Read Online Nasty Little F___ers-Kindle by David McAfee - Free Book Online
Authors: David McAfee
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connected solidly with Bock’s jaw, and the man went limp. Big, strong, brainy, but apparently unable to take a punch. Score one for me!
Harper leveled the rifle and pointed it at Colby’s chest.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Colby said, and ducked just in time to catch Bock by the armpits. He held Bock’s limp form up between him and Harper, using it as a shield. Then he reached for his .45 and put the barrel to Bock’s head.
“Back up, Harper,” he said. “You know I’ll shoot him.”
Harper smiled, revealing a number of gaps in his teeth. Grubs squirmed through his mouth, ducking through the gaps and chewing on his gums and tongue.
Oh, fuck me , Colby thought.
Harper pulled the trigger. The round entered Bock’s stomach and exited his back. Colby felt the familiar white-hot flash of pain as the bullet tore into his side. No matter how many times he got shot, he’d never get used to it. The searing pain as a superheated slug tears into your body isn’t something you forget. Ever.
Colby shoved Bock at Harper, wincing as he tensed the muscles in his abdomen, and pointed the .45 at Harper’s head. Bock crashed into Harper just as Colby squeezed the trigger, and the shot missed. On the plus side, Harper and Bock tumbled to the ground in a heap, and the rifle flew out of Harper’s hand to land near the dead bear carcass. Colby reached down and picked it up. When he bent over, he couldn’t help but notice the amount of blood pouring from the hole in his shirt. Colby looked over at Harper, who was struggling to lift Bock off his chest and having very little success. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and risked a quick examination of the wound.
It wasn’t serious, not much more than a graze, but it hurt like hell, and it was bleeding pretty fast. He ripped a piece of his sleeve off and pressed it to his side. That would only do for a short while, though. He’d need to pad the wound with something - a shirt, or some cotton - and he needed to do it soon, before he lost too much blood. First he had to get the hell away from the other two. He kept the .45 pointed at Harper. Behind him, the cloud of flies buzzed away, but didn’t seem at all interested in him. Good. The last thing he needed was to have to worry about those fucking things, too.
He started to walk back to the little clearing, pressing the cloth to his side with his left hand and holding the Desert Eagle trained on Harper with his right. It wasn’t easy, and his accuracy would be affected if he had to shoot that way, but at such close range he should still be able to put a few holes in Harper before he could go more than five feet.
A few more holes, he corrected. Harper’s body was pocked with the teeth marks of the little grubs. He looked like someone with a very bad case of Chicken Pox.
Bock groaned again, regaining consciousness. Colby looked at Bock’s belly, and at the blood pouring out of it. By the looks of things, the bullet had done quite a bit damage. Colby doubted the scientist-turned-grub lover would last the day. Too fucking bad. Beneath Bock, Harper glared daggers at Colby as he backed out of the clearing and into the woods; a visage made even more surreal when a grub poked it’s tiny scarlet head out of his nostril and began to chew on his upper lip. Harper never even flinched.
Colby made it back to the spot where he and Bock had eaten lunch, and miracle of miracles, his pack was still there. So was Bock’s. The medical supplies were in his pack, so he went to it first. He laid the rifle on the ground just long enough to unzip the pack and grab a wad of cotton, a small vial of rubbing alcohol, and some adhesive tape. A small bottle of Vicodin sat in an inside pocket of the pack, but he passed over it. He would need to be clear-headed for the hike back to camp. With his right hand, he pointed the pistol back the way he’d come, just in case Bock and Harper came after him. With his left, he lifted his shirt and pinned it to his
Harper leveled the rifle and pointed it at Colby’s chest.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Colby said, and ducked just in time to catch Bock by the armpits. He held Bock’s limp form up between him and Harper, using it as a shield. Then he reached for his .45 and put the barrel to Bock’s head.
“Back up, Harper,” he said. “You know I’ll shoot him.”
Harper smiled, revealing a number of gaps in his teeth. Grubs squirmed through his mouth, ducking through the gaps and chewing on his gums and tongue.
Oh, fuck me , Colby thought.
Harper pulled the trigger. The round entered Bock’s stomach and exited his back. Colby felt the familiar white-hot flash of pain as the bullet tore into his side. No matter how many times he got shot, he’d never get used to it. The searing pain as a superheated slug tears into your body isn’t something you forget. Ever.
Colby shoved Bock at Harper, wincing as he tensed the muscles in his abdomen, and pointed the .45 at Harper’s head. Bock crashed into Harper just as Colby squeezed the trigger, and the shot missed. On the plus side, Harper and Bock tumbled to the ground in a heap, and the rifle flew out of Harper’s hand to land near the dead bear carcass. Colby reached down and picked it up. When he bent over, he couldn’t help but notice the amount of blood pouring from the hole in his shirt. Colby looked over at Harper, who was struggling to lift Bock off his chest and having very little success. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and risked a quick examination of the wound.
It wasn’t serious, not much more than a graze, but it hurt like hell, and it was bleeding pretty fast. He ripped a piece of his sleeve off and pressed it to his side. That would only do for a short while, though. He’d need to pad the wound with something - a shirt, or some cotton - and he needed to do it soon, before he lost too much blood. First he had to get the hell away from the other two. He kept the .45 pointed at Harper. Behind him, the cloud of flies buzzed away, but didn’t seem at all interested in him. Good. The last thing he needed was to have to worry about those fucking things, too.
He started to walk back to the little clearing, pressing the cloth to his side with his left hand and holding the Desert Eagle trained on Harper with his right. It wasn’t easy, and his accuracy would be affected if he had to shoot that way, but at such close range he should still be able to put a few holes in Harper before he could go more than five feet.
A few more holes, he corrected. Harper’s body was pocked with the teeth marks of the little grubs. He looked like someone with a very bad case of Chicken Pox.
Bock groaned again, regaining consciousness. Colby looked at Bock’s belly, and at the blood pouring out of it. By the looks of things, the bullet had done quite a bit damage. Colby doubted the scientist-turned-grub lover would last the day. Too fucking bad. Beneath Bock, Harper glared daggers at Colby as he backed out of the clearing and into the woods; a visage made even more surreal when a grub poked it’s tiny scarlet head out of his nostril and began to chew on his upper lip. Harper never even flinched.
Colby made it back to the spot where he and Bock had eaten lunch, and miracle of miracles, his pack was still there. So was Bock’s. The medical supplies were in his pack, so he went to it first. He laid the rifle on the ground just long enough to unzip the pack and grab a wad of cotton, a small vial of rubbing alcohol, and some adhesive tape. A small bottle of Vicodin sat in an inside pocket of the pack, but he passed over it. He would need to be clear-headed for the hike back to camp. With his right hand, he pointed the pistol back the way he’d come, just in case Bock and Harper came after him. With his left, he lifted his shirt and pinned it to his
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