Glass?
A bead of something clear in the center of the nail head. He ran his fingertip over it. Indeed, it felt smooth, like glass.
Glass as might be found in a tiny lens-.-..
That's not a camera lens, is it? It couldn't be.
Why? What purpose?
Then it dawned on him: It's a hidden surveillance camera from the old missile site, he reasoned. And obviously not operational anymore. The missile site was emptied out, abandoned.
Strange, though.
The most paranoid part of him had to wonder. Maybe it still is operational. He looked directly at the small studlike protrusion. Maybe some army security guy is looking at me right now…
"Naw," he muttered and laughed. Impossible. The lens hadn't been hooked up to anything for twenty years.
Snap!
Alan twirled.
Fear surged for a second, but he knew he'd simply been spooked by the camera. Either an animal had snapped a twig, or it had been Howie and Carol…
"Hey, you guys! Where are ya?"
The woods sucked up the call. He wended farther out, toward the sound. Then-
What the fuck?
At his feet lay a bikini top. A chartreuse bikini top. Can't be Leona 's. Hers was back at the shack, and it wasn't this color, and it couldn't be Carol's either because she'd been wearing a bright floral-patterned bikini. Had it fallen out of their bags? Impossible, he was sure. When they'd walked to the shack, they came from the other direction. Alan picked up the top. The tag read 32 B. Definitely not Carol or Leona's. The top felt damp, and was flecked with bits of dirt and leaves. Been here a while…
But so what?
Some chick was probably partying out here months ago, and left her top. That had to be it.
Alan grew frustrated. He called out some more, received no response. Overhead, the palm branches were so dense they melded into one another, darkening the forest.
Snap!
"Hey! Come on, you guys! This is a pain in the ass! Where are you?"
This was pissing him off. He stalked forward, peering deeper. Then, for a split second, he saw a girl disappear between some trees about thirty yards away.
A naked girl.
Carol, he knew The shape of the body looked right, and it was her same long, shiny auburn hair. A second flash of her confirmed it: she was naked save for the hot-pink tennis shoes. Alan dashed clumsily ahead, crunching branches and dried palm fronds. "What the fuck are you two up to?"
When he got to where he'd seen her: silence.
Then a jolt shot through him and he almost screamed.
"No peeking," Carol whispered. She stood behind him and-covered-his eyes with her hands.
"Carol! Jesus Chr-"
"Shhhhhhhhh!"
He stood stock-still, could feel her bare breasts and belly pressing his back. "Keep your eyes closed," came her next whisper. Her voice sounded parched, in need. Her hands slipped down to his crotch.
Well, now, this is very interesting, Alan thought.
"You know what they say," she cooed in his ear. "If you keep your eyes closed, it's not cheating…" Her hand worked into his trunks; her hips squirmed against him.
"And who was it that said that?" he asked.
"My uncle."
Alan pondered the whispered response, then thought, Gross.
"No talking. And keep your eyes closed," she insisted.
Alan couldn't find much of a reason to disobey. He remained standing, and let her continue with her hands…
"I… I don't even know what they are," she said next. Her voice seemed to flow, like some hot, dark liquid. "But it's so wonderful. I feel like I'm coming… all… the time…"
Alan didn't know what she was talking about, and scarcely cared. He felt her move around him now and lower herself to her knees. Her fingers dragged his trunks down.
I am having one HELL of a good day, Alan thought.
"If you open your eyes, I won't do it."
Alan wouldn't think of it.
Her mouth felt so hot on him. The slick friction of what she was doing wound Alan up like a steel spring. What had she just said? I don't even know what they are… I feel like I'm coming all the time. What did that mean? The only thing Alan figured was that she must be on drugs, X or Oxycontin or something. Her mouth tended him so precisely that he was climaxing himself a minute later…
Holy shit…
He almost fell over. But now that the fun was done, his fears swooped down. Christ! Leona might come out here! She might see!
Alan wouldn't have guessed that this was the least of his fears, when she said, "My turn now," and next thing he knew, they'd traded positions, Alan kneeling before her, his face in her groin, and then he opened his eyes and saw her fingers splaying over the hairless pubis to bare the tip of her sex-and the strange, pus-colored ticks stuck to her clitoris.
Pulsing.
Alan was too revolted to shriek. He tried to pull his face away but couldn't, for her hand clamped to the back of his head, pushing. When she dragged him down and straddled his face, all he could do was squirm beneath her. Her thighs vised his face. Alan could barely breathe.
"Get with it, lover," she cooed.
More horror flowed over him when he managed to glimpse upward. My God, her skin! Her skin!
Carol's skin seemed to be patched with rashes, her suntan ruined by large splotches of the same sickly yellowish white hue of the ticks he'd seen. Worse, somehow, were the red spots speckling the patches. A skin disease or something… He could see her breasts now, and noticed with heightened disgust that two more of the ticks had fixed themselves to the ends of her nipples.
She twisted his hair till his scalp barked in pain. "Put your tongue in, motherfucker," she insisted, then vised her crotch down tighter, threatening to smother him if he didn't obey.
Alan tremored beneath her, and did as instructed.
He passed out from the sheer revulsion when his tongue slid over still more of the ticks that lined the inside of her vagina…
CHAPTER THREE
(I)
Big Jaw Swamp, the Everglades
The woman's name didn't matter. Midfifties but holding up well. Blond hair, great tan, and a fitness club bod. A nip and tuck here, a little liposuction there, and a lift or two to buff out some of the wrinkles, she looked like exactly what she was: a rich, Florida divorcee, who, like so many, refused to let go of the vestiges of younger, wilder days.
But the liver wasn't what it used to be, and after a couple of Bloody Marys she was certifiably inebriated. That's when she stumbled and fell off the footbridge, into the swamp.
Don't panic! she panicked. She was a decent swimmer. She splashed around, chin-deep, and finally buoyed herself in a dog paddle. The warm, soupy water did nothing to brace her against the alcohol; if any thing, it worsened the effect. She foundered in the water, seeking some bearings.
God, how could I have gotten so drunk? She'd been walking back to the Flamingo Campgrounds when she'd happened upon the rickety bridge. Drinking all day and now it was getting dark. It's not that deep, she assured herself, tasting brackish water. just swim back to shore…
She found quickly that she was too drunk to call upon her experience as a "decent" swimmer. Dog paddle would have to do. When she looked for the shore, the sign looked back at her.
POSTED: NO SWIMMING! WATCH FOR GATORS.
Oh, shit! Now the adrenaline fluxed with the alcohol, disorienting her. She'd been here all weekend and she hadn't seen a single gator. Don't overreact! she screamed at herself. just GET TO THE SHORE!
A splash!
Her eyes tore to the other side of the swamp, where in crisp moonlight she knew she saw an alligator tail disappearing into the water.
Madness now.
Only instinct was left to propel her but, lo, she was just too drunk. Sheer horror and about a.08 blood alcohol content dragged her down, into sultry wet blackness.
It was true what they said: Her fife did indeed flash before her eyes, and she saw now what a shallow life it had been. Cocktails and yacht clubs and fancy jewelry and a supersharp divorce lawyer. That was pretty much it for the woman about to drown in Big Jaw Swamp.