommodating promise dragged him to her as effectively as a chain around
his neck.

"That's better," she whispered when they embraced.
Her hot hands seemed impatient when she lifted his
T-shirt over his head, and a moment later he was back
in his lustful heaven, his bare skin pressed against the
warm, plenteous bosom. Oh God, I am so pussywhipped! Trent gave up altogether. Nature was calling
again, and he simply didn't have the will to say no.

He could feel the turgid nipples pressing against
him, could feel the heat radiating off her body and surrounding him, pulling him. Trent was none too daintily
sucking her neck when he felt her fingers teasing
around his groin. The sexual energy between the two of
them was merging into a cocoon of antsy, hot static.

She was about to unfasten his gun belt and delve
into his trunks when she suddenly nudged him back.

"Let's get kinky," she whispered.

"Huh?"

Annabelle picked up the beach bag and slipped out
the drawstring. Now her fingers spidered across his
chest. "Tie me up."

Trent was thrown off guard. lie her up? In the woods? I just want to get laid again. Trent had never
really been into such things but ...

"You really are buzzed," he said.

"Um-hmm." Her big, wanton eyes blinked. "Makes
me hotter." She put the drawstring in her hand and offered her wrists.

What a nut ... but I guess I don't really care. He
lashed her wrists together, and thought, What now?
but she pointed just above her.

"Lift me up. Right there."

The crook of a broken bough stuck out of the tree.
Annabelle held her arms up, elucidating her breasts, as
Trent palmed her hips, raised her enough to get the lash
hooked on the bough, then released her. Now she stood
before him on her tiptoes, stretched out like something
for display. Her breathing grew heavier at once.

She's really into this kooky stuff, he realized, but
scarcely cared. He began kissing her breasts and tonguing around her neck. Words weren't necessary now,
just primal action. Her stretched body trembled as
Trent's mouth embarked on a hot, wet trek from the
dimple of her throat, and down ...

"Lower," was the only word she breathed.

The officer knew what she wanted, and took his time
getting to it. His mouth sucked fresh sweat off her
skin, between the valley of her breasts, then more tan
skin, then her navel. Her body was quivering now.
Trent lingered at the navel, knowing that it only maximized her expectations; now he was toying with her, a
notion that seemed ultimately satisfying.

After minutes more of excruciating mouth-play on
her abdomen, he finally lowered himself to his knees.

She breathed through hisses, then quickly raised her
legs, splaying everything before his face. The bottoms
of her thighs rested on his shoulders.

Trent tinkered further with her angst, refusing to ar rive at the mark. She was truly hanging now, her arms
straight as rods, her bare heels thunking his back, trying to pull his mouth closer. Trent just kissed and
sucked ever more along the insides of her thighs.

The way she began to shudder, he would've thought
she was climaxing even before his mouth finally found
her sex.

Annabelle let out a delicious moan. If Trent had
been able to see her face, surely her eyes would've
been squeezed shut in the most potent pleasure, and
every muscle in her flawless body flexing beneath the
tan skin.

Her moans rose to repeated crescendoes, her flesh
quaking, then-

Just as he expected her climax to let loose-

"Get me down!" she shrieked. "There's someone behind you!"

Trent heard an unpleasant metallic clack! of some
sort, and before he realized it might have been the
sound of something hitting him on the back of the
head, his vision began to blur. It seemed that black ink
had been dumped over his consciousness, and-

Trent collapsed flat on his back.

Only one second of awareness ticked by before he'd
fully blacked out, and in that second, he saw two things:

Annabelle hanging helpless and naked against the
tree.

And a man in a decon suit, gas mask, and hood
reaching out for her.

Nora corkscrewed in the water as the pulsing, pink
worm tightened its coil around her waist. Somehow
her instinct turned off her panic and turned on her defensive mechanisms; as the worm coiled in one direction, she violently flailed her body in the opposite,
hoping to retard the thing's efforts to fully encircle her.

She thrashed, wielding her knife. No thoughts of
horror or fear filled her head-only reaction. The
worm seemed the width of a garden hose, but it had to
have been ten feet long. Eventually it wrapped around
her body several times, then began to constrict.

Its strength was dizzying, as though two hefty men
were pulling on each end of a rope looped about her
waist. Had it gotten around her neck, she knew she'd be
strangling now, but this wasn't much better. The worm
was trying to squeeze all the air out of her body ...

Her free hand clamped just under the tapered cone of flesh that was the worm's head; this was all that kept
it from slithering about her throat .. .

Nora was running out of air. Her flippers kicked to
the surface, but the worm's posterium-its tail endraveled around her legs, tightening more.

Meanwhile, unvented carbon dioxide began to swell
in her lungs .. .

Through her mask she viewed the worm's eyeless
head and the sphincter of muscle that composed its
frontal duct. The fleshy ring opened and closed akin to a
heart valve, driven to attach itself to her mouth through
which it would either empty its digestive enzymes-to
feed-or empty its ovarial reservoirs-to plant its eggs.

The mouth had no jaws-just the grotesque, pulsing
ring-and no teeth, but instead something worse: a circle of "stylets" that would sink into the meat of her
back throat like fishhooks, to keep the worm's body securely attached to the host. The most revolting sensation of Nora's life was the feel of the worm's own
throat clamped in her hand, its skin-or hydrostatic
sheath-moving back and forth-like the foreskin over
an erect penis.