BENJAMIN'S PARASITE

Jeff Strand

First Edition
May 2009

Published by:

Delirium Books

P.O. Box 338

North Webster, IN 46555

sales@deliriumbooks.com

www.deliriumbooks.com

Benjamin's Parasite copyright 2009 by Jeff Strand

Cover Artwork copyright 2009 by Mike Bohatch

All Rights Reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copy Editor: David Marty and Steve Souza

AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER

This is a true story.

I have changed the names, not to protect the individuals represented in these pages, but to protect you, the reader. This story is top secret in a "If you knew the whole truth, I'd have to kill you" manner, and my busy schedule doesn't allow me to hunt down each of you, bash you in the head with a shovel, and bury you in a shallow grave.

There will be moments in this narrative that you will consider "farfetched." Well, do you know what else is farfetched? Reality. Reality is freakin' insane, people! It's absolutely jam-packed with stuff where you think "No way could that possibly be true! That's too messed up! The media has got to be exaggerating for dramatic effect!"

But it's not.

After you finish enjoying this book, you may receive a visitor at your place of residence (yes, all sales of this book have been tracked—sorry about that). He or she will be polite but stern, and ask you a few questions. It is very important that you do not break eye contact. Breaking eye contact implies guilt. Guilt implies that you need to be eliminated. You don't want that.

The best response is to chuckle and say "Benjamin's Parasite? Fun little book. Totally implausible, but, hey, it's fiction, right?" If you get the chuckle right, he or she will determine that you do not know The Truth, and will most likely leave you alone.

If this all sounds kind of inconvenient, just know that if I hadn't changed the names in this book, you'd be dead already.

Enjoy the read!

CHAPTER ONE

Fifty-seven words to go, and Brian had written everything he knew about Wuthering Heights. What else could be said about this stupid, stupid, stupid book?

He stared at his computer screen and let out a long, frustrated sigh. Then he clicked the "Word Count" icon again.

Yep, still fifty-seven words left.

Crap.

Why couldn't Mr. Wilson have asked for two pages instead of five hundred words? Then Brian could just manipulate the font or the line spacing and be done with it. He simply wasn't in the mood to write about books by old dead authors, especially not with the stomachache he'd had for the past couple of days.

He skimmed the essay, and then his mood brightened as he realized that he'd used six different contractions (three couldn'ts, two won'ts, and a shouldn't) that could be split out into their respective pairs of words.

He made the changes. Fifty-one words to go.

He added his middle name to the byline, giving himself another word.

Maybe he could find a fifty-word quote that illustrated one of his key points. This would be easier if he hadn't left the book in his locker at school, but he might be able to find a decent quote on the internet.

He looked at his byline again. Adding his middle name was probably pushing it. Mr. Wilson might get suspicious. He reluctantly deleted it, bringing his remaining words all the way back up to fifty-one.

Crap.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, there were two quick knocks and then his mom opened his door. "Why are you playing around online?" she asked.

"I'm doing research for my essay."

"No you're not. You're chatting. I told you, no internet until your homework is done."

"It's research!" Brian insisted. "I can't help it if Dale sends me an instant message while I'm doing research!"

"That doesn't mean you have to send one back. Just ignore him."

"That would be rude. You don't want to be responsible for raising a rude son, do you?"

"Homework first," his mom said, folding her arms in front of her chest. "I mean it."

"I'm doing my homework. The internet provides a vast pool of resources right here at my fingertips."

"Don't be a smartass."

"I'm not. I'm just saying that the internet provides—"

"I know what you're saying. It's almost ten. I want you in bed by ten-thirty."

Brian rolled his eyes. "All right."

"How much do you have left on your essay?"

"Only fifty-one words."

She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Good. Get it done so you can go to sleep."

"I will."

His mom left, shutting the door behind her. She hadn't even asked about his stomachache. No sympathy at all. Just because he'd faked it the past few times didn't mean he was faking it this time. He let Dale know that he had to go, and then logged off.

Really, fifty-one words weren't all that many. If he set his alarm early, he could write them before school. And he'd be nice and refreshed when he finished the essay, which would make for a much higher quality final product. And maybe his stomach would hurt bad enough in the morning that his mom would have to let him stay home, giving him the whole weekend to finish it up.

A perfect plan.

He shut down his computer and turned on the television and his video game system. It was Carnage-A-Plenty time!

The game's opening screen appeared. It was blank at first, until various internal organs splattered against it, spelling out the game's title in guts and trickles of blood.

Carnage-A-Plenty proceeded to the character selection phase. You could play as Goregantua (weapon of choice: axe), Shreddy-Or-Not (weapon of choice: razor blades) or Rendfield (weapon of choice: cheese grater).

Brian selected Goregantua.

The game then asked if he wanted to play in Violent Mode or Peaceful Mode. If he selected Peaceful Mode, Gandhi would appear on the screen, smile, wave, and then get beaten to a bloody pulp by men with crowbars, after which the game would automatically revert to Violent Mode.

Brian selected Violent Mode, and the game began.

The premise of Carnage-A-Plenty was simple: kill stuff. The more stuff you killed, the more points you got. This was not an unusual concept for a video game. What made Carnage-A-Plenty better was that you received additional points for further mutilation of the corpses. The greater the mess, the greater your score.

As the screeching punk rock soundtrack played (quietly), Brian maneuvered Goregantua through a filthy alley. The object in this stage was to kill as many homeless people as possible.

The first derelict emerged from a garbage can and Brian swung his axe, lopping off both of the derelict's arms with one swipe, earning himself bonus points. He was an expert at this level.

The toothless and now armless derelict tried to run away, but Brian quickly caught up to him. He pressed the attack button as rapidly as he could, axe a blur of motion, until the derelict had been reduced to a pile of bum chunks.

On the screen, Goregantua leapt into the air, came down feet-first upon the pile, and then began to twist back and forth.

"Yes!" exclaimed Brian as the words smear bonus flashed on the screen. Smearing your enemy's remains was one of the more difficult special moves to pull off.

There were two quick knocks on Brian's door.

He hurriedly pressed the panic button and set the game controller on his bed.

"Why are you watching TV?" his mother demanded, walking into the room.

"It's a documentary," said Brian, gesturing to the image of Abraham Lincoln on the TV screen. A monotone narrator recited the words to the Gettysburg Address.

"Is your essay done?"

"Yes." Brian didn't like to lie, but he could retain inner peace when he did.

"Then it's time for bed."

"You said ten-thirty!"

His mother suspiciously eyed the television, and then nodded. "Okay, you can watch for ten more minutes. But then it's bedtime, all right?"

"All right."

After his mother left again, Brian resumed his game. He quickly dispatched a bag lady by repeatedly running over her with her own cart, then lost several units of life-force when he was struck by wino breath.

He decapitated the wino and in another difficult move, kicked his head into the air and caught it in his mouth, swallowing it whole.

cannibalism bonus flashed on the screen.

"I rule," said Brian, wishing that spectators were around to see just how much he truly ruled.

Three vagrants were huddled around a fire in a trash barrel. Brian/Goregantua quickly snatched up the barrel and incinerated the vagrants with its contents. Then he beat the shit out of their charred corpses with the barrel itself.

His stomach was really starting to hurt badly, almost like something was squirming around in there. Not enough to distract him from the game, though. In fact, he couldn't remember ever having this much fun with Carnage-A-Plenty.

He was vaguely aware of an incredible headache as well. There was no way he could go to school like this. He'd have to stay home, and then he could play the game all day! It would be the best day ever, even better than the one where he made out with Denise MacKenzie and she let him keep his right hand on her left boob for four whole seconds before she slapped him away.

Maybe I should pause my game and go get some aspirin and Pepto-Bismol, he thought. Nah. Not worth the loss of playing time.

He played for a few more minutes, impressing the hell out of himself with his awesome special moves.

Then Brian set down the game controller, walked out of his bedroom, and headed for the kitchen to find something useful to kill his mom with.

* * *

Sharon sat on the couch, three words away from completing the crossword puzzle she'd been working on all week. She used to finish one every day without fail, but since her divorce last year she found herself working on the same one for four or five days.

She heard Brian's footsteps as he walked down the stairs. She hated feeling like she was constantly nagging him, but he was receiving B's and C's when he was clearly smart enough to be getting A's, so she needed to keep the pressure on.

He walked through the living room and into the kitchen, not even acknowledging her existence.

"What are you getting?" she asked.

She heard a drawer open. "Orange juice."

Why would he open a drawer if he wanted orange juice?

Sharon continued to work on the crossword puzzle as she listened to Brian rummage through the drawer's contents. She was not going to say anything. He was fifteen years old, and he could find things in the kitchen without her help.

The drawer slid shut. Another drawer opened.

Nope, she wasn't going to ask. She'd nagged him enough this evening. Sometimes you just had to...

Screw it. "What are you looking for?"

"Nothing." The second drawer slid shut.

Not a good answer. Sharon set down her crossword puzzle. Her son might've been fifteen, but sometimes she had to watch him as if he were a three-year-old.

Brian walked into the living room just as she sat up. He looked her right in the eye, gave her a cheerful smile, and then rushed at her with a meat cleaver.

Sharon's first reaction was to shriek.

Her second was to throw a punch.

Her fist connected with her son's jaw, knocking him back several steps. The meat cleaver flew out of his hand. He appeared momentarily stunned, but then quickly began to look around for his weapon.

"Brian!" Sharon screamed, tears already streaming down her cheeks. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He picked up the meat cleaver and didn't answer. Was he on drugs? He couldn't be; she searched his room at least once a week. Brian didn't look stoned, anyway. Nor did he look enraged. He looked excited.

He rushed at her again.

This time Sharon ran. No time to get the front door open, so she rushed up the stairs. She cringed as she hurried up the steps, waiting for him to throw the meat cleaver at her, for the blade to thunk into her skull.

Instead, the meat cleaver slashed across her back, scraping bone, causing pain so intense that she lost her footing and tumbled forward onto the steps, knocking the wind out of her.

She immediately kicked her feet back as hard as she could. Only her left foot hit, but it was a solid hit. Brian cried out and she heard him fall down the stairs behind her.

Sharon pushed herself up and then looked back. Brian lay on the floor, still holding the meat cleaver, grimacing in pain. Maybe if he was hurt badly enough, she could move past him and get out of the house.

That option vanished as he shakily began to get up. Sharon ran up the rest of the stairs and then hurried down the hallway and into her bedroom. She slammed and locked the door.

She wanted to just collapse onto her bed and cry, or at least take a moment to figure out what possibly could have happened to her son, but there was no time. She had to call the police.

Sharon glanced over at her dresser. No phone.

Damn it! Once again Brian had taken it and not put it back where it belonged, though she was probably going to have to skip the lecture this time.

The door shook as Brian kicked it from the other side.

"Open up, Mom!" he shouted.

Sharon opened her closet door, frantically searching for something to use as a weapon.

"C'mon, Mom. I'm not giving up five thousand points. No way."

Five thousand points? What the hell was he talking about?

There was nothing useful in the closet, unless she wanted to smother him with a faux fur coat. She wished that she kept a gun in the house—well, no, Brian would be a lot harder to escape from if he'd gotten his hands on a revolver instead of a meat cleaver.

The door shook on its hinges.

Sharon rushed over and picked up the lamp on her bedside. Dear God, she couldn't believe that she might have to bash her son's head with it. Was he infected by some weird disease? Brian didn't even like to kill bugs, except for ants.

She could always try to open her window and jump, but breaking her legs would not be conducive to a successful escape.

The door burst open. Brian stepped inside, the meat cleaver clenched tightly in his fist.

Sharon threw the lamp at him.

Missed.

It shattered against the wall next to him. Brian didn't even flinch. He let out a whoop of joy and ran at her. Sharon sprinted for the doorway, and the meat cleaver blade opened a huge gash all the way up her left arm.

She got past him. Sharon hurried back down the steps, then slipped, lost her balance, and bashed into the left wall, sending an excruciating burst of pain through her bleeding arm. But she didn't fall and made it to the bottom of the stairs.

Brian was right behind her.

Again, no time to get the front door open, so she veered off into the kitchen. She grabbed the first thing she could find—the answering machine that had long ago been replaced by voice mail but remained on the counter, and threw it at him.

The answering machine struck Brian in the forehead and then dangled over the counter, the cord still plugged in. Brian fell to his knees, rubbing the spot where it hit, groaning in agony.

Sharon pulled a butcher knife out of the rack.

She ran past her son, praying that he wouldn't be able to attack her again, praying that she could just get away from him and not have to hurt him to save her life.

He made a grab for her but missed.

Now there was time to get out of the house. She unlocked the front door, threw it open, and ran outside, slamming the door behind her. She was feeling lightheaded from blood loss, but she could handle it, she just needed to get to safety. She darted for the house next door, where the Kaskas lived.

Behind her, she heard the front door open.

She ran up onto the Kaskas' porch and desperately pounded on their front door. "Open up!" she screamed. "Please! Hurry!"

She looked over and saw Brian striding across the yard, still holding the meat cleaver. Some blood ran down his face from the gash in his forehead, yet he still had that expression of excitement. Hell, he looked thrilled to be trying to murder his own mother.

The door opened, revealing Leslie Kaska, a plump and soft-featured woman in her forties. She didn't even have time to look startled before Sharon pushed past her. "Close the door!" she screamed.

Leslie closed the door. "What's going on? Is somebody after you?"

Sharon nodded. "It's Brian. He's...he's gone crazy or something."

"Brian did this to you?"

Leslie's teenage daughter, Carolyn, stepped into the living room and screamed as the front window shattered. Brian ducked inside, surveyed his surroundings, and smiled.

"Aw, hell yeah! Fifteen thousand points!"

His smile faltered for a split second as John Kaska entered the room, but then he charged at Leslie. The force of the shotgun blast blew Brian off his feet. The meat cleaver dropped to the floor next to his head, and this time he didn't get back up.

CHAPTER TWO

Benjamin Wilson sat in his recliner, sipping a cup of hot cocoa and reading a romance novel. He loved the great works of classic literature and tried to instill a genuine appreciation for them in his students, but trashy romance novels were his not-so-guilty pleasure. After about a quarter-hour of bodice-rippin' goodness each morning he was more than ready to start his day.

He listened, fascinated, as Cindy's alarm clock continued to wail. It had been going off for the past ten minutes, and Benjamin had an almost scientific curiosity about how long she'd let it blare before she finally got out of bed. Alas, his thirst for knowledge had to take a back seat to making sure his sixteen year-old daughter got to school on time, so he finished his cocoa, bookmarked his novel, and wandered into her room.

Cindy lay face-down on her bed in her nightgown, blankets on the floor, pillow over her head. She'd been a violent sleeper since the time she was two, and he and Margaret had been very happy when Cindy outgrew the need to sleep with them during thunderstorms. Explaining to the doctor that his toddler daughter had broken one of his ribs was not Benjamin's proudest moment.

Aside from the blanket on the floor, her room was in pristine condition. Her dirty clothes always went right into the hamper, the floor was spotless, and all of her possessions were neatly stored in their proper spot. She was a scary mutant child.

Benjamin shut off the alarm. "Time to get up," he said.

Cindy muttered something unintelligible and pulled the pillow tighter over her head.

"Let's go, you'll be late for school."

"Five more minutes," she said, with somewhat less than flawless diction.

"Nope, sorry, the grace period is long gone. And I should remind you that your mother already left for work, so there'll be nobody to keep my evil methods in check."

"Go 'way."

"Don't make me tickle you. It's not something I want to do. Don't force me to do something that will give me endless nights of guilt."

Cindy rolled onto her side, facing the wall, curling her feet up underneath her and keeping the pillow over her head.

"Yes, being tickled awake would certainly be an uncomfortable start to the day. I know that I would hate to be tickled awake if I were the one ignoring the alarm. I'd probably be grouchy well into the late afternoon. Uh-oh, I can feel my tickle fingers twitching. Must resist...must...resist...but... experiencing...difficulty...with...resistance...process..."

"Go away, geek!"

Benjamin adjusted his glasses. "I can't believe you'd call your own father a geek. I haven't bitten the head off a live chicken in days."

Cindy curled up into an even tighter little ball. She didn't appreciate his fine sense of humor this early in the morning. He'd just have to enjoy it enough for both of them.

"Okay, fine. Three more minutes. But if you aren't out of bed by then, the consequences will be dire. Dire consequences in three minutes. You've been warned."

Benjamin left her bedroom and headed for the kitchen, whistling a happy tune. He opened the cupboard, took down a glass pitcher, and began to fill it with extremely cold water.

He knew that Cindy adored her hopeless geek of a dad, despite the occasional parental torment he bestowed upon her. Sure, they had the usual disagreements that any father would have with his teenage daughter (she wanted to wear too much makeup and too little clothing to school) but she studied hard, kept up an A- average, wasn't pregnant or on drugs or committing rampant acts of vandalism, and could dish out torment as well as she could take it, so they got along just fine.

He got a tray of ice cubes out of the freezer and emptied them into the pitcher.

Still whistling, he took down a bowl and a box of the nutritious breakfast cereal that she would ignore in favor of a frosted strawberry Pop-Tart. Benjamin rarely ate breakfast himself, preferring to sneak in a candy bar between second and third period. A poor habit for somebody who was supposed to be educating the nation's youth, but he never had much of an appetite in the morning.

He picked up the pitcher of ice water and headed down the hallway toward Cindy's room, imagining that horror film music accompanied his sinister march toward his unsuspecting doomed prey.

She stepped out of her room just as he got there.

"What are you doing with that pitcher?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Y'know, it's the funniest thing. This sudden thirst overtook me. I can't explain it. One minute I'm fine, the next minute I need to drink a whole pitcher of ice water. Weird."

"Uh-huh. Why are you carrying it in the hallway?"

"Y'know, it's the funniest thing. I just suddenly felt like I needed exercise. Does that ever happen to you? Suddenly feeling like you need exercise? And I thought, well, I could go find some weights to carry around, or I could just use this pitcher of water. When you're as busy as I am, you're always trying to find ways to combine tasks, and so I figured out a way to quench my thirst and get in some exercise. You can steal the idea if you want."

"I'll pass." She ran a hand through her long blonde hair, which was hilariously tangled. "I could report you for child abuse, you know."

"Then I'd have to report you to the fashion police for that hair. It's surreal and disturbing."

"Okay, then truce."

"Truce," Benjamin agreed.

Cindy suddenly reached out with both hands, tickling him on the sides and causing him to spill ice water down the front of his blue dress shirt. He let out a yelp as Cindy sprinted into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

"It's off to the convent with you, young lady!" he loudly announced. "You're nunning it from now on!"

"Ooooooh, I'm scared!"

"You'd better be. I've still got most of the water left and you have to come out of there sometime."

"Oh, sure, send me off to school doing a wet T-shirt contest. See if I care."

Benjamin had absolutely no response to that, so he returned to the kitchen and poured the water out into the sink. He removed his wet tie and went into his bedroom to retrieve another one.

After a moment of deliberation, he selected the red Shakespeare tie and stood in front of the closet door mirror to clip it on. He didn't look bad for a guy who only had slightly over a month left as a thirtysomething. Sure, the gray hairs now outnumbered the black ones, but at least he still had most of them, along with a full beard, neatly trimmed. He was in pretty good shape, with an average physique that was a compromise between plenty of exercise and too much junk food.

He finished clipping on his tie and wandered back over to the bathroom. He knocked on the door. "Don't miss the bus," he warned.

"I won't."

He could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

"Okay, I'm leaving now. I love you."

"I love you too, Dad."

Since she was a student at Prill High, where he taught, there was no reason that Cindy couldn't just ride with him to school each day. But she preferred the bus. She didn't really like to acknowledge that her father was one of the teachers, even though she wasn't in any of his classes. He would've been fine with her calling him "Dad" on school grounds, but in those rare cases where they spoke during the day, she went with "Mr. Wilson."

It was actually kind of cute.

He got in his car and drove to school.

* * *

Something was wrong. He knew it the instant he stepped into the teacher's lounge, before a word was spoken.

"Benjamin, glad you're here, sit down," said Principal Reitz. Reitz wasn't in the habit of hanging out in the teacher's lounge, and his normally stern features were pinched even tighter than usual.

Benjamin sat down on the couch. Only a couple of other teachers were there, Mr. Kramer and Mrs. Schechter, and both of them looked stunned.

"What's going on?" Benjamin asked.

"It's about one of your students, Brian Dexter."

"What about him?"

Reitz sighed. The man was usually cold and direct in all matters, so this had to be really, really bad. "He was killed last night."

"What?"

"Shot. By a neighbor."

"Oh my...oh my God." Benjamin was suddenly grateful that he hadn't eaten any breakfast to throw up. "He's really dead?"

Reitz nodded.

"Oh my God." Brian had a problem with talking in class and never really took the work seriously, but he was a good kid, a damn good kid, and Benjamin couldn't believe this. He just sat there, reeling from the news.

"So he was murdered?" he finally asked.

"Not quite." Reitz bit his lip, as if unsure how to phrase this next piece of news. "The neighbor shot him in self defense. Brian was trying to kill his mother. With a meat cleaver."

"What?"

"I know, I know, it's crazy, but apparently that's what happened. I don't know all of the details. Supposedly he chased her around the house and all the way over to the neighbor's. The neighbor had a gun and shot him in the chest. Brian died before the ambulance got there."

Benjamin stared at him, looking for a sign, any sign, that Reitz was joking. But Reitz had never said anything that even remotely resembled a joke in the decade Benjamin had been working for him, and he certainly wouldn't start with one about a dead student.

"Do they have any idea why he did it?"

Reitz shook his head. "We don't know much. Did he seem like he was having any problems in class?"

"No, none. I mean, he was a slacker, but there was nothing to indicate any kind of emotional distress."

"Did you ever meet the mother?"

"A parent-teacher conference, and then one other time, I think it was a football game. She was overprotective but a perfectly nice lady." The only possible explanation came to mind. "Did they test his body for drugs?"

His body. That sounded so wrong.

"I'm sure that will be part of the autopsy," said Reitz. "I don't know if they've done it yet."

Benjamin dabbed at the corner of his eyes with his index fingers. "It's gotta be drugs. Jesus."

"There will be police officers here as soon as classes start, and they'll be talking to his friends. I know that Brian was in your first period class, so if you need some time we can get somebody to cover for you."

"No, no, I want to discuss it with the kids." Benjamin stroked his beard. "A meat cleaver?"

"Yes. A meat cleaver."

CHAPTER THREE

Benjamin had only been to one funeral in his life. His Uncle Stewart had died about five years ago, and the entire event had involved lots of relatives struggling very hard to say only kind things about the deceased. Aunt Penny, Stewart's widow, had slipped up when she suggested that "demons will chew his balls in hell for all eternity," but everybody else somehow managed to remain polite.

He was most definitely not looking forward to this one. How were you supposed to behave at the funeral of a kid who died while trying to kill his mother with a kitchen implement? Only deranged serial killers were supposed to use meat cleavers in that fashion. What was he supposed to say to Brian's mom? "I'm so sorry about your son, Ms. Dexter, but, hey, congrats on surviving!"

Hell, Benjamin even got stomach knots over parent/teacher conferences. He dreaded having to explain to parents that their child was "not living up to his or her potential" (lazy) or "struggling with the material" (dumb). Worse, last year one of his top students had stayed after class one day and tearfully confessed that she was pregnant. He'd done everything he could to help her, and even held the baby before she gave it up for adoption, but he was much more comfortable standing in front of the kids lecturing about old books.

Today was going to reach previously uncharted levels of pure suck.

Margaret stepped out of the bedroom, wearing a black dress. "How does this look?" she asked.

"I didn't think people wore black to funerals anymore."

"You don't have to, but you're still allowed to, aren't you? I don't really have any other nice dresses."

Margaret was, as she loved to proudly and frequently explain, the thinnest she'd ever been in her adult life. She was still, in her own words, "a little pudgy," but she'd stuck with the current weight loss program for several months. Benjamin was supportive on both ends of the scale, though he couldn't help but be amused by her efforts to "dress light" before attending a Weight Watchers meeting, presumably to fool the scales. It practically reached the point where she clipped her fingernails beforehand to knock off those last couple of milligrams.

She looked great and felt great—in both senses of the word "felt"—but the constant fluctuation in body size meant that her wardrobe choices were rather limited.

"I'm sure it's fine."

"You're sure, or you think you're sure? I don't want to embarrass myself." Underneath her blonde bangs, Benjamin knew she was getting that cute little crinkle in her forehead that appeared whenever she was worried.

"I'm sure."

"Do you think people will think that I don't know that you don't wear black to funerals anymore?"

"It's for a kid. The fashion police won't be there."

Margaret grimaced. "You're right. I can't believe I said that. Just trying to distance myself from the whole thing, I guess. How are you holding up?"

Benjamin sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed. "Not great. I saw him every day. How could he have been so far gone and I didn't notice that anything was wrong?"

"It's not your fault," said Margaret, sitting down next to him.

"I know, I know, I'm not trying to be melodramatic and blame myself or anything like that. It's just that there was something seriously messed-up with him, and I should've seen some hint of it, don't you think?"

The autopsy had found nothing unusual. No trace of drugs. He was a normal, healthy, fifteen year-old boy. The media was fixated on the violent video game he'd been playing that night, but that was completely ridiculous. Benjamin had been almost ashamed to admit to the police that he had absolutely no idea what set Brian off.

"You only saw him for an hour a day, with thirty other kids in the class. It's not like he turned in his homework with meat cleaver cuts on the edges." Margaret grimaced again. "Bad joke. Sorry."

"Laugh so you don't cry."

"Laugh so you don't go completely batshit bonkers is more like it."

Neither of them laughed.

* * *

The first hour of the viewing was only for close friends and family. Though Benjamin was pretty sure that Brian considered him more of a cruel oppressor than a friend, teachers qualified for early admission, so he walked with Margaret into the funeral home. His hand trembled as he signed the guestbook, and for a moment he wondered if he could just flee. "Yep, I was there. Signed the guestbook. Sorry I missed you. How about the design work on that casket, huh?"

Nope. Not an option. And not something he truly wanted to do. It was important to pay his respects and offer to help Brian's mother in any way he could. He took Margaret's hand as they entered the viewing room.

A couple of other teachers were standing in the corner, softly weeping.

Benjamin quickly surveyed the room for Brian's mother. Might as well get the most difficult part out of the way. She was seated in the front row of chairs, surrounded by some people Benjamin didn't recognize. Instead of barging over there to offer his condolences, he decided to wait.

Nobody was standing by the casket, except for an old woman who was inspecting the flower arrangements as if searching for garden pests, so Benjamin headed that way, feeling a bit queasy.

"I can't do this," Margaret whispered.

"Do what?"

"Go up to the body. I can't look at a dead child. I'll start bawling my eyes out. I'll freak. You don't want me to freak."

"It's okay. You don't have to." He let go of her. "Have a seat somewhere."

Benjamin walked toward the open casket, desperately wishing he were someplace else. Maybe a good ol' fashioned root canal performed by a jittery blind dentist with a rusty red-hot pickaxe. That would work. Even if the dentist accidentally knocked out a few extra teeth and punctured his uvula, it would be a more pleasant experience than walking up to a casket that held a fifteen-year-old boy.

Well, maybe not. At his last dental appointment, they'd left him waiting in the chair too long and the Novacain had started to wear off before the drilling was complete. He'd waved frantically and they'd given him another shot, but the pain was excruciating. He certainly didn't want to do that again. So the whole root canal/jittery blind dentist/rusty red-hot pickaxe comparison was invalid. But he'd rather sit through the longest, most miserable all-day teacher in-service than be here. Oh yeah.

Benjamin made it to the casket. He gazed down at Brian's lifeless, almost waxy looking form. His eyes began to tear up. What a waste. So many things the kid would never get to do. Barely even got a chance to live. It just didn't make any damn—

The dead boy's lower lip twitched.

Because this was a somber event, Benjamin withstood the urge to jump back and cry out "Holy shit!" Instead, he fixed his eyes firmly on Brian, trying to figure out if he'd really seen that. The correct answer, of course, was "No, you certainly did not. It was either a trick of the light or a practical joke by your brain. Or if you did see a lip tremor, it was from a cool breeze produced by the funeral home's air conditioner. Stop being such a whack-job."

He continued to watch.

Brian didn't move again.

Good. Deceased kids weren't supposed to move. They were supposed to lie peacefully in their caskets, lips motionless. Any movement was strictly prohibited by the laws of nature.

And then Benjamin swore—swore—that the body exhaled.

Not possible. No way in hell. He'd had an autopsy, for God's sake. You didn't exhale after coroners cut you open and scooped out your insides. Brian was a troublemaker, but not that much of a troublemaker.

Benjamin leaned down close to Brian's face, hoping that anybody who saw him merely thought he was whispering his goodbyes. The kid wasn't breathing—it simply wasn't possible—but Benjamin would feel much better if he could verify that for certain.

A soft gust of air hit his face.

He let out a loud yelp and stood up straight.

Benjamin stood there for a long moment, silently. It was difficult to quantify exactly how much he wished he hadn't yelped like that.

Awkward...so very awkward...

He quickly regained his composure and hoped that nobody else noticed. The quizzical expression on the old woman's face indicated that she had indeed noticed. Benjamin slowly turned around and saw several people staring at him, including Margaret and Brian's mother.

Awkwardness increasing exponentially...

"Sorry," he said. "Just, uh, a little choked up."

He took a step away from the casket. He was not, under any circumstances, going to raise an alarm. Brian Dexter was not breathing. He was not a zombie. Unless this was a spectacularly demented prank, Benjamin had either imagined everything or there was a perfectly plausible, scientific, zombie-free explanation.

He was stressed. His student was lying dead in front of him. It was natural that his disloyal brain would turn against him.

Though he knew the best course of action was to walk away from the casket before he saw something that made him yelp again (or even worse, squeak) like a complete and utter jackass, he couldn't bring himself to look away.

So now what?

Perhaps he should subtly notify somebody in charge. "Sir? Hi. Benjamin Wilson. Look, I'm not trying to cause a panic or anything, but I thought you should know that I have reason to believe that the dead boy in the casket just exhaled on me. I'm not sure how you want to handle the situation, but I kinda thought it was something that should be brought to your attention. Thanks."

No. He wasn't going to say anything. He could just imagine the headline: Dumb-Ass English Teacher Causes Ruckus At Funeral; Quickly Escorted From Premises. Career Downturn Follows.

There was absolutely nothing to report to anybody. Brian was dead. Not alive. Dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead—

"He looks so peaceful."

Benjamin yelped again.

Mr. Reitz placed a steadying hand on Benjamin's arm. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

"S'okay."

"It makes your heart sick, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Very sick. Quite sick. I should go find my wife."

Benjamin walked away from the casket, nearly tripping on a non-existent bump in the carpet. He sat down in the first row of chairs and closed his eyes, trying to breathe deeply.

Okay, so, we've already clearly established that the young boy in the casket has no potential for being alive. We've also established that, mentally, you're not all you could be right now. It was just a twitch and a gust. No big deal. It's not like you hallucinated tarantulas spewing out of his eyeball sockets or something like that. Just calm down. Caaaallllllm. Sweet, precious calm. Imagine a rainbow. You like rainbows. Rainbows are pretty.

Somebody sat down next to him. He opened his eyes.

"Are you okay?" Margaret whispered.

He shook his head.

"Was it worse than you expected?"

"It was bad, yeah. I just need some air. Good air, not dead people air." God, he was breathing air that had been occupied by countless corpses! He stood up and, preserving as much dignity as he possibly could, took Margaret's hand and walked out of the funeral home.

Then he threw up.

In front of a whole bunch of reporters.

* * *

The funeral itself, which took place outdoors, was almost a relief. It was a nice, warm November day in Tampa, Florida, with a pleasant breeze that helped prevent Benjamin from repeating his regurgitation gaffe. The reverend's eulogy was polite enough to focus on the lost potential and not the whole meat cleaver incident, referring to it only as "the tragic circumstances." Some students came up and shared their fondest memories of Brian, while one of Benjamin's top students recited an original poem that, sadly, he would've graded a C- if she'd turned it in as a classroom assignment.

Gradually, Benjamin calmed down. It was unusual for a man of almost forty to only be attending his second funeral, and the yelps were to be expected. Though it was the most heartbreaking event of his career, the weirdness didn't go beyond that.

Except that his nose itched like crazy.

CHAPTER FOUR

A couple of weeks later, things had mostly returned to normal. Benjamin sat at his desk at home, grading the final papers for Wuthering Heights. He tore open another Milky Way bar as he finished a paper about halfway down the stack. He'd covered it with so much red ink that it looked like a serial killer had chainsawed a few victims in the vicinity. Somehow, after two essays, five quizzes, and four weeks of discussion, this student still didn't realize that Catherine and Cathy were two different characters. Instead of scrawling "Are you fucking kidding me?" at the bottom, which would have been unprofessional, he wrote "Unacceptable—please see me on Monday." This was a student whose weekend deserved ruining.

Cindy knocked on the open door and walked in. "Hi, Dad," she said.

"How much money do you want?"

"What makes you think I want money?"

"That was your 'Hi, Dad, I want money' tone."

"Have you ever stopped to think that you're creating a self-fulfilling prophecy? Maybe I came in here to offer to get you a sandwich, but then you implanted the idea of money into my mind, and now I'm going to ask for it?"

"Whose class are you learning about self-fulfilling prophecies in?"

"Mr. Dzeda's."

"Give him my love."

"I will. Can I have fifty bucks?"

Benjamin grinned. "Are you learning about negotiating in economics?"

"I'm not learning anything in economics. It's so boring. Have you ever seen that hair in Mrs. Henner's nose? Today it had a booger on it, and it kept bouncing up and down like a trampoline. It was so gross."

"Go away."

"Can I have fifty bucks?"

"Why do you need fifty bucks?"

"I don't. I need twenty. I want fifty."

"What happened to your allowance?"

"Inflation." She nodded at the desk. "Pig out much?"

Benjamin glanced at the candy wrappers and did a quick count. Seven. Wow. He didn't remember eating seven candy bars.

"Guess I was hungry."

"Guess so. Don't let Mom see those."

"Don't let me see what?" asked Margaret from the living room.

Benjamin couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. Gorging himself on candy bars was pretty tacky, considering that his wife was continually denying herself more than a chocolate sliver.

"Dad let me eat two candy bars," said Cindy.

"You shouldn't have candy before dinner."

"I know. He's a terrible father."

Benjamin scooped the wrappers off the desk and deposited them into the trash can. He took out his wallet and removed a twenty.

"I hope it doesn't bother your conscience to spend blood money," he said.

"Not at all," she said with a cheery smile, taking the cash.

Cindy left and Benjamin returned to grading the papers. He ate too much candy, that was a given, and he had a nice big stash in the bottom desk drawer. But he'd never eaten seven in a row. He'd never even eaten three in a row, at least not since he was trick-or-treating age. And he'd certainly never eaten candy without realizing it.

Weird.

He was working too hard. At least the holiday break was coming up soon. He definitely needed some time to just be a vegetable.

He moved on to the next paper. This student was not a complete moron and her words did not produce carpal tunnel syndrome to correct. He wrote "Nice work. A-" at the bottom, then took another bite from his Snickers bar.

He didn't remember opening this Snickers bar. Or eating the other half.

And he only now realized that he was sick to his stomach, much the way he felt after those gluttonous Halloween feasts from decades ago.

He locked the candy drawer.

This was probably a sign that he should quit for the evening, but that wasn't an option. Though he liked to think of himself as a rather easygoing teacher, he was also extremely strict about homework being turned in on time. Unless you had a spectacular excuse—as in, your homework was currently clutched in your severed arm, with no way to retrieve it from the underside of the tractor—the grade penalty was severe.

Since he was, as he'd once overheard, "a real dick" about this, he felt obligated to set a perfect example. So if he said their papers would be graded and returned on Friday, they'd be graded and returned on Friday. No excuses. He was pretty sure that if a student explained that their tardy paper was due to personal concerns about excessive chocolate consumption, he'd be less than understanding, so he had to push through this.

* * *

Margaret made a delicious chicken casserole for dinner. Benjamin didn't think it was a good idea to confess his pre-dinner piggishness, and so he forced himself to choke down the meal, even as his stomach begged for mercy. If she noticed that he wasn't enjoying her fine cooking as much as he normally did, she didn't say anything.

However, he gobbled down the chocolate cake she made for dessert and asked for seconds.

* * *

He lay in bed, reading a bodice-ripper. Typically he liked to end his day with something more intellectually stimulating, to give his subconscious mind more to work with, but for some reason he desperately needed to know if Henrietta would end up with Draven after the deflowering.

He heard Margaret spit out her toothpaste. The water ran for a moment, and then she walked out of the bathroom, wearing her faded blue nightgown.

She looked good. Real good.

He felt himself responding. It definitely wasn't the book—the last sex scene was two chapters ago.

Benjamin and Margaret enjoyed a healthy, if vanilla, sex life. They went at it once or twice a week, which Benjamin thought was pretty good for a couple in their twenty-first year of marriage. Nothing kinky. Every half-dozen sessions averaged out to three missionary positions, two Margaret-on-tops, and a from-behind. Maybe every six months or so they'd throw something new into the mix, with varying levels of success. Their toy and video drawer was poorly stocked and rarely utilized. But still, despite the lack of variety, Benjamin had no complaints.

The nightgown was intended to be functional rather than seductive. Still, right now she looked incredible.

"Looking good," he said with an appreciative whistle. "Wanna fuck?"

She gave him a surprised look. Benjamin himself was more than a little taken aback. Though his vocabulary included all of the major expletives, he rarely used them in a sexual context. Dirty talk wasn't his thing. Even though he knew it turned Margaret on, he felt ridiculous when he tried to talk nasty. He was much better at moans and "Ooooh yeah" and "Just like that" than at any phrases that included "my cock."

Four years ago, in an effort to overcome his self-consciousness, he wrote up a cheat sheet of what he'd say during that evening's encounter. Not that he'd planned to tape it to the headboard or anything—he simply figured that having it written out beforehand would help him recite the basic gist whilst in the act of lovemaking. Unfortunately, he got an important phone call before he'd finished, and more unfortunately, the phone call was extremely lengthy and distracting, and most unfortunately, Cindy had discovered the crib sheet on his desk. An impromptu "birds and the bees" chat followed.

"Did I hear you correctly?" asked Margaret, clearly amused.

"I hope so."

"Well, yes, I would. Thank you for asking." She climbed onto the bed with him. They kissed, long and deep, until Benjamin pulled away.

"Do we have any chocolate syrup left?"

"Why?"

"Foreplay."

* * *

Margaret's heels dug into his back as Benjamin lapped at the sweet, delicious chocolate. He could also go for some peanuts and nougat, but thought it best not to suggest such a thing.

* * *

There was no question that tonight's position of choice was doggy-style. He thrust into her, getting into the act as much as he could while remaining considerate of the mental health of his daughter in her room at the end of the hall.

He clutched her hips tightly in his hands as he pounded away. She whimpered and made various cat-like noises to indicate that she was enjoying the evening's activities.

Her ass looked great. Smooth. Firm.

Penetrable.

"Ooooh, baby," he moaned. "I'd love to stick it in your..." He couldn't quite bring himself to finish the sentence as intended. "...anus."

She stopped moving. "What?"

"Nothing."

She slid forward, popping free. "You'd love to stick it where?"

"I don't remember."

Margaret rolled over and sat up. "Did you say anus?"

Benjamin gave a slight nod. He was pretty sure it wasn't just the nomenclature that had taken her off-guard. Before they were even married, she'd made it perfectly clear that that particular orifice was exit-only, and Benjamin had never been more than slightly interested in trying to change her mind in that regard. Maybe every once in a while there'd be a mild sense of curiosity, but never enough for him to ask her to reconsider her anal boundaries.

She raised an eyebrow.

Was she considering it? Was she really going to let him have a turn at her—?

Uh, nope. She definitely wasn't.

"I'm flattered, I guess," she said. "But did you really think I was going to just let you suddenly pop it in?"

Benjamin violently shook his head. "I wasn't actually suggesting it. I was speaking metaphorically."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It was a metaphor. I said your...anus, but I meant your...soul."

She stared at him.

"Sorry," he said. "Won't happen again."

"In the future, if you're going to speak metaphorically, almost every other word in the English language is sexier than 'anus'."

"Point taken."

"But let's try not to go there."

"I won't. I was just really enjoying the sight of your...y'know, buttocks."

"'Buttocks' doesn't really work for me either."

"I was just really enjoying the sight of your butt."

She smiled. "I'm glad."

To his great surprise, the embarrassment of the situation had not impacted his arousal. His erection remained as mighty as ever.

They finished up the evening in missionary. Benjamin whispered in her ear, trying for a triple X rating but only managing to achieve a hard R. It was still a very satisfying night for both of them.

* * *

Benjamin woke up and glanced over at the clock. 2:37. Four more hours until the alarm went off.

He really wanted a Butterfinger.

And his wife.

He looked at her, lying on her side, facing the opposite wall. She was a heavy sleeper, and not one who responded well to being woken up in the middle of the night.

He lightly ran his finger over her shoulder, hoping that perhaps she was already awake and just lying still to avoid disturbing him.

She let out a light snore.

He wondered if there were any traces of chocolate left.

He'd been pretty thorough, but it was possible that a speck or two had gone unconsumed. He should probably check. No sense wasting good chocolate syrup. There were starving children in third world countries who had nary a drop of chocolate syrup to enjoy, and yet he was going to let this perfectly good chocolate get washed off in the shower.

That was just flat-out wrong.

However, she wasn't lying in the best position to remove the chocolate. He'd have to do the best he could. He slid under the covers and carefully maneuvered his way underneath her legs and onto her other side. Then he went to work.

There were not, to the best of his tasting ability, any chocolate remnants left, but that didn't stop him. Margaret rolled onto her back, whether asleep or awake he wasn't sure, and he sought out elusive chocolate for several minutes until her entire body tightened.

He slid out of bed, hurried over to his office, and unlocked his desk drawer. He scarfed down two candy bars in a row, then took two more to place under his pillow to satisfy future urges.

When the alarm went off, he felt fantastic. Margaret rolled over and smiled.

"Honey, I had the weirdest dream..."

CHAPTER FIVE

"The cow got loose, sir."

In his line of work, there were plenty of sentences that Paul Cantren didn't want to hear. "The populace has been infected" was a pretty big one. So were "There were civilian casualties—lots of them," "Gee, I don't remember that red stuff being explosive," and, most importantly, "Uh-oh."

"The cow got loose" was not the worst news that one of his employees could deliver, but it certainly distracted Paul from his game of computer solitaire.

Paul swiveled his chair around and faced Hank Burkett, who looked positively ill. "Do you mean the cow got loose but the problem has been addressed, or that the cow is currently loose?"

"Currently loose. Permission to terminate the specimen, sir?"

"Absolutely not. Contain it."

"It's not behaving normally, sir."

"Of course it's not behaving normally! It's a goddamn experimental cow! Just tranquilize it and get it back in its cage."

"The tranquilizers aren't working. And it's sort of, well...sort of on a rampage, sir."

"Is Downes involved?"

"It bit his arm off, sir."

"Bit his arm off?"

"Not in one bite, but yes, sir."

The lab, which had no official name, not even The Lab, was privately funded by people who wanted results but weren't particularly concerned with the details. However, it was not well funded for this type of research. Paul was constantly insisting that they needed a higher budget, and the investors were constantly insisting that if he couldn't work with the money they gave him, they'd find somebody who could. The "Oh, by the way, then we'll have to kill you and all of your employees," part was implied.

The one area where they refused to cut corners was in safety. The lab had the funds for a state of the art security system, ensuring that no specimens could escape, and that no harm could come to Paul and his three employees during their experiments. Paul agreed with the importance of safety precautions. He also agreed with the importance of a new Mercedes and full-service massages. Since the investors never actually visited the lab, he occasionally cut corners. One example was the cage in which the cow was kept.

It wasn't as if the cage was made out of balsa wood or drinking straws. The steel bars were perfectly solid. And they'd invested in a nice cattle prod that should have kept any bovine rampages to a minimum.

"Did you zap it?" Paul asked.

Hank nodded. "That's how Downes lost his arm."

There was a loud thump on the door. It sounded vaguely cow-like. Hank recoiled.

"You mean it got out of the specimen room?"

"Yes, sir."

"Holy crap!"

"Agreed, sir. Permission to unlock the gun case?"

Paul shook his head. "You don't shoot two years' worth of work just because somebody lost an arm."

Another thump. The door shook on its hinges.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Hell no."

Paul closed his eyes and tried to analyze the situation. They couldn't afford to eliminate the cow. The fact that it had gotten out of its cage was a major breakthrough, though admittedly one that was rather inconveniently timed. Too much was invested in this project to start from scratch.

"Sir, I feel very strongly that—"

"One more word and I'll feed you to that thing!"

Another thump. The doorframe splintered.

Paul considered his options. He hadn't been serious about feeding Hank to the cow, but such an act would allow him time to escape and gather more tranquilizers...

No, no, he needed an option that retained his humanity.

Think...think...

His thoughts were interrupted by the sensation of Hank's fist bashing into his jaw. He struck the table, knocking over several beakers of yellow liquid that should have exploded but fortunately did not, and then dropped onto the tile floor.

He couldn't believe it. Hank had punched him. Hank—his underling—had punched him. He'd been punched in the face by a scrawny little nerd in his employ. Hank had clenched his thin-fingered hand into an actual fist, swung it at Paul's face on purpose, and struck him. What the hell?

Hank ran over to the cabinet in which the guns were kept. Though he'd been given a key, the purpose of the guns was to defend their research, not defend themselves from their research. Paul tried to shout something to that effect, but his mouth hurt.

The door burst open. The cow entered.

It didn't look much like a cow anymore, and hadn't for the past several months. Its skin was a sickly gray color, with several patches of red where open sores covered its hide. Numerous growths, stalks, and odd protrusions stuck out at every angle. Its muzzle was slick with blood.

It made a noise that sounded like a moo filtered through Satan.

"Do not kill it!" Paul shouted as Hank opened the cabinet and grabbed a rifle. "If you pull the trigger I'll shoot you myself!"

Paul momentarily questioned the wisdom of this threat, considering that Hank was the one with the gun. Still, his employees had to respect his authority.

The cow looked back and forth between Paul and Hank, as if trying to decide who presented the easier target. Paul kind of hoped it would choose Hank. But the cow fixed its gaze on Paul, opened its mouth wide, and rushed forward. Paul let out an unauthoritative cry of terror.

Hank fired. A spray of black fluid jettisoned from the cow's side where the bullet struck it. Paul scrambled under the table as the cow lunged at him, almost biting his shoe. It snapped its jaws at him again, and Paul kicked it in the face.

Hank fired twice more, punching two more holes into the cow's side. The cow seemed unfazed. This was another remarkable yet poorly timed development.

"Keep shooting it!" Paul shouted. "Empty the gun!"

Hank only fired off one more shot before the cow pulled back and turned its attention to the man who'd been shooting bullets into it. It let out what sounded like a snarl, and then stampeded across the room toward Hank, not reacting to the bullet that got it in the nose.

Hank shrieked. Paul couldn't quite see what happened next, but the cow lunged at Hank's face, there was a loud crunch, and then Paul's former employee dropped to the ground, no longer recognizable by facial structure.

Start dining, Paul silently begged. Just chew away and give me a chance to escape. Enjoy that nummy nummy Hank.

The cow ran its tongue over Hank's face as if it were a salt lick.

Paul carefully and quietly crawled out from under the desk, trying to keep his panicked breathing from giving him away.

That's it...just keep licking...mmmmmmm...

"Help me," Hank gurgled.

No, no! Don't add a moral dilemma to this situation! Just die and be food!

"Please..."

Paul cursed under his breath. Instead of taking the more desirable action of getting the hell out of there and leaving Hank to die, he hurriedly walked up behind the cow and kicked it in the flank as hard as he could. Then he immediately turned and fled from the room, hoping that his plan to distract the cow from its feast had failed but that he'd get karmic credit for it anyway.

The cow followed.

Cows were not typically known for their haste, and none of their experiments had tested the animal's speed. So Paul was unpleasantly surprised to discover that the thing was fast. He sprinted down the hallway, feeling like one of the suicidal idiots in Pamplona, the cow brushing its muzzle against his back.

Then the cow let out a surprised-yet-still-scary moo and bashed into the wall. Paul risked a glance over his shoulder and watched as the cow bounced off the wall, struck the opposite one, then dropped to the floor, legs splayed out to the sides.

He threw open the door to the specimen lab and rushed inside.

A dart struck him in the chest.

"Sir!" Downes cried out, holding a tranquilizer gun in his remaining hand. "You're not what I meant to shoot!"

Paul plucked out the dart, already feeling dizzy. "How...unproductive..."

He fell to the floor and dreamed of hamburger.

* * *

Trevor Downes was feeling more than a little lightheaded from blood loss, and the tourniquet he'd fashioned out of his lab coat and a broken broom handle didn't seem to be helping. It was impossible to get it tight enough with only one arm. But he vowed to subdue that cow before he passed out. No creature that he performed ghastly experiments on was going to get the better of him.

He could hear the beast outside in the hallway. Trevor cackled with laughter as he set the tranquilizer gun on the desk and made a one-handed effort to load another dart into it.

Cackling with laughter. Not good. Sign of insanity. Needed sanity to dispatch cow. Or moose. No, cow. Bad cow.

He snapped the dart into place and cackled with laughter again, even though he didn't think it was very funny. Then he realized that not only had he not loaded the dart, but he'd dropped it on the floor, along with the gun. This amused him.

Trevor's eyes crossed, and he collapsed.

* * *

Hank touched his shredded face and screamed. The irony that he'd passed up a perfectly good career as a plastic surgeon in favor of illegal scientific research was not lost on him. He grabbed the rifle and slowly got to his feet. His feet didn't particularly want to cooperate, and his ankle gave a nasty twist after the first step, yet he forged onward.

He didn't think the cow could get outside the lab, but if it did...

Paul, that wretched prick, had assured them that the containment system was secure. "What if the cow gets out?" "Oh, don't you worry, the cow won't get out." "But what if it does?" "You're just being paranoid; the cow isn't going anywhere." "The cow seems kind of irritable; maybe we should rethink the security precautions." "No, no, no, that will take valuable resources away from our research. You're acting like a silly little girl."

Hank knew what had to be done. He had to kill the cow, and then he had to kill Paul. There was no doubt in his mind that the slimy cretin had set things up so Hank and the others would take the fall if something like this happened.

Then he had to kill Downes, because Downes would know he killed Paul.

He wasn't sure about Taylor. Taylor was off today.

Hank's face really hurt.

He stepped into the hallway. The cow was struggling to get back up. A tendril on its neck swayed back and forth, as if waving a friendly greeting.

"Mr. Cantren! Downes! Is anybody alive?" he called out.

Nobody responded in the affirmative.

Hank pointed the rifle at the cow and took careful aim at the back of its neck. The damn thing might be Bessie the Wonder Cow, but a couple of bullets to the neck would sure end its rampage.

His cell phone rang, playing the theme song to Family Ties.

Hank unclipped the phone from his belt, snapped it open, and placed it to his ear. Since half of his ear was inside the cow, this stung like hell and he winced.

"Hank? You okay?"

"Taylor?"

"Yeah. Hey, I think I left my iPod in my desk. Any chance you could take a look for me? If it's not there then I might have left it at Burger King, and that'll suck. I'm pretty sure I did leave it at Burger King, because I set it on the window sill and had to run to the bathroom when I took a bite out of my Whopper and the tomato popped out and got all over my new pants, but I'm still hoping I just left it in my desk."

"This is a bad time, Taylor."

"Paul being a prick again?"

"I think Paul's dead."

"Sweet!"

"I'm serious!"

The cow stood up all the way and began to walk toward him. Backwards. Yet another unexpected element in a very unpleasant afternoon.

Hank screamed as he fired the remaining bullets, and continued screaming long after the gun was empty.

CHAPTER SIX

Benjamin stepped on the scale and gasped. He'd put on seven pounds in a week. This was despite the calories he burned while he and Margaret went at it like crazed animals every night. Over the weekend, Cindy had spent the night at a friend's house, so they'd done it on the living room floor, standing up against the bedroom wall, and on the kitchen table. Their cover story for the broken table ("It just broke!") was less than convincing, and he'd have to pay a visit to the hardware store this evening.

He couldn't help but be a little concerned about his recent behavior. Sure, he'd always loved candy, and he'd always been a horndog, but to have these two addictions simultaneously go berserk could be the product of some sort of medical issue.

Or, he was just about to reach that delightful "over the hill" milestone, and his subconscious mind wanted to start acting like a teenager.

Hell, his conscious mind wanted to start acting like a teenager. The idea of turning forty sucked. If he were to perish in a gruesome car accident today, people would say "Oh, what a tragedy, he was only thirty-nine." If he perished in that same car accident after his birthday, people would say "Oh, what a tragedy, but at least he made it to forty."

If he responded to middle age by simply eating chocolate and banging his wife into another dimension, he was doing a lot better than his contemporaries. No mistress, no Jaguar, and no comb-over. He was doing fine.

* * *

Benjamin walked through the automatic doors of the hardware store. I remember the good ol' days when hardware stores weren't the size of a Roman coliseum, he thought, and then felt old all over again. All he needed was some glue. They had glue at home, but their innovative use of the dining room table had been a lot of fun, and he wanted quality carpenter's glue to ensure that the leg didn't pop off again during the encore performance.

He strolled down the main aisle, not quite certain where the glue was located and not willing to be the type of pathetic loser who would ask. He passed a display of shower curtain rods and thought Oooh, Margaret and I could have fun with those.

He quickly shook away the thought. Shower curtain rods? As marital aids? Was he delusional?

Well, no. It's multi-purpose. Attach it to the headboard and it would make a handy place to secure fur-lined handcuffs, if you picked up some fur-lined handcuffs on the way home. Or you could watch while she uses it to—

Okay, now that was the thought process of a pervert.

Shower curtain rods. Yeah, right. If he brought those home and gave Margaret a knowing wink, she'd lock him out of the house and install bars over the windows.

You're a high school English teacher. Have some mental dignity, for God's sake.

He continued walking down the main aisle.

Clamps and vices...nice.

They didn't have a chimney, but he could get in some nice tickling with that chimney cleaning brush.

The electric paint mixer could be fun. On a low speed, of course.

Duct tape. A perfect backup if he couldn't find fuzzy handcuffs.

Plungers. Extension cords. Gear lube. A rake, or at least the handle.

The whole frickin' place was a sex toy emporium! He needed to call Margaret and have her meet him so they could grab a shopping cart and—

He needed to get out of there before he purchased something that he would really, really, really regret explaining the purpose behind buying. Even the glue sounded arousing, and there was no possible erotic use for glue that could end happily.

He left the store and made a beeline for his car. This was absolutely out of control. He had to find some way to take his mind off of it. There was no reason that an almost-forty-year-old should be acting like a teenager going through five puberties at once.

He started the engine and drove out of the parking lot. What could he do to distract himself?

Hmmmmm.

There was a casino on the Native American reservation. That might help.

* * *

"Yes!" Benjamin clenched his fist in victory as the three 7's lined up on the display. Playing three coins on the quarter slots, that was worth fifty bucks. He was now well on his way to recouping the nine hundred dollars he'd lost so far.

Damn casinos. They made it so easy to succumb to addiction. How could he have ever known that ATMs would be so readily available? And the service fee, which had seemed so reasonable after inserting his credit card, was in retrospect three times higher than the service fee at his local grocery's ATM.

Still, he wasn't quite yet doomed to a sexless night upon the couch. By definition, you were only a loser if you walked out of the casino having lost nine hundred dollars. (Nine hundred and eighty-five, technically, but he'd round down.) As long as he stood in front of the slot machines, he could win back everything he'd lost, and then some. Maybe he'd win enough to let him really stock up at the hardware store.

He played some more. His hot streak, which had begun with the fifty dollar win, also ended there.

Okay. This was bad. However, as long as he kept his losses under four figures, it was still explainable. After all, gambling was meant to be entertaining, and he felt he'd received nine hundred and eighty-five dollars' worth of entertainment value out of playing the slots. Yes indeed. It was fun. The flashing lights and loud noises and colorful cherries—this was way better than a movie or a concert.

Margaret would understand.

Actually, come to think of it, Margaret was kind of upset when he went to the movies without her one time when she was visiting her mother. And the ticket price was somewhat less than what he'd lost today, even with popcorn and Goobers.

Ooooh. Goobers sounded darn good right about now. He wondered if the casino had a snack bar.

Stop. Focus.

The sudden realization of what he'd done struck Benjamin like an iceberg to the groin.

He was dead.

So very dead.

Gambling addiction hotline. They had to have a gambling addiction hotline. He'd call that and let an expert talk him through this. They'd have advice on how to handle a pissed-off spouse, right?

Or, better yet, maybe the casino had a Suicide Room.

He wanted to cry, scream, puke, faint, rip out his hair, and spontaneously combust all at the same time.

He needed to get out of here. He needed to sprint for the exit, drive home, march straight up to Margaret, and tearfully confess that he'd...been mugged.

Perfect! He'd taken a thousand dollars out of the ATM to buy her a necklace for Christmas, and some ruffian had thrust a gun into his face and stolen his cash. It was an airtight scheme, except for the minor credibility gap in him buying a necklace with a thousand bucks in cash instead of using his credit card.

No, no, no, the hoodlum had stolen his credit card, and then immediately rushed to the casino to gamble away his ill-gotten gains. As long as the police didn't bother to check any of the dozens of security cameras in the casino, he'd be home free!

So very dead.

Okay, he had to calm down, concentrate, and figure this out. No faux muggings.

Logically, as long as he kept his losses under a thousand dollars, he wouldn't reach the next bracket of trouble. It worked under the same principle as a $1.99 bag of chips seeming much less expensive than a $2.00 bag of chips. Nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars would not be noticeably worse than nine hundred and eighty-five. So he had fourteen dollars with which to rebuild his fortune. One lucky spin and his problems would vanish.

Or maybe he could bribe Cindy to take the heat.

No, no, win it back. That was the plan. Win it back.

He pressed the "Max Bet" button and spun the reels.

He lost. Damn.

He lost again. Shit.

Lost again. Fucking shit.

And then...jackpot! Five hundred dollars! Benjamin nearly knocked over his stool as he cried out with joy. That cut his losses in half. This would be much easier to explain than losing nearly a thousand, so if he quit now he'd have an uncomfortable but not terrifying night.

Oh, thank God. Thank sweet, merciful God.

Of course, he now had another five hundred dollars with which to regain all of his losses...

* * *

Benjamin sat on the stool, gazing at the slot machine but not quite seeing it.

Two thousand dollars in the hole.

They were saving for Cindy's college education, and he'd blown two grand in a slot machine. How the hell was he going to explain this?

He glanced at his watch and, had he been drinking a beverage, would have done a spit take that caused liquid to jettison eighty feet from his mouth. It was almost ten-thirty. This was supposed to be a half-hour errand. Margaret and Cindy had to be sick with worry.

He quickly shoved his hand into his pants pocket, fumbled around for a moment, and yanked out his cell phone. Four missed calls. All from Margaret.

Benjamin darted for the exit. Or at least what he thought was the exit—this casino was like a maze. It was as if they didn't want you to leave. Bastards!

Surely he could come up with a cover story. After all, he was an intelligent man and he read a lot of fiction. What would Heathcliff do in this situation? He wouldn't put up with any lip from Catherine, that was for certain.

How the hell did you get out of this goddamn casino? 

* * *

He somehow found his way out and stood in the parking lot. The cell phone seemed to give off an otherworldly, hellish glow. Benjamin couldn't explain how a blue light looked hellish, but it did.

This was a turning point. He could confess everything now and face the consequences, or he could create a tapestry of lies that could unravel at any moment and cost him his family.

The tapestry of lies sounded pretty good.

He dialed Margaret's number.

"Benjamin?" she asked, answering immediately.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Thank goodness! You had us scared to death! What happened? Are you okay?"

He couldn't do it. He couldn't lie to her. "I just gambled away two thousand dollars at the casino," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I left the hardware store, drove to the casino, and lost two grand."

"Is this something we should talk about in person?"

"I think so. I'm on my way home."

He hung up the phone and tucked it back into his pocket. The immense weight that should have lifted from his shoulders upon uttering the truth seemed to still be hanging around. In fact, it seemed heavier. Almost suffocating.

He needed psychological help. That's all there was to it. He'd talk to a shrink and find out if there was a chemical imbalance in his brain. He'd go to meetings, talk to support groups...whatever it took to get better.

When he finally got home, first Margaret and then Cindy gave him a tight hug. He couldn't help but think they were merely softening him up for the kill.

He sat on the living room sofa, a prisoner facing the jury. There didn't seem to be any suitable opening statements, so he simply blurted it out: "I've eaten more than seventy candy bars this week."

His wife and daughter stared at him, silently.

"I don't even realize I'm doing it. And I keep thinking 'Wow, this is way too many candy bars for one person to eat,' but I can't stop myself. And this evening I drove to the casino and I, I don't know, I just started popping money into the slots. I didn't even notice that you'd called. And by the time I was able to pull myself away I'd lost...a lot of money."

"Two thousand?" Margaret asked.

Benjamin nodded. Cindy's mouth dropped open.

There was an extremely long silence, interrupted only by the ringing in his ears.

"How exactly does somebody lose two thousand dollars in one evening?" Margaret asked, speaking very slowly.

"Credit card advances. They make it easy."

"I've heard of celebrities gambling away forty, fifty thousand dollars in a weekend," said Cindy. "Compared to that, Dad's playing with milk money."

Margaret glared at her. "Cindy, go to your room."

Cindy started to protest, then quickly seemed to realize that this was unwise. She stood up, gave Benjamin a sympathetic look, then headed down the hall.

Margaret gazed at him sadly, which was infinitely more painful than if she'd been screaming or shooting fire from her eyeball sockets. "Jesus, Benjamin."

"I know."

"We can't afford this."

"I know. I'll teach summer school."

"You teach summer school anyway."

"I realize that it's a lot of money. But if you think about it, it's no worse than if we got hit with some unexpected car repairs."

"You're comparing this to car repairs?"

"Not in terms of, you know, the amount of trouble I'm in, but in terms of financial loss—"

"It's not about the financial loss! I just want to know what made my husband do something like this!"

"I don't know. I really don't know. I may need help."

Margaret sat there, expressionless, for several agonizing moments. Then she bit her lower lip, as if trying not to smile. "Will help cost more than two thousand dollars?"

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I can't even tell you how sorry I am."

"We'll get through it. I love you, Benjamin. Don't worry." She stood up. "Let's get started on fixing this mess."

* * *

Benjamin tossed another Reese's Peanut Butter Cup onto the glowing red charcoal. The smell of burnt chocolate filled the air, and large globs of brown ooze had extinguished many of the coals. He really hadn't planned to go cold turkey on the candy addiction, but didn't protest as Margaret and Cindy gathered up his stash and made him prepare the ceremonial fire.

"Do we really have to do it this way?" he'd asked. "This smells horrible."

"Yes," Margaret had replied. "We do." No further explanation. As long as she didn't suggest that they cure his sex addiction by burning off his penis, Benjamin was cool with it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning, Benjamin sat in his recliner, sipping a cup of tea (they'd flushed his hot cocoa) as he listened to Cindy's goddamn alarm clock blare. How had he raised a child who was this lazy? Was the concept of "get out of bed when the alarm clock goes off" really so difficult for her to grasp? Was she so selfish that she thought it was okay to make him listen to this crap while he tried to enjoy his book and tasteless tea?

He was ready to just tilt her mattress on its side and dump her onto the floor.

Bitch.

He couldn't believe he'd just thought that.

He was irritable, that's all. As soon as Margaret left the house, before he even heard her start the car's engine, he'd begun a massive search for chocolate. Anything, even that unspeakably foul baking chocolate, would suffice. He'd finally found a half-full jar of light brown cupcake sprinkles and poured the entire contents into his mouth. Then he'd buried the jar at the bottom of the garbage, feeling more than a little ashamed.

It wasn't like anybody could prevent him from stopping by the convenience store on his way to work, or hitting up the vending machine in the teacher's lounge, but he'd given his word to Margaret. And she might have spies.

That alarm was about to drive him out of his mind.

Perhaps if he went in there and smashed it apart with a baseball bat she'd get the idea.

Don't take it out on your daughter. It's not her fault you went nutzo. Remember, she tried to cover for you with the whole thing about celebrities gambling away fifty grand in a weekend. She's on your side. Chill.

He was going to kill somebody if that alarm didn't stop blaring. Or at least break something. Better to break something. Something valuable that didn't break easily. Something he could beat into thousands of pieces with his bare hands.

He stormed into her bedroom and raised his fist over the alarm. Then he took a long, deep breath, and with a forced sense of calm shut it off.

"Sweetheart, it's time to get up."

She groaned and rolled over, facing the wall.

"You'll miss the bus."

"I'm riding with you today."

"Why?" he snapped. "So you can spy on me?"

She sat up and looked at him. "What?"

"You never ride with me. Trying to make sure I don't ruin your life by buying a Snickers?"

"I thought you'd want somebody to talk to! Jeez!"

Benjamin instantly felt like a complete ass. Even if her motive was just to prevent him from making a convenience store run, she was only trying to help. She and Margaret both.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean that. Of course I want you to ride with me."

"I'll take the bus."

"No, seriously, I am truly sorry. Please let me drive you to school. Okay?"

She nodded. "Okay."

They didn't speak the entire way there.

* * *

As Benjamin stood in front of his fourth period class, explaining exactly what would be on the final exam, his stomach started to hurt.

It made sense. When you pigged out on candy to that extent, you suffered gastrointestinal distress. Served him right. He was surprised it hadn't hurt sooner. Any negative repercussions to his behavior were a good thing.

But it really wasn't a "sick to his stomach" kind of feeling. More of a stinging sensation, as if he'd swallowed Halloween candy laced with razor blades.

He ignored it and continued. "Your best bet is to study old tests and quizzes. I'm not going to throw any curve balls at you. As long as you took good notes and kept the quizzes like I told you to, there shouldn't be any surprises."

Terry Friedman raised his hand.

"Terry?"

"I heard we get to use cheat sheets."

"I was getting to that." Benjamin picked up a stack of three-by-five index cards from his desk and handed a few to the front student in each row. "Pass them back. You each get one index card. As many notes as you can fit on that card, you can use during the exam. You may not share your cards. All notes must be handwritten. If you think I won't check, you haven't been paying attention this past semester."

A couple of students groaned. "Why does it have to be handwritten?" asked Tanya Kennerly.

"Because the point of these cheat sheets is not to give you an easy A. The point is to help you learn by focusing on the most important material and writing it down. You learn by writing things with an actual pen or pencil. You do not learn by cutting and pasting and shrinking the font. Everybody clear?"

The students nodded.

"Good. We're going to spend the rest of the period re—"

The imaginary razor blades felt like they sliced right through his gut. Benjamin winced but maintained his composure until the pain subsided.

"—reviewing whatever you'd like. If you have any questions, now's the time to ask. Tomorrow is not the time. Who's first?"

None of his students raised their hands.

"If nobody has any questions, then I expect to see a lot of A-plusses. And there are quite a few of you in this very room who haven't exactly been racking up the A's."

At this moment in his annual speech, he'd usually look pointedly at a couple of students who hadn't exactly been racking up the A's, hoping to put the fear of the cruel and heartless Mr. Wilson into them. But another bolt of pain struck him, and his hand involuntarily slapped over his waist.

This was definitely not chocolate-related. Kidney stone? Appendix ready to burst? The level of pain was right but the location was wrong.

Terry raised his hand to ask another question, but the pain wasn't fading this time and the final exam was forgotten. This wasn't something Benjamin could fight through until the end of class. It now felt like a razor-lined snake was slowly rotating inside his intestine. He'd broken into a heavy sweat, which he wiped from his brow as he struggled to maintain focus.

"I need to step out for a moment," he said, straining to keep the "oh my God I think I'm gonna die" tone out of his voice. "Do individual review until I get back."

He made it out of the classroom without incident, but nearly doubled over as soon as he shut the door behind him. He clenched his teeth together to keep from screaming and bit the side of his tongue, though he only realized this from the taste of the blood—his gut overwhelmed all other pain. Blinking tears from his eyes, he stood up straight and made his way down the hall toward the nurse's office.

The agony didn't lessen in intensity, yet it changed somehow. It felt like something was squirming in there.

Oh, jeez, I'm giving birth. Giving birth to an alien.

The nurse was at the other end of the building. He wasn't gonna make it. He needed to call 911.

His cell phone was in his briefcase on his desk.

And suddenly he felt the need to vomit. Though his dignity was not a top priority at this moment, he didn't want to achieve infamy as the teacher who puked in the hallway, so he headed for the lavatory. No time to make it to the teacher's restroom. He rushed past several doors, not caring if anybody saw him through the small windows, then pushed through the door marked "Boys."

He braced himself against the closest sink with both hands and prepared for the spew.

Nothing came up.

He stared at the sink, then as his vision began to blur he squeezed his eyes shut. Something was unquestionably moving inside of him. Something with claws or teeth.

It almost felt like something was eating its way out of him.

There was a sudden urge to bash his head against the porcelain as hard as he could and knock himself unconscious to end the excruciating pain, even if it split his skull open. Somebody'd find him. They'd get help.

He reopened his eyes and spat some blood into the sink.

Whatever hungry little fiend was inside of him had to come out. He tried to force himself to vomit but only managed to dry heave. Even when he jammed both his index and middle finger as far into his mouth as he could, the only thing he accomplished was some gagging and choking.

Movement on the other end of the restroom. A student peeked out of the doorless stall at the end, and a trail of smoke made the reason for his bathroom visit quite clear—not that Benjamin cared at the moment. He ducked back into the stall, flushed the toilet, then quickly emerged.

"Mr. Wilson, are you okay...?"

Benjamin jammed his fingers even farther down his throat to no avail. He pulled them out, a thick rope of saliva dangling from his fingertips, then nearly lost his footing as the worst bolt of pain so far tore through him.

The student, whose name Benjamin should have known but which he couldn't recall, nervously switched his hall pass from his left hand to his right. "Should I get help?"

"Kill me," Benjamin gasped. Then he realized what he'd said. "No. Don't. Really, don't."

"Want me to go get the nurse?"

Benjamin shook his head and grabbed the student by the arm. "Help me get there."

* * *

Nurse Judith Reiser clucked her tongue as she removed the thermometer. If there was anything she hated, it was a faker. And this child (a junior, no less—far old enough to know better) was a great big faker.

"Temperature's fine," she said. "Any other symptoms? Headache? Tummyache? Sore shoulder? Kidney failure?"

The girl shook her head. "Just kinda dizzy."

"Seeing black spots in the corner of your vision?"

"No."

"What about leprechauns? Have you seen any leprechauns?"

"Say what?"

"No need to answer that. I think I have enough data to make my diagnosis. You, Sally, have what is commonly known to those of us in the medical profession as slackerfluenza."

"Are you saying I'm a slacker?"

Judy frowned. They usually didn't pick up on that the first try. "Yes, Sally, you're fine. Funny how these things seem to pop up around final exam time, isn't it? Now, do I need to give you a lollipop, or can you make it back to World History without one?"

Sally scowled at her. "Dyke."

"Hey, now, I may just be the school nurse, but I can give out detentions. Do you want to join me for lunch tomorrow?"

"No."

"Then watch your mouth. Now go back to class."

By the way, faker, I bring home a different man almost every weekend.

Sarah left, looking mad at the world and the medical profession in particular. Judy unwrapped a grape lollipop and popped it into her mouth. Life was good to her.

"Ms. Reiser! Ms. Reiser!"

Tim Hart, a scruffy young gentleman that she recognized from the mandatory Dangers of Smoking workshop, rushed into her office. "Ms. Reiser, there's something wrong with Mr. Wilson! Hurry!"

She quickly stepped out into the hallway and saw Benjamin Wilson moving toward her. Staggering toward her was more accurate. He was walking like a man who'd taken a bullet to the stomach. She hurried over to meet him, then took his arm, ushered him into her office, and helped him lie down on the bed.

"Thank you, Tim," she said. "You can go back to class."

Tim stood there, as if wanting to know how this all turned out, but then nodded and left.

"I'll fix you up," she told Benjamin, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"Pain! Fuckin' pain!"

"Calm down," she said, soothingly. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

He was drenched in perspiration. She very lightly touched his side, testing for an inflamed appendix. That didn't seem to cause extra pain, though he was clearly in so much distress that it might not have mattered.

She called 911 and told them to send an ambulance immediately.

As she watched in horror, a bulge about the size of a magic marker protruded from the center of Benjamin's waist. It twitched a bit, then sank back down.

And at that moment, Judith Reiser knew exactly what was wrong with her patient: he'd been possessed by the devil.

Though Judy always strove to conduct herself in a calm and reasoned manner, that did not apply to matters involving demonic possession. She crossed herself and shrieked.

* * *

Benjamin had drifted out of consciousness for a moment. He returned to find Nurse Judy pressing a crucifix necklace against his stomach.

"Out, Satan!" she cried. "I cast thee out!"

"It's not..." Benjamin said, but then he hesitated. Actually, the Satan angle was a pretty good theory. He raised himself to press against the crucifix more firmly. Burn him out! Burn the devil out!

There was no smoke or sizzling, though. Where the hell was the smoke? You couldn't burn Satan out of your intestine without smoke and sizzling.

It wasn't working. "Say 'The power of Christ compels you!'" he begged.

"The power of Christ compels you!"

The power of Christ didn't seem to be compelling squat. Either the devil was uninvolved or Nurse Judy was doing it wrong.

He drifted out of consciousness again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Benjamin woke up in the back of an ambulance. A paramedic loomed over him, holding his left eye open while shining a penlight into it. The paramedic said something cryptic about dilation and wrote it on a clipboard.

The pain was still there. Benjamin politely asked the nice man to make it go away.

"You're going to be fine, sir," the paramedic assured him. "We'll be at the hospital any minute now."

Somebody patted his arm. Benjamin glanced over to make sure it wasn't Satan and saw that it was Cindy, looking terribly concerned. For his daughter's sake, he gritted his teeth and contorted his mouth into something that he hoped vaguely resembled a smile.

"It's okay, Dad," she said, as a tear trickled down her cheek. "They're going to take care of you."

"Good," he said. "That's good news."

Actually, assuming that the pain was temporary and it wasn't necessary to remove his entire lower intestine, this wasn't such a bad thing. It was kind of nice to discover that there was genuinely something medically wrong with him, and that he wasn't just the kind of asshole who would gamble away two thousand dollars.

"Mom's on her way, too," Cindy said.

Benjamin nodded. "Listen, honey, if I don't make it—"

"You will."

"But if I don't—"

"You will."

"Fair enough, but on the off chance that I—"

"You won't."

"I was going to say, if I don't pull through."

"You will."

"Cindy, I'm trying to use this as an excuse to tell you I love you. Work with me."

Another tear ran down her cheek. "Okay."

Blackness overtook him yet again.

* * *

"Mr. Wilson...?"

Benjamin opened his eyes. He was lying in a hospital bed. A doctor, a handsome, short-haired guy maybe in his early thirties, stood next to him. His expression looked much more like "It's terminal" than "It's gas."

"Yes?"

"How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"That's good. I'm Dr. White. We've given you some painkillers, but nothing to make you groggy yet. I want to make sure you understand what I'm about to say, all right?"

Benjamin really didn't like the way this conversation seemed to be headed. The doctor sounded as if he was trying way too hard to sound soothing. "All right."

"We took some X-rays. The results were somewhat alarming."

"The bad kind of alarming?"

"You seem to have some sort of intestinal parasite."

"Intestinal parasite." Benjamin considered that. "Better than an alien, anyway."

"Well, yes, that's one way of looking at it."

"So it's like a tapeworm?"

"Not quite. It's a bit more sizable."

"I actually don't know how big tapeworms run these days," Benjamin admitted.

Doctor White held up an X-ray.

"Holy shit!" Benjamin exclaimed. "That's in me?"

"Yes."

"Get it out!"

"That's our intent."

Benjamin took the X-ray from him and gaped at it. The thing was a frickin' monster! A squid monster. "Is this picture life size?"

"Yes."

"It's the size of a hot dog!"

"We know. As I explained earlier, the X-ray results were somewhat alarming."

"Look at those tentacles! I've got Chthulu in my gut!"

"Who?"

"It's from H.P. Lovecraft."

"Who?"

"Squid creature writer."

"Oh."

Benjamin placed his hand on his waist. The creature, which definitely had teeth, seemed to respond to that by taking a bite. The pain wasn't as intense as before, but it still hurt like crazy. "So how are you gonna get it out?"

"That's what we need to discuss. Our first thought was to administer a very strong laxative."

Benjamin nodded. "Okay. I don't really like the idea of the monster coming out that way, but that's better than surgery, right?"

"Well, not necessarily."

"Why?"

"The parasite is—I'm not sure how else to describe it—feisty. If we flush it through the length of your bowels, it might cause irreparable damage."

"Then why did you even bring up the laxative? You don't offer somebody a laxative solution and then say, sorry, we've gotta cut!"

"I apologize."

"Is open-intestine surgery common?"

"It's sometimes necessary to remove blockage, yes."

"Scary monster blockage?"

"You probably shouldn't refer to it as a monster," Dr. White suggested. "That's not good for your blood pressure."

"What should I call it? Bob the Happy Little Parasite?"

"I don't recommend naming it, either."

"That was a joke."

"Joking is good. I do recommend joking."

Another blast of pain. Benjamin was pretty sure that women in labor were getting off easy, though he would never say such a thing out loud. "So when are we going to get this thing out?"

"Very soon. We have a specialist on the way. He'll be here before you know it."

"He'd better be," said Benjamin, "because I'm ready to jam a fork in there."

"Again, not something I'd recommend."

Benjamin considered pointing out that the fork comment had been a joke, but if the thing kept squirming around in there, and a fork happened to be lying within arm's reach, and it was properly sterilized, he wasn't entirely certain that it was a joke.

"Anyway, try to relax," said Dr. White.

"Okay." Benjamin took a deep breath and very slowly exhaled. He wondered what the best relaxation techniques were when one was being tortured by a horrific parasite. Maybe he should ask if they had a recording of gentle waves lapping against a beach at sunset.

"Would you like me to bring your wife and daughter in to see you?" Dr. White asked.

"Yes. Definitely."

The doctor left. Moments later, Margaret and Cindy burst into the room and hurried over to his bed, one on each side. They exchanged kisses and Margaret ran her fingers through his hair.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Internally mangled."

"Ouch."

"Did they show you my guest?"

Margaret nodded. "It was a little disturbing."

"A little? That thing is my nightmare body occupant! If you were to ask me, 'Hey, Benjamin, what's the absolute last thing you'd like to have swimming around in your intestine?', that would be it!"

"At least it didn't have eyes," Cindy noted. "It would be really creepy if it had eyes."

"You're right. Eyes would suck."

"Do X-rays show eyes?" Margaret wondered.

Benjamin considered that. "No, probably not. I bet that son of a bitch does have eyes! They could be blinking right now. I can't believe this is happening to me."

"They'll get it out, don't worry," Margaret said.

"Will they? What if it fights? What if it has a really good tooth-hold on my intestinal wall and they're pulling and pulling and they can't get it loose? Don't some of these parasites have hooks?"

"Hookworms do," Cindy said.

"Hooks, eyes, teeth...it's not coming out!"

"Shhhhh." Margaret gave him a kiss on the forehead. "The surgeon will remove it. Then you'll have a great story to tell your class."

"Oh, yeah, because nothing earns the respect of your students like telling them you had a cuttlefish inside of you." Yet another burst of pain, this one so bad that Benjamin sat up in bed and seriously considered asking Cindy to get him a fork. "Fuck!"

He'd never used the f-word in front of his daughter, and could tell that he'd suddenly become infinitely cooler in her eyes.

"Should I get the doctor?" Margaret asked.

"No. Unless he's willing to shoot me in the head, there's not much more he can do for me."

"Don't talk like that."

"Okay, fine. There's all kinds of stuff he could do for me, but shooting me in the head would be the most appreciated."

"Smartass."

"Blame the parasite."

* * *

Benjamin lay on the gurney, rushing at a high speed down the corridor. Though all of the hospital personnel were presenting a calm demeanor, the speed with which the attendants pushed the gurney made him think that their attitude was "Aaaccckkk! We've gotta cut it out! We've gotta cut it out! Waste no time or we'll have to pay the janitors overtime to clean up all the splatter!"

Hey, Mr. or Mrs. Parasite. If you can hear me, I'd really appreciate it if you left quietly. No biting, no burrowing, no hissing at the nice surgeons. I promise that if you make this all go smoothly I'll find a nice aquarium for you.

However, if you're a creep about the procedure, I swear, I'll stick you on a frickin' hook and catch a frickin' trout with you. Wanna be fish bait, you little bitch? Damn right you don't. So when they cut me open, you'd better play nice.

He hoped they understood each other.

The attendants pushed him into the operating room, and Benjamin instantly felt his heart race. Surgery. People he didn't know were going to slice him open.

He could feel panic setting in as they efficiently moved him from the gurney to the operating table.

The doctors looked terrifying in their white masks.

It was okay. No reason to be scared. They were going to make the pain go away.

Hell, even if he was awake for the entire procedure, it couldn't be worse than the existing pain. Even staring down into his own body cavity would be preferable to the agony the parasite was causing.

"Mr. Wilson?" It was the anesthesiologist.

Not gonna panic not gonna panic not gonna panic.

He imagined the surgeon pulling out the slimy creature, watching it violently wriggle in his hands, spraying blood on the operating room floor and walls. What if the surgeon couldn't keep a good grip on it? What if it dropped back down into his open body? He could almost feel the creature squirming through his guts as the surgeon frantically tried to recapture it. "Almost got it...nope...damn, slippery little thing...I see it, right there by the kidney...missed...missed again...here, roll him over and see if we can shake it out...get me the pliers...crap, I had it, but one of its tentacles came off...nurse, fetch me the harpoon..."

"Mr. Wilson?" the anesthesiologist repeated.

"Yes?"

"When I put the mask on you, I want you to breathe deeply and count backwards from ten."

Benjamin nodded, though he wasn't sure he was mentally capable of counting backwards at this moment. He'd never been so scared in his life. He wished Margaret and Cindy could be here, holding his hands. That would make things better. A lot better.

The anesthesiologist brought the mask toward his face.

The door to the operating room burst open.

"Everybody step the hell away from the patient!" a female voice shouted.

CHAPTER NINE

As the anesthesiologist quickly moved to the other end of the room, Benjamin craned his neck to see exactly who had interrupted his journey into sleepy time.

She was tall. Devastatingly beautiful. Long blonde hair flowed over her shoulders. Though her attire was simple—white blouse and black slacks—she had the body of a supermodel. She held a sexy gun in her hand.

If it weren't for the gun, Benjamin might have thought the surgery had gone wrong and that she was an angel come to take him to heaven. However, the firearm was a pretty good indicator of that not being the case.

"Get off the table!" she shouted at him.

Benjamin's first thought was to do as she said, though his first actual response was to gape at her, slack-jawed. She grabbed his arm and gave him a violent tug to accelerate the process. He tumbled off the operating table onto the floor, but before he could even register the impact, she'd pulled him to his feet and shoved him toward the open door.

"I'm saving your life," she told him. "So don't screw with me."

"Uh...thanks?"

She shoved him forward. "Run!"

Benjamin ran down the hallway, the parasite forgotten. Then he remembered the parasite and stumbled from the pain.

"Fight through it," the woman said, grabbing him by the back of the neck to keep him from falling.

He wasn't entirely sure he should trust the gun-wielding supermodel who'd burst into his operating room and interrupted his emergency surgery, but he didn't think he had a choice. So he ran.

She pushed open the door to the stairwell, then took him by the hand as they raced down the stairs. Benjamin nearly lost his footing four different times as they hurried down three flights of steps, yet somehow managed to keep from actually falling. She pushed open the door at the bottom, let go of his hand, and shoved him into the hospital lobby.

Several people turned to see what the commotion was about. The security guard by the main entrance stood up—and then fell back into his chair as the woman shot him in the leg. Benjamin was able to get out a "What the—?" but the rest of his objection was lost in a coughing fit. The woman pointed her gun at the security guard's face as they stood there for a second, waiting for the automatic sliding glass doors to open, and then they ran out into the parking lot.

Benjamin couldn't believe this. "You shot him!"

She took his hand again as they sprinted through the rows of cars. "He's already in the hospital. He'll be fine."

"But...but..."

"Save your energy!"

"Where are we going?"

"My car."

"Shouldn't you have parked closer?"

"Shut up."

I can't let her do this, Benjamin thought. She's insane. I need to make my move, and I need to do it...now!

He yanked his hand out of her grip and lunged for the gun.

The takedown happened so quickly that Benjamin couldn't even identify the specific moves involved. All he knew was that one moment he was trying to disarm her, and the next he was lying flat on the pavement with his arm twisted behind his back and the barrel of the gun pressed tightly against his left ear.

"We do not have time for this," she said. "You need to trust me."

"I trust you."

She climbed off of him and pulled him to his feet. He considered blaming the parasite, but decided that his best course of action was to stay quiet and obey the nice strong woman.

After crossing through one more row of cars, she let go of him again, took out a set of keys, and pressed the button. The headlights flashed on a small, crappy-looking, rust-red two-door sedan. He'd expected something like a Porsche, perhaps with a machine gun turret mounted to the front hood.

"Get in," she told him.

He opened the passenger-side door and quickly got inside. The seat belt seemed like a pretty good idea, so he buckled that and checked for something to indicate that the vehicle had a passenger-side airbag.

The woman got into the driver's seat and immediately started the engine. She backed out of the parking spot, then floored the accelerator and they sped out of the parking lot onto the highway. There wasn't as much tire-squealing as Benjamin would've expected.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, as they came dangerously close to rear-ending a much sturdier-looking car an instant before she switched lanes. At least they were only doing sixty in a forty-five zone.

"Oh, I'm just hunky-dory."

"Serious answer. How are you feeling?"

"I'm in so much pain I can barely describe it. It feels like something is trying to rip its way out."

"Not yet. Too soon for that."

"Too soon? You mean it really is going to rip its way out?"

"Not in the next few minutes. Relax."

"The surgeons were going to cut it out of me! Why'd you stop them?"

"If they'd tried to cut it out, they would've killed both you and the specimen. Your insides would've been pureed by the time it was over."

"So who are you here to save? Me or the specimen?"

She didn't answer.

"Okay, thanks for saving my life. Now what? Can you get it out? You're not going to shoot it out, are you?"

"I can't remove it. I'm taking you to somebody who can."

"Is she close?"

"It's a he."

"Is he close?"

"No."

The streetlight ahead turned red. The woman looked as if she wanted to run it, but applied the brake instead.

Benjamin screamed.

"It's burrowing out!" he shrieked, clutching his waist.

"It's not burrowing out! You're just upsetting it! You need to calm down!"

"These are not calm circumstances! I'm gonna die!"

The woman reached past him and pulled a lever. His seat reclined all the way back with a jolt.

"Just close your eyes and breathe easy," she said. "As soon as I'm sure we're not being followed, we'll take care of it."

"It hurts!"

"I know it hurts! It'll hurt slightly less if you stop freaking out!"

"It's popping out!"

"It's not popping out!"

"It is!"

"Fine. It's popping out. It's going to poke its head out through your armpit and get stringy bloody goo all over my upholstery. Sucks to be me."

Benjamin really didn't care for the way she was mocking his distress, but he wasn't going to be brave to impress her. He thrashed around on the seat, desperately wishing that he'd lose consciousness. She'd probably be willing to pistol-whip him into a slumber if he asked nicely.

After several minutes of the most excruciating agony Benjamin had ever experienced in his life, the car stopped.

"Where are we?"

"Behind a strip mall."

"Oh."

The woman reached into the back seat, then set a black briefcase on her lap. She spun some dials to unlock it, opened the lid, and took out a big, scary-ass hypodermic needle.

"This is going to hurt," she warned him, "but after—"

"It's fine. Just poke me."

She squeezed the plunger a bit to get the air bubbles out. "Lift up your gown."

Benjamin pulled up the gown, unconcerned with modesty or terror shrinkage. She stuck the needle deep into his gut.

"Damn. Missed." She withdrew the needle, then jabbed it in an inch to the right.

"Get it that time?" Benjamin asked.

"No." She stuck him a third time. "Quit squirming!"

"I'm not squirming!"

"I'm not talking to you!"

Benjamin was starting to feel light-headed. He'd never had a needle phobia before, but one was starting to develop.

"Got it! No, wait. Almost, though."

"If you keep poking me there won't be enough skin left to hold the parasite inside!"

"I need you to clench your whole body as tight as you can. Pretend you're getting zapped in an electric chair."

Benjamin tightened every muscle, though without using the electric chair simile as reference.

She jammed the needle into him. "Perfect!" She depressed the plunger all the way, then pulled away. "Oh, wait, the needle broke off. Oh well. We'll get it out later."

A pleasant warmth flowed through Benjamin's stomach. By the time they'd driven out from behind the strip mall and returned to the highway, the pain was completely gone. He returned the seat to its upright position. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"I'm Benjamin, by the way."

"I know."

"Is there something I can call you besides Gun and Needle Lady?"

"Julie."

"Hi, Julie. Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Am I expendable?"

She smiled. "No, Benjamin, you're not expendable."

"Good. I just don't want this to be some kind of scenario where my life is only important because I'm keeping the squid-monster alive."

"Every possible effort will be made to keep you from harm when we remove the specimen."

"But the specimen is still more important, right? What's the breakdown? 60/40 in favor of the specimen? 80/20?"

"Every possible effort will be made to keep you from harm when we remove the specimen," Julie repeated.

"What's next on the agenda?"

"We're going to trade out the car. You're going to shave your beard. And we're going to get you some clothes."

"Now, that sounds a lot like we're going on the lam. That's not necessary. I'll just call up the hospital and let them know I'm okay with the new arrangement. I mean, it would be easier if you hadn't shot the security guard, but I'm sure we can work this out."

"That would be fine, if I were only worried about the police."

Benjamin thought about that for a moment. "Dangerous people want the parasite, don't they?"

"You've got it."

"Dammit!"

"You're just lucky I found you first."

"Why?"

"I need you alive to keep the specimen alive. They don't."

"Gotcha. Any chance I can call my wife?"

"No."

"I'd really like to call her."

"I don't care."

"If I assure her that I'm not in immediate danger, the police might not try to hunt you down as aggressively."

"You are in immediate danger. And there's no possible way I'm letting you use my cell phone."

"So let's stop at a pay phone."

"Scary men, Benjamin. Do you want to know how they'll get the specimen out of you? Do you?"

"Sure. Knowledge is power."

"They will cut your head off so they can remove and study your brain, and then they will take your body apart, organ by organ, putting each one in its own little jar with its own little label."

"Thing is, after I lost my head, I wouldn't much care about the other stuff."

Julie glared at him. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"Why shouldn't I be? It's a perfectly good defense mechanism. Would you rather I twitched and drooled?"

"Yes. Yes I would."

"I need to let my family know I'm okay. I've put them through too much already."

"Maybe we'll work something out later, but for now, drop it."

Benjamin had to figure out what to do. He wasn't entirely convinced that the "organs in jars" thing wasn't her scheduled outcome as well. The fact that her plan involved bursting into an operating room and kidnapping him at gunpoint indicated that it was perhaps not the most airtight scheme in the world. Who was this woman?

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I told you. Julie."

"No, I mean who are you? A scientist?"

"So you mean what am I?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not a scientist."

"Okay, that rules out one occupation out of millions. You're probably not a cattle rancher, either. What are you?"

"I'm a bounty hunter."

Benjamin nodded. "Makes sense. Where are we headed?"

"California."

"California? We're going all the way across the country?"

"That is where California is located, yes."

"Driving?"

"You think I'm gonna go through airport security?"

"This is crazy. I was thinking South Tampa."

"You were wrong. I'm not real happy about the distance either, because I can tell right now that you're going to annoy the hell out of me. I'd advise you to sit back, shut up, and be grateful I found you first."

"Here's the thing," Benjamin said. "I'm really not a passive kind of guy. I'm responsible for more than a hundred and fifty high schoolers every day, and if I showed any sign of weakness they'd eat me alive. I appreciate your efforts on my behalf, but I think you can understand why I might still be kind of iffy about the whole situation. I'd feel better if I knew I could trust you, and you'd feel better if you knew I wasn't trying to escape."

"If you try to escape, I'll shoot you," said Julie. "There's really not much else to discuss."

"All right, then."

Fine. If that was the way she wanted to be, then he'd keep his eyes open for an opportunity to grab the gun—at least, a better opportunity than the one he'd already screwed up. Though he very much appreciated the shot of parasite tranquilizer or whatever that stuff was, he wasn't about to let himself be dragged across the country without knowing exactly who he was dealing with.

He decided to give her a few minutes of peace and quiet, though, so she wouldn't get pissed.

She broke the silence after about thirty seconds. "Aw, great."

"What?"

"Behind us. Don't look."

Benjamin glanced up in the rear-view mirror. "The van?"

"Yeah."

"Bad van?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think they'll just start shooting?"

"I don't know. I'd like to think not."

"Can you lose them?"

"I'm gonna try. Have you ever been part of a high speed chase?"

"Oh, God, there's going to be a high-speed chase? Now?"

"Not necessarily."

"Wouldn't they want to protect the specimen? I could get cut in half! People get cut in half in high-speed chases if they end in a crash, right? It happens!"

"Benjamin, I really need you to stop talking. Just brace yourself, and be ready to..." She squinted into the rear-view mirror. "Hold on, wait, it's not them."

"It's not?"

Julie shook her head. "Nope. Just some guy in a van. We're fine."

"Oh." Benjamin settled back into his seat. "Well, that's a relief."

"We're not out of danger, you know."

"I know. Just enjoying the momentary respite."

CHAPTER TEN

A few minutes later, they pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot. "Do I need to go over what will happen to you if you try anything, or can we just agree to work together?" Julie asked. "Because I'd really rather not be constantly talking about shooting you. It's unpleasant."

"I'll behave."

"Thanks." She turned and slowly drove down one of the rows. "See that blue car?"

"The piece of crap?"

"Yep. That's our new ride. But, of course, there are no parking spaces anywhere around it." She sighed and continued to the end of the row. Three rows later, she pulled into a spot. "Open the glove compartment."

Benjamin did so. There was an operator's manual, some tissue, a pack of gum, and a pair of shiny new handcuffs. "You want the gum, right?"

"Cuff yourself to the steering wheel."

"Why?"

"I have to run in and get you some clothes. I'll be in there for five minutes. Even if you call for help, you can't get free of those cuffs in five minutes. And if I come out of Wal-Mart and there's a crowd around the car, I will be very unhappy. I mean, monumentally pissed. Do you understand?"

"I think you do like to talk about shooting me."

"Do you understand?"

"Yeah."

Benjamin locked one bracelet around his left wrist and the other around the steering wheel, then gave a light tug to prove that it was secure. Julie nodded, satisfied, then exited the car, taking the briefcase with her, and jogged toward the store entrance.

Well, this was just lovely.

She was right—even if he attracted the attention of a cop, they probably couldn't get the handcuffs unlocked before she returned. Unless she got distracted by a really great sale or something, or the cashier needed to do a price check, or the lines moved slow. The lines did move slowly sometimes, especially at this location.

Not worth the risk, though.

Especially not when she'd made the pain go away. That had been some pretty serious frickin' pain. Even if her ultimate plan involved gutting him like a trout, he did want to stay in close proximity to those hypodermic needles.

For now he'd play along.

He might as well, since he was half-naked and handcuffed to a steering wheel.

He glanced through the back window, and noticed that two men were walking towards the car. Both wore sunglasses. Both wore brown jackets. Both had shortly cropped hair. Both were quite a bit larger than the average human male.

They did not appear to be hunting for a shopping cart.

They looked much less pleasant than Julie.

Maybe they were feds. Maybe it was good that they were walking toward the car in a most intimidating manner.

Hey, Julie, wanna know what would've been polite to leave me with? A means of self-defense!

As they reached the vehicle, the two men separated; one walked up to the driver's side door, the other walked up to the passenger side. The one on the passenger side rapped his knuckles against the window.

Benjamin reached for the crank, but there wasn't one. "It's automatic," he said, loudly enough to be heard through the glass. "I can't roll the window down unless the engine is on."

The man opened his jacket, giving Benjamin a quick glimpse of a gun in a holster, then closed it again. Of course he had a gun. That's just the kind of day this was turning out to be.

"Open the door," the man said.

Benjamin opened the door a crack.

"More."

He opened it more.

"Get out."

Benjamin jiggled the chain. "I'm handcuffed."

The man smiled. "Well then, we'll just have to cut your hand off."

At least this cleared up any confusion over whose company Benjamin wanted to keep. He questioned the wisdom of the man saying something sadistic instead of using the more intelligent strategy of pretending to be a benefactor, but, hey, if he was a dumb bad guy Benjamin had a much better chance of getting out of this. For now he had to try to keep him talking.

"Cut off my hand? In a Wal-Mart parking lot? Really?"

The man gave him a slow, stern nod.

"I don't believe you."

The man blinked in surprise. Then he reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a hunting knife with an eight-inch blade—sheathed, but still upsetting.

Benjamin forced himself to continue talking. "Nice knife."

"Thank you."

"Still, I've done some hunting—" He hadn't. "—and you can't just lop somebody's hand off with a knife like that. There'd be sawing and spraying blood and a lot of screaming on my part. You can't do that in a crowded parking lot in broad daylight."

The man seemed unfazed. "You think so? I could always shoot it off then."

On the other side of the car, his partner let out a guffaw. "Dude, you can't shoot somebody's hand off with a .38! What the hell?"

"Hey, shut your trap!"

"You can't do it, though. You couldn't even shoot somebody's hand off with a .44. You'd have to shoot his wrist five or six times and then yank it off."

"That's what I'll do, then!"

"You're going to fire a gun five or six times in a crowded parking lot? And then you're going to stand there and try to rip through tendons? C'mon, dude!"

"Are you trying to sabotage the mission? Is that your intent?"

"No, but when you make up phony threats like that you take away from the credibility of the real ones!"

"He doesn't know if it's credible or not!"

"Everybody knows you can't just shoot somebody's hand off! It's common knowledge! He's a teacher, for crying out loud!"

"He's an English teacher!"

"So? I bet he still went to college!"

"They don't have a gun class in college!"

"I'm not saying he took a gun class! I'm saying that if he got through college, he's probably not a complete idiot! And only a complete idiot would think that you could shoot off somebody's hand with that kind of gun!" The man pointed to the Wal-Mart building. "Go up and talk to any person in that store. Anybody. They'll know that you don't shoot somebody in the wrist and have their hand just pop off like the flower off a dandelion! When you make that kind of empty threat, you make us look simple!"

The other man nodded. "Yeah, okay, you're right."

"I wasn't saying it to be a jerk. But you can't intimidate people unless the logic holds up."

"I already said you were right! What do you want, a cookie?"

"I was explaining myself! Why is that such a bad thing? It's a sign of respect!"

"Respect this," said the first man, flipping him the bird over the car.

"Oh, that's nice. Real nice. That's the direction this conversation has taken, huh? No sense resolving this like adults when we can waggle our middle finger around. Here, here, right back at you." He returned the gesture.

Benjamin sat quietly.

The first man slammed the car door and stormed off.

"What? You're walking away now? You think that's a sign of maturity? How many chances did Dad say we have left? How many?"

"Bite me, Clyde!"

"One! He said we have one chance left, Joey. You wanna be the one to tell him that we were right there and we screwed it up?"

"You're the one who screwed it up!"

"I'm not the one walking away!"

"Kiss my ass!"

"Why do you wanna be this way? Huh? Why act like this? Why not just accept my comments in the spirit in which they were intended? Why is that always so hard for you? You act like I'm always picking on you, but I'm offering solid advice. Solid advice, Joey. Dad picks on you, not me. Why can't you just say 'Hey, he's right, the gun comment was kind of silly, I'll make sure not to say something like that next time' instead of getting all bent out of shape?"

"It's the way you said it."

"How'd I say it?"

Joey raised the pitch of his voice. "Dude, you can't shoot somebody's hand off with a .38! What the hell?"

"You're right. That wasn't cool. I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"I am so! I should've phrased it differently. The message was good but the delivery was bad. I'm sorry."

"You mean it?"

"You think I'm the kind of guy who apologizes for fun? Of course I mean it!"

Joey returned to the passenger side window. Benjamin shifted uncomfortably.

"So what do we do with him?" Joey asked.

"I dunno. Pick the lock?"

"You got a lockpick?"

"I got a paperclip."

"That'll work." Joey patted his jacket. "Remember the gun I've got in here?" he asked Benjamin. "I'm not gonna use it to shoot your hand off, but I will shoot you in the face if you try anything funny. Got it?"

"I do."

Clyde opened the driver's side door and leaned inside. He took a paper clip out of his pocket, bent it into a straight line, then stuck it into the lock of the handcuffs. His brow furrowed as he twisted the paper clip around in the mechanism.

"How long is this gonna take?" asked Joey.

"Thirty-seven seconds. How should I know? You wiggle the clip until the lock opens."

"I'm just saying, we probably shouldn't have spent so much time arguing. She could come back any minute now."

"Are you trying to distract me?"

"No."

"Then talk less."

Though Benjamin's entire plan for escape had involved these two men babbling long enough for help to arrive, he had to admit that right now he just wanted them to shut up. He was starting to believe that the parasite only came in second place in terms of causing pain.

Fortunately, they sat in blissful silence for at least ten seconds while Clyde fiddled with the handcuff lock.

"Got it?"

"No."

Six more seconds of silence.

"Now?"

"I'll tell you when I've got it! I'm not gonna leave you out of the loop!"

Almost four more seconds, then: "We really should speed this up."

"I swear, if you don't lock your mouth, I'm gonna shove my foot in there. I'll do it!"

Benjamin noticed that Julie was standing directly behind Joey. A quick blow to the back of the head and Joey dropped out of sight. This was a nice development, except that Clyde, who probably had a gun or knife of his own, was still leaning into the car next to Benjamin. Without hesitation, Benjamin slammed Clyde's head into the steering wheel, honking the horn.

"You son of a—"

Benjamin tightened his grip on Clyde's hair and slammed him against the wheel again.

"I'll kill—"

Benjamin slammed his head against the dashboard this time. Clyde had no verbal response. Benjamin let go of him and he tumbled out of the car.

"Nice work," said Julie, reaching into her pocket. She took out a small key and unlocked the handcuffs.

Benjamin popped the bracelet open, pulled his hand free, and gave her the dirtiest look of which he was capable.

* * *

Benjamin decided to save his questions and protests until they were safely in the replacement vehicle. But as soon as they got inside and slammed the doors shut, he started: "Who were those guys?"

"The Smith brothers. They're not smart men." She thrust the keys into the ignition and started the engine.

"I got that. But they had guns! And knives!"

"Sorry about that. I didn't think they'd find us that quickly."

"No offense, but the planning here seems to suck."

"There was no time. This wasn't a bank heist with months of prep. Believe it or not, waving a gun at a bunch of doctors would not have been my top choice of methods to get you out of there. Tonight, while I'm lying in bed, I'll come up with eight or nine better plans."

"You could've just posed as a parasite expert and told the surgeons that they needed to hold off, and then explained the situation to me and asked if I'd accompany you to California."

"See, that's the kind of alternate plan I'll think of tonight."

Benjamin was not one to strike a woman, particularly one who'd already demonstrated her superior physical prowess, so he didn't. But the desire was there.

* * *

Julie made it quite clear that she would appreciate it very much if Benjamin would refrain from talking for a while. It was her second time using the gun as a threat after saying that she didn't enjoy using the gun as a threat, which was an inconsistency that he thought she should be aware of, yet he decided to respect her wishes and remain silent.

He also didn't complain about the quality of the clothes she'd brought him, which he changed into as they drove along the highway. The blue polo shirt she'd selected was geeky even by his standards, and the jeans ripped when he put them on, even though they were too big. Quite obviously she wasn't being reimbursed for her expenses.

She seemed pretty darn incompetent for a bounty hunter. Of course, almost all professions had more than their share of incompetent representatives. Mr. Shaefer, who taught Health, was rock-stupid and provided disturbingly inaccurate information about social diseases. There were incompetent teachers, doctors, lawyers, construction workers, and zookeepers, so why shouldn't there be incompetent bounty hunters?

They drove out of the Tampa city limits without incident or conversation. Shortly after leaving the city limits, they pulled off the interstate and stopped at a gas station. Julie handed him the plastic shopping bag.

"Here's shaving cream, scissors, and a razor. Lose the beard."

She then explained the time limit—five minutes—and the penalty for not following her exact instructions. The penalty was predictable.

* * *

Benjamin stared at himself in the streak-filled mirror. He'd had the beard since college. Who was this beardless, goofy-looking guy staring back at him? Did he really look like that? Even if you discounted all of the cuts and toilet paper bits stuck to his face, he was a pretty serious dork.

He did look younger, though. That was something.

Somebody pounded on the bathroom door. "You about done in there?" asked Julie.

"I'm pinching a loaf."

"You are not. I can see you through the gap."

"Give me a minute."

"You have thirty seconds."

He was really getting sick of being bossed around. They needed to have a serious discussion about her attitude. At least if they did end up driving all the way across the country, they'd have plenty of time to chat about it.

He'd also taken a couple of extra minutes to get the piece of needle out of his stomach, which was not a joyous process.

Benjamin looked at himself one more time. This was going to take a long time to get used to. At least it would if he weren't intending to grow it right back.

He frowned, turned his head a bit to the side, and leaned closer to the mirror. There was a small red welt underneath his ear. He poked at it with his index finger. It didn't hurt.

Weird.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Am I permitted to talk now?" Benjamin asked after they were back on the road.

Julie shrugged. "I guess."

"Thanks. What the hell is inside me?"

"It's a very valuable, experimental specimen. A parasite. I don't know what they developed it for."

"What do they call it?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do."

"Piranha."

Benjamin frowned. "Okay, that's just wrong."

"I work for the men who paid the scientists who developed it. They'd kind of like it back."

"How'd I get stuck with the little muncher? Bad tuna?"

"They think it was in Brian Dexter. It intensifies the host's existing addictions to a point where the lines of reality may begin to blur. Did you notice any enhanced addictions?"

"Uh, yeah."

"With a dead host, it would've shrunk quickly to microscopic size and wouldn't show up in an autopsy. I'm not sure how it transferred to you."

"Could it be airborne?"

"Could be."

"I think it jumped into my nose."

"Bummer."

"How did it get into Brian?"

"They've traced it back to one of the people working in the lab, so it seems to have bounced from host to host, until it settled in Brian. His intestine must've been the most comfortable. It stayed there and grew until he died, then switched to you. You just got too close."

"I guess it's a relief to have an explanation for Brian's behavior. It would be more of a relief if the same parasite weren't in my intestine. Thank God I didn't grab a meat cleaver."

"You'd be able to control its influence better than a puberty-stricken teenager, so that was never a problem. As far as I know. They actually didn't tell me that much about it." Suddenly she waved a hand at him. "Shhh."

"What?"

"Shhh!" She peered closely into the rear-view mirror. "That might be them."

"The Smith brothers?"

"No. The ones we actually need to be worried about."

"The organs in jars people?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think we could reason with them?"

"I very seriously doubt it."

"Are you sure? Has anybody tried diplomacy? I guess I'd just feel kind of silly going through all this danger if we can work things out with, I don't know, an oral contract or something."

"Are you some kind of idiot?"

"No. Just working off nervous energy. But is my idea really that wacky? I don't know these people. Maybe they're closet pacifists."

"They're not. Trust me." Her cell phone rang, and she glanced down at the display. "It's them."

* * *

Margaret Wilson sat in the police station next to Cindy, trying not to go insane. Her mental health had taken a beating lately. Benjamin acting crazy she could handle. A call at work informing her that he'd been rushed to the hospital was highly stressful but not unmanageable. Being told that he'd have to go into emergency surgery was even more stressful yet still something she could deal with. Learning that he'd been kidnapped right off the operating table was pushing it.

"Did he have any enemies that you know of?" asked the police officer, a droopy-eyed kid who looked like he could be fresh out of high school.

"No. I mean, he had to fail a student every once in a while..."

"Do you know of any students who responded in a particularly negative manner to that?"

"We had our house egged once."

The cop nodded thoughtfully. "A drastic leap from egging to kidnapping, but we'll research it. Do you remember the culprit's name?"

Margaret thought for a moment. "Not off the top of my head. It was three years ago."

"Do you have reason to believe your husband was having an affair?"

"No."

"Do you have any reason to believe he might be involved in some sort of crime? Narcotics? Money laundering?"

"No."

"Did he ever smoke marijuana?"

"No."

"Never?"

"Not ever."

"Would you prefer to be questioned without the presence of your daughter?"

"My husband never smoked pot."

The cop nodded thoughtfully. "I see."

"And even if he went through sixteen doobies a day, I don't know what this has to do with him being kidnapped."

"Just being thorough, ma'am. We'll get your husband back. Don't worry."

* * *

Joey Smith was not looking forward to making the call. He and Clyde had discussed things while bandaging themselves up, and they'd agreed that Dad probably wouldn't be too upset. It wasn't like they'd failed repeatedly. Well, it was like they'd failed repeatedly, but not at this particular task. So though Dad had made it pretty clear that they only had one more chance (by murdering one of his lower-level associates in front of them), they'd decided that "capture Benjamin Wilson" was the overall chance, and not any one particular instance of trying to capture him.

Now that he actually had to make the call, Joey was second-guessing that logic.

His preference would be to not update Dad on the situation until they had good news, but he had a missed call from Dad showing on his cell phone and ignoring that for too long could be as bad as failing. They'd done "Rock, Paper, Scissors" to determine who had to call. Joey picked rock. Clyde picked paper. Clyde always picked paper. But Joey always picked rock, and if he switched to, say, paper the one time Clyde switched to scissors, he would've felt like a complete idiot.

He made the call.

"Joey?" Dad asked.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Do you have him?"

"Almost."

"What does 'almost' mean?"

"It means we're still looking."

"When you called before, you told me you'd caught up with him and that the bitch had left him alone in the car."

"Right. But it was a complicated piece of business."

"Are you following him now?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, we're right behind him."

"Where are you?"

"We're..." He looked to Clyde for help and received none. "We're not behind him, but we'll find him, no problem. It was a setback but we learned from it."

Dad sighed. It was always bad when Dad sighed.

"Check your e-mail in ten minutes," Dad said, then hung up.

Joey snapped the phone shut.

"What'd he say?" Clyde asked.

"He said to check my e-mail in ten minutes."

"Why?"

"Dunno."

"Did he sound happy?"

"Why would he sound happy?"

"I don't know. Blowjob, maybe."

"Don't be a moron. Where can we get free wireless internet?"

"There's that one deli with the chicken salad sandwiches."

"Those are awful. The last one had six hairs in it."

"Right, but if we sit at the outside table we can still get wireless without ordering anything."

They got lost on the way, but not for long, and sat at the circular table outside of Miller's Deli. Joey booted up his laptop. He smiled as the background image displayed—a rodeo clown being trampled by an angry bull. He'd taken the picture himself. The rodeo clown hadn't been badly injured but it was still funny.

He checked his e-mail. Lots of spam. An e-mail from the chick he'd watched on webcam last weekend. Notification that he'd been outbid on the Adam Sandler CD. And an e-mail from Dad.

He clicked it open. No text; just an attached file.

"What do you think he sent us?" Clyde asked as it downloaded.

"I dunno. More information on the target, I bet."

"Do you think he's disappointed that he had to send us more stuff?"

"Who cares? We'll get the job done."

He clicked the "play" button, and the video began. It was Dad, sitting at his desk. He looked mad.

He had a face that looked custom-designed for angry expressions, and the older he got, the madder he looked. His gray hair was slicked back and his suit was perfectly tailored, but he had dark circles under his eyes. He looked into the camera and sighed.

"I warned you," he said.

Dad slid a small metal tray in front of him. Joey gasped as he saw what was on it: his pet turtle.

"No! Tortie!"

Dad reached off-screen, then held the can of lighter fluid up to the camera. Joey gasped and slapped his hand over his mouth. Dad calmly doused the turtle with the lighter fluid.

"He's really upset," Clyde noted.

Dad took out a book of matches and held it up to the camera. He struck one and tossed it onto Tortie's shell. Joey recoiled in horror as his beloved turtle burst into flames.

"What did I tell you?" Dad asked. "I told you not to screw up. If you screw up, there are penalties." He reached off-camera again, this time returning with a hammer. "Don't screw up again."

He slammed the hammer against the turtle's shell, finishing it off in three blows.

The video ended.

"We really need to find that Benjamin Wilson guy, and fast," said Clyde. "Hammie could be next."

* * *

"The guys in the van?" Benjamin asked.

"Yeah."

"Are you gonna take their call?"

Julie pressed the speaker button. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was male, low-pitched, and phlegmy. "Pull over."

"You know I'm not going to do that."

"I said, pull over." He was very articulate and menacing for somebody who sounded like he was gargling mucus.

"If you have something important to say, say it. Otherwise, don't waste my time."

"Does he know you're taking him to be butchered?"

"Nice try. He can't hear you."

"Bull. You think I can't tell you're on speakerphone?"

"Fine. He can hear you. But he's not falling for it."

"I could give him a pill. He'd fall asleep, wake up three hours later, and the only discomfort he'd experience is a small sore spot."

"I'm hanging up now," Julie said.

"Why don't you pull over and save your passenger all of this unpleasantness? Let us get the cancer out of him and send him on his way."

Benjamin stiffened. "Cancer?"

"It's not cancer. He's just trying to scare you." Julie pressed her mouth right against the phone. "And it won't work."

"You don't think Mr. Wilson is scared? With that thing growing inside of him? I would be. It terrifies me, and I'm not the one it's devouring."

"Enough. You lied about it being cancer, so he knows you're lying about everything else."

"I wasn't lying. I was speaking metaphorically. Mr. Wilson is familiar with the concept, I'm sure. Your body is going to fail you, Benjamin. Piece by piece it's going to shut down, while the parasite sucks away your life. It's going to happen quickly, especially while you're asleep. When your false savior finally digs the cancer out of you, it'll be too late."

"False savior. Melodramatic at all? You're so full of shit," Julie said.

"Why don't you let Mr. Wilson decide? He's the one who'll spend the rest of his life being spoon-fed by his wife and daughter. Pull off to the side so we can discuss this. You're armed, I assume, so there's nothing to fear. Why resolve this by fleeing like criminals?"

"If you're such a sweetheart, how about you use your camera phone and take a picture of the makeshift lab you've got in that van? What kind of surgical tools do you have in there? Chainsaw? Meat hook?"

"You forgot the jackhammer. Now pull over so we can save Mr. Wilson's life."

"Hold on a second, let me count the number of people in this car that you're fooling. Let's see..." Julie pretended to do a mental count. "Looks like it's about zero. Sorry. Better luck next time."

"We're willing to take more aggressive measures to save him."

"Oh, really? Thinking about opening fire on the highway? Ramming us with your van, perhaps? I'm pretty sure you're not that stupid. You can follow us all you like, but we've got a full tank and get better gas mileage."

"I believe we will follow you. Thanks for the invitation." The man in the van hung up.

"Old friend?" asked Benjamin.

Julie shook her head. "New enemy."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Dominick Serkin. Sociopath. Everything he said was a lie. I know you're probably thinking that you don't know who to trust right now, but believe me, if we pulled over to talk, you'd be in that van and dead in minutes. If he didn't want the specimen so badly, he'd keep you alive for hours, just for fun. That's the best I can say—you're too valuable for him to slowly torture to death."

Benjamin turned around and looked at the van again. It didn't seem to be driving in a particularly sociopathic manner, but it was still oddly menacing. "Are we going to let him follow us until one of us runs out of gas?"

"No. As soon as there are no witnesses, they'll try to run us off the road. I need to stick with other traffic long enough for him to stop paying quite as close attention, and then pull off the interstate suddenly to lose him."

"You said 'they'll' try. More than one?"

"He's got henchmen in the van with him. At least two."

"I didn't think the word 'henchman' was in actual use."

"Henchmen, underlings, administrative assistants... whatever you want to call them."

"So we have a couple of really dumb brothers and a sociopath plus henchmen. Any other major players I should know about?"

"The brothers are sociopaths, too."

"Don't avoid my question."

"I don't know everyone who's after you. Maybe it's just them. Probably not."

Benjamin noticed motion in the rear-view mirror. "Hey, I think you're wrong, some guy's leaning out—"

A gunshot.

The rear tire exploded.

Julie swerved to the right, and they went off the road onto the grass. The van followed immediately behind them.

"That psycho!" shouted Julie in a panic. She slammed on the brakes, throwing Benjamin forward. The seatbelt kept him from splattering his face against the dashboard.

The van pulled up alongside them and stopped. The side door slid open.

"Duck!" Julie grabbed Benjamin by the collar and yanked him down, though since he'd clearly seen the man with the gun the assistance was unnecessary.

Three more shots, and safety glass rained down upon Benjamin. He slammed his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Get out of the car!" a man shouted.

Something heavy struck Benjamin on the shoulder. He opened his eyes as Julie shouted: "Get out! Get out now!"

He caught a glimpse of what had hit him. A grenade.

He threw open the car door and tumbled to the ground in his frantic effort to escape the vehicle. Powerful hands grabbed his shoulders. Another pair grabbed his feet. Seconds later he was in the back of the van, and a moment after that the door slid shut.

No explosion.

The van sped off. Benjamin heard a gunshot from outside, then another, and then they were back on the road.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The two men shoved him onto a mattress. The inside of the van smelled awful. Almost rotten. The men were dressed entirely in black and wore facemasks. As Benjamin unsuccessfully struggled, he caught glimpses of shiny silver tools resting on the floor.

"Calm down!" said one of the men. "We're here to help you. You're safe now. You're with friends."

"Just kidding," said the other man, punching him in the face so hard that Benjamin literally saw stars.

The second man punched him even harder.

"Tyler! Silas! Don't break his jaw," said the third van occupant, from the driver's seat. The phlegmy voice made it clear that it was Dominick. "Get him in the straps."

The first man, who was either Tyler or Silas, punched Benjamin again. He could feel blood trickling from both corners of his mouth, and wanted to just curl up in a corner and weep.

He didn't struggle as the men tightened filthy leather straps around his wrists and ankles.

"Wish we'd nabbed the chick, too," said the first man, who Benjamin decided looked more like a Tyler than a Silas. "Have some fun after we cut the bug out of this poor schmuck."

Silas chuckled. "Make a withdrawal from him, and a deposit in her."

They both laughed and high-fived each other.

"When do we start removing flesh?" asked Tyler. "I've got me a thirst for gore."

"Not while we're driving," said Dominick. "I'm not letting you screw this up because we hit a bump."

"Ohhh, but I've got steady hands! I only cut where I want to cut."

"Which is all over!" Silas said. They laughed and high-fived each other again.

"Give it a rest back there," Dominick said. "I'm trying to drive."

"Awww...are we distracting you?"

Benjamin spat out some surplus blood and tried to speak. "Please," he said in a whisper.

"Please what? Make the ouchies stop?" Tyler punched him again.

"Hey! Enough of that!" Dominick shouted. "I swear, if he's dead before I get a shot at him, I'll strap both of you down and cut you up myself! Just wait, all right? When we get to a secure place, we'll make the guy drip from the ceiling!"

* * *

Julie dove onto the grass, momentarily unconcerned with the specimen. Her right arm went numb as she landed on it wrong, then she rolled away from the car and braced herself for the explosion.

Dominick had lost his mind. It was hard enough to believe that he was willing to risk the specimen by shooting at her car—what if he'd accidentally struck Benjamin?—but throwing a grenade? That was positively insane.

A few seconds later, when nothing blew up, she realized that she'd been duped.

Dammit! She stood up as she heard the van's side door slam shut. She took aim with her revolver, trying to force her right arm to remain steady despite the lack of feeling, and fired at the rear tire as it sped back up onto the road. Missed. Another shot. Missed again. Then the gun slipped out of her grasp and landed on the grass.

She screamed with rage.

A couple of cars sped past. The drivers were no doubt dialing 911 on their cell phones to alert authorities to the wacky lady shooting at a van. She tucked the gun back into the holster in her blouse to increase the chances that a passerby would be willing to stop and give her a lift. Under her breath she let loose with a stream of obscenities that featured expletives imbedded inside other expletives.

A small green Honda, driven by somebody who obviously hadn't witnessed the gunfire, pulled to the shoulder of the road next to her. The middle-aged woman in the passenger seat rolled down her window. "Could you use some help, ma'am?"

"I sure could," said Julie, wasting no time in throwing open the door to the back seat and climbing inside. The large black Mastiff back there began to lick her face, and she gently pushed it away.

"Weaver loves new people," the woman said. Her husband, a thin man with ruddy cheeks, looked back at Julie and winked. "I'm Marissa, and this handsome man next to me is Dan."

"I need you to drive as fast as you can," Julie said. "I'm trying to catch up with somebody. It's an emergency."

"Ooh, that doesn't sound like our thing," said Dan. "You may want to call the police or wait for somebody else."

"No time. I need you to move. Now!"

"I'm sorry, young lady, but I'm not about to put my wife or Weaver at risk like that."

Almost ready to bellow with frustration, Julie yanked the gun out of her blouse and pointed it at Dan. "Drive!"

Dan drove.

"Why don't you turn yourself in?" Marissa asked. "Whatever you've done, it can't be beyond forgiveness. Just explain the situation to the authorities and I'm sure everything will work out in the end."

"I told you, I'm trying to catch somebody, not run from somebody. My friend has been kidnapped."

"If that's the truth, it's a sad thing and you have my sympathy. But you realize that by putting us at risk, you're almost as bad as the kidnappers. What if we get injured? What if we get killed? Can your conscience handle that?"

"I'm not gonna get anybody killed. I'm just trying to catch a van."

Weaver licked her cheek. She shoved him away.

They were doing about sixty-five. No sign of the van.

"Speed up," Julie said.

"I'm not comfortable exceeding the—"

"The speed limit is seventy! And I need you to floor it!"

Dan did so.

Marissa shook her head sadly. "I think you should look deep within yourself and decide if you're truly a good person," she said. "Look at your actions and how they impact others."

"Please don't give me a sermon right now."

"We're not religious. You don't have to be a Jesus freak to know right from wrong. What you're doing, whether it's out of desperation or because of your upbringing, is wrong. And I think you know that."

"I really need you to shut up," said Julie.

"Whether they realize it or not, everybody lives their lives with a moral code," Marissa explained. "Sometimes it's a very simple code, perhaps like Morse Code. I don't mean that literally, I just mean that some moral codes are a simple, straightforward series of dots and dashes. Some moral codes are more complex and harder to understand. Perhaps they're a cryptogram like what you might find in the newspaper, where C equals H and K equals E and so on. People who have that kind of moral code may find themselves confused at times. Almost lost. But there's always a hint available if you turn the paper upside down. Just don't wait until the next day for the solution."

"Do you understand what she's saying?" Dan asked.

"I appreciate your concern for my karma," Julie said. "However, it is more important than you can possibly understand that I catch up to the van. If you don't help me out, my friend will be butchered by maniacs. I don't mean maniacs of the soul or whatever the hell you're babbling about, I mean legitimate maniacs with knives and shit."

Her spirits lifted a bit as the van came into view not too far ahead. They were quickly gaining on it.

"Let me get this out of the way right now," Julie said, rolling down the window. "You're not going to like what I'm about to do. Some moral boundaries will be crossed. Get over it and pull up right next to that van."

"Oh my word, you're going to shoot them, aren't you?"

"Only the psychopaths."

"Oh, fudge. Fudge, fudge, fudge."

"Just stay calm. I'll be out of your hair in a few minutes."

* * *

"Would you mind so terribly much if I gouged your eye out?" asked Tyler, waving a scalpel in front of Benjamin's face. "Would it bum you out, or would you keep up a sunny attitude?"

Benjamin elected not to answer.

"Yep, you sure do have pretty brown eyes. Not as pretty as blue eyes, but for brown eyes, they look like perfect keepsakes. Which one do you want, Silas, left or right?"

"Goddamn it, stop threatening his eyes!" shouted Dominick from the front. "I'll pull this fucking van over, I swear!"

A gunshot rang out.

Some blood sprayed from the side of Dominick's head.

The van jerked to the right. Tyler's scalpel-wielding fist swung in an arc that took it directly into the intended target—an eye. But the wrong eye. Silas's eye.

Silas's reaction involved a great deal of screaming, hand-flapping, and unnecessary conveying of the information that Tyler had just stabbed him in the eyeball. He grabbed the handle of the scalpel as the van went off the pavement. The accompanying bounce drove the scalpel even farther into his orb and his reaction became somewhat noisier.

The van tilted to the right. Benjamin's stomach lurched as the mattress slid along the floor. Silas smacked into the side of the van, scalpel-first. Tyler grabbed something to steady himself, but unfortunately it was a machete blade. He let go of it and struck the wall right next to Silas.

Don't tip, don't tip, Benjamin silently begged as the van tipped onto its side.

Benjamin, still strapped to the mattress, struck Silas. The van continued to roll, shattering the windows and banging the hell out of Benjamin as it turned completely upside down, fell onto its left side, and finally stopped with its tires on the grass where they belonged. The mattress slammed back down onto the floor.

Though he was not a physician, Benjamin was able to note beyond reasonable doubt that Silas was dead, unless people's necks were supposed to bend back that way. He couldn't even see the end of the scalpel amidst all of the spilled eyeball contents.

Tyler was not dead. However, the van's roll had not been a positive experience for him. Evidence of this theory included but was not limited to the machete blade jutting through his left arm, the two nails in his left cheek, and the pencil that now served as a makeshift ear piercing. He looked stunned, and Benjamin understood exactly how he felt.

Then Tyler seemed to remember where he was. His expression made it clear that he intended to do great harm to Benjamin even though he didn't specifically say anything to that effect. He stepped forward and let out a howl of pain. He stumbled backwards and let out another howl of pain. Benjamin couldn't see what he'd stepped on, but it was probably sharp.

Another gunshot. Tyler cried out, clutched at the brand-new bullet hole in his shoulder, and ducked down.

He spoke in a very soft, weak voice: "Tell her I give up."

"He gives up!" Benjamin shouted.

"Did I kill him?" Julie called out from right outside the van.

"No, but you hit him in the shoulder, and he has lots of other injuries."

"Life-threatening ones?"

"Ummmm...I'm not sure. Not if he gets immediate medical attention, I guess."

"Tell her I have a machete through my arm," said Tyler.

"He says he has a machete through his arm," Benjamin reported.

"Does he really?"

"Yes."

"What about the other guy?"

"Oh, he's dead."

The van door slid open. Julie hopped inside, kicked Tyler in the face, and slid the door shut behind her. She grabbed a knife off the floor and quickly cut the straps that bound Benjamin to the mattress.

"Thank you," he said, sitting up.

"Are you hurt?"

"Yeah, but probably not by your definition."

"Good. Your job is to make sure he—" she pointed down at Tyler "—doesn't try anything while I get us out of here. If he does, stab him in the head with something."

She hurried to the front of the van and pulled Dominick's corpse out of the driver's seat. She let it drop to the floor, then slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered.

"You really think it's going to start?" Benjamin asked.

"If it does, we can avoid carjacking another good Samaritan. I'm in favor of that."

The engine continued to sputter.

"It rolled all the way over," Benjamin said.

"I saw it."

The engine roared to life. And then died again a second later.

Though Benjamin really didn't want to be a pest, he decided to express his concerns. "What if there's a fuel leak?"

"Then we blow up."

"Okay."

The engine sputtered some more, roared to life again...and this time it didn't die. Julie pulled onto the highway and they sped off.

"I'm feeling pretty dizzy," said Tyler, his voice slurred. "Could you drop me off at a hospital? I promise I won't tell anyone."

Benjamin shook his head. "Seems unlikely."

"Yeah, that's what I figured." He scratched at his machete-impaled arm. "Any chance you'll pull this thing out?"

"I'd rather not."

Ten minutes later, they pulled off into a rest stop. "What's the plan?" Benjamin asked.

Julie glared at him. "The plan? The plan is that I'm going to find the ugliest, smelliest, most repulsive trucker available, and then I'm going to offer to fellate him if he'll give us a ride. I'll probably have to give him a sample to let him know I'm serious. I am not happy about this. Not even a little. But since the cops are going to be actively searching for us, I have to see to it that we have a ride that won't try to ditch us at the very first opportunity. So thank you very much for forcing me to fellate a grotesque truck driver. How was your day?"

"You're acting like it's my fault."

"I wasn't the one tied to the mattress, now was I?"

"No, but you shot the guard at the hospital!"

Julie was silent for a moment.

"Fine. It evens out, then." She opened the door. "Don't let him escape."

Benjamin watched her go, rather annoyed. His fault? He wasn't the one who kidnapped somebody out of a hospital at gunpoint. All he did was acquire a parasite. None of this was his fault.

"I think I'm bleeding to death," said Tyler.

"No, you're not."

"I'm gushing, man."

"You're fine. Zip it."

"I need a tourniquet."

"Enough. You and your friend were going to torture me to death. It's going to take you a hell of a long time to regain my trust. Maybe somebody will try to patch you up so that you can pretend you're dying and then suddenly go 'Surprise!' and jam a knife in their throat, but that somebody isn't going to be me."

Tyler coughed. "That's harsh." He lay on the floor and closed his eyes.

His injuries did look pretty severe, but Benjamin simply wasn't going to be the kind of simpleton who would fall for that kind of a trick. Though he had been dumb many, many times in his life, and he would unquestionably be dumb on many, many more occasions, he wasn't going to be dumb now. If he got into any more trouble, Julie would probably cut her losses and put a bullet in his brain.

He waited patiently. The sign at the rest area exit had said that there were vending machines. A Hershey bar would certainly hit the spot right about now. If he could find some change in the van, he could hurry to the vending machines and get back before—

No. Bad idea.

"Do you have any chocolate?" he asked Tyler.

"Come on," said Julie, poking her head through the shattered window and making him jump. "We've got a ride."

"That was quick."

"It wasn't a complex negotiation." She slid open the van door. "Get up," she told Tyler.

Tyler did not get up.

"Poke him with your foot."

Benjamin prodded him in the side. Tyler didn't respond.

"Step on his hand. Break a finger."

"I'm not doing that!"

Julie let out a sigh of frustration, climbed into van, and grabbed Tyler's hand. She pulled back his pinky until it snapped. Tyler didn't respond.

"He may be dead," she said.

"Are you sure?"

She snapped another finger. "Pretty sure."

"Oh my God!"

"Let's go."

Benjamin stepped over the bloody corpse. "He asked me for a tourniquet and I refused. I could've helped him. I let that man die!"

"It's okay. I wanted to question him, but he probably wouldn't have had any information anyway."

"But I let him die! I let him bleed to death! Then I let you break two of his fingers!"

"Are you kidding me?"

Benjamin got out of the van. "He was a human being."

"Okay, save your moral crisis for sometime when I don't have to listen to it. We're in a rush." She took him by the hand and pulled him away from the van.

"I'm an awful person."

"Yes, you suck. Shut up."

They hurried across the rest area to where about four semi trucks were parked. The one on the right already had the rear door lifted partway, revealing that the cargo storage was empty. A man who looked to be about eighty stood next to the vehicle, his eyes briefly glancing at Benjamin and then returning to Julie.

"Get in," Julie said.

"I have to sit in the back?"

"Do you want to see what's going to happen up there? I think you do not."

Benjamin climbed into the back of the semi without further complaint. The old man shut the sliding door, and Benjamin was cast into complete darkness. He tried unsuccessfully to find a comfortable place to sit, and settled for just lying on the metal floor. As the vehicle began to move, he took off his shirt to use as a pillow, hopefully enabling him to avoid a concussion from the vibrations.

How did I become the kind of man who would let somebody bleed to death? he wondered. Yes, Tyler was homicidal, sadistic, evil, bloodthirsty, and better off dead, but still...

You've got a ghastly parasite inside of your body, you've been kidnapped by a woman who likes to shoot people, you may never see your family again, you left a bunch of students with a final exam and no monitor, and you're worried about the tragic fate of Tyler the Sociopath?

Benjamin just lay there, alone with his thoughts.

They weren't good company.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At some point he fell asleep.

He awoke to the sound of the door sliding up. It was dark outside. He winced as he sat up—his entire body was sore.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Georgia."

"Georgia? That's not the same direction as California."

"I'm aware of that, believe it or not. But our driver was going to Georgia, and we needed to get out of the state."

Benjamin put on his shirt and slid out of the semi, into the outdoor lights of the small motel. Julie gasped.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Just stay out of sight. Go behind that Dumpster. I'll be right back."

Benjamin decided to save his argument for later and do as he was told. He wandered behind the wretched-smelling Dumpster, thinking that this felt like a really good time to start a mid-life crisis.

Hey, maybe somebody threw away a candy bar!

Benjamin watched the semi pull away. A few minutes later, Julie returned. "Got us a room," she said.

Benjamin frowned. "A room?"

"Yes, a room. Do you need me to define the term?"

"I'm just surprised we're getting a room. Aren't we in a hurry?"

She walked toward the building. Benjamin followed.

"We don't have a motor vehicle," she explained. "We could swipe one, but our chances of making it to California are much better if we're not in a stolen car. So we're going to buy one. A cheap one. Something ugly. Since we can't do that until morning, we might as well get some rest."

"Why didn't we just buy a car sooner?"

"Because I was going to sleep anyway. I can't stay up for forty-eight hours."

"I could've driven."

"Will you stop criticizing my plan? Do you know how annoying that is? I'm not going to let you drive because you, Benjamin, are the kidnap victim. You're still a flight risk."

"I didn't flee just now while you were getting the room."

"That's because you knew I could see you through the window in the lobby."

"No, I didn't."

"Then you're way overestimating my level of trust." She flashed the room card over the sensor and opened the door. "You do know I still have the gun, right?"

"I figured that."

"Cool. After you."

Benjamin walked into the motel room. It was small but clean, although the primary thing he noticed was that it only had one bed.

"They didn't have a double?"

"We're sleeping together."

"Can I get my wife's permission first? She usually frowns upon that sort of thing."

Julie shut the door behind them. "Nothing is going to happen. After what I had to do in that semi, the idea of tasting another penis ever again is kind of repulsive to me."

"Okay. Well. Some logic can't be argued. Do you need the bathroom?"

"Go right ahead."

Benjamin walked into the bathroom. He stared at the floor for a couple of seconds, not quite sure he really wanted to know what unpleasant sight the mirror had to offer, then gazed at his reflection.

His face was covered with dark red sores, at least ten of them, the largest the size of a nickel. He quickly stripped off his shirt and saw that his arms and chest were similarly affected.

Oh, Jesus, what kind of parasite was this? He traced his index finger around the edge of a particularly large sore on his solar plexus. Would these things heal? Would more of them appear?

He walked out of the bathroom and tried to keep his voice steady. "An explanation...would be very much appreciated."

Julie was seated on the edge of the bed. "I'm not sure. I think your body chemistry is changing."

"Is it going to get worse?"

"Not definitely."

"Not definitely? That's the best answer you can give me?"

"What do you want me to say? Tell me, Benjamin, did you have any of those blotches on your body when you got into the back of the semi?"

Benjamin shook his head.

"And now you're covered in them. So I could tell you that yes, everything is fine, I'm sure you have nary a concern, but I have too much respect for your intelligence."

"So it's going to get worse?"

"Not definitely."

"Am I going to die?"

"That's what I'm here to prevent, remember?"

Benjamin decided to end the conversation. The sooner they went to sleep, the sooner they'd wake up, and the sooner they'd be on the way to getting this body-chemistry-changing abomination out of him.

"It's time to give the parasite another shot, and then you should take a quick shower," Julie said. "You'll feel better."

"Yeah."

"And you do realize that I'm going to have to handcuff you to the bed, right?"

"Figured."

* * *

On a typical night, Pedro Ramirez loved his life. He had money, women, good looks, a vast DVD collection, and fast metabolism. He was excellent at his job and it provided him with plenty of vacation time.

Tonight, he hated his life.

The Smith brothers. How did somebody with his incredible talent get stuck babysitting these two bozos? His boss wanted Benjamin Wilson captured and brought to him. No problem. That was an easy, short assignment. But Mr. Smith wanted his idiot sons, Clyde and Joey, to make the actual capture. He merely wanted Pedro to supervise and make sure things went smoothly, since apparently they'd totally botched their first attempt.

Pedro had wanted to explain that of course they botched their first attempt—they were incompetent. Their combined IQ was barely sufficient to fully comprehend the voting process for American Idol. Their father had given them every possible opportunity in life, and Pedro resented how little they'd done with these opportunities. In their shoes, he'd be CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation.

As it was, he'd come from nothing. Dropped out of school at fourteen to take care of his baby sister. Caught Mr. Smith's eye at age eighteen while talking his way into an exclusive nightclub and had been doing "odd jobs" for the man for the past six years. He'd slowly but steadily earned the old man's trust, which had apparently backfired now that he was stuck with the dumb-asses.

"I think Dad wanted one of us to drive," said Clyde.

"You're lucky to even be sitting inside my car," Pedro informed him. "If it were up to me, I'd drag you behind on a rope."

"Don't talk to my brother that way," said Joey.

"I was talking to you that way, too. You were included in the rope comment."

"Well, don't talk to me that way, either."

"I will talk to you any way that I please, because I could kill one or both of you in about three seconds." He took his right hand off the steering wheel and held up three fingers.

"Dad wouldn't like that."

"I know he wouldn't. So don't make me do it."

If Mr. Smith had been in the vehicle, Pedro wouldn't be talking to his sons like that. But he'd be damned if he was going to suck up to this pair of imbeciles, or even treat them with respect. He was surprised that they hadn't fought over who was going to get the front seat.

There was a moment of blissful silence.

"You couldn't kill us in three seconds," said Joey.

"I could and will."

"While driving?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"By sticking my index finger in your eyeball socket."

"In three seconds? Not both of us."

"Maybe in two. Stop talking."

"That's a bunch of crap."

"Stop talking."

"Two seconds my ass."

"Stop talking."

One problem with the Smith brothers, and there were many, was that they never shut up. Not ever. Pedro suspected that he could reach over and break Clyde's jaw, and that the dullard would continue to flap it up and down with his hand, like a self-manipulating puppet.

"How do you think I should kill this guy?" asked Joey from the back seat. "Gun or knife?"

"You're not going to kill him," said Pedro. "We're bringing him to your father alive. That's what your father meant when he said 'I want you to bring him back alive.' If you kill him, he won't be alive anymore, and you'll have failed at a relatively simple task."

Joey ignored the sarcasm. "What about the girl?"

Pedro shrugged. "You can try it. You won't have much blood left when she's done."

"Yeah, right."

"Didn't she kick your butt in the parking lot?" Clyde asked.

"She hit me from behind."

"Still, at least I got my butt kicked by a dude."

"Bite me."

"I'll pass."

"Oh, go ahead. Take a great big ol' bite. It won't hurt you."

"I'd rather bite a rabid donkey."

"I'd rather bite a rabid..." Joey had to think for a moment. "...seagull."

"Well, I didn't ask you to bite me, jerk."

Pedro knew that this could easily go on for another twenty or thirty minutes. "Enough!" he shouted. "I'm going to lose my mind if you guys don't shut up. I'll quit. I'll do it. I'll forget about the assignment and spend the rest of the night in a bar."

"Dad won't like that," said Clyde.

"I know he won't. He'll be breathing fire. That's why I need you softheads to stop talking."

"I killed the last person who called me a softhead."

Pedro took out his cell phone and dialed.

"What are you doing?" Joey asked.

"Calling your dad."

"Why?"

"To notify him of your idiocy."

Joey and Clyde exchanged a concerned look.

"How long do we have to stop talking?" Clyde asked.

"Until I give you permission to speak."

Clyde shook his head. "That's not gonna work for me."

Pedro pressed the "speaker phone" button. Mr. Smith's voice said: "Yeah, Pedro?"

Joey and Clyde frantically waved for Pedro to stop. Joey ran his fingers across his lips in a zipping motion.

"Just checking in to let you know everything is fine, sir."

"How are the idiots doing?"

"Still dumb, sir, but they'll get the job done." Pedro winced as soon as he said it. Mr. Smith freely acknowledged the way-below-average intellect of his offspring, but others were not given the privilege of agreeing with him.

Mr. Smith didn't seem to notice. "Good. Thanks for the update."

"No problem, sir." Pedro hung up.

Joey and Clyde still didn't shut up.

* * *

As he lay in bed, unable to sleep, Benjamin reflected upon the idea that certain fantasies were best left as fantasies. For example, he was currently in bed with a gorgeous blonde, handcuffed to the headboard. Pretty good fantasy. However, his fantasies of this nature never included him being covered with sores, and they certainly didn't include a bed partner who was snoring like an orchestra of chainsaws.

He struggled with the handcuffs, trying to wriggle his hand free yet not jostle the bed enough to wake up Julie. They seemed pretty solid, and he didn't have any experience in this type of escape, so gaining his freedom was unlikely. Still, he had to try. He wasn't planning to make a run for it if he did somehow manage to get loose, but he'd definitely go for her gun. Put himself in control. They'd go to California, but under his terms. It was insane that they were wasting time lying here when he could be driving.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a soft rattling outside.

* * *

Pedro watched the moron mess with the lock on the motel room door, wishing he could just stand back and watch the fireworks. The door had probably been booby-trapped, and Clyde was destined to get badly hurt or killed if Pedro didn't intervene. Mr. Smith would go ballistic if one of his sons died on Pedro's watch, so he'd have to settle for enjoying the thought of an alternate universe where Clyde got a face-full of the hot end of a flamethrower.

"Step away from the door," Pedro whispered.

"I've almost got it," Clyde said, also in a whisper.

"No, you do not. You'll probably cut your finger off."

"Stop talking. You're pulling me out of the zone."

"You have no zone. Quit playing with the door."

Clyde glanced back at him. "Hey, I think I've got it!"

The door popped slightly ajar. Pedro was so surprised that the bumbling imbecile had succeeded that for a split-second he didn't think to call out a warning.

There was a flash of white light, and then Clyde stumbled backwards, hands over his face. He let out a pitiful wail that would have really gotten on Pedro's nerves if he weren't so concerned about Mr. Smith breaking his legs because his son got his face fried off. He grabbed Clyde by the back of his shirt and yanked him out of the way.

Pedro thought quickly: "Housekeeping!" he announced, using the thick Mexican accent he'd lost over the years. He felt kind of racist doing it, but there were more important concerns at the moment.

"We don't need any towels," a woman—Julie, no doubt—informed him from inside the room.

"Wrong room then. Sorry very much."

Housekeeping was unlikely to be making service calls after midnight, so she obviously knew what they were there for. Clyde had stopped his whining and was blinking rapidly as if blinded. Fortunately, the white flash had apparently just been a light and not an explosive, so his face didn't look like bacon.

"Look," said Pedro, "it's not in any of our best interests for anybody to get shot."

"It's in my best interest for you to get shot," Julie said.

"Not loudly."

"What do you want?"

"You know what we want." There was enough real stupidity in the vicinity that the idea of playing stupid was incredibly distasteful to Pedro.

"You can't have it."

"I respectfully disagree."

* * *

Julie kept her gun pointed at the ajar door as she unlocked Benjamin's handcuffs. He really felt that if danger was going to lurk at every turn, she should quit cuffing him. They weren't even fur-lined.

"Who's out there?" he whispered.

"I don't know." She popped his right hand free.

The flash-bomb booby trap would have been a much more valuable asset if they weren't wasting the "blinded enemy" time unlocking the handcuffs. However, this went without saying, so Benjamin didn't say it.

Julie freed his left hand, and they both got off the bed. "How did they find us?" Benjamin asked.

"I don't know. They must have traced the credit card. They shouldn't have been able to trace that one to me. Dammit!"

"What are we going to do?"

"They aren't going to shoot through the windows because they could accidentally hit you. So I just have to cover the door."

"Okay, sounds easy enough, but there's no real exit strategy there."

"I know." She lowered her voice even more. "I need you to sneak over to the window and peek out underneath the curtain. Tell me how many there are."

"Me?"

"They won't shoot you if they see you."

"They might shoot blindly at the sign of motion."

"They won't."

"Those other whack-jobs tried to shoot us off the road."

"Listen to me," said the man outside. "I have a canister of tear gas that I don't want to use. Come out and we'll talk."

"He's bluffing," said Julie.

A few seconds later, a metal canister rolled into the room and began to billow a cloud of smoke.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Let's go," said Julie, grabbing her black briefcase off the desk and running for the door. She threw it all the way open and kicked somebody that Benjamin couldn't see. He followed her, heart racing.

As he rushed out of the motel room, the first thing he noticed was a man pointing a gun at Julie. The second thing he noticed was a man—Joey, one of those delightful brothers who'd tried to kidnap him at Wal-Mart, whom he was so very happy to see again—pointing a gun at him. The third and final thing he noticed was Clyde lying on his back on the ground, clutching his stomach, the obvious recipient of Julie's kick.

"Close the door so we don't all get gassed," said the man with the gun pointed at Julie. Benjamin did as he was told.

"What happened to your face?" Joey asked. "That's nasty."

"It's flesh-eating bacteria," said Benjamin. "Very contagious."

"Oh, crap!"

"He's lying," said the other man. "Just chill."

"Oh. Drop your gun," Joey told Benjamin.

"I don't have a gun."

Joey regarded him with suspicion, then shrugged.

The man with the gun pointed at Julie took a step closer to her. "You, too."

Julie dropped her gun and briefcase to the ground.

Clyde sat up, still holding his stomach. "Kill her. Shoot her in the face."

Joey shook his head and gave his brother a wicked smile. "Why waste her? Let's have some fun, first. What do you say?"

"Are you kidding me?" asked the other man. "With the police possibly on their way, and people peeking out of their windows, you're going to take a rape break? Do you two have any dignity at all? 'Oh, sorry, Mr. Smith, we had the specimen, but your sons wanted to boink the bodyguard.'"

"I was gonna be quick!" Joey insisted.

"Do you really think that improves my opinion of you?"

"If either of you so much as touch me," said Julie, "I'll twist your dick off before it's all the way out of your pants."

"Oh, yeah?" asked Clyde. "Maybe you'll be dead when we do it."

The other man looked at him incredulously. "What? Did you seriously just say that? You're a necrophile now?"

"What does necrophile mean?"

"It means practitioner of necrophilia."

"What does—?"

"It means that you're the kind of sick pervert loser who would threaten to have sex with a dead woman." The man gave Julie a look as if to apologize for the appalling behavior of his associates.

The door to the next room opened, and an elderly woman stepped outside. "People are trying to..." Her angry expression vanished as she saw the guns.

Joey grabbed the collar of her nightgown and pulled her toward him. He wrapped his arm around her neck and pressed the barrel of his gun against the side of her head. "Look, Pedro, we've got ourselves a hostage now," he said, proudly. He sneered at Benjamin and Julie. "Now what are you gonna do?"

"You...fucking...idiot..." said Pedro. The poor guy looked about ready to burst into tears of frustration, and Benjamin almost felt sorry for him.

Joey frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Who the hell told you to take a hostage? What are we supposed to do with one? What benefit does she serve?"

"I thought she might, I dunno, make them cave in to our will or something."

"Well, she won't. And now we have to take her with us. By the way, who's pointing a gun at Mr. Wilson now that you have your little hostage?"

Joey looked kind of sheepish.

"That's riiiiight," said Pedro. "Nobody! You bumbling mentally non-existent jackass! Clyde, go get whoever else is in that room. Move, bimbo!"

Clyde got up and walked into the open motel room. Benjamin thought that this might be a good time to try for a daring escape, except that it would be a very simple matter for Pedro to point his gun away from Julie and fire a bullet into his leg.

"What's Smith paying you?" Julie asked Pedro.

"More than you're making."

"You'd be surprised."

"I doubt it. And I don't do bribes. You might be able to bribe one of these simpletons with a warm beer and a copy of Playboy, but I don't switch loyalties."

"Fair enough."

There was a soft pop from the motel room, and the sound of something falling to the floor. Clyde emerged from the motel room, smug satisfaction on his face. He blew on the end of his pistol.

"What did you do?" Pedro asked.

"Got the old man."

The elderly woman let out a cry of sorrow that was cut off when Joey put his hand tightly over her mouth.

"You killed him?"

"Yeah." Suddenly Clyde looked unsure of himself. "You said to get him, right?"

"Get him! Not kill him! I wanted you to bring him out here, you dumb shit!"

"Oh. I thought—"

"No, you didn't! If there's anything you most assuredly did not do, it's think! Our job here is not to leave a trail of bodies! If we're going to be that careless, why not just kill the old lady, too?"

"Can I?" Joey asked.

"No!"

"Obviously you're having a personnel issue," said Julie. "How about you let us go and get back in touch when you've worked it out?"

Pedro ran a hand through his hair. "You know what? I can feel myself growing dumber. Brain cells are being sucked right out of my head. There's this whole line of brain cells floating up into the ether, sparkling in the moonlight. I should shoot myself in the head, speed up the process."

Somebody groaned in the motel room.

"Is he still alive?" Pedro asked.

Clyde frowned. "He shouldn't be."

"I realize that he shouldn't be. That wasn't the question. Joey, take the old lady with you and check on her husband."

"Okay. By 'check on' you don't mean shoot him again, right?"

"Correct. Go look at him with your eyes and tell me what you see."

Joey dragged the old woman into the room. "Oh, yeah, he's still alive," Joey called out. "Clyde got him in the stomach."

"Ah, yes," said Pedro. "Because when you're trying to prevent somebody from identifying you, the best way to go about it is to shoot him in the stomach and leave him to die a slow, agonizing death." He closed his eyes in frustration.

Julie kicked him in the chest.

It happened so quickly that it took Benjamin a moment to register what she'd done. Fortunately, it took Clyde even longer, and Benjamin dove at him.

Out of the corner of his eye as they crashed to the ground, he saw Pedro return the kick, knocking Julie against the wall. Then he became somewhat preoccupied with the sight of Clyde's gun pointed at his face.

"Don't kill him!" Pedro shouted.

"I wasn't gonna."

Benjamin took advantage of this fact and punched Clyde in the face, as hard as he could. A bolt of pain shot through his fist. That guy had one hell of a hard chin.

Julie tried to return Pedro's return of her kick, but he grabbed her foot and swung her in a circle, professional wrestler-style, and then bashed her into the wall again. She hit hard and fell to the ground.

Benjamin punched Clyde in the face with his other hand. Now he had two stinging hands and no visible impact on his opponent. It occurred to him that if the gun accidentally went off, punching Clyde repeatedly would have been a very bad idea. So he stopped doing it.

Julie jumped to her feet.

Clyde punched Benjamin in the face. It hurt way more than he expected, even after a day of parasite pain and some prior punches, and he blinked tears out of his eyes. He was an English teacher, not a hand-to-hand combatant!

"I will kill you if you make me," said Clyde with what appeared to be a genuine snarl. Benjamin didn't often hear people speak with snarls in real life.

"No, you won't," said Pedro, kicking Julie yet again.

The next punch made Benjamin's vision go black for a split second. He was pretty sure his eyes crossed, too. He tasted blood and knew that he simply wasn't going to win this fight.

He spat blood into Clyde's face and said: "Flesh-eating bacteria!"

Clyde yelped and frantically tried to scoot away. Benjamin grabbed for the gun, dug his fingernails into Clyde's wrist, and pulled the weapon away. Benjamin was now pointing a loaded pistol at himself, but he quickly rectified the situation and spun it around at Clyde.

"I'll shoot him," Benjamin warned. "I mean it."

"I'll give you fifty bucks if you make it a head shot," said Pedro.

Benjamin stood up, keeping the gun pointed at Clyde. He'd never fired a gun before and his hands still hurt, but Clyde looked plenty intimidated.

Joey stepped out of the motel room. His hand was pressed against his nose and some blood trickled through his fingers.

"What the hell happened to you?" Pedro demanded.

"Nothing."

"Did the old lady do this to you?"

Joey shook his head.

"The old man?"

Joey shrugged.

"The old man your brother gut-shot gave you a goddamn bloody nose?"

"He's tricky, okay?"

Off in the distance, Benjamin heard a siren.

"Well, the cops are on their way," Pedro announced. "That's just great. Just swell. God, my life sucks."

"I propose a truce," said Julie.

"What kind of truce?"

"None of us want police involvement," she explained. "I lose, you lose, Benjamin loses. Let's all get in our separate cars—I'll have to steal one kind of quickly, I guess—drive the hell away from this motel, and work it out later."

"So you're calling for a time-out, not a truce."

"Fine. I'm calling a time-out."

Everybody was silent for a moment.

"Time-out works for me," said Benjamin. Though he actually wasn't sure that having the police arrest their entire group would be such a bad thing, he figured the chances of this turning into a Wild Bunch-style "everybody dies" shootout would be reduced if the cops didn't surround them.

Pedro nodded. "Okay. I can go for that."

"Everybody lower your guns," said Julie.

Benjamin lowered his gun first, and the others followed. The sirens were much closer now.

"Ha!" said Joey, suddenly raising his gun and pointing it at Julie.

Though Julie's lack of planning skills and common sense made her a less than desirable benefactor in Benjamin's eyes, he couldn't argue with her physical agility. She'd moved out of the way before Joey's gun was even completely raised.

He fired three silenced bullets, all of which punched into Clyde's chest.

Benjamin gasped.

Pedro smacked his forehead and said something in Spanish that sounded a lot like a string of curse words.

"Clyde!" Joey screamed. He knelt down and cradled his brother. "Clyde, you're gonna be okay...don't die on me, bro!"

Clyde touched his index finger to his bleeding chest. "You asshole." He closed his eyes and was still.

"Joey, we need to go!" said Pedro, glancing around in a panic.

"He's my brother!" Joey sobbed. "I won't leave him!"

Julie ran into the old man and woman's motel room and returned a moment later with a set of keys. She picked up her gun and briefcase, then she and Benjamin hurried over to the yellow Volkswagen parked in front of the room.

"That's right, run!" shouted Joey, as Benjamin opened the passenger side door. "I vow vengeance! Wherever you go, I'll be there! I'll hunt you to the ends of forever!"

Benjamin hurriedly got into the car, buckled up, and closed the door. Julie started the engine.

"Vengeance!" Joey screamed, as Pedro tried to tug him away from Clyde's body. "Someday when you least expect it, you'll be in a public restroom or something, and I'll be there! I'll walk up behind you and I'll slit your throat! You'll be gushing blood and gargling and you'll know that you're paying for what you made me accidentally do to Clyde!"

They drove out of the motel parking lot and headed back for the interstate, in the opposite direction of the sirens.

"Which one of us was he yelling at?" Julie asked.

"Wasn't it you?"

"I thought it was me, but then he started in with that whole public restroom bit."

"I don't know." Benjamin sighed. "That was way too close. Are you sure you don't want to sleep while I drive?"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Mom? Are you okay?"

Margaret flinched and glanced away from the television, which hadn't been turned on. "What?"

"You were just staring," said Cindy.

"Oh. Sorry."

Cindy sat down next to her on the couch. "You should get some sleep."

Margaret had tried. It wasn't working. It was just so damn frustrating to have Benjamin gone, kidnapped right out of the operating room, and not be able to do anything but sit at home and wait for the police—or Benjamin—to call.

"I'm sure he's okay," said Cindy.

Margaret nodded. "I'm sure you're right."

They sat there for a while, holding each other, until the phone rang. Margaret stood up and raced for the phone so quickly that she bashed her leg against the coffee table.

"Hello?"

It was the police. Their update was not quite what Margaret was expecting to hear.

"What'd they say?" asked Cindy after Margaret hung up.

"Apparently your father was in a motel in Georgia. There was a shootout, and then he and the woman who kidnapped him drove away in a stolen car."

"Dad was in a shootout?"

"Yes. One man was shot to death, and another is in critical condition."

"A shootout? Dad? Really? You think he fired any bullets?"

Margaret's mind was racing. She had no idea what to do, but she did know that she couldn't sit in the house waiting any longer. "Go get dressed."

"Where are we going?"

"Georgia."

* * *

Julie lay against the passenger side window, snoring softly. Before she went to sleep, she'd given Benjamin a very serious lecture about not trying to seek help, contact his family, or do anything that did not involve driving in the direction of California.

They'd quickly ditched the Volkswagen. At the next exit, they'd driven around until Julie found a car that looked old enough for her to hotwire: a 1985 Plymouth Caravelle. She'd given herself a nasty shock in the process, but had eventually started the engine.

"How did the old guy look when you went in there?" Benjamin had asked. Driving in their Volkswagen had creeped him out. When people got shot in the stomach, you were supposed to call for an ambulance and try to help them, not steal their car.

"He'll be okay, I think," said Julie.

"You think?"

"I'm not a doctor."

They planned to ditch the stolen Plymouth in the morning, but for now Benjamin drove along the highway, staying just under the speed limit as directed.

If he survived this experience, his students were going to think he was so cool.

Actually, they'd probably think he was incredibly cool if he died, too, but he'd enjoy that less.

He glanced up at himself in the rear-view mirror. He'd only been driving for a couple of hours, and the sores were definitely bigger than when he'd started. He wished he still had his beard to help cover them. Would they go away after they got the parasite out of him?

Hell, he didn't even know if he'd be alive after they took out the parasite. He could still very well be expendable. Kill the host after the visitor's gone. Maybe he knew too much, or maybe it wasn't worth trying to save his life when they could simply take a saw and cut the specimen right out.

You're getting paranoid...

Maybe they'd keep him there. Maybe the whole plan was to keep the parasite alive inside of him until it was otherwise needed. He'd be strapped to a lab table, fed through an IV tube, hooked up to a bunch of machines while a doctor in a bloodstained lab coat grinned at him sadistically. Maybe they'd inject more parasites into him, a whole colony of them, until his entire body was filled with writhing creatures that burrowed through his flesh until there was nothing left but a skeleton like the one in Mr. Spooner's science class.

Of course, that was a worst-case scenario.

He turned on the radio to distract himself from his brain, and all the music sucked. He sang along softly to the least offensive tune and wondered for the nine-hundred and fifty-seventh time if he should secretly try to call Margaret and Cindy. Or at least send them a text message. It wouldn't have to be anything elaborate—just "ok" would be fine. Though he felt that text messaging was leading to complete illiteracy amongst the nation's youth, he'd happily make an exception to his "every sentence should have a verb, a noun, and at least one properly spelled word" rule.

But no. Couldn't risk it.

He winced at the sudden pain in his stomach. Wonderful. His buddy the parasite was getting squirmy again.

He didn't want to wake Julie up. There would no doubt be more encounters with bad guys in the near future, and he didn't want her to be half-asleep when the next round of bullets started to fly. He'd be okay. When the pain started to get really intense, he'd wake her up and enjoy another needle in the gut.

He suffered through crap music for another three songs, until finally Alice Cooper's "School's Out" started. He hummed along, hoping that some of his students had made productive use of their studying time while he was out of the room.

Friends...

Friends? Where had that thought come from?

But still, friends were good. Everybody needed friends. Benjamin considered most of his fellow teachers his friends, though really his idea of an enjoyable evening was to stay at home with Margaret and Cindy. Or, usually, just Margaret, since Cindy liked to go out with her own friends. Cindy had lots of friends. She deserved to. She was a good kid.

Benjamin continued to sing along. He realized that he'd gotten a bit too loud, and softened his voice to avoid waking up Julie.

Food...

Food. Yes. Food provided nourishment and was often fun to eat. Benjamin was a big supporter of the idea of food. Without food, society would crumble pretty darn quickly. He wondered how many food groups they had these days. It seemed like they kept changing it. It used to be...what, meat, fruits and vegetables, dairy, and bread? He didn't think it was called the "bread" group anymore. Grains, maybe.

Bananas. Bananas were his favorite fruit. He also liked strawberries and cherries. Apples, not so much. Even apple pie didn't do much for him, although he certainly wouldn't turn down a slice if one was offered to him right now, especially if it had a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side.

When did kiwi/strawberry become a standard fruit flavor combination? You saw it everywhere these days. When he was ten years old, he didn't think he even knew what a kiwi was.

He didn't really want fruit, though. Or vegetables. Steak. That's what he wanted. A great big ol' slab of steak, medium rare, lightly salted, with a fully loaded baked potato. Cindy would laugh and say "Would you like some baked potato with your sour cream?" and he'd gobble it right up with nary a thought for the high fat content.

Would Julie let them stop somewhere for a steak? Probably not. She was kind of uptight.

Friends...

Why was he thinking about friends again? He'd already covered that topic. Back to food.

Pomegranates. Now that was one dumb-ass fruit.

How come so many restaurants used the animal being eaten as their cheery mascot? There was this rib place that had a pig in a bib, licking its lips. Didn't the pig realize that this was cannibalism? Why would anybody turn to cannibalism when there were so many other food options available? He could understand a pig being happy about eating a goat, but the restaurant was probably going to slaughter and eat that very same pig after he got done with his plateful of ribs.

Benjamin looked over at Julie. Still sound asleep.

Damn, she was hot. He'd love to have her for dessert, and not in a cannibalism sort of way.

He grinned. Maybe he and Margaret and Julie could get a little three-way action going sometime in the near future. Four way if you counted the parasite. Kinky.

The speed limit was annoying. Benjamin edged the car past eighty. If the cops didn't like it, they'd just have to try and catch him.

He clenched his hands more tightly on the steering wheel. A small trickle of red liquid ran out of one of the sores.

He thought about food for another ten minutes or so, until he saw a sign with the fork, spoon, and knife symbol. Julie would get mad if he stopped, since she'd have to hotwire the car again, but she wasn't the boss of him. Nobody was the boss of him. Okay, Principal Reitz was the boss of him. Principal Reitz wasn't here. If Principal Reitz told him not to stop at the nearest restaurant for a steak, he'd listen, but otherwise, Julie could kiss his thirty-nine-year-old ass.

He took the next exit. Julie didn't stir. She sure was lazy.

He drove down the street, cursing the lack of restaurants open at three in the morning. Didn't they realize that there were important steak needs going on at this very moment? Bastards.

Finally, he saw a neon sign that said "24-Hour Dining." Springwood Grill. He didn't know if he was in a town called Springwood or if that was the name of the owner, but it didn't really matter, as long as they had chocolate.

No, steak.

Oh, hell, he'd have both. Steak with a side of chocolate.

He pulled into the parking lot and checked out Julie once again. Don't wake up, please. A line of red gook stretched between his hands and the steering wheel as he pulled them away.

As quietly as possible, he shut off the car's engine.

Julie's eyes opened. "Where are we?" she asked in a groggy voice.

"Bathroom break. Sorry. Go back to sleep."

She blinked a few times and glanced around at their surroundings. "Don't go in there. Somebody might recognize you."

"I won't," said Benjamin, trying to sound soothing. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you up when I need you."

She leaned her head against the door again and closed her eyes. Benjamin waited for a minute or so until she started to snore again, and then very carefully opened the car door. He got out and closed the door most of the way, leaving about an inch gap so the sound wouldn't wake her up.

He pushed through the glass doors of the diner. A couple of men sat at the front counter, and a tired-looking man and woman with a young boy sat in a corner booth, eating burgers.

Benjamin walked right up to the front counter and sat down. The waitress—a young, pretty blonde with glasses and her hair pulled back—didn't hide her grimace at his appearance. Stuck-up bitch. She'd already blown her tip.

"May I help you, sir?" she asked, taking a small order pad out of her apron pocket.

Benjamin rubbed at one of the larger sores on his forearm. "What have you got in the way of steak? I'm famished."

"We have steak and eggs."

"Is it a big steak?"

"Not too big, sir." She mimed a pathetic little six-incher with her index fingers.

"Well, that's a fuckin' waste of my time," said Benjamin. "How about you be a sweetie and go cook me up three of those and stack them on top of each other so that it looks like a real steak, huh? And get me a slab of chocolate cake while I'm waiting."

The waitress, whose name was Tammy according to the name tag pinned over her insufficient breasts, glared at him but nodded.

"Hey," said the guy three stools to his right, a big bearded loser in a ridiculous green ball cap.

Benjamin ignored him. He had better things to do with his time than converse with somebody in a hat like that.

"Hey," the guy repeated.

Benjamin looked over at him. "Yeah?"

"There's no reason to talk to her like that."

"Did you see how she looked at me? You think that just because I've got this shit all over my face it's okay to stare at me like I'm some kind of freak?" Benjamin pressed his finger into one of the sores on his chin and then wiped it off on the counter.

"Either way, I'm going to ask you to be polite or I'm going to ask you to leave."

"Ask me to leave? Good luck with that. I'll ooze wherever I want to ooze." Benjamin slammed his fist against the counter. "Yo! Tammy Titless! Where's my cake?"

The man slid off his stool and stood up. Benjamin noticed that the other man at the counter, who looked equally large, was closely watching the encounter.

"I'd like you to leave," said the man in the ball cap.

"I'll leave after I finish my cake and three steaks."

"I'd like you to leave now, sir."

Friends...

"You're not my friend," Benjamin told the man.

"No. I'm not."

"What's your name?"

"Ron."

"Well, Ron, I'm not going anywhere. So you can either sit back down and let me enjoy my meal, or you can kick my ass." That didn't sound quite right, but Benjamin didn't correct himself.

The other man stood up as well.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Benjamin started to think that this situation was moving in a negative direction, and that perhaps getting into a diner fight with two much larger guys wasn't such a good idea.

"Don't do anything," said Tammy, emerging through the swinging doors from the kitchen. "I already called the police."

"You called the cops on me?" Benjamin asked.

"Yeah. So you'd better get the hell out."

Food...

Benjamin looked over at the family in the booth, who were nervously watching the proceedings. "Can you believe that? They called the cops on me for ordering food. All I wanted was some food. This is a diner, right? It's not like I came into a Laundromat and ordered a steak. I hope you all die."

"Sir—" Ron began.

Benjamin threw a punch at the man, hoping to hit him in the face so hard that his ugly ball cap spun around like a helicopter propeller. He failed at this particular task, missing completely.

Ron punched him in the stomach. Benjamin's mouth dropped open and he fell off the stool, crashing to the tile floor and smacking his head against the counter. Something ran down his face, though he wasn't sure if it was blood from a new wound or just his old sores leaking.

Pain tore through his entire body, but also a strange sort of exhilaration, like the thrill of digging your teeth into fresh juicy flesh.

He reached up, grabbed the seat of the stool, and pulled himself back to his feet. "Is that all you've got?" he asked.

Tammy handed Ron a baseball bat over the counter. Benjamin thought that was pretty stupid—was he planning to try out for a baseball team at three in the morning?

Food.

Friends.

Kill.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Tammy hadn't brought him silverware yet, so Benjamin didn't have anything to stab Ron with. He patted his pockets, found nothing, and settled for extending his thumb in an intimidating manner.

Kill.

"I'm trying!" Benjamin said. He stared at Ron's face, looking for the best place to insert his thumb.

"Sir, I will break your neck if you don't leave here immediately," Ron warned.

He really is going to break your neck! What the hell are you doing? Get out of here! You're not right in the head!

Kill.

"I heard you about the kill thing!" Benjamin shouted. "Enough already! Give it a rest!"

Ron stepped back.

"He's insane," said Tammy. "Ron, just wait for the police, I mean it."

Was Ron scared of insane people? That could provide the advantage Benjamin so desperately needed. He contorted his face into the most insane expression he could think of, and then lunged at him.

Ron jabbed him in the stomach, using the bat like a lance. Benjamin doubled over, fell to his knees, and began to weep. People weren't supposed to get hurt this many times in one day. It wasn't fair.

Somebody lifted him to his feet again. It was the other guy, probably, though Benjamin couldn't see him behind him. This time the bat cracked him on the side of the head. He dropped again.

"I could've hit you a lot harder!" Ron insisted. "You just need to get out of here."

Benjamin was starting to agree with him. He tried to get back up but his arms, legs, torso, and head weren't cooperating.

He asked if he could get the steaks to go.

* * *

In her dream, Julie was watching Brad Pitt vacuum her living room. He wasn't just getting the main area, oh no, he was doing under the rugs and behind the furniture and everything. George Clooney winked at her as he reorganized her pantry, putting everything into neat little categories. Canned goods on the bottom shelf, boxes on the second and third shelves, and bagged items on top. Oh, God, yes.

She snapped awake. Dammit. It was impossible to get a good dream going again. If she fell right back asleep the best she could hope for was having sex with them.

Benjamin was gone.

Had she given him permission to leave?

She quickly got out of the car. This job was so not worth the money or the glory. She was either going to kill Benjamin or get herself killed, either of which would look bad on her resume.

She hurried into the diner and saw Benjamin seated on the floor, two men standing over him, one with a baseball bat. Hopefully she could get them out of this little pickle without shooting anybody.

"Hi," she said, giving a friendly wave. "The guy you're beating to death is with me."

"Oh, yeah?" asked the man with the bat. "Maybe you could teach him some manners, then."

"Isn't that what you're doing now?" She walked over to the counter and not-so-gently helped Benjamin to his feet. The men stepped back and didn't try to stop her. Julie quickly ushered Benjamin out of the diner and shoved him into the passenger seat of the car. She slammed the door behind him and then got into the driver's seat.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't punch you out," she said.

Benjamin shrugged. "You'll get gook on your fist."

"Seriously, what was that all about? Why'd they attack you?"

"Rude."

"What were you even doing in there? You weren't supposed to go inside."

"Am I grounded?"

"I'm serious, Benjamin!" This was really bad. Nobody had said that the parasite would be affecting him this way. Julie wasn't supposed to give him another shot this soon, but she needed to get him under control. She didn't know the impact of a double-dose. Should she risk it, or just throw him in the trunk?

The trunk sounded pretty good.

No, no, she needed to be able to keep an eye on him, in case his physical condition got even worse.

She reached into the back seat and grabbed the briefcase with the hypodermic needles. Benjamin placed his hands protectively over his stomach as she popped open the lid.

"What are you doing with that?" he asked.

"What do you think? I'm drugging your stomach guest."

Benjamin shook his head. "No."

"No?" Aw, crap, how far gone was he? "You mean no because you don't want a needle in your stomach, right? Not because you're protecting the parasite?"

Benjamin's eyes flicked to the right, as if he was trying to make a quick decision. "I don't want a needle in my stomach."

"Are you lying to me?"

"I'm not a liar, liar, pants on fire, hanging on a telephone wire."

"You need a shot."

"Try it and die." He didn't seem to be kidding.

Julie very calmly took one of the hypodermic needles out of the case. She depressed the plunger a bit to remove the air bubbles. "Fine. If you don't want the shot, then I have to give myself one to keep from catching what you've got."

She jabbed at his stomach with her left hand. Benjamin immediately blocked it, which is what she wanted him to do, since the needle was in her right. She thrust the needle into his gut and squeezed the plunger, hoping that she struck the parasite on the first try.

Benjamin looked positively enraged and ready to rip her head off, but then his expression softened and he let out a deep sigh. "Thanks," he said.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine now."

"Are you faking?"

"No."

Julie looked at him closely and decided that she believed him. "Good. What happened in there?"

"I don't know," Benjamin admitted. "I just got...hungry. And mean."

"You're lucky they didn't kill you."

"Or me kill them."

"No, I think it was always going to be about them killing you."

"You're probably right," Benjamin admitted. "I have no idea what happened in there. I just lost my mind. Oh, by the way, do you promise not to get mad?"

"Absolutely not."

"The waitress said she called the police."

Julie sighed. "Of course she did. Otherwise we might have had a couple of minutes that didn't suck."

"Sorry."

Julie reached down and began messing with wires. "The next time you feel compelled to do something like that, let me know so I can hobble you."

"I'm really sorry."

"Understood. Try not to feel too guilty if I get arrested and have to use my cyanide capsule."

"You have a cyanide capsule?"

"Yep." Actually, she didn't, but letting Benjamin think she did might prevent future stunts like this.

The engine roared to life.

* * *

They sped down the road, no longer sticking to the posted speed limit. They'd been driving for about fifteen minutes, so it was possible that they'd gotten away in time, though Benjamin expected to see flashing lights at any moment.

He felt like an absolute jerk. How could he have done something so stupid, even with parasitic assistance? This wasn't like eating tons of chocolate or gambling away two thousand dollars.

"I'm really worried about what happened in the diner," he said.

"How so?"

"The previous things I did, they were extreme versions of things I might have done anyway. I ate too much candy. I liked to drop a few bucks in the slot machines. I loved to...be with my wife. But I was a complete asshole in there. I'm not like that."

Julie didn't look at him. "Maybe you are and just didn't know it."

"I'm not." God, I hope I'm not. "That was a different person. It almost felt like somebody was talking to me."

"Like how?"

"A voice in my head. My voice, but not me thinking, if that makes any sense."

"What'd it say?"

"'Friends.' And 'food'." Benjamin decided not to mention "Kill" for the time being.

"Hmm. I can't honestly say that I was expecting that. Are you saying that the parasite is trying to talk to you?"

"I don't know."

"Okay, but if you had to guess, would you be leaning in more of a 'parasite talking' direction or a 'parasite quiet' direction?"

"I hope I was just imagining it," Benjamin said.

"Yes. That goes without saying. I hope you were imagining it, too. That said, I'd like to know what you truly believe happened."

Benjamin considered it for a moment. "I think it was talking to me."

Julie slammed her fist against the steering wheel, making Benjamin flinch. "Shit! What the hell kind of freaky shit is that? Nobody told me we had a fucking chatty parasite in your gut!"

"I wouldn't call it chatty."

"I was exaggerating out of anger, okay? I've had a lousy day and I can't seem to get any sleep without bad things happening."

"I'll drive if you want to—"

"Benjamin? Don't mess with me. I'll throw you and your chatty parasite right the fuck out of this car."

"Okay."

They drove in silence for a few minutes. Julie continued to look pissed.

"How did you get into the bounty hunting business?" Benjamin finally asked.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Why wouldn't I? I mean, the career path of an English teacher is pretty straightforward. I went to college, got my teaching certificate, and got a job in a high school. I'm guessing that there isn't a college curriculum for what you do."

"Nope."

Benjamin waited for her to elaborate. She did not. "Is this something you don't want to talk about?"

"I don't want to talk about anything right now. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a little bit ticked off."

"You're being kind of pouty, actually."

"I beg your pardon?"

"No offense, but you are. You're pouty." Benjamin smiled when he said it, although inwardly he cringed and expected her to make good on the threat to fling him out of the car.

To his surprise and relief, she smiled as well. "Yeah, I guess I am. We'll be okay. If the cops haven't found us yet, I think our luck will hold up. I just don't do well when I don't get enough sleep. Which is a bad thing to admit, since a lot of my job involves long hours of surveillance, but I've always been a big believer in eight hours of sleep every night. Keeps your mind sharp."

"How long have you been a bounty hunter?"

"Started when I was six."

"Is this your way of avoiding the topic?"

Julie shook her head. "I'm serious. Six years old. My friend Margie wanted to kiss this boy named Craig. She gave me half of her Twinkie to catch him and bring him back to her. I chased him around the playground for about ten minutes, until he fell off the jungle gym and hurt his leg. I dragged him over to Margie and she kissed him until he started crying. Then she stiffed me on the Twinkie and I stole a whole one out of her lunchbox the next day."

"And that's when you decided you wanted to be a bounty hunter?"

"No. Back then I still wanted to be a fairy princess. Then I wanted to be an FBI agent. Tried. Didn't do so well."

"What happened?"

"I'm not a good test-taker."

"I see."

"And I accidentally shot somebody I shouldn't have."

"I see."

"It wasn't even that bad. Leg wound. Leg grazing, really. Barely required any stitches. But he was sort of a VIP, so it kind of derailed my potential career."

"Did you shoot the president?"

"No," said Julie. "Well, not of the United States."

"Then you went into bounty hunting?"

"No, then I went into retail. It's awful. Don't do it."

"I won't."

"I went from retail, to waitressing, back to retail, which sucked even more the second time, to being a secretary, which is where I met—oh, crap, I hope that's not a cop behind us."

The police car turned on its red and blue flashing lights. Another car behind it pulled into the adjacent lane and turned on its lights as well.

"We're about to break some laws, aren't we?" Benjamin asked.

"We won't be able to outrun them in this grandma car," said Julie. "And I'm not inclined to start shooting at the police. Do you think your chatty parasite can teleport us out of here?"

Benjamin ignored her sarcasm. "We're surrendering, then?"

"No. We're still going to try to outrun them in the grandma car. It's just not likely to work out for us."

The speedometer crept up to ninety miles per hour. Benjamin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "If you don't think it can be done, should we maybe take the option that's less likely to get us into a high-speed wreck?"

"That's a thought."

"We should also possibly be considerate of other drivers that we might smash into. Y'know, moms with babies in the back seat and stuff."

"Also a thought."

"Let me put it this way: I'm having a crisis of conscience over making fun of the size of the waitress's breasts. If we accidentally kill somebody, especially a baby, I won't be able to handle the guilt."

"Fair enough." Julie applied the brakes. They slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road, followed by the cops.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Benjamin turned around and looked out the back window at the stopped police cars. The cops hadn't yet gotten out of their vehicles.

"What are we going to do?" Benjamin asked.

"I don't know yet."

"But you're thinking of a peaceful solution, right?"

"I said, I don't know yet."

"Okay, I have to give a big thumbs-up to the idea of a peaceful solution. Anything you can do to facilitate that would be great. Please tell me you're not planning to shoot the cops."

"No, Benjamin, I'm not planning to shoot the cops. Just relax."

Finally an officer emerged from each vehicle. Neither of them looked particularly intimidating by cop standards, but Benjamin still had a sick feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the parasite.

"Don't question me," Julie told Benjamin. "I need you to get out of the car and walk toward them. Stop when they tell you to stop."

Benjamin didn't hesitate. He got out of the car and gave the officers a friendly little wave. Though they didn't puke or anything, they both seemed taken aback by his grotesque appearance.

"Sir, please place your hands on the vehicle," one of the officers said, an instant before a bullet struck him in the thigh.

Julie, leaning out through the window, fired again. Another leg shot. The second officer went down.

Benjamin stood there, gaping at the fallen officers. Any possible comment he could make at this time seemed woefully inadequate.

Julie got out of the car and pointed her gun at Benjamin. He cringed, waiting for her to shoot him as well. "Get back in the car, dumb-ass!"

He hurried back into the car and slammed the door shut as Julie turned on the engine and sped back onto the road.

"I...I can't...what the hell, Julie?" Benjamin screamed. "This isn't like stealing a car or shooting a security guard! You shot two cops! There's no happy ending to this!"

"I'll be the judge of the happy ending," said Julie.

"You said you weren't going to shoot them!"

"I changed my mind!"

"You shouldn't have!"

"Enough, Benjamin. It's already done. And let me warn you: If you give me any problems at all from now on, I'll put one bullet in each kneecap. Do we understand each other?"

She looked one hundred percent serious. Benjamin decided not to test it. "Yeah, I understand you."

"And guess what? I'm going to pull over, and you're riding in the trunk from now on."

* * *

"I vow vengeance!"

Pedro clenched the steering wheel even more tightly in his fists. "If you say that one more time, I'm going to floor it and slam us into a wall."

"Easy for you to say!" Joey wailed. "You didn't just lose a brother!"

"Easy for me to say? That doesn't even make any sense. We need to think about what we're going to tell your father."

"We're going to tell him that revenge will be mine!"

"I mean it, you need to pull yourself together. I'm calling him now."

"Revenge!"

"Fine, revenge, whatever. Inigo Montoya you're not." Pedro took out his cell phone and dialed.

"Did you get it?" Mr. Smith immediately asked. Pedro pushed a button and put him on speakerphone.

"No, sir. There were complications."

"Complications involving my idiot sons?"

"More or less, sir."

"She killed Clyde!" Joey shouted.

"My son is dead?"

"One of them, sir."

A moment of terrifying silence, and then: "How did this happen on your watch?"

"The situation was completely under control," Pedro said. "We had them exactly where we wanted them, and then Joey decided to shoot at the other bounty hunter. He wasn't fast enough and he hit Clyde instead."

"Joey shot Clyde?"

"Yes, sir."

"Put him on."

"You're on speaker, sir."

"Take it off speaker and put him on."

Pedro pressed the speaker button and handed the phone to Joey.

"Yeah?" Joey asked. "No...yeah...no...uh-huh...I don't know...I don't know...yeah...I don't know...because... yeah...no...no...I don't know...yeah...why?...I guess...I guess...no...yeah...okay." He handed the phone back to Pedro.

"Yes, sir?"

"You have disappointed me more than I can possibly express, Pedro," said Mr. Smith.

"It wasn't my—"

"I don't want excuses. You were given a job that was obviously beyond your capabilities. For that, I regret my poor judgment."

Pedro did not smash the cell phone against the dashboard over and over until nothing remained but powder, but he would have enjoyed the experience immensely.

"I'm giving you a second chance," said Mr. Smith. Pedro thought he might have actually heard the man sniffle a bit, but he couldn't be sure.

"Thank you, sir," said Pedro, since it sounded like a better way to stay alive than the desired response of "Fuck you."

"Here's your new assignment..."

* * *

The trunk of the car was not comfy. It had a spare tire in it, along with a few smelly old books, some fast food bags, and a stuffed walrus. Benjamin had to contort his body to fit inside, and he still smacked the roof whenever Julie hit a bump, which she seemed to be doing on purpose.

Benjamin wasn't sure which hurt worse: the parasite, or the thought that he'd been partially responsible for two cops, a security guard, and an old man getting shot. (He didn't count Clyde.)

The pain wasn't anywhere near as severe as when he'd first met Julie, but it was definitely starting to get more intense. Another dose of medication just seemed to have made the creature angry. Or maybe it was stoned and simply thrashing around in a drug-induced fantasy world. Either way, the parasite was a very inconsiderate intestinal guest.

And it felt heavier. A lot heavier. As if it were growing.

They were going to kill him. That much seemed obvious. He didn't even know who "they" were, but if shooting a couple of cops was considered acceptable behavior, then he was certainly disposable once they removed the specimen.

Not a lot of escape opportunities when you were locked in a car trunk speeding down the highway. He'd tried kicking at the lid a few times, but that only hurt his foot, and even if he got the lid open, leaping from a speeding automobile onto the pavement was a good way to end up nice and splattery.

Dammit.

He hated being powerless. Hated lying in this trunk like a pitiful little victim. No matter what, when the first opportunity presented itself to escape, he was going to take it. Benjamin Wilson was not going to find himself on a dissection table thinking "Gosh, I really should have tried to shove past Julie when I had the chance. Oh well. Wow, is that what my pancreas looks like?"

Well, okay, if she opened the trunk and immediately shoved a gun in his face, he might wait for a better opportunity, but still, the basic concept was that he was going to get the hell away from her.

Friends...

"Shut up," he told the parasite. "We're not friends. You're a rotten creature and I hope they stomp on you like a frickin' slug. That's right, a slug. After you're out of my body, of course. But a slug."

He'd meant to think that, not say it out loud. At least nobody else could hear him.

Friends...

"Quit harping on the whole 'friends' thing. It makes you sound needy. Have some self-respect. You don't hear me going around begging people to be my friends. Friendship is something that you have to earn. It's not something you're entitled to just because you're swimming around in somebody's intestinal tract."

No response.

Benjamin frowned. "Did I hurt your feelings?"

The parasite didn't respond.

"I wasn't trying to be mean. I was just trying to impart some life lessons. I'm sorry I called you a rotten little creature. I'm also sorry about the slug comment. I'm stressed out because of Julie, that's all it is—it's not your fault."

Still nothing.

There was a brief moment of clarity, where Benjamin suddenly realized that he was apologizing to the parasite. His thought of "What the hell?" was fleeting and followed by:

"I said I was sorry! What more do you want?"

He gently tapped at his gut. How dare the parasite try to give him the silent treatment? Were they back in elementary school? What happened to being able to resolve conflicts like reasonable adults?

"Hey, I'm talking to you! Don't pretend you can't hear me. I'll reach down my throat and drag you out of there. You think my arm won't reach that far? I'll reach right through my lungs if I have to, bitch!"

Friends...

"Oh, thank God." Benjamin stroked his fingers lovingly over his waist. "You had me scared for a minute there. Let's not fight. Let's never fight again."

The car struck a particularly large bump, and Benjamin's head bashed against the roof of the trunk. He cursed for a while. After he was done, he suddenly realized once again that he was trying to build a relationship with the monster in his gut.

What had the parasite done to him? He felt like he'd been one step away from saying "My precious!"

A few minutes later, the car stopped. Benjamin readied himself to spring into action. "Okay, little parasite, it's you and me against the world. If we stick together, there's nothing we can't accomplish. Follow my lead. Or I'll follow your lead. Which do you prefer?"

The parasite did not answer.

"Follow my lead," Benjamin decided. He realized that he was still having trouble with the "thinking" vs. "speaking out loud" concept, and hoped Julie hadn't overheard him.

The trunk opened. Julie immediately shoved a gun in his face.

Benjamin sighed. "Aw, man."

* * *

Benjamin sat in the darkness in the back of another semi truck. This one was even less comfortable than the first. The entire storage area was almost completely filled with wooden crates, so he sat right up next to the sliding metal door, handcuffed to the locking mechanism. This time, he didn't feel guilty about the sacrifices Julie had to make to get them this ride. He sort of hoped that there was gagging and the phrase "Ooops! That never happens!" involved.

Once again, he vowed to make an escape attempt as soon as he had a chance. He hadn't had a chance this last time, because Julie never stopped pointing the goddamn gun at him, but there would be a moment at some point in the future where the gun would be aimed elsewhere, and that's when Benjamin Wilson would strike. He and the parasite would show her who was boss.

Now the question was, should he sleep and regain his energy for the battle ahead, or should he simply wait, all five senses alive and alert, like a ferocious panther stalking its prey?

He selected the panther simile.

Three hours later, he was pretty much sick of being a panther, and fell asleep.

Benjamin awoke as the truck stopped. His body was stiff, he had a headache that felt like the hands of Zeus were trying to squeeze his eyeballs out of their sockets, and the parasite pain hadn't gone away. Also, he was still handcuffed. That said, he had a plan in place ("I need to use the restroom," followed by a blatant violation of the trust she put in him by letting him use the restroom) and wasn't going to screw it up.

When the door slid open, Julie didn't have a gun pointed at him.

However, the semi driver had a gun pointed at her.

Julie was on her knees, with her hands on top of her head. She looked unhappy.

The driver, who was probably in his sixties, gave Benjamin a great big grin, exposing teeth coated with a thin layer of chewing tobacco. He wore gray overalls and heavy work boots. Something about him just screamed "serial killer," possibly his crazed expression of maniacal glee.

Benjamin also noticed that they were no longer on the interstate. Or, apparently, near civilization. There was nothing around but a dirt road and trees.

"Uh, hi," said Benjamin, squirming a bit.

The probable serial killer didn't respond. He looked down at Julie and nudged her with his boot. "You was right. He don't look good at all." He looked back at Benjamin. "What's the matter with you, boy? You got the AIDS or something?"

Benjamin decided to give the answer that would discourage cannibalism. He nodded. "AIDS and the plague. Bad year for me."

"Well, you are one nasty looking piece of meat," the man said. "We'll feed you to the dogs instead."

Food...

"Shut up," Benjamin told the parasite.

"Oh, looks like we gonna have to teach you some manners," said the man. He craned his head around and called over his shoulder. "Hap! Neal! How long you gonna keep me waiting?"

A couple of other guys, who looked like they could be the son and grandson of the man, came running. The grandson scowled when he saw Benjamin. "Aw, cripes, that's disgusting! Where'd you find this one?"

"Boy, that there is the sad result of what happens when you rape a possum. Don't be doing that no more."

The three men cracked up. "Don't say that in front of them," said the grandson, putting a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. "They gonna think I really do that!"

"But you do, Neal!"

"Don't neither! One dog." Neal held up one finger. "One dog, one time—"

"Two times."

"Second time didn't count. Either way, one dog two times don't make me a possum raper."

"That it doesn't. You got the sacks?"

"Sure do."

A moment later, Benjamin had a filthy burlap sack over his head. He thought he might spring into action when they unlocked the handcuffs, but they beat him unconscious before doing so.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Vengeance!"

"Enough," said Pedro. "You don't need to keep saying 'vengeance' every ten seconds. I get the point."

Joey punched the inside of the car door. "She killed my brother."

"I was there. You want to seek revenge? Fine. Just don't obsess about it out loud. You're giving me a migraine. Think it to yourself."

"I will not rest until Clyde is—"

"What the hell did I just say? Are you seriously going to deny me even a full second of silence?"

Joey glared at him. "If you lost a brother, you'd feel the same way."

"You're right. I probably would. At the same time, I probably wouldn't have shot my brother several times in the chest. Just saying."

"Vengeance!"

* * *

"Mom, you should slow down," Cindy suggested.

Margaret glanced down at the speedometer and saw that they were pushing ninety. She let the car drop down to eighty-five.

The rational part of Margaret's mind knew this trip was a waste of time. Benjamin was certainly long-gone from the motel by now, and it wasn't like she'd pass him hitchhiking by the side of the road. But the rational part of her mind wasn't carrying much of the mental load right now, and the emotional part told her that she should do whatever she could to get closer to her husband.

"Do you think Dad's okay?" Cindy asked. She'd asked this question at least a dozen times since their road trip began. Still, it was a far cry from "Are we there yet?" and didn't bother Margaret a bit.

"Yes," Margaret said. "He's fine. I promise."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. And I'm your mother, so don't argue with me."

* * *

Benjamin opened his eyes, which took a bit of effort because his eyelashes were stuck to his lower lids. He was in a small room in a cabin. An incredibly gross cabin. The reek was unidentifiable and almost unbearable. He really hoped it wasn't rotting flesh, though that seemed like the most likely culprit.

He sat in a wooden chair. He tried to stand up and was surprised when he succeeded. Then a dizzy spell struck him and he flopped back down into the chair, his entire body aching. His arms had new sores on them, along with a couple of nasty bruises.

Julie sat in a chair next to him, unconscious. She'd also been badly beaten. At least a dozen flies crawled over her body, but he could see that she was still breathing.

The only faint light shone in through a dusty grease-covered window. The window looked just barely large enough for them to squeeze out of if they broke the glass, although Benjamin doubted that escape would be quite that easy. He took a deep breath, focused, and got back to his feet. He gently shook Julie's shoulder.

"Julie," he whispered. "Wake up."

She groaned but didn't open her eyes. There was a single door that looked like a couple of solid kicks could break it open, but again, it was pretty darn unlikely that there wasn't somebody waiting in the next room, probably with a weapon or two. He shook Julie's shoulder a little harder. "C'mon!"

"Lemme sleep," she muttered.

He considered tilting her chair forward and spilling her onto the floor, but didn't want to make a noise and let anybody know they were conscious. Also, considering the unappealing stains on the floor, he was worried that she might stick. Instead, he shook her even harder. Her eyes flew open. He cupped his hand over her mouth before she could scream.

"Shhhhh."

"Where are we?" Julie whispered.

"A bad cabin."

"I'm so sorry...he looked creepy but I didn't realize he was actually like that...I mean, what are the odds...?"

"It's okay," said Benjamin, even though it really wasn't. "We'll get out of this." He extended his hand. Julie took it and he pulled her to her feet.

"Do you know where they are?" Julie asked.

Benjamin shook his head. "Not too far, I'm guessing."

"What do you think? Break down the door and take them by surprise?"

"You think we can knock it down in one kick?"

Julie carefully tiptoed over to inspect the door more carefully. Mercifully, the floorboards didn't creak. "If we kick it at the exact same time, yeah."

"Maybe we should wait," said Benjamin. "Pick up a chair, stand by the door, and get ready to bash somebody's head in as soon as they come in to check on us."

Julie cursed under her breath. "Too late."

Benjamin looked toward the window and saw what Julie saw: a woman peering inside. The woman quickly disappeared. Benjamin picked up his chair and hoisted it over his head, while his sore arm muscles screamed for mercy. Julie did the same thing.

Food...

"Don't start."

They each stood on one side of the door. "We need to conserve the chairs," Benjamin whispered. "Do you want to hit the first person through or the second one?"

"The first."

"Sounds good."

They waited.

The door remained closed. Benjamin glanced back at the window. Empty.

They continued to wait.

"Do you think they're trying to lull us into a false sense of security?" Benjamin asked.

"I don't know. She might not have been part of their group."

"Maybe she's getting help."

"Maybe."

They continued to wait.

Finally, Benjamin walked over to the window. This time, the floorboards creaked. He peered out the window and saw nothing but trees.

They waited for a few more minutes. Julie lowered her chair.

"Don't lower it! That's what they want you to do!"

"They're not coming," she said. She reached out, took hold of the doorknob, and gave it a very tentative turn. "It's unlocked."

She slowly opened it a crack and peeked out. Then she closed it again.

"They're out there," she said.

"Asleep?"

"No."

"Watching the door?"

"Yes."

"Did they see you?"

"Yes."

"Shit."

"Yes."

Julie hoisted her chair over her head again.

A few more moments later, nothing had happened.

"So what exactly are they doing?" Benjamin wondered.

Julie shrugged. Then she winced because the act of shrugging apparently hurt her shoulders.

Benjamin thought he heard floorboards creaking, as if somebody were walking toward them. He and Julie returned to their prime chair-attack positions.

Somebody was definitely right outside the door.

There was a knock at the door to the tune of "Shave and a Haircut." A couple of notes off, but close enough.

Benjamin frowned. Were they supposed to answer? Wouldn't that be kind of stupid on their part?

Another knock.

Benjamin and Julie exchanged a "What do we do now?" look. Benjamin certainly didn't know.

The door slowly swung open. Benjamin prepared to slam the chair down with skull-shattering force.

"Y'all better put those chairs down before I shoot you right through the wall," said a voice that Benjamin recognized as the truck driver. The walls didn't seem anywhere near thick enough to deflect a bullet, so he lowered the chair and set it back on the floor. Julie sighed with frustration and then lowered her chair as well.

"Now walk on out here, nice and easy, one at a time. Ladies first."

"I don't think that's going to happen," Julie informed him.

"It will if you don't want a big ol' hole in your sweet chest."

"Do you promise to let my friend go if I come out?" Julie asked.

"Hell naw."

Julie slowly stepped out of the room. The men—all three of them, including the driver and Hap and Neal from before—laughed heartily, whooping it up as if they'd seen the funniest stand-up comedian in the world do the funniest routine about flatulence ever performed. Benjamin didn't think they'd go through all this just to blow her away with a shotgun, though he still cringed and waited for the blast.

"Run!" shouted Julie, suddenly kicking the door closed behind her.

Benjamin didn't have a whole lot of fleeing options, so he grabbed the chair and ran to the window. He smashed out as much of the glass as he could get with one blow, then grabbed the bottom of the windowsill, slashing his palms, and pulled himself halfway out of the window. He heard the door open behind him.

Jagged glass scraped against his legs as he climbed all the way out the window and crashed down onto the ground. He stood up and ran from the cabin, clutching his waist and limping.

A large man in a dirty white T-shirt stepped out of the woods in front of him. The man had a shotgun and a cheerful smile. Benjamin turned as another man stepped out of the woods, also with a shotgun. And then the woman he'd seen peeking through the window—she didn't have a shotgun, but she did have a machete.

Benjamin stopped running. The two men and the woman walked toward him, almost at a stroll. No big hurry.

"Don't stop now," said the large man. "That ain't no fun."

Great. This was a game to them. Benjamin would take responsibility for the incident at the diner, but Julie was going to be completely accountable for this mess. How many truckers did she have to choose from? Unless semi drivers had a way-above-average percentage of psycho redneck killers in their ranks, her ability to predict the danger level of potential rides was absolute crap.

Still, participating in their game was better than being quickly executed, so he ran. It was a stumbling, awkward run, and the trio was only a few steps behind him, laughing loudly, obviously not making a legitimate effort to catch up to him. He didn't care. All he needed was a chance, and if they were going to be dumb enough to let him run—

He smacked into a tree branch.

He didn't fall, although gravity indicated that it was a pretty good idea. However, his forward momentum did not continue. He stood there, dazed, unable to run even though he knew that standing there in a daze was a terrible idea.

The psychobillies laughed some more.

Benjamin grabbed the branch, intending to snap it off and jab it into the nearest eye that wasn't his own. The branch wouldn't snap off. He tried to twist it off, but that was equally ineffective.

Everybody just stood there, watching him. Benjamin didn't care. He'd have the last laugh if something worked out in his favor.

He gave up on the branch and forced himself to run again. He smacked into the same branch. Then he adjusted his course and smacked into the tree. He fell.

* * *

He awoke to the sensation of warm beer pouring over his head. He coughed and sputtered and realized that he was back in the cabin, lying on the floor. Julie lay next to him, also getting a beer shower. At least it was only beer.

They were in the main room. Hap and Neal stood over them, pouring out the cans of beer. The two men and the woman from outside sat on a couch, watching and laughing. The truck driver stood by the door, holding a shotgun.

After all this, Benjamin was going to be killed by rednecks instead of the parasite. Life was so zany sometimes.

Hap shook the last drops of beer out of his can. "Now you smell all nice and pretty," he told Benjamin.

Benjamin blinked the beer out of his eyes. Julie looked absolutely terrified. She mouthed the words "I'm sorry" to him. He wasn't quite ready to accept her apology.

"Here's what we've got goin' on," Hap explained to Benjamin and Julie. "We're gonna have ourselves a little party, and y'all are gonna be the guests of honor. Ain't that something? We're gonna party with ya, use ya up, and toss ya away. Now tell me that don't sound like fun."

"Sounds like fun for everyone but them!" said Neal.

Hap chuckled. "Aw, I think they might have fun for a little while, anyways. Not so much at the end. Everybody likes a good rammin' now and then, ain't that right?"

"That's right!" said Neal.

"So now the only question is how we divide up these spoils." He turned to the others. "Everybody who wants to party with the lady, raise your hand."

All of the rednecks, including the woman, raised their hand.

"Now, now, now, that ain't gonna work. We can't all have the lady, or else our buddy here—" He prodded Benjamin with his toe. "—will be all lonely. That ain't no way to treat a guest of honor. So who wants him?"

Nobody raised their hand.

"I reckon we're gonna have to settle this with a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Jug, Log, and Still. Everybody put your hands out. One...two...three!"

Benjamin wasn't sure exactly how the game was played, but one of the rednecks on the couch, the biggest one, hung his head and let his shoulders slump.

"Aw, man, that ain't right," he said.

"Now, Chet, we done it fair and square."

"But I ain't queer."

"This ain't about bein' queer!" Hap insisted. "This is about havin' a good time! How many times do I gotta tell you that?"

"But look at him. He's all nasty and diseased and shit. That's why nobody else picked him. It ain't no fun having a go at somebody if you gotta wash your hands afterward. What if I wake up tomorrow with all them sores on me?"

"Only touch the parts that don't have sores on 'em. It ain't that complicated."

"Yeah, well, I ain't gonna do it in front of everyone."

"So? Don't nobody want to see that anyway."

Though Chet looked almost ready to retreat to a corner and pout, he grabbed Benjamin's collar instead. "I better not get no sores," he said. "That's all I'm sayin'."

"You won't."

Chet gazed longingly at Julie, then dragged Benjamin across the floor toward the other room. He dragged him into the small room and slammed the door shut. "Now, I ain't queer," he said to Benjamin, pulling him to a standing position. "If it were up to me, you'd be a girl. You understand that, right?"

"I'm sick," said Benjamin. "I've got...I've got a queer disease. That's what these sores are. If you touch me, you'll catch it, I promise."

"Well, at least you ain't got pustules. I've got pustules the size of ant hills."

As an educator, Benjamin was a strong believer in sharing knowledge, but this was an area in which he wished he'd remained blissfully ignorant.

Kill...

Oh, that was real helpful, he mentally told the parasite. I'll get right on that. Good call.

Benjamin decided that it would be kind of pathetic not to at least throw a punch at the bad guy, so he did. Though he wasn't aiming anywhere in particular, through some miracle of aiming and timing the blow connected directly with Chet's nose. The miracle, however, did not extend to the power of the blow, and his fist bounced harmlessly off Chet's face.

Chet punched him back. Chet's punch was better.

Benjamin did a twirl and careened into the wall, creating a small cloud of dust. Refusing to give up, he spun around and threw another punch at Chet. This one missed completely, since Chet was approximately ten feet away.

"Damn!" shouted somebody from the main room. "What're you doin' in there, boy?"

Chet chuckled, walked over to Benjamin, and threw another punch at his face. Benjamin ducked out of the way, although it wasn't really a defensive move but rather an unintended side effect of having a dizzy spell and falling to the floor.

"Now that's just sad," Chet noted. "You're like one of them squirrels that spends a couple days in the trap before I empty it."

Benjamin was too preoccupied with other matters to be offended by the insult. He tried to stand back up, even though he was pretty sure he'd just be knocked down again.

He'd felt a lot of pain in the time since the parasite's behavioral problems started, and he'd been optimistic enough to believe that he'd already reached the maximum level. So he expected to continue saying things like "Wow, getting punched by Chet just now really hurt, but, hey, at least it wasn't as bad as when the parasite went nuts in the school hallway."

This new blast of pain was the worst yet.

He screamed and clutched at his waist. The parasite was moving. No question about it. The rotten little bastard was squirming through his intestine, probably propelling itself with hooks.

Chet looked a bit uncomfortable, as if wondering why his punch had elicited such a strong reaction.

Benjamin could faintly hear Julie scream in the next room, then his own scream quickly drowned her out. He wanted to dig his fingernails into his flesh and rip his own stomach open just to get that fucker out.

"Uh, are you okay?" Chet asked.

Benjamin thrashed around on the floor, screaming and sobbing. He wanted nothing more than for Chet to jump onto his head, splattering his brain enough to end the agony.

And then the excruciating pain...stopped.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It felt like the parasite had slithered up into his stomach. Though his intestines still burned, the worst part of the pain had vanished almost instantly. He didn't exactly feel up to dancing a merry two-step, but the parasite's new location was infinitely less agonizing. It had definitely grown, though. A lot. Benjamin felt fat.

He got about ten seconds to enjoy the reduced pain before he couldn't breathe.

He clutched at his throat and gasped for breath. The parasite's journey hadn't ended with his stomach. It was coming up for air.

Chet crouched down next to Benjamin. "You really don't look so good. Maybe I should call—"

The parasite squirmed up Benjamin's throat until something slimy appeared on his tongue. He tried to scream but couldn't with his windpipe blocked.

Chet gaped into Benjamin's open mouth, then let out a scream of his own. His hands flailed around and his legs flew wildly as he scrambled backwards across the floor, desperately trying to get away from Benjamin.

"Go for it, Chet!" shouted somebody in the other room.

The parasite slid back down Benjamin's throat, allowing him to take a deep breath just as he thought he was going to suffocate. Chet pressed himself into the corner, covering his eyes with both hands and whimpering.

A welcome rush of adrenaline shot through Benjamin's veins. He took advantage of this momentary burst of strength and hurried over to the open window. He climbed out, slicing himself up some more but not really caring at this point, struck the ground hard, then got up and ran into the woods.

Thank God for the parasite.

Friends...

Yep. Thanks, buddy. I owe you a drink. Help yourself to some bile.

Benjamin knew he didn't have long before Chet got over his panic and warned the others. Instead of running blindly through the woods, he needed to find a place to hide, someplace where he could rest long enough to recoup his energy and then—

No. He couldn't just run away. He couldn't leave Julie to die a horrible, protracted death at the hands (or worse) of those lunatics. She wasn't exactly a stellar human being, but leaving her behind wasn't an option. There were no real shades of morality when it came to letting somebody be raped and murdered by sociopathic rednecks.

Unless he went and got help. He could alert the authorities and bring back a dozen cops with rifles and tear gas and Dobermans frothing at the mouth.

Yeah, right. She'd be long dead before he even found a road.

Shit.

If he got himself killed, he'd never see Margaret or Cindy again. They wouldn't fault him for running away from this mess. If they were watching him right now, they'd say "Don't go back to the cabin! Leave that crazy bitch behind!"

Benjamin sighed and stopped running. This sucked on so many levels. She'd damn well better appreciate this enough not to try to handcuff him again.

He headed back for the cabin.

I can't believe I'm doing this. This is so much dumber than gambling away two thousand dollars. I'm insane. I'm completely insane. Mr. Insane—that's me. Just slap a big ol' scarlet "I" on my forehead.

Instead of emerging from the woods next to the broken window, he came out in the front of the cabin. He could hear Julie wailing inside. Normally this would not be a good sound, but it meant that the others must not have been alerted to his escape yet.

A small shovel rested by the front door. He would rather have a firearm or a samurai sword, but it was better than nothing. He picked up the shovel, which seemed more suited to gardening than head-bashing, then pounded on the front door a few times and stepped to the side.

Julie's wailing didn't stop, but Benjamin heard footsteps approach the door.

The door swung open. As the truck driver stepped out, Benjamin slammed the shovel down upon his head as hard as he possibly could—which, from the crunching sound and the "give" of the driver's skull, was plenty hard enough.

The truck driver crumpled to the ground. Benjamin immediately dropped the shovel and grabbed his shotgun. He didn't know how to check if the weapon was cocked or if the safety was on, but he nevertheless stepped into the doorway and fired at the closest redneck. Since Hap was about three feet away and hurrying toward the doorway, he made a very easy target even without basic marksman skills.

Hap's stomach exploded and he veered off course. Benjamin fired again, blowing off the top half of the woman's head, then quickly stepped back out of the doorway.

The truck driver twitched. Swinging the shotgun like a sledgehammer, Benjamin smashed the barrel into the back of his head to make him quit twitching.

Three down already. Three to go, unless they kept a deformed sibling locked up somewhere.

He was pretty sure you only got two shots out of a shotgun. Though it was possible that the driver had more ammo on him, Benjamin didn't really have time to search his body and reload.

"This is the police!" he shouted, deepening his voice. "Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up!" He felt extremely stupid saying it, but he needed to buy himself a couple of seconds while he figured out what to do.

Neal stepped out of the doorway with his hands up. Benjamin bashed him over the head with the shotgun.

There was a piercing shriek from inside the cabin.

Benjamin peeked inside and saw the last redneck besides Chet howling in pain, as Julie's front teeth bit right through his nose. She spat it out and chomped into his upper lip.

A handgun, probably set aside when the fun began, rested on a stack of nudie magazines on top of what passed for a coffee table. Benjamin picked it up, kicked open the door to the smaller room, and pointed the gun at Chet, who was still huddled in the corner.

He couldn't just shoot the guy like this.

C'mon, do something aggressive.

Chet saw that Benjamin had entered the room and flinched in terror.

Good enough.

Benjamin shot him in the chest.

He turned back toward the main room and saw that Julie had somehow gotten hold of a knife. The results were unattractive.

"It's okay," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. "You can stop stabbing him now."

Julie stabbed him a few more times, then dropped the knife. "Is that...is that all of them?"

"Yeah."

She wiped some blood from her face. "That wasn't so hard."

"Piece of cake."

Julie picked her shirt up off the floor. They hadn't gotten her bra off yet. The shirt was torn and bloody, and after a couple of attempts to adjust it she pulled the shirt off again and tossed it aside.

"Thanks for coming back for me," she said.

"No problem."

"Or did you come back for the keys to the truck?"

"I hadn't even thought about the keys to the truck."

"Uh-huh."

"Seriously!" Benjamin insisted. "I'm here so they wouldn't butcher you. I had a prime chance to escape into the forest, and I didn't take it." Why, that ungrateful—

"I'm kidding, Benjamin."

"Oh."

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you."

"You've got redneck nose blood on your lips."

"How about we get out of here?" Julie asked. "And then, y'know, make this whole thing off limits for any future conversations?"

"Sounds good to me."

* * *

They found a set of keys dangling from a hanger shaped like a pair of breasts. Unfortunately, even after a lengthy search they couldn't find the briefcase with the hypodermic needles or Julie's cell phone, though Julie did find a T-shirt that didn't smell too revolting. They grabbed a couple of guns, then got into a small brown pickup truck and drove off. It took about fifteen minutes of driving on a dirt road before they reached a paved one, and about fifteen minutes on that road before they reached the interstate.

"I need to make a call," Benjamin said.

"Hell no."

"I need to call my family."

Julie shook her head. "Not gonna happen."

"I refuse to die without telling my wife and daughter that I love them. You owe me."

"The call will be traced."

"It'll be quick. We'll find a dumpy pay phone. I'm becoming more and more cynical about my chances of being alive at this time tomorrow, and I absolutely have to talk to them."

"Why are you becoming more cynical?" Julie asked. "After what just happened, I'm way more optimistic. We can survive anything. Forget the Smith brothers."

"Brother."

"Whatever."

"I'm not taking 'no' for an answer."

"You are if I tell you no."

"No, I'm not."

Julie considered that for a long moment. "Okay. You get twenty seconds. That's ten seconds each. If they don't answer, tough. If you try to tell them where we are, I'll bite your nose off. I've had practice. Understand?"

"Completely."

They pulled off at a small gas station. Julie walked with Benjamin over to a pay phone that looked to be one small technological step ahead of two cans and a string. She gave him a very stern look as he inserted a quarter and dialed Margaret's cell phone number.

"Hello?" she asked, answering on the first ring.

"Margaret!"

"Benjamin?"

"Margaret! I've missed you so much!" Benjamin felt like he was going to burst into tears.

"Hey, Benjamin," said a male voice on the other end. "Remember me?"

Suddenly Benjamin felt like he was going to burst into tears for a different reason. "Who the hell is this?"

"You haven't forgotten me already, have you?" asked Pedro. "I thought our encounter was more memorable than that. Is your girlfriend with you?"

"What's wrong?" Julie asked. Benjamin waved at her to shut up.

"If you hurt them," he said, "I swear I'll—"

"You'll do nothing, Benji, because I'm here with them and you're wherever you are. So if I want to kill your wife and daughter, there's not a whole lot you can do to stop me. Here, I'll put your daughter on for a second so you know I'm not bluffing."

Julie grabbed for the phone. "He's got them," Benjamin whispered.

"Daddy...?" asked Cindy.

"Cindy! Cindy, honey, I'm so sorry!"

"All right, enough of that," said Pedro. "I promise you that we haven't hurt them yet. I also promise you that we will hurt them a lot if you don't do as I say. I've got a ton of pent-up frustration from this assignment, and I swear, I'll take it out on them. Are we clear?"

"Yes, we're clear."

"Good. This doesn't have to end badly. All I want is to get the parasite for my boss. The easier we make this, the happier everybody will be in the end. I'd love to see you walk off into the sunset with Margaret and Cindy."

"Vengeance!" somebody shouted in the background.

"Will you shut the hell up?" Pedro screamed. "I'm on the phone!"

"Tell her that I'm coming for her! Tell her that vengeance is on its way!"

"Enough!" Pedro grunted with anger. "As you can tell, Benji, I'm on a short fuse. Don't mess with me."

"I won't. What do you want me to do?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm not totally sure. We got sidetracked."

"Narrow it down."

"Texas, maybe?"

"All right. You find yourself a nice quiet place to hang out for a while. Do you have something to write with?"

"Uh, no. Hold on a second." Benjamin covered the mouthpiece and turned to Julie. "Find me a pen."

Julie walked back to the truck and leaned inside.

"How is it that an English teacher doesn't have a writing utensil?" Pedro asked.

"It's been a really bad couple of hours," said Benjamin. "I mean, you have no idea."

"I hear you, man."

Julie returned with a ballpoint pen. "Thanks," said Benjamin. "Give me the number."

"It's area code..."

"Hold on, wait, the pen isn't writing." Benjamin shook the pen and tried to draw some more swirls on his arm. "Okay, there it goes."

Pedro gave him the number. "Got it?"

"Yes."

"Call that number in exactly one hour. Do not call anybody else, do not talk to anybody, do not show your face to anybody. Remember that I have two hostages, and if I get even the slightest bad feeling about this, I'll kill your wife and still have your daughter to negotiate with. Are we perfectly, one hundred percent, crystal clear?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. We'll talk soon." Pedro hung up.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Benjamin just stood there for a moment, clutching the phone so tightly that his knuckles ached. Then he placed the handset back on the cradle.

"Please tell me that I misinterpreted your end of the conversation," said Julie.

Benjamin shook his head. "They've got Margaret and Cindy."

"Wonderful. Just wonderful." Through the sarcasm, Benjamin did detect a small bit of legitimate concern for his family.

"We're supposed to stay here and wait for them."

"That's a really bad idea. You know that they have no intention of letting you go afterward, right?"

"We're doing what they say."

"I'm not going to try to stop you," said Julie. "However—"

"No however."

"However, let's at least try to work out some kind of plan."

"No offense, Julie, but your plans have been absolute crap so far. Remember when you kidnapped me from the operating room at gunpoint instead of pretending to be a doctor? That wasn't a very good plan."

"Neither was starting a fight in the diner."

"I was being controlled by the parasite."

"Oh, sure, it's always the parasite's fault!"

"What's wrong with me saying that it's the parasite's fault? This whole thing is the parasite's fault! If anything, I should be blaming it more often!"

"Fair enough. But we need a plan."

"No. I'm not putting my family at risk."

"They're already at risk. This plan will get them out of risk," said Julie. "We've got to do something. I'm not just going to sit here and let the bad guys win. We don't have to actually use the plan. We should just have a plan ready. We've got time to sit and discuss it, so it'll be a much better plan than everything else we've come up with."

"So would a plan of flicking small boogers at our opponents."

"Then let's come up with a better plan than that."

Benjamin felt that he and Julie had bonded over their shared experience in the cabin. Still, he couldn't completely trust her. Or trust her at all, quite frankly. He still sort of believed that she'd hand him over and happily cash her paycheck while sinister men in white coats cut him into chunks with a paper slicer.

So he didn't tell her that the parasite had moved into his stomach.

It had popped into his throat once, and would possibly do so again. Maybe he could get it out completely. Julie and the others might not approve, but personally, he'd be much happier keeping the parasite in a jar instead of his body.

"I need to go to the restroom," he told Julie.

"Okay."

"You're not going to warn me and threaten me and stuff?"

"Not this time."

"Cool." Benjamin got out of the pickup truck, shut the door behind him, and walked over to the restroom. Even from the outside, he could tell that this wasn't going to be an antiseptic, or even non-vile environment, but it was at least destined to be better than the cabin. He went inside and locked the door.

He braced himself against the sink and stared into the cracked mirror. Hard to believe that not too long ago he'd been freaked out by his appearance simply because he'd shaved his beard. Now he looked absolutely grotesque. Open, leaking sores. Bruises and swelling. Greasy, dirty, bloody hair. Facial stubble that didn't look even remotely cool. He was one sad, ugly bastard. Margaret and Cindy would probably be repulsed and keep him locked in a cage for the next few years.

"All right, buddy," he said out loud. "Show yourself."

Nothing.

Benjamin opened his mouth wide and tilted his head at various angles to better see his throat. Then he closed his mouth and gently tapped his stomach with his index finger. "Come on out. No need to hide. Let me see your pretty face."

Friends...

"Yes, friends. Best friends. Friends to the end."

How could he even think of getting rid of his best friend? What they had was special. How many people had a best friend who lived inside them? Not very damn many, that was for sure. Margaret certainly couldn't live inside his stomach and say things like "Friends" directly into his mind. Compared to what he had with the parasite, his marriage was a superficial sham. Though he doubted the legality of a formal union, perhaps he could—

Benjamin dug his fingernail into one of the sores on his arm. The pain jolted him out of his fantasy.

He had to get rid of the parasite.

He opened his mouth again. Maybe he could bribe it out. Dangle food over his throat.

What might a parasite eat, apart from Benjamin's insides? Too bad he didn't have a scrap of stomach lining handy.

Blood, maybe?

It was worth a shot, and he had plenty of cuts and gashes to choose from. He ran his finger along a two-inch cut on his arm, sustained from the broken window in the cabin, then held the finger over his open mouth and let a few drops of blood drip into his throat. It really didn't seem all that disgusting, which he found somewhat disturbing.

No response from the parasite.

C'mon, you little prick, why swim around in stomach acids and bile when you can have some nice fresh blood?

Still nothing.

Chowtime! Let's have some din-din. Bloody bloody blood-blood! Mmmmm...

Benjamin swiped his finger on the cut again and resumed dripping blood.

Food, he thought. Food, food, food.

Food...

That's right. Food. Delicious food. Food for my friend.

Friend...

The parasite began to stir.

Friends like food, Benjamin thought. Friends share food.

He gagged as the parasite moved up his throat. He sure hoped this was a good idea. There was a distinct possibility that it was not.

He watched the mirror as the creature slid over the back of his tongue. He held his bloody finger a few inches away from his mouth, trying to entice it to emerge all the way...

It slithered across his tongue. Benjamin was able to take a small bit of solace in the fact that the slimy beast remained the diameter of a hot dog, as he'd seen on the X-ray. That's all the solace he could take. It had obviously grown much longer and still felt like it was hanging all the way down into his stomach. Its skin was yellowish-white, with large, orange eyes and a small fanged mouth.

Keep slithering...just keep slithering...

It stopped. He could feel its fangs pressing tightly against his tongue.

Please don't bite, he thought, frantically waving his finger.

The parasite resumed its forward path, moving painfully slow. Benjamin thought he felt a tiny tongue against his own tongue but couldn't be sure.

Just a little bit more...

The head of the parasite protruded about a half-inch past Benjamin's lips. He held his finger back, encouraging it to venture farther.

Then he bit down.

The parasite thrashed around like a snake, making Benjamin feel as if he were being punched in the stomach from the inside. He pressed his teeth together with all the force he could muster, trying to bite its head off, but the creature had the texture of a car tire and his teeth couldn't break the skin. It squealed as Benjamin's gag reflexes went berserk.

He tried to pinch its head between his fingers. The skin was too slippery and he couldn't get a grip.

The parasite jabbed a hook into the roof of Benjamin's mouth. He grimaced at the stinging sensation but refused to let go. He was going to bite this thing's head off no matter what.

It bit his thumb, hard enough to rip out a small chunk of flesh.

A hook jabbed into his tongue. Benjamin let out a yelp and the parasite recoiled back into his mouth. He thrust his fingers deep into his mouth in a last-ditch effort to grab it, but the creature slid back down his throat and was gone from sight.

"Dammit!" Benjamin spat some blood into the sink. "I'll get you! This isn't over!"

Teeth...

"That's right, teeth! You're gonna feel those teeth again, soon!" Benjamin slammed his fist against the mirror in frustration, shattering the glass.

Teeth gone...

"Teeth gone? What are you babbling about?"

Teeth gone...

Teeth gone. Yes. That was a splendid idea. Teeth did get in the way of a lot of things, if you really stopped to think about it, and he needed to drink more smoothies anyway.

"You're right. Teeth gone. I'll take care of that right now."

Benjamin pinched one of his front teeth between his thumb and index finger and tugged. It didn't pop out like it was supposed to. He yanked on it over and over, but the tooth remained firmly in place.

How did he pop a loose tooth free when he was a kid? He'd wrapped dental floss around the tooth, tied it to his bedroom door, then slammed it. That always hastened the Tooth Fairy's arrival. He needed dental floss, or string, or something to tie around his teeth.

But he didn't have any floss or string. Maybe threads from his shirt? Shoelaces?

No, he was making this too complicated. Why use string when he could use an old-fashioned porcelain sink?

He knelt down to align his jaw close to the left corner of the sink. This was definitely going to hurt. Probably a lot. But it would be worth it to get rid of those annoying, unnecessary teeth.

Or should he just visit a dentist...?

Nah. Dentists were generally evil. It would be much safer to knock his teeth out by himself.

He'd do it on the count of three. One...two...

Perhaps he was being too hasty. What if his friend the parasite was giving him poor advice?

How could he think such a thing? That would almost be blasphemy, if the parasite were a god instead of a buddy. Benjamin knew he was doing the right thing. There was no question. The vicious teeth had to go.

He rapped his knuckles against the sink. Yep, this would do the trick. One solid blow and he could get rid of six or seven of the front ones.

One...two...

Maybe he'd do it on five. Give himself more time to build up momentum and enthusiasm.

One...two...three...four...

Five!

Benjamin bared his teeth and then bashed them against the sink. He immediately regretted it. He blinked tears from his eyes and rubbed his lips and chin. They hurt, but he'd wimped out at the last second and hadn't struck the sink with enough force. All of his teeth remained intact. That was no good.

Okay, he couldn't think about it. He just had to do it.

He smashed his front teeth against the sink. At least two of them succumbed to the blow. He slammed his hand over his mouth to muffle his scream. What had he done? What the hell had he done to himself?

He spat a pair of bloody teeth onto the floor, then grabbed the edges of the sink and pulled himself up to a standing position. He looked into the mirror and opened his mouth. His top two front teeth were gone, and one of the lower ones hung forward, almost horizontal. There might have been other damage, but he couldn't see it through the blood.

Teeth gone.

Yeah. Not good enough. Too many teeth left.

He gripped the loose lower tooth between his fingers and tugged. It wouldn't come free.

So he twisted.

He turned the tooth in three complete rotations before it popped free. He peered at it closely, wondering how that cavity had gone unnoticed. Must've been from all that chocolate. Good thing he knocked it out before it started to hurt. He tossed the tooth aside, turned on the faucet, and scooped a handful of water into his mouth. He swished it around and spat red water into the sink, then grinned at himself in the mirror.

He looked way worse than his senior high school photograph, and that was saying a lot.

Deciding to stick with what worked, he knelt down by the sink again. He took a deep breath, tilted his head back as far as it would go, bared his remaining teeth, and smashed them into the porcelain again. A tooth struck the back of his throat, and he spat out three more. No, two and a half—one was broken. He wiped blood onto his shirt-sleeve and rinsed his mouth out some more.

His smile faded as he suddenly realized what the parasite had made him do, and Benjamin collapsed to the floor, screaming.

* * *

Please let those be screams of emotional turmoil instead of physical danger, thought Julie as she pounded on the bathroom door. "Open up, Benjamin!" she shouted. This is why she kept the damn handcuffs on him. Every time she let him out of her sight, something terrible happened.

She gasped as Benjamin opened the door. His mouth was hideously swollen, and blood trickled down his chin like a vampire who'd made a fresh kill.

"What the hell happened?"

"Broke my mouth." Julie could see that all of his front teeth, except for one that was broken in half, had been knocked out.

"How did that happen? Did you fall?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Julie pushed past him into the restroom. "I think we should." She quickly turned the handle of the paper towel dispenser. Empty. What a surprise.

"No, I'd rather forget about this," Benjamin said, wiping still more blood from his mouth. He was a little hard to understand, but his diction was still pretty good for somebody who'd lost all those teeth. Must've been his years spent lecturing to a classroom full of students. "But we have to get this thing out of me. Fast."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"Have you ever flown in a private jet before?" asked Mr. Smith. He took a sip of his Jack Daniels and gave Cindy a polite smile. Margaret thought the smile looked like it hurt his lips.

Cindy continued to stare into her lap. "No, sir."

"I'm glad you're here, then. It's an experience everybody should have at least once before they die."

Margaret wanted to pull Cindy closer to her, but a narrow aisle separated their seats in the back of the six-seat jet and she had to settle for placing a reassuring hand on her knee. It was a nice jet, to be sure, but the circumstances of their travel weren't exactly relaxing. At least Pedro and Joey had stopped pointing guns at them.

"You must be pretty rich to have a private jet," she told Mr. Smith.

Mr. Smith shrugged. "Interval ownership. It's essentially a timeshare for planes."

"I didn't know they had that."

"Now you do."

"Let me kill one of them," Joey begged. "The daughter. Let me kill the daughter."

Mr. Smith shook his head. "Not yet."

"Every second they're alive, Clyde goes unavenged!"

"You don't give up a tactical advantage for emotional reasons."

"I want them all dead," said Joey. He pointed at Margaret and then Cindy. "I want her dead, and I want her dead, and I want Benjamin dead, and I want that other lady dead, and I want those old bastards in the motel dead. All of them. Dead."

Pedro, who was watching the proceedings from the front seat, rolled his eyes.

"They will die if and when it suits our purposes for them to die," said Mr. Smith. "Getting the specimen is the most important thing, even more important than avenging your brother."

Joey squirmed angrily in his seat. "As soon as we get the bug, they're dead. Pedro let them go, but that's not gonna happen again if I have anything to say about it."

Pedro looked as if he very much wanted to respond in a negative manner to that comment. Instead, he closed his eyes and took a big gulp from his alcoholic beverage.

Margaret was absolutely petrified on the inside, but she sat up straight and tried to put on a brave front. "Why should we help you if you're going to kill us anyway?" she asked Mr. Smith.

"Because your death will hurt more if you don't cooperate."

"Oh."

"Anyway, despite the babblings of my son, we might not kill you. It all depends how things work out with your husband. If he chooses to behave, we can all leave satisfied. If not, bloodbath. I'm hoping for the former."

* * *

"So why isn't it coming out?"

"I don't know. Maybe it knows you've got scissors."

Julie lowered the dull scissors. A pair of garden shears would've been better, but this was the best thing they could find in their search of the truck. The plan was to lure the parasite out again, grip it in the scissors, and pull it out of Benjamin's throat, hopefully not taking his internal organs along with it.

"What if I punch you in the stomach?" Julie asked.

"That might work."

"Of course, it might also motivate the specimen to take a shorter route to the exit."

"Maybe it can't break through my stomach. Don't you think it would have tried it already if it could?"

"Not necessarily."

"Then don't punch me in the stomach." Benjamin leaned out the window and spat out some more blood. If they did get the parasite out, it was going to be very difficult to resist the temptation to yank its tiny teeth out, one by one.

Julie glanced at her watch. "It's been an hour. Maybe I should call this time."

"No, I'll do it." Benjamin got out of the truck. Julie followed him as he walked over to the pay phone, inserted a quarter, and dialed the number written on his arm.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

"You know," said Pedro, "if I didn't already know who was on the other end of the phone, 'It's me' wouldn't be much of an identifier."

Benjamin ignored his comment. He wasn't really in the mood to discuss the wacky foibles of modern communication. "How's my family?"

"They're fine. We're all just hanging out."

"Let me talk to them."

"No. But if you don't screw anything up, you can see them before too much longer. If you do screw up, you can still see them, but they'll be dead. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand."

"You're a smart guy, Benjamin Wilson. That's a rare thing in these circles. Just stay put. We'll be there soon."

* * *

Benjamin sat alone and miserable in the parked truck, wondering if Margaret and Cindy really were okay. Granted, it would be difficult for them to be worse off than he was, but he still worried about their safety.

"Come on out," he told the parasite for the twentieth time. "I'm sorry I tried to chomp you. It's not like you didn't bite me from the inside. I'm not going to hurt you. You'd make this a whole lot easier if you'd just come out of there instead of making them cut you out. We don't know these people. They could slip with the scalpel."

That logic didn't seem to convince the parasite, which remained motionless inside Benjamin's stomach.

Benjamin glanced in the rear-view mirror of the truck as a small black car with tinted windows approached. It parked about twenty feet away, waited for almost a full minute with the engine running, then shut down. The passenger's side door opened and Pedro got out.

Benjamin was not at all surprised to see that Pedro was holding a gun, which he pointed at the truck. "Step out and put your hands in the air," he said.

Benjamin got out of the truck and put his hands in the air as instructed. Pedro looked at Benjamin, grimaced, and then glanced around suspiciously. "Where is she?"

"She left."

"What do you mean, she left?"

"She said she wasn't going to hang around just to let you kill her, so she left. I couldn't stop her. Don't worry—she didn't take the specimen with her."

"If she's hiding somewhere with the intention of shooting me, you should know that your family isn't close by, and you'll never see them again unless I'm around to take you to see them."

"Understood."

"Where'd she go?"

"I don't know. Did you think she left me a printout of MapQuest?"

"Don't be sarcastic while we've still got your family. I'm not in the mood." Pedro walked over to Benjamin, keeping the gun pointed at his face. "What happened to you?" he asked, looking disgusted.

"We had a really unpleasant detour."

"Seriously, what happened? You look horrible."

"The parasite made me knock my teeth out."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The parasite made it sound like a good idea to bash my face against a bathroom sink until I'd knocked a few of my teeth out. It's not a fun parasite."

"Are you kidding me?"

Benjamin shook his head.

"That's just crazy." Pedro glanced around as if checking to see if anybody was eavesdropping, then leaned closer to Benjamin, speaking confidentiality. "If you want me to put you out of your misery, I'll do it. I'll get in trouble, but I'll do it. Nobody should have to live like that."

"I appreciate it," said Benjamin, "but no."

Pedro shrugged. "The offer stands. I have a strong stomach, but seriously, you're absolutely gross. If your wife stays with you the way you're looking now, you've got one hell of a strong marriage. I envy you. My ex-wife would've left me for dead. I wouldn't have blamed her."

"Will you shoot me if I call you an asshole?"

"Nah."

"You're an asshole."

"Yes, but I'm an asshole who has all his teeth and isn't covered in disgusting sores."

* * *

Benjamin sat in the back seat of the car. He'd apologized in a non-sincere manner for getting goop on the upholstery, and Pedro had assured him that it was okay, that it was a company car. The driver, an elderly man with a ponytail, fidgeted a bit at this but didn't speak.

"How'd you end up working for the Smith brothers?" Benjamin asked.

"I don't work for the Smith brothers. Are you kidding me?"

"I thought you worked for the one who was still alive."

"No, I work for his dad."

"Oh. But you work for somebody who procreated those kinds of sons."

"Basically, yeah."

"Must suck."

Pedro chuckled. "You're not going to make me feel any worse than I already do, so save the psychological tricks. You know what makes me feel better? Riding in this car with you. In fact, I wish I had a camera with me, because I'd take your picture, and whenever I'm feeling a little sorry for myself, I could just take out the picture and realize that no matter how bad things might seem, there's some deformed guy named Benjamin who has it worse. See what I did to your attempt to piss me off? I turned it around."

"I'm not deformed."

"Disfigured, then. Either way, it sucks much more to be you than to be me, and that makes me happy."

"Yeah, I see your point."

* * *

About fifteen minutes later they turned off onto a side road, which led to a field with a runway upon which a small jet rested.

"Are Margaret and Cindy on board?" Benjamin asked.

"They sure are," said Pedro, as the driver pulled the car up alongside the jet and turned off the engine. "No sudden moves." He got out of the car and opened Benjamin's door. "Get out. Slowly."

Benjamin got out slowly.

The door to the jet swung open and a tall, gray-haired man leaned out. "Well, well, well. Benjamin Wilson. You look...worse than I expected."

"Your man-servant already used up all the good insults," Benjamin informed him.

"Then let's not waste any time with chatter." Mr. Smith waved to the car driver to send him on his way. "Step aboard."

Benjamin shook his head. "No. Let them go first."

"Why would I do a silly thing like that?"

"Because I told you to."

"I see. So what advantage have you acquired that I should know about? Bomb strapped to your leg? A dozen sharpshooters surrounding the area?"

"No," Benjamin admitted, "but that would be nice. I'm just saying, let my wife and daughter go or I'm not getting on the plane."

"Do you really think we can't force you?"

"Do you really want to put the specimen at risk?"

Mr. Smith chuckled. "Look at yourself, Benjamin. If the parasite is still alive, I think it's fairly resilient. I'm not concerned about damaging it."

"Let them go."

"No, I don't think I'm going to do that. I'm sure we can get you into the plane without too much trouble, if that's the way you want to handle it."

"I'll kill it," Benjamin warned.

"No you won't. You would have done that a long time ago if you could. And you wouldn't do it with your family right inside the plane. Think of a better bluff. Yours is something my son would say."

"I need proof that they're alive," said Benjamin.

"Now, see, that's a reasonable request." Mr. Smith turned toward the open jet door. "Say something!"

Silence.

Mr. Smith frowned. "Benjamin's out here. Say something to show you're alive."

Still no response. Benjamin's heart stung. If Margaret and Cindy were hurt, he would go on a killing rampage that made the mess in the redneck cabin look like the food preparation area of a germaphobe. Many heads would be ripped off.

"Everything's cool," said Joey a moment later from inside the jet. "I, uh, didn't let them get away."

"Jesus Christ," Mr. Smith muttered.

"We're okay," Margaret announced. "Cindy and I are okay."

"See?" asked Mr. Smith. "Everything is fine. So why don't you make it easy on everybody and surrender yourself?"

"Let one of them go," Benjamin said.

"What?"

"Let Cindy go."

"Now you're just irritating me," said Mr. Smith. "Nobody is being set free. You have ten seconds to get into the jet before I tell my son to kill your wife. And he's stupid enough to accidentally kill both of them."

"I'm not getting in that jet unless you let my daughter go," said Benjamin, keeping his voice as stoic as possible even though he fully intended to cave in as soon as Mr. Smith started counting.

"Ten...nine..."

Benjamin didn't have the nerve to wait until eight or seven. He walked toward the jet, moving at a deliberate pace so Mr. Smith knew his spirit wasn't broken, but not a deliberate enough pace that he wouldn't make it to the jet door by the time the countdown reached one.

Pedro moved in front of him just before Benjamin reached the three steps leading up into the jet. "Arms out."

Benjamin held his arms out at his sides. Pedro gave him a generous pat-down that thankfully stayed outside of his clothing and orifices, then nodded, satisfied. Mr. Smith got back into the plane and Benjamin followed.

Margaret and Cindy sat in adjoining seats. The pilot, a bald man in sunglasses, turned around in his seat to look as Benjamin walked on board.

Joey stood in the center aisle, with the barrel of a gun pressed against the side of Cindy's head. Their looks of elation at seeing Benjamin again were quickly replaced by looks of horror at his appearance. He gave them a reassuring smile, which obviously made things worse.

"Where'd your teeth go?" Joey asked.

"Long story. Point that gun someplace else."

"Sure thing." Joey removed the gun from Cindy's head and pointed it at Benjamin. "Ha! How does that feel, huh? Spoke too soon, didn't you?"

"No. That's what I asked for. Thank you."

Joey looked confused.

"Sit down," Mr. Smith told Benjamin, gesturing to the seat in front of Margaret.

"Don't you want to put on a plastic seat cover first?" asked Benjamin.

"I'm not afraid of your leakage. We'll get you some bandages and antiseptic to take care of those wounds. Sit down."

Benjamin sat down. He was tempted to make a show of rubbing his sores all over the armrests, but didn't want to repulse his family. "I'm glad you're okay," he told them.

"I'm glad you're..." Margaret seemed to struggle to find the appropriate word. "...here."

"It looks worse than it is," Benjamin explained.

"It would have to."

"You shaved your beard," said Cindy. "I don't like it."

"What's taking Pedro so long?" Mr. Smith asked.

Benjamin froze. He'd allowed Julie to attempt to follow them, but he made her swear not to pull any stunt that might endanger his family's life. She'd promised not to do anything unless she was sure it would work. He'd said, no, that wasn't good enough. She'd said that he could trust her, that she would get as close as possible without being seen but wouldn't do anything stupid. He'd asked her to define "do anything stupid." She'd tried to evade the question. He'd persisted. She'd finally promised that she wouldn't take any kind of action to rescue them unless Benjamin gave her a signal. He'd agreed to that plan.

Now he kind of hoped that Julie had ignored his instructions and was pointing a shotgun at Pedro right now.

Pedro stepped on board the jet, pulling the steps up behind him. "We all set?"

"We're all set," said Mr. Smith.

"How about this?" asked Joey. "Let me cut off her hand. Just one hand. It can be her left hand—I don't care—I just need to cut off something from somebody or I'm going to go absolutely berserk!"

"I'll make you a deal," said Mr. Smith. "If any of them try anything, you can cut off Margaret's left hand."

"Not Cindy's?"

"Margaret's! Don't argue with me!"

"I wasn't arguing! I was just asking! Cindy has better hands, is all."

"You're lucky I'm allowing you that much. If they try to escape, you can saw off her hand, but only if I personally see the attempt to escape. If you try to make something up just so you can cut off her hand, I'll let Margaret cut off your hand. Are we clear?"

Joey glared at Margaret. "If that bitch tries to cut my hand off, I'll cut off her—"

"Enough!"

Pedro pulled the jet door closed and turned the handle to seal it. The pilot started the engine.

* * *

Julie cursed as Pedro retreated into the jet. She could've crawled out from her hiding spot amidst some bushes and informed Pedro that she had a shotgun pointed at him, but what would that accomplish? Mr. Smith wouldn't give up his hostages just to save an employee. All it would do is lead to a shootout, and possibly get Benjamin and/or Margaret and/or Cindy killed.

So now what? Climb on top of the jet?

No. She was not going to climb on top of the jet.

Follow it with the truck?

No. She was not going to follow it with the truck.

Julie wasn't one to admit defeat, but what was she supposed to do? Chain the truck to the jet and let it carry her along to its destination?

Maybe she could sabotage the jet. Create a gas leak or something. Force them to land right after they took off.

Unfortunately, the jet was in a wide-open field. No cover for her to sneak up to it. If somebody was watching—or if Joey had his head dangling out of a window like a dog—she'd be screwed.

She was pretty sure that blowing a hole in the fuel tank with the shotgun would not be an appropriately stealthy plan of attack.

Julie cursed. She couldn't just let the plane take off without her. Her window of opportunity to pull off some highly dangerous plan that would save the day was rapidly dwindling, and she had nothing. The last thing she wanted to do was end this adventure by sneaking up toward the jet, having somebody see her from a window, and casually shoot her before they flew away.

Well, she did have one plan. The proper course of action would be to open fire, disable the plane, and shoot the bastards. They wouldn't kill the specimen. They might threaten to, but they wouldn't really do it, and she'd get Benjamin back.

They might kill his wife and daughter, though.

Acceptable losses, yeah, but...she just couldn't do it. She didn't much care about her promise to Benjamin not to put them at risk, but he had come back for her in the cabin when his best course of action would've been to leave her ass to die. She didn't feel like they'd bonded or become best friends forever or anything like that, yet Julie just couldn't bring herself to do something that would almost certainly get his family killed.

The jet began to move along the runway.

Screw it. She couldn't do anything. There'd be no exciting rescue from her. Shit.

Julie punched the ground a few times as the plane took off.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"That's just nasty," said Joey. "People are supposed to have more teeth than that."

Benjamin shrugged. "Bite me."

"Was that a reference to you not having enough teeth?"

"No, it was a request that you bite me."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Not to you."

"What do you mean, not to me?"

"What I said."

Joey paused. "What did you say?"

"Bite me."

"Yeah? Well, screw you!"

"Classy."

"He's toying with you," said Mr. Smith. "Don't let him."

"He's not toying with me. I'll tell you who he's toying with. He's toying with himself." Joey smiled and glanced around at the other jet occupants, presumably to make sure they'd heard his devastating slam.

"You're an idiot," said Mr. Smith.

Joey's smile disappeared. "But he was! You heard it, right?"

"Enough, Joey. Just sit down and enjoy the flight like everybody else."

Joey paced up and down the narrow aisle a couple of times, then stopped and ran his hand through Cindy's hair. "Hey, girlie, how's it going?"

"Get your hand off her," Benjamin said.

"Oh, yeah? What're you gonna do?"

"Don't touch the girl," said Mr. Smith.

"I only touched her hair."

"I said hands off!"

Joey pulled his hand away. "Jeez. You people need to lighten up. This is like being on a plane with my grandma. We should just play some Bingo and get it over with. Uhhhh, does anybody have B-18?" he asked, in a feigned dumb-guy voice that wasn't too far removed from his real voice.

"There's no B-18 in Bingo," said Pedro.

"And you don't ask for it like that," Margaret added. "You're thinking of Go Fish."

"I hope you all die in a fiery plane crash," said Joey. "And yes, I know that we're on a plane and that I'd die too on the crash! Don't act like I'm dumb!" He returned his attention to Benjamin. "Does your mouth hurt?"

"Yeah. A lot."

"That just weirds me out. What about all those sores? Do they hurt or do they itch?"

"Both."

"They look more like they itch."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Open your mouth."

"Thanks, but no."

Joey poked Benjamin in the chest. "That wasn't a request. Open your mouth."

"Not with my daughter present."

"Don't try to make this seem like I'm trying to turn this into sexual favors and stuff," said Joey. "I told you to open your mouth. Now are you going to open it, or am I going to have to open it for you?"

Benjamin turned to Mr. Smith. "Could you put a leash on him?"

Mr. Smith didn't look up from his magazine. "Open your mouth so he'll shut up."

"You heard him. Open up."

Benjamin opened his mouth. Joey peered inside, looking both fascinated and sickened.

"Look at that tooth that's broken in half. I think that would snap right off if you tried to eat something. That hurts my own teeth just to look at it. Ow. How come you didn't stop after the first one?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"I would've stopped after the first one."

"So you're saying that you would have pulled the first one?" asked Pedro. "Because I would have known not to even start the process."

"No, that's not what I meant," said Joey. "I wouldn't have pulled the first one, but if I had, I would've stopped after that."

"Why even start?"

"I didn't start! He did!"

"Okay."

"He did! Do you see any missing teeth on me?" Joey showed off his pearly whites. "I'm not the weirdo here."

"Okay."

"I hope you die." Joey poked Benjamin in the chest a second time. "Open your mouth again."

"You've already seen it."

"I don't care."

Benjamin opened his mouth again. Joey leaned in even closer. He lifted his index finger and tentatively touched Benjamin's gums, then quickly recoiled.

"Stop touching his mouth," said Pedro.

"Screw you. I'll touch whatever I want." Joey flicked Benjamin's gums, making him wince. "Did that hurt?"

"What do you think?"

"I was asking you." Joey flicked again.

"Yes, it hurts."

"A lot?" Another flick.

"Yes, a lot. Stop it."

"Maybe I will." Joey smacked him in the chin. Benjamin managed not to cry out in pain, but Cindy let out a horrified gasp. "Maybe I won't." He smacked Benjamin again.

"Knock it off," said Mr. Smith.

"Why? The bug's not in his face." Joey leaned into Benjamin's mouth, close enough that they could French kiss if Benjamin was so inclined, which he was not. "Hey, parasite! How's it going in there? Why'd you make this guy rip out his teeth?"

Benjamin felt a disturbing rumbling in his stomach.

"That wasn't very nice, you know. You should be more considerate in the future. Can you hear me, Mr. Parasite? Do you speak English? Hellllloooooo!"

"Seriously, give it a rest," said Pedro. Even the pilot looked annoyed.

"Hellllloooooo! Para para parasite! I'm talking to you! You're being very rude by not saying hi to me! Para para parasite!"

Food...

"Joey Smith, sit down," said Mr. Smith.

"Aw, all right." Joey plopped back down in his seat. The rumbling in Benjamin's stomach stopped.

"Fuckin' retard," Pedro muttered.

Mr. Smith very slowly lowered his magazine. "What did you say?"

Pedro looked shocked and flustered, as if unaware that he'd made his comment out loud. "I...nothing."

"Did you call me a retard?" Joey asked, standing up again.

"That's not what I meant," said Pedro.

Mr. Smith frowned. "Then what did you mean?"

"I didn't mean anything. I was just saying that...I meant...I mean, look at the way he's acting. We were all thinking it."

"Pedro," said Mr. Smith, "I'm still mourning the loss of my son. How do you think it feels to hear you disparaging my other son like that? Do you think that's acceptable?"

"No, sir. I apologize."

"So what are we going to do about this?"

Joey stomped on the floor. "Throw his ass out of the plane!"

Benjamin watched the encounter carefully. Conflict amongst his enemies was a good thing, though he didn't really want them to start shooting at each other.

Pedro stood up. "Okay, there's no reason for this to get out of hand. It was a dumb comment and I'm sorry for it. But let's not blow it out of proportion."

"Sit down, Pedro."

"I'm one of your best men."

"I realize that. Sit down."

Pedro remained standing. His fingers twitched as if he were trying to decide if he should go for his gun.

"Here's what's going to happen," said Mr. Smith. "You will finish this job. You will not be paid for it. You will apologize to my son, and when we land, I will decide whether or not you will continue to be employed by me."

Pedro considered that. "No offense, sir, but I'm not that naïve."

"No, but you're dead!" shouted Joey, standing up and firing off three shots in a row.

Benjamin, Margaret, and Cindy screamed.

Whether Joey was blinded by rage or merely a crappy shot, Benjamin was uncertain, but none of the three bullets struck their mark. Pedro, who was apparently taken completely by surprise, hadn't even really tried to dodge.

In the frenzy of the moment, Benjamin wasn't quite sure where the first two shots landed. He was mostly distracted by the third shot, which struck the pilot. The pilot slumped forward, a big red splotch on the back of his bald head.

Joey slowly lowered his gun, looking sheepish.

"What the hell did you just do?" screamed Mr. Smith, jumping to his feet. He yanked the gun out of Joey's hand and slapped him across the face.

"I didn't mean to!"

Pedro hurried into the cockpit. The pilot slid out of his seat and tumbled to the floor.

For a few seconds, Benjamin joined everybody else in the plane in expressing some blind panic. It just seemed somehow appropriate. Then Cindy asked the most important question of the flight thus far: "Does anybody else know how to fly?"

"I do," said Pedro.

Benjamin's heart stopped freaking out for an instant. "Really?"

"No. If I knew how to fly, I'd be a goddamn pilot instead of working with morons!" Pedro sat down in the pilot's seat. "How hard can it be? We're only going, what, three hundred and fifty miles an hour?"

Margaret pushed into the cockpit next to him. Benjamin, Cindy, and Joey huddled around the control panel as closely as they could. Benjamin stared at all of the cryptic dials, knobs, lights, and levers, none of which were labeled "Pilot Has Been Shot In The Head Emergency Landing Switch."

"We're losing altitude really fast," said Cindy.

"Where do you see that?" Benjamin asked.

"The window."

As Pedro picked up the radio handset, there was a huge rush of wind throughout the plane. Benjamin's first thought was that a hurricane had suddenly formed inside the aircraft, although he quickly switched to the more reasonable thought that somebody had opened the door. He spun around just in time to see Mr. Smith leap from the aircraft.

Unless Mr. Smith had opted to plummet to his death, he'd found—

"Parachutes!" Margaret cried out. "Get parachutes!"

Parachutes were not, to the best of Benjamin's admittedly limited knowledge, standard issue on private jets. Either Mr. Smith was a skydiving enthusiast or seriously paranoid about aircraft safety—not that Benjamin was complaining.

"Dad!" Joey wailed. "How could you leave me?" was implied in his tone although not explicitly stated, probably because the howling wind made it hard to say much beyond "Dad!" Benjamin threw out his arm as Joey rushed for the open door, catching him in the neck. Joey stumbled backwards, dropping his gun as he clutched at his throat. Benjamin immediately went for the gun. Joey went for it an instant later. Their heads collided. Though Joey's cranium probably wasn't all that heavy, Benjamin did have a couple of big sores on his forehead, so the impact hurt like crazy.

Joey snatched up the gun. Benjamin tried to grab it out of his hand but missed, then quickly changed strategy and punched him in the nose. The punch worked out better than he'd anticipated, and Joey cried out in pain, clutching his bleeding nostrils. Sadly, it didn't appear that a bone fragment had shot up into his brain, killing him. That would've made things a lot easier.

Benjamin grabbed for the gun again. Even with his gushing nostrils and screams of rage-tainted pain, Joey was able to keep the weapon away from him. In his peripheral vision, Benjamin saw Margaret and Cindy dart behind him, hopefully to grab parachutes. Benjamin got to his feet at the same time Joey did, but the wind—and his whole draining experience since being kidnapped from the hospital—made him fall again just as Joey pulled the trigger. Sparks fired from the control panel.

Pedro angrily turned around. "Joey, if you can't hit your target, stop shooting bullets!"

Benjamin's hopes about not dying a fiery death in a plane crash lifted a bit as he saw Cindy and Margaret frantically putting on parachutes. He hoped to join them after he dealt with the Joey issue.

The plane took a sharp tilt to the right. Benjamin fell forward, smacking into Joey, who then smacked into a seat. Benjamin's head smacked into Joey's nose. Benjamin held onto the seat with one hand and punched Joey's nose again with the other. He tried to get in a fourth hit, but Joey turned his head and merely got punched in the jaw.

Benjamin punched Joey again, and again, and once more, unable to keep himself from enjoying the momentary thought of Wow, I'm a bad-ass! He kept his fist clenched and prepared to deliver yet another punch, but Joey didn't seem to be awake anymore and there were much more pressing matters at hand.

"Here!" said Margaret, tossing a parachute to Benjamin and mouthing "Last one!" at him. He caught the parachute just as Margaret shoved Cindy out of the plane. Pedro, apparently having given up on trying to fly them to safety, stepped out of the cockpit and rushed at Margaret. He grabbed at her but missed as she leapt out of the aircraft.

Pedro did a quick survey of the closet, then, finding no remaining parachutes, he turned to face Benjamin. Benjamin quickly slipped into the harness, not sure if he was doing it right. "We could share," he offered, having to shout to be heard.

Pedro glanced out the window. The ground was visible. "Okay."

Benjamin tightened the strap around his chest as he hurried over to the open door. Pedro pushed his arms through the straps and wrapped them tightly around him.

Joey, who apparently hadn't been as unconscious as Benjamin hoped, ran toward them, blood flying from his face in the wind.

Benjamin and Pedro jumped from the plane. To avoid freaking out and having a heart attack, Benjamin looked up into the sky instead of down at the ground. This provided an unobstructed view of Joey plummeting toward them, headfirst, arms outstretched.

Though he wasn't the science teacher, Benjamin knew that in a vacuum objects fell at the same rate, regardless of their mass. Unfortunately, they were not currently in a vacuum, and Joey's Superman-flying position carried him down faster. He crashed into Benjamin's waist and wrapped both arms around his right leg.

Benjamin tried to shake him off, though the fact that he was paralyzed with terror made this difficult. Joey held his leg so tightly that Benjamin thought he might start snapping bones.

Pedro pulled the ripcord. The red-and-blue parachute deployed and suddenly there was a jolt that was a hell of a lot more intense than Benjamin had expected, though it still didn't dislodge Joey from his leg. Now that they were no longer in freefall—though they were still plummeting toward the ground at an alarming rate—Benjamin quickly glanced around and saw one...two...three other parachutes. All of them miles away, but clearly open. Thank God. Below, they seemed to be falling toward a city.

"Just shake him off!" Pedro shouted.

"I'm trying!"

Pedro lifted his foot and slammed it down on Joey's head. Joey's grip remained solid.

Food...

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me!"

Benjamin's breath cut off as the parasite rapidly squirmed up his throat. Pedro kicked Joey again and cursed when he failed to fall to his death. The slimy creature slid over Benjamin's tongue, pressed against the inside of his lips, and then pushed through.

Pedro's eyes widened. "What the hell?"

The parasite shot forward and bit Pedro on the chin. He screamed and tried to pull his head away from it, but the creature stretched like a rubber band, and there was only so far he could go while remaining in a bear hug with Benjamin.

"Get it off!" he shrieked. "Get it off!"

Benjamin momentarily forgot about his dental issue and tried to bite down on the parasite, snapping his half-tooth off and squeezing it with his bloody, swollen gums instead. The parasite did not let go. Pedro frantically jerked his head back and forth, trying to break its grip. A small ring of blood appeared on his chin around the parasite's head.

"Shoot it!" Pedro screamed.

Were Benjamin able to talk, he would have explained that he didn't have a gun. He wasn't and didn't.

"Shoot it! Strangle it!"

Benjamin had been holding onto the parachute straps in a terrified death grip, and suddenly realized that he could in fact use his hands for parasite control. He let go of the straps and grabbed the parasite by the...neck? Didn't matter what it was. He yanked, and its head popped free of Pedro's chin, leaving behind a deep circular gash.

It slipped through his fingers and retreated all the way back into his mouth and down his throat. Pedro seemed to be in a state of shock.

"It just started doing that," Benjamin explained.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Benjamin glanced down and tried to estimate how high up they were. A mile, maybe? Lots of buildings and traffic below. The landing might really suck. He had no idea how to steer a parachute, and probably couldn't do it anyway with Pedro hugging him and the other jackass clinging to his leg.

"What the hell is that thing?" Pedro demanded. "Why the hell would anybody want it back? Why the hell wouldn't they just step on it?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"I have no guesses! I'm completely baffled by why anybody would want it! That's insane! Totally insane! It bit my chin! The parasite took an actual bite out of my chin! Who does that? Who bites people's chins?"

Benjamin felt a now-familiar movement in his stomach. "It's coming up again," he warned Pedro.

"What? No!"

"I can feel it."

"Don't let it out! Block it with your tongue or something! At least turn your head!"

The parasite shot past Benjamin's lips and went several inches straight into Pedro's open mouth. The two men floated downward, eyes wide, parasite between them, both of them choking loudly. Benjamin's sense of dignity had taken some pretty severe hits recently, but this was really pushing the limits of what his self-respect could endure.

"Hey," said Joey, "try to land by that—" He looked up at them. "Holy shit! Is that your tongue?"

* * *

When Mr. Smith was only eight years old, his father had died in a plane crash. "If only he'd had a parachute!" his mother had sobbed, over and over. His Aunt Sally tried to explain repeatedly that the crash had occurred on the runway before takeoff, and that a parachute really wouldn't have done much to save him, but his mother was in too intense a state of grief to care.

Though Mr. Smith had not turned into the kind of crackpot who would bring his own parachute onto commercial aircraft, he did insist that any private jet he flew on carried them. Granted, his preparations had been in anticipation of mechanical failure or a surprise thunderstorm or an inconveniently timed heart attack, and not that his idiot son would shoot the pilot. Still, his mother's semi-insanity all those years ago had saved his life. He was glad she'd lost her mind.

He was less glad as he floated down toward the razor-wire fence.

He struck it hard, at waist-level. An instant later he discovered that the fence was also electrified. He tried to scream but merely drooled. After he fell inside the junkyard, barely conscious, the parachute floated down upon him, blocking his view though not before he'd counted three pit bulls running toward him.

The parachute provided a bit of protection against being mauled to death by ferocious dogs, but not quite enough.

* * *

Pedro thrashed around, trying to get the parasite out of his mouth as it inched its way farther and farther inside him. Though Benjamin didn't really see a downside to having the parasite change hosts—let Pedro enjoy the fun for a while—the whole situation was still disconcerting.

Unfortunately, as twin streams of blood ran down the sides of Pedro's mouth, Benjamin realized that the parasite was not changing hosts, but rather feeding. Pedro tried repeatedly to bite the monster in two with no success.

Joey said "Holy shit!" several more times, with very little variance in tone.

They floated down past the top of a building and Benjamin realized that they were headed toward a busy four-lane city street.

Pedro let go of Benjamin with one hand and dug his fingers into the parasite. Gagging violently, he slowly pulled it out of his mouth, inch by inch. The parasite had latched onto his tongue, which extended as far as it could out of his mouth before the parasite finally tore free. It slipped through Pedro's bloody fingers and retreated back down Benjamin's throat.

Their descent stopped with a sudden jolt. They still had five or six stories to go before they hit the street, and Benjamin realized that their parachute had caught on a flagpole extending horizontally from the building.

The aluminum flagpole immediately began to bend, obviously having been designed to hold items such as flags and not three men and a parasite. The parasite shot out of Benjamin's mouth once more. This time it got Pedro on the eye. He pulled it free and it got his other eye.

Benjamin recoiled at the sight of Pedro's ruined face. His own face was in far from pristine condition, he knew, but something about eyeballs with chunks missing really bothered him.

The parasite's head darted into Pedro's screaming mouth again.

The flagpole continued to bend. They began to slide down it.

Pedro's other arm pulled completely free of the parachute straps. Benjamin grabbed the front of his shirt. The cloth tore easily.

Down on the ground below, several people screamed.

Pedro fell. The parasite fell with him, rapidly unspooling from Benjamin's mouth. After about six feet, the parasite popped free of Pedro's mouth and shot back into Benjamin like a tape measure. Pedro hit the pavement, narrowly missing a crowd of gawking people with his body, if not its contents.

Benjamin felt really bad for the guy. Pedro would've been very upset to know that he'd die before Joey.

The parachute slid off the end of the flagpole. They plummeted just long enough for Benjamin to discover religion, and then the parachute opened again, slowing their descent to a rate that wouldn't splatter them on impact.

They touched down in the middle of the street. Luckily, most of the drivers had stopped their vehicles to gape at the spectacle and avoid running over the rogue parachutists. Benjamin landed surprisingly well, hitting the street with both feet instead of his ass.

"Let go," he said to Joey, who still had a death-grip on his leg.

Joey remained firmly in place. It almost sounded like he was whimpering.

"Seriously, let go of my leg. This is embarrassing." Benjamin tried to shake Joey off. He wouldn't detach.

It only took a few seconds for the awe-struck wonder of the motorists to transform into impatience. One car honked its horn, then another, and then Benjamin and Joey were the targets of a whole busy street full of honking vehicles. A huge crowd had gathered around Pedro's corpse and pedestrians were still screaming.

"Let's at least get off the road," said Benjamin, continuing his unsuccessful efforts to pull his leg away from Joey. He took a step toward the sidewalk, dragging Joey along with him.

Finally, Joey seemed to snap out of it. He let go of Benjamin's leg and slowly stood up, wobbling as if drunk. Their eyes met.

"Vengeance!" Joey shouted, punching Benjamin in the face.

As many times as Benjamin had been punched recently, he would've thought it would become no big deal. Instead he stumbled backwards, tripped over the parachute, and fell to the ground.

"You killed my brother!" Joey shouted. "And if he didn't land safely, you killed my father!"

"I didn't kill your father! You shot the pilot!"

"So?"

"What do you mean, so? That's why your father had to jump out of the frickin' plane! And if they didn't land safely, you killed my wife and daughter along with the pilot."

"The pilot doesn't count."

"Fine," said Benjamin, pushing himself up to a sitting position. "But a wife and daughter still outweighs a father and brother."

Joey fell silent, as if mulling over that logic.

"You know," said Benjamin, "you might want to get out of here before the police show up."

Joey looked around. People were starting to get out of their cars to investigate, though keeping a safe distance away. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "I hope that thing eats you alive." He kicked Benjamin in the stomach.

The parasite shot three feet out of Benjamin's mouth. It flailed around on the pavement, twitching rapidly.

A woman screamed: "His intestine just came out of his mouth! Oh my God, his intestine just came out of his mouth!"

"It's not his intestine," Joey said, as if the woman were exceedingly stupid. "It's his—" Joey yelped as the parasite wrapped around his ankle. He tried to tug his foot loose but the parasite's grip was too tight.

Police sirens began to blare, not too far away.

"I'm not going to jail for a leech!" Joey announced to the crowd. He tugged once more, hard enough that Benjamin thought his entire stomach was going to spew out of his mouth along with the parasite. Benjamin crawled along the ground to keep pace with him as Joey stormed over to the sidewalk.

Several of the onlookers moved out of the way, clearing a path for the blood-drenched duo. Benjamin had to scramble on his hands and knees as Joey rushed ahead. He violently shoved a young woman out of the way. She fell to the sidewalk with a scream as Joey scooped her baby out of its stroller.

"Everyone get back!" he shouted, holding up the infant. "I'll smash it to the ground! I'll spike this thing like a football, I swear!"

Benjamin would have offered a dozen excellent reasons that Joey should reconsider this plan of action, if not for the parasite clogging his throat. The horrified crowd stepped back even farther, except for the mother who sat on the ground, watching in terror.

"That's right, I'm the kind of guy who would splat a baby! I'm dangerous! Don't mess with me!"

"Stay calm, sir," said a bearded man, taking a cautious step forward. "There's no need for anybody to get hurt."

"There's need for this baby to get hurt if you don't shut up! Do I look like somebody who wouldn't bounce a baby off a sidewalk? Do I? Do you want me to see if it actually bounces or just sort of lies there? Do you?"

"Please don't hurt my baby!" the mother wailed.

The parasite's head slid under Joey's pant leg. Joey cried out and did a frantic dance. "It's biting me!"

"Don't drop the baby!" Benjamin tried to shout, although it came out more like "Uuuhh uhhhh uhhh uh-uh."

Lots of people shrieked.

Joey stomped on the parasite with his free foot. Apparently that made it bite harder, because he let out a bellow. The baby slipped out of his hands.

Lots more people shrieked.

Benjamin caught the baby with both hands. Joey immediately scooped it back up, then pointed to a man in the street on a motorcycle. "Give me your bike! Now!"

Without hesitation, the man climbed off his motorcycle and pushed it over to Joey. Joey climbed on board and Benjamin had no choice but to follow him. He leaned over the side, his mouth about a foot from Joey's ankle. He tried to telepathically ask the parasite to give him some slack, but nothing happened.

The motorcycle sped off. Benjamin felt like he was going to slip off the seat and grabbed the back of Joey's pants to hang on. He was uncomfortable around motorcycles even under normal circumstances, and riding in this position was much worse than being one of the fools he regularly ridiculed for riding without a helmet.

They rushed past several parked cars, each of them missing Benjamin's head by inches. Were there not a kidnapped infant involved, Benjamin would've been tempted to just leap off the vehicle and hope that the parasite snapped in half, but somehow he had to save the baby and put an end to this madness.

He desperately needed more slack. If nothing else, zooming past vehicles at this angle was making him nauseous.

He inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils, clenched his free hand into a fist, and then punched himself in the stomach as hard as he could. With his body contorted, he wasn't able to punch himself as hard as he would've liked, but it did the trick: it hurt really bad and three more feet of parasite spewed out of his mouth.

Benjamin pulled himself into a normal sitting position just in time to see that Joey was about to run a red light.

He managed to forget entirely about the parasite for five whole seconds as they sped through the intersection. Joey swerved to the right to avoid an SUV, then to the left to avoid another SUV. The SUVs both swerved to dodge the motorcycle and crashed into each other, head-on. Benjamin thought he felt a small piece of debris hit him in the back.

The extra three feet of parasite quickly slithered back down his throat. However, he was able to remain upright rather than being yanked down toward Joey's foot again, since the creature had thankfully let go of his ankle.

At the next intersection, the light was green. But there were about three police cars blocking the way, lights flashing.

Please don't let him speed up, Benjamin thought.

Joey accelerated. "I'm not going to jail!" he shouted. It sounded very much like his attitude had become "Live fast, die young, and leave a corpse that got decapitated in a motorcycle crash with a police car." Not a good attitude. Benjamin didn't want to die with this asshole.

Benjamin swung his head to the left. The parasite struck the side of Joey's neck and wrapped around it. Benjamin scooted up close enough to turn the situation into a near-miss homosexual experience, then reached around to try to grab the baby. Joey slammed his head backwards, bashing the back of his skull against Benjamin's forehead, then slammed on the brakes as the parasite bit his neck.

He stopped the motorcycle and tried to pull the parasite free. "I'll kill the baby!" he shouted, as at least six cops pointed guns at him. "I'll do it!"

Benjamin couldn't speak and wasn't sure how to signal "I'm not with this guy!" He really didn't want to die in a hailstorm of bullets. If the parasite was so inclined as to chew through a really important part of Joey's neck, Benjamin would be cool with that.

Kill, Benjamin thought with as much intensity as he could muster. Kill. Kill, kill, kill, kill...

Joey's scream started low, then rose in pitch, as if his vocal cords were being eaten through. He spun around to face Benjamin. The parasite ripped open his throat.

"I...I..." said Joey, gargling blood.

The parasite retreated into Benjamin's throat, taking the flap of Joey's flesh with it.

Joey held his finger under the fountain of blood with an almost childlike curiosity. Benjamin tensed up, ready to lunge for the baby.

"Don't...want...last act...to be...killing a...baby..." Joey said. He handed the infant to Benjamin, then toppled over the side of the motorcycle and was still.

The cops moved forward.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Benjamin lay on the hospital bed, heavily bandaged and sore in every place it was possible for the human body to be sore except maybe two or three of them, but feeling surprisingly upbeat considering that he still had a scary oversized parasite in his stomach.

Margaret and Cindy sat next to him. Margaret had sprained her ankle in the parachute landing, but they'd both survived and would have amazing stories to tell after the whole annoying parasite issue got sorted out. A nurse had applied some cream to Benjamin's sores that was rather soothing but which Cindy claimed "smelled worse than a rotting monkey." They'd briefly discussed Cindy's lack of reference for making a rotting monkey comparison, until Margaret politely asked them to change the subject.

There were a lot of questions to answer, and a couple of stern looking FBI agents guarded the door to his hospital room, but the interrogation could wait. The feds probably just didn't want to get too close to him and his open sores. Benjamin had looked in a mirror and declared himself "one hundred percent grotesque."

At least he'd found out that the old man who'd been gut-shot at the motel had survived and was now in stable condition. Benjamin wasn't sure if it was appropriate to send flowers or not. He'd let Margaret make that decision.

Dr. Konratcher, who sort of looked like an alien with regular human flesh tones, walked into the room. "How are you feeling, Mr. Wilson?"

"Dandy and jolly."

"I have good news for you. Some scientists know exactly what it is we're dealing with here, and a representative is on the way up as we speak."

"Scientists?"

"Government scientists. Top secret stuff. I'm not supposed to ask too many questions." He winked at Cindy. "Pretty exciting for your dad, huh?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Right. Well, anyway, he'll be here in a moment."

A short, pudgy man in a black suit walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. "Hello, Mr. Wilson," he said. "I understand you're having an interesting life."

"You could say that."

"And I did. Mr. Wilson, I'm not in the business of creating panic. But I'm also not in the business of reducing panic needlessly. To be perfectly blunt, I'm amazed that you're alive. I'll be even more amazed an hour from now. Or, less amazed, if you're dead. We have a helicopter waiting, and I'll need you to sign this authorization form." The man handed Benjamin a stack of papers the size of War and Peace. "Normally I would suggest that you read any document carefully before signing it, but not today."

"How do I know I can trust you?" Benjamin asked. "How do I know that my well-being won't come in second to preserving the specimen? At least the doctors here have no interest in the parasite—they'll just throw it away when they're done."

"With all due respect to the medical professionals here, who I'm sure are excellent at their jobs, if they operate on you, you're dead. Messy dead."

Benjamin wasn't real inclined to leave the safety of the hospital, but he did want expert attention. This wasn't exactly your standard-issue intestinal bug. "Can't they come here?"

The man shook his head. "The instruments they need to get that beast out of you aren't portable. Time is running out, Mr. Wilson. It'll be a ghastly way to die."

Benjamin sighed. He really hoped he wasn't simply starting up a new series of misadventures. However, dying on the operating table after going through all of this would be a spectacular bummer. "Okay. Fine."

* * *

Julie was sitting in the helicopter when they boarded. "Nice seeing you again," Benjamin said, without much enthusiasm, sitting down next to her.

"Likewise. Have you got any parachute endorsement offers yet?"

"Not yet. The marketing department probably wouldn't want me getting blood all over them."

"Makes sense."

"I'm glad you didn't shoot anybody this time."

"Yeah, I decided to take a more subtle route. I called in some favors."

"Why didn't you call in these favors the first time?"

"Because now I have to share the money and the credit. It pisses me off."

They didn't talk much during the rest of the flight.

* * *

The helicopter landed a couple of hours later and they moved to a spacious black car. Benjamin's comfort level faded a bit after he was informed that he had to wear a cloth sack over his head. Though he understood the rationale (the cloth sack made it unnecessary to kill him for knowing the route to the top secret laboratory) he still had trust issues with the whole endeavor. But he didn't protest as much as he wanted to, because he really, really, really wanted that parasite out of his stomach.

Julie got him out of the car, walked him in a few circles, then took him inside, walked him down a short hallway, and sat him down. When she removed the sack, Benjamin squeezed his eyes shut from the sudden burst of light, feeling like a Mogwai. When his eyes adjusted, he saw that he was in a small, brightly lit room with white tile walls. An operating table took up much of the floor space.

A man sat on a stool next to the table. His face was covered with white gauze, with only his eyes visible.

"Welcome to the lab," he said. "My name is Hank. Normally Paul, my boss, would be handling this sort of thing, but he took an emergency vacation. We've had some big-time challenges lately, experimental cow-related stuff, and I wouldn't even be working today if you weren't here, so bear with me." He looked closely at Benjamin's face. "So the Piranha Project did this to you, huh? Pretty much what we expected."

"Good to know."

"To be perfectly honest, I'm surprised we didn't abandon this project sooner."

"What do you mean, abandon?" Julie asked.

"Well, the project had potential in the concept stage, but as I'm sure you saw, the end result had no real practical usage. We've turned our attention elsewhere."

Julie stared at him. "Maybe we're talking about two different things. I was under the impression that this had, like, worldwide consequences."

Hank laughed out loud. "Worldwide consequences, and you think they sent you to retrieve it?"

"Yes," said Julie, speaking very slowly. "That is what I thought."

"No, no, no. We have much more important concerns. Your assignment was a distraction, to keep certain interested parties away from the truly valuable specimen."

Julie stood up. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Of course not. That would be tasteless. Sort of like if you made a joke about how my face got chewed up by a goddamn cow. There's no shame in being a distraction job. You did it very well. All the shooting and car crashes and stuff. Your assignment was totally successful. And Benjamin is alive, which is a surprising little bonus."

"You mean I was supposed to die?" Benjamin asked.

"Not supposed to. Expected to. There's a difference."

"This is horseshit," said Julie. "Total horseshit."

Hank shrugged. "It is what it is. Would you like to keep whining about it, or would you like me to get the specimen out of your friend?"

"The friend one," said Benjamin, quickly.

"I should rip your head off," said Julie. "Rip it right off. Slowly. Do everything I can to make it hurt more. I'll use a meat hook. Do you have a meat hook? In a closet somewhere, maybe? No, no—two of them. Two meat hooks. One for each ear."

Benjamin tried to pat her reassuringly on the shoulder. "Uh, Julie—?"

"But I won't tear off your head first, because that would kill you and end your pain," Julie noted. "I'm going to start with your toenails. Meat hooks through the toenails. That'll hurt."

"Julie, could you rant later?" Benjamin asked.

"Yeah, whatever."

"Thanks."

Hank smiled, or at least seemed to smile through his gauze, and patted the operating table. "Take off your shirt and hop on up."

Benjamin removed his shirt and climbed onto the operating table. He lay on his back, trying to focus on deep breathing. "Do you have to cut it out or can we just coax it out?" he asked.

Hank shook his head. "Cutting it out would require too much cutting. We're going to pull it out."

"We actually already tried that," said Benjamin.

"Oooh. I bet that hurt. It has hooks, you know."

"I know."

"It won't come out by simply tugging. It would be nice if we could simply cut off its head and then drag its carcass out of you, but there's a forty-percent chance that this would cause it to expand all of the hooks at once, shredding your insides."

"I see."

"So what we have to do, and I'm sorry to say that it's going to be slightly uncomfortable, is zap it out." Hank stood up, walked over to a cabinet, and pulled out the top drawer.

"What exactly does 'zap it out' mean?" Benjamin inquired.

"Just what it sounds like." Hank took a black box, about the size of a brick, out of the drawer. A pair of copper wires dangled from the sides, along with a cord to an electrical outlet. Hank placed the box on the operating table and plugged it in. The box began to emit a soft, spooky hum.

"Are your nipples sensitive?" Hank asked.

"Uh, I dunno...average?"

Hank pinched a metal clip on Benjamin's left nipple. He winced in pain. This was definitely headed in a bad direction.

"Are you sure there are no other solutions?" Benjamin asked.

"Oh, there are plenty of other solutions," said Hank, attaching a clip to Benjamin's other nipple. "But they're worse than this. Trust me."

"Give me an example."

"Explosives."

"Okay. So what do I do?"

"Just hold still." Hank pointed to another cabinet. "Julie, you'll find a pair of work gloves in the second drawer. When the specimen emerges, grab it and pull as hard as you can, but when I tell you to stop, stop immediately. Got it?"

Julie nodded. "Got it." She went over to the cabinet to retrieve the gloves.

"How bad is this shock going to be?" Benjamin asked.

"Have you ever rubbed your feet across a thick carpet and then touched a doorknob?" Hank asked.

"Yeah."

"Imagine a pair of King Kong feet rubbing across a football field carpet and touching Godzilla's doorknob, but instead of a single quick shock it's an extended one."

"That doesn't sound like fun."

"Well, no, it wouldn't."

Benjamin steeled himself for the voltage. "Okay. Bring it on."

Julie put on the gloves. "Remember," Hank told her, "stop pulling when I tell you. If we keep the current going too long, it will kill him."

"So how many different ways are there for me to die on this table?" Benjamin asked.

"Oh, don't worry—if you die in some other way besides the parasite or the electricity, I'll be very surprised."

"Fair enough."

"In theory, I should strap you down to make sure you don't flail around too much, but I want you to be able to defend yourself in case something goes wrong. Are you ready?"

"What do you think might go wrong?"

"I'm not sure. We don't do a lot of parasite removals here. Are you ready?"

"You're absolutely sure you don't have something like a parasite-killing tablet I could swallow, right? Maybe some sort of gelcap?"

Hank shrugged. "Battery acid might do the trick, if you want to gulp down some of that."

"I should stop asking questions and let you zap me, right?"

"Yes. Three...two...one..."

Hank turned the dial.

Benjamin's entire body immediately tensed up as the voltage rushed through him. "Motherfuckmotherfuckmotherfuck!"

"Do you feel anything?"

"I feel the shocks!"

"Is the specimen moving?"

"Just my guts being rearranged!"

"I'm going to have to turn it past '1' then."

Benjamin hurled a few more obscenities at Hank as the current increased in intensity. Ironically, this had been one of his fantasies while browsing Home Depot, albeit a short-lived one.

"Feel it moving yet?" Hank asked.

Benjamin shook his head and tried to think happy thoughts to keep his body from exploding.

"Okay, here's 3," said Hank, turning the dial one more click. Benjamin felt like his brain was going to pop out of his ears like a really big zit. However, he also felt his unwelcome stomach resident squirming. The parasite's head protruded from his mouth.

"Got it!" Julie said, grabbing its head.

"Pull! Pull!"

Using both hands, Julie pulled the parasite out of Benjamin's mouth, getting about two feet of it out before Hank turned off the current. It thrashed and twisted in her hands, but she managed to sustain her grip on it, even when it bit down on her thumb through the glove.

"Don't let it go!" Hank warned.

"I'm not gonna let it go!"

"Ready for the next zap?"

Benjamin wasn't entirely certain that he was ready for the next zap, but the parasite's violent thrashing was forcing his head to bob in a nodding motion. Hank turned the current back on. Benjamin screamed several curses that were incoherent but no less heartfelt because of it.

Julie pulled out another two feet of wriggling parasite. Its surface was slick with slime (well, probably mucus—Benjamin liked to think that his body didn't contain actual slime) and it wrapped itself around Julie's arm as she tugged.

"We're almost there, I hope!" Hank announced, turning off the current. "Benjamin, give me a thumbs-up when you're ready for the next blast."

Benjamin gave him the finger.

"Ow!" Julie exclaimed, as it bit her again.

"Don't kill it," said Hank. "Remember the spikes."

He resumed the current once more. Benjamin's nipples felt like they'd been char-grilled.

Friends...

Uh, no. I don't think so. You're a fair-weather friend at best. Get the hell out of my stomach and intestinal tract. You're no longer welcome.

Julie continued pulling. The squid-like legs were now visible.

"We're almost done!" said Hank. "Don't give up now!"

The parasite bit Julie on the inside of her arm, hard enough to instantly draw blood. She winced, lost her grip, and frantically tried to grab the parasite again as it slithered back down Benjamin's throat. He wrapped both hands around it, but its slimy flesh slipped through his fingers within seconds and its head popped back into his mouth and completely out of sight.

There was a long moment of silence.

"I'm really sorry," Julie finally said.

"That's okay," said Benjamin, a few seconds before he succumbed to tears.

"Don't cry," said Julie, stroking his forehead. "It'll be fine. It's almost over."

"It would've been over if you hadn't let go!"

"Don't yell at me! You hold on to a parasite while it's devouring your arm!"

"It wasn't devouring it! It was biting it! Do you know how many times I've been bit these past couple of days?"

"You don't appreciate anything I've done for you!"

"With good cause!"

"Okay," said Hank, "releasing aggression is healthy and recommended, but not right now. Benjamin, can you handle three to four more zaps?"

"Can we put these clips someplace else?"

"How sensitive are your testicles?"

"Fine, fine, just zap me so we can get this over with."

"I'm going to turn it up a little bit higher this time."

Since his adventure had begun, Benjamin had screamed no small number of times. Had they occurred simultaneously, this last scream would have easily drowned out the others. But it worked—Julie yanked out six feet of the parasite before Hank had to turn off the juice.

"Now we're getting somewhere!" Hank said.

The parasite bit Julie's arm on the exact same place as before. She winced in the exact same way. However, she kept her grip on the creature.

One of its legs moved out of Benjamin's mouth and slid into his nostril. A second leg slipped into the other nostril, completely cutting off his breath. He tried to use his eyes to signal to Hank that this wasn't very good.

With the next wave of current, seven or eight more wriggling legs began to emerge from Benjamin's mouth. Julie groaned with the strain but kept tugging.

And then, the parasite popped free.

Julie held it, staring at the eight-foot-long writhing creature with disgust. "I can't believe you had this thing inside of—"

Its head shot out, biting Hank on the center of the throat. He hadn't yet turned off the electricity. Some sparks shot from the box.

Benjamin ripped off the clips. They were meant to be carefully opened and removed, rather than torn off, but a couple of nasty nipple scars were the least of his worries at this point. The electricity stopped frying him.

Hank rushed to the other side of the room. Though the location was rather nasty, the bite itself seemed to be superficial. At least there was no fountain of blood spraying everywhere.

Benjamin managed to enjoy a brief moment of Hey, cool, it's out of me! Things are finally starting to look up! Then the parasite squirmed out of Julie's hands, landed on the operating table with a splat, and slithered onto Benjamin's chest.

He pressed his lips together as tightly as he could. No way was that bastard getting back inside. No way. He'd scoop his eyeballs out with a lobster claw before he let that parasite back into his body, although if he could avoid both of those events, that would be even better.

Despite his best efforts to keep it from doing so, the parasite wrapped around his neck. Rotten thing had a neck fetish. It tightened its grip like a very thin boa constrictor.

At least it's out. Gotta think positive.

Benjamin got off the table as Julie tried to grab part of the parasite. Hank opened a closet door, took out an axe, and carefully walked toward them.

"Whoa!" said Benjamin. "No axe! No axe yet!"

"See if you can hold part of it out between your hands. Give me something to chop."

"Don't chop! We're not desperate enough to chop!"

"I'm not going to dismember you! Just hold it out!"

Julie grabbed a handful of parasite from the front of Benjamin's neck and pulled it out, giving several inches of slack. "How about this?"

"Too close to my neck!" Benjamin insisted.

Hank raised the axe. "No, no, that's perfectly...wait, too close to his neck, he's right."

"Don't you have a scalpel or something?"

"A scalpel might not do the trick."

"What the hell kind of experiments are you doing here that you need to keep an axe handy?"

"We keep a thresher in the shed. Want me to go get that?"

The parasite slipped out of Julie's hands and snapped against Benjamin's neck. He coughed as it tightened. He looped the thumbs of both hands underneath part of the parasite that was wrapped around his chest and pushed it out as hard as he could, finally extending a choppable segment about a foot from his body.

Before he could indicate that, yes, he was ready for Hank to attempt to sever the parasite, the axe came down with a swish.

Considering his recent string of misfortunes, Benjamin would not have been at all surprised if the axe split his face in half. He wouldn't have been happy about it, but he would have accepted it as the most recent in a long line of lousy occurrences. He'd pry the axe out of his face, run his finger along the facial gap to see how deep it was, then wait for the next awful thing to happen.

The axe, however, did not split his face in half. It sliced cleanly through the parasite. Generous amounts of orange fluid that looked like Buffalo wing sauce squirted out of each side, spraying all over Benjamin's face, chest, and arms. In an effort to remain upbeat, he noted that the parasite apparently did not have acid for blood.

The parasite continued to violently squirm.

"Hold out another section," said Hank.

"No! You've used up your axe luck! Put it away." The parasite bit Benjamin on the shoulder, and he slammed his fist against its head. It didn't stop.

Julie grabbed the top half and gave a mighty tug. Her hands popped free and she did a brief slapstick comedy routine that would have been hilariously funny to Benjamin had he not been preoccupied by the parasite fangs in his shoulder. She landed on her butt and said nothing positive.

Hank set the axe on the table. He picked up one of the clips, pried it open, then held it up to the leaking part of the top half of the parasite and let it snap shut. Benjamin cried out as the current passed through the parasite into his already-really-damn-sick-of-getting-shocked body. Then the parasite slipped from around his neck and dropped to the tile floor.

It quickly slid through the orange liquid and bit Julie on the inside of her leg.

The lower half of the parasite wasn't squirming quite as much anymore. Benjamin slammed his body against the operating table a couple of times and it released its grip and fell to the floor. Then it wrapped around his ankle.

Hank picked up the axe again. He slammed the weapon into the top half of the parasite, narrowly missing Julie as he cut it in two and caused yet more orange liquid to spray.

"I don't want a fuckin' hysterectomy!" Julie shouted.

Hank, who had apparently really been looking forward to an opportunity to use the axe, chopped the parasite again, severing it right beneath the head. The head continued to roll around, its mouth rapidly opening and closing.

Benjamin stomped on it.

It continued moving underneath his foot, so he pulled away and retreated to a safer part of the room. Julie got up and climbed onto the table.

Hank chopped it into four more pieces, all of which continued to slither around the floor.

"Tell me honestly," said Benjamin. "Are these all going to grow into separate full-size parasites? Because I'll really be disappointed if that happens."

"I doubt that very much," said Hank, stomping on a piece. "They shouldn't be able to last very long outside of the host, although they're a bit more—" He stomped on another piece. "—stubborn than I would've guessed."

"Do you have a flamethrower?" Benjamin asked.

"Not in this room."

"Gasoline and a lighter?" Julie asked.

Hank shook his head. "No."

"Machine gun?"

"Now you're just being silly."

"I was being silly with the gasoline and lighter," Julie said. "I guess now we just wait for aberrant science to run its course."

"I don't want to be a pain," said Benjamin, "but I'm legitimately concerned about the whole 'growing into separate full-sized parasites' issue. You've got to have something we can use on them, don't you?"

"Hydrochloric acid?"

"Works for me."

For the next few minutes, they took turns pouring hydrochloric acid onto the parasite pieces. They dissolved quite nicely, and Benjamin had to admit that it was even kind of fun, at least until he accidentally spilled some on his hand.

Soon nothing remained but several smoking, black masses on a floor soaked with orange liquid.

"Well, nobody died," said Hank. "At least that's a step up from last week."

EPILOGUE

"I have to disappear for a while," said Julie, as they walked out of the building. "Maybe forever. I thought it was going to be for more of a noble purpose, and I thought I'd have more money, but oh well. I'll still enjoy the vacation."

"Where are you going?" Benjamin asked.

"Promise not to rat me out?"

"Of course."

"Southern hemisphere. Maybe."

"Fair enough," said Benjamin. "So this is goodbye, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm not much of a hugger, especially the way you look now, but how about we settle for a friendly goodbye handshake?"

Benjamin glanced down at his hand. "My hand is still kind of burning from the acid. We'd better not."

"Okay. Let me just say this, then. If you weren't married, and before all of the body chemistry changes from the parasite, I so would have done you."

Julie gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and then the pudgy man in the black suit put the cloth sack over Benjamin's head.

* * *

Turning forty wasn't anywhere near as upsetting as he thought it would be.

* * *

One year later...

Benjamin sat at his desk, grading final exams. This was the single dumbest student he'd ever encountered in all of his years of teaching. How could he not know that Gregor had transformed into a cockroach? This element of "The Metamorphosis" wasn't obscure symbolism that could only be identified by thorough analysis by a literary expert—the guy'd turned into a frickin' roach! Even for a student who never listened in class, the words "turned into a roach" should have captured some part of his attention during the discussions.

He wrote a nice big "F" at the top. Welcome to summer school, kiddo.

He still had some scars from where the sores had healed, but they really weren't too hideous. You could hardly even see them except in direct light. And there was no evidence that he'd bashed his front teeth out against a bathroom sink. Modern dentists were awesome.

He took a bite from his celery stick. For some reason, chocolate now tasted like a flavorless blob and made him sick to his stomach. Fortunately, sex did not have the same effect. He hadn't had the nerve yet to test gambling.

His life had been unbelievably chaotic in the weeks following the incident (which is how he liked to think of it, as "the incident" rather than "the time this freaky parasite grew inside my body and made me suffer temporary fits of insanity and made sores break out all over me and lots of people died") but things had eventually calmed down.

His students didn't think he was as cool as he'd hoped, but that might change when the movie version came out next summer, even though he heard the studio was going for a PG-13 rating and replacing the parasite with an imaginary friend. And changing his name to "Bradley," which was deemed more commercially viable. Bastards.

"How's it going?" asked Margaret, walking into his office. She'd lost twenty-three pounds on the Parasite-Related Stress diet and had kept it off all these months, though she'd been disappointed that Weight Watchers magazine wouldn't run an article about her. Hardly touching your food and throwing up a lot was not part of their approved plan for weight management.

"Not too bad. Better than having a parasite in my stomach." He'd used this joke approximately eight thousand times since the incident, and planned to use it at least another eight thousand times, especially when Cindy was around.

"Most things are," she said, putting her arms around his chest and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Though he couldn't quite say that he was glad it all happened, and he wasn't really sure he'd learned any important lessons that he couldn't have figured out from other sources, and it was still kind of difficult to justify the tooth thing to people who asked about it, Benjamin did have to admit that things could suck a lot worse than they did right now.

And he couldn't ask for much more than that.

About The Author

Jeff Strand is the Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of such demented books as The Sinister Mr. Corpse, Gleefully Macabre Tales, and Pressure. He lives in Tampa, Florida, where his problems with intestinal parasites are few and far between, although that last burrito (the one with the funny colored sour cream) didn't work out so well for him. He can't remember if he already mentioned that he lives in Tampa, Florida. If you're a brave web-explorer, you can visit his website at www.JeffStrand.com.

Table of Contents

BENJAMIN'S PARASITE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

About The Author