Feeding on blood means it’s a female. They need to consume protein to lay their eggs. A good way to tell is—

  In a blur, the fly took flight and zoomed directly at Stu’s eye, bouncing off the lens of his glasses with an audible fffwip.

  Stu flinched, swatted at empty air, and then jerked away as it buzzed past his ear.

  “I thought you loved bugs.” Chuck, being his usual asshole self.

  “You love muscle cars,” Stu countered. “Does that mean you want to get hit by a Dodge Charger?”

  “I’d prefer the Challenger.”

  Duncan repeated his plea for help into the walkie-talkie, and Chuck howled at the same moment he slapped himself in the right cheek.

  Chuck immediately doubled over and began to rock up and down and shout out a string of swear words, both hands clasped to his face.

  “My eye! Freakin’ bug bit my eye!”

  Stu immediately went to him, and Duncan clipped the radio to the waistband of his shorts and grabbed his friend’s shoulder.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m not okay! Feels like I got an icepick in my damn eye!”

  “Let me see.” Stu tried to gently tug Chuck’s hand away from his face, but Chuck shook himself free.

  “Don’t touch me! Nobody touch me! God damn this HURTS!”

  Chuck stepped away, and his eyes fell to the floor of the boat and began to scan it, foot by foot.

  There, next to the tackle box.

  Dead bug.

  Stu knelt next to it and gently picked up the corpse by its crooked wings. He set it in his palm and scrutinized the insect, its head partially mashed.

  Same body and coloring as a blow fly, but much bigger than any he’d heard of. But its size wasn’t the only strange thing about it.

  The eyes are… wrong. They don’t look like fly eyes at all.

  And at the end of its abdomen, there was something that shouldn’t be there, making Stu question if this was actually a fly or some other type of insect.

  Because flies bite. But this one has defied evolution, speciation, and all known science and taxonomy.

  Because this fly has a stinger.

  LEO

  ALMOST THERE…

  Thirty miles from Yonder Bay on I-94 heading west and nearing the mid-size town of Greenport, Leo’s right foot fell off.

  He didn’t know it happened until he tried to take a step and his body pitched forward too far, causing him to break the fall with his hands and land in a push-up position on the ground.

  Leo looked underneath him, seeing the boot still upright, the wool sock hanging over the side like a dog’s tongue on a hot day.

  He crawled to it, took the cheese grater off of his trench coat belt, and got to work.

  There wasn’t much to work with on the foot itself. It had come off at the ankle bones, and Leo was worried that shaving off too much would inhibit flexibility and make walking impossible. So he pared down what he could with the boning knife, then frayed the flesh with the small-hole side of the grater, likely used for lemon zesting or nutmeg.

  But you wouldn’t want this sprinkled on top of your eggnog.

  Now on to the fun part…

  Peeking out of his tight twist of severed muscles and tendons was the cartilage-wrapped end of a large bone (the tibia? the fibula?) which proved extremely sensitive to being rasped. Leo didn’t know how many nerve endings were in bones, but this qualified as torture. Especially since the aspirin had long ago worn off.

  So he screamed. A lot. So much he damaged his vocal chords, which unfortunately repaired themselves faster than it took him to shave off half an inch of bone and tissue.

  When he got the blood flowing pretty good he found the easiest way to reconnect his parts was to pull his sock back on, which pulled his shoe back on, which pulled his foot back on.

  As he healed alongside the road, watching the cars on the highway pass, his eyes landed on an eighteen-wheeler with a bright advertisement painted on its trailer for a large farming supply store chain. It had its right turn blinker on, and was slowing down to take the next exit. At the exit stood a large sign for said chain store, proclaiming it open 24 hours a day and less than one mile to the south.

  Not the direction the Tug wants me to go.

  But those farm and feed stores sell hardware and tools.

  And this cheese grater isn’t cutting it.

  Literally.

  My other hand and other foot are really starting to hurt.

  I need to find something… more efficient.

  He gave his reattached foot a tentative twist, and it seemed to have stuck back together pretty good. After a few careful steps, testing weight and balance, Leo followed the direction of the truck off the exit ramp and headed for the store.

  Halfway there his ankle hyper-extended in a very wrong and very painful way, and he fell again.

  He stared at his foot, bending outward so far that the sole of his boot was touching his calf. But the dislocated foot wasn’t floppy or loose; bone was tight against bone and it seemed to be locked or jammed that way.

  Leo spent a bad sixty seconds whacking his foot against the pavement, trying to rebreak the bones to straighten it out. There was bleeding, and a cheeky crow flew down and took a peck at his soaked pants leg, trying to grab the gory fabric and tug off a piece for itself.

  He shooed the bird away and banged his foot back in a position that seemed normalish. Tough to gauge, because his ankle had now swelled up to volleyball size, and he had to undo his boot laces to stop the leather from splitting.

  The sight of his swollen foot made his vision go all wavy and dark and Leo likely passed out, because the next thing he knew there were three crows pecking at his bloody foot, one trying to fly away with a shoelace and pulling like a hooked fish.

  Leo picked up some roadside gravel, scared away the crows, and managed to get upright again, this time walking slower and favoring his good leg.

  By the time he got to the farm supply store his hand seemed ready to fall off, and his elbows weren’t feeling so good either.

  What happens if both arms fall off? Do I reattach them using my teeth?

  A store employee approached Leo. Tall, stocky, bald, nametag ROB. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Do you have anything for livestock?” Leo asked.

  “We have everything you could possibly need. Can you be more specific?”

  “Butchering livestock.”

  “Do you mean carving knives?”

  “Big ones. One that could cut off a cow’s leg.”

  “So, a bone saw?”

  “A bone saw might work.” Leo rubbed his chin. “Are there automatic bone saws?”

  “We have some butcher saws that run on 120 volts and 240 volts.”

  “How about battery powered?”

  The employee blinked. “A battery powered bone saw?”

  “Something portable. Let’s say I wanted to cut off a cow’s leg and there weren’t any electric outlets.”

  “Like you were sneaking up on a cow while it was grazing?”

  Leo nodded, then realized how ridiculous that sounded.

  “Forget it,” Leo said. “How about a Sawzall?”

  “Reciprocating saws are in Aisle 37, right side. I don’t recommend you trying to sneak up on a cow with one of those. The noise would scare them off.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You could try ear protection,” Rob said.

  “Ear protection?”

  “You put noise-dampening earmuffs on the cow, so it doesn’t hear you coming.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Leo said, limping away. Rob followed behind him.

  Leo found the Sawzalls, but they seemed too big to lug around. Especially if he had to walk another fifty miles. The circular saws seemed too heavy. The jigsaws too small. He picked up a multitool with a vibrating sander that also had a small saw blade.

  “That won’t take off a cow’s leg,” Rob told him. “If you’re looking for something compact, check out the angle grinders over here.”

  Leo spent a moment staring at angle grinders. They were all about eighteen inches long, with 4.5-inch circular blades. The base grip was held like a flashlight or sword, and then they also had a perpendicular handle to keep it steady.

  “Which is the best?” Leo asked.

  “You’ll want to go with twenty volts.” Rob pointed. “Those three brands are all top-of-the-line.”

  “Which has the longest battery life?”

  “I like this one.” Rob picked up a boxed grinder. “On a full charge, you could probably cut off the legs of three to four cows. If you’re not a math guy, that’s sixteen legs.”

  “Do the batteries come charged?”

  Rob raised an eyebrow. “Really eager to get out in that pasture?”

  Leo gave him a blank stare.

  “These come charged, yes.”

  “How about blade options?”

  Rob pointed out items hanging on the pegboard wall. “Those are cutting blades, and those are grinding blades. Both can get through bones.”

  “What’s that?” Leo indicated one that looked like a chainsaw, but was circular.

  “Carving blade. Let’s say you wanted to hollow out the cow’s skull, carve out the brains. That’s your go-to.”

  I’m not sure if this guy thinks he’s funny, or if he’s out of his mind.

  Either way, Leo grabbed the carving blade, the other two blades Rob mentioned, and a two-pack of extra batteries.

  “There are also blades for cutting metal,” Rob said. “You know, in case it’s a robot cow.”

  So he’s being funny. For some reason, that’s somewhat disappointing.

  “Backpacks?” Leo asked.

  “Camping, Aisle 16. Are you looking for a rucksack, or something larger? Say… to carry some cow legs?”

  Leo limped off to the camping section, and Rob continued to tag along, whistling to himself, apparently happy to play the amusing sidekick.

  Without asking for advice, Leo selected a small, black backpack. He sat on the floor and used his boning knife to begin unboxing his items.

  Rob lost his happy-go-lucky demeanor. “You, uh, can’t do that.”

  “I’m taking everything. I want to make sure it all works, and it fits in the pack.”

  Leo quickly attached the grinding blade to the grinder, slapped in the rechargeable battery, and pressed the trigger.

  It whirred to life, giving off a high-pitched whine.

  Leo set it down, then removed the shoe and sock from his newly attached foot, revealing his severely swollen ankle. The skin was stretched so tight, it visibly throbbed with his pulse.

  “Holy hell!” Rob took a step back. “You… you really need to get that looked at.”

  “Can’t tie my shoe with this swelling,” Leo said.

  “No kidding. It looks like someone inflated your ankle. Like a giant flesh balloon. With some toes on the end. How can you walk around on that?”

  “I have a pretty good tolerance for pain.”

  “Do you want me to call an ambulance or something?”

  “No. I got it.”

  Leo picked up the grinder and switched it on, watching Rob laugh nervously.

  “You’re not actually going to—”

  Leo touched the spinning disc to his ankle, the blade slicing a neat line across his skin and instantly releasing the pressure, an eruption of blood squirting all over Rob like it had been shot from a Super Soaker.

  Rob backpedaled, his hands pressed over his mouth as vomit spurted through his fingers. Leo massaged his loose flesh then pulled his sock on and pushed the skin folds inside like he was tucking in a shirt. Then he tugged his boot back on, able to tie his laces, and stuck his new tools into his new backpack.

  “I was just kidding about the cows,” Leo told Rob, who’d fallen onto his ass. “This is a personal grooming appliance.”

  Rob didn’t offer any quips. Instead, his eyelids fluttered and he fainted.

  So much for my comic relief.

  Leo shouldered the pack and walked out of the store without paying, and no one paid any attention because he’d removed the alarm tags when he’d unboxed the items, and store security was attending to the unconscious employee and bloody clean-up in Aisle 16.

  Back outside, Leo followed the Tug down I-94 west, then exited on WI-25 heading north, a newfound spring in his step.

  DUNCAN

  SAME TIME…

  Chuck sat on the vinyl-covered pontoon bench seat, clutching his eye with both hands, while Duncan hovered over him, his face awash with concern.

  “Lemme me take a look, man.”

  “Hurts so bad.” Chuck sounded less like Chuck and more like a schoolboy who fell off his bike.

  “I know it hurts, Chuck. Lemme see it.”

  “You’re not a med tech, Duncan,” Stu reminded him. “You pass out when you see blood, and you haven’t even taken an EMT class.”

  “I took some online courses.”

  “You think that’s enough?”

  Duncan shot back, “It’s enough to know you need to put some damn Celox on your leech bite, Stu. You’re leaking blood down your leg. Those online classes are why I keep Celox in my first-aid kit. It stops bleeding.”

  Stu stared at his red soaked bandage and Duncan put his hand on Chuck’s shoulder. “Show me your eye, brother.”

  Chuck slowly dragged his hands away from his face. His eyelids were squeezed shut, but the swelling had already begun in earnest.

  “Looks like someone punched you,” Stu offered. “It’s red and turning purple. Some insects are attracted to lacrimal secretions. Tears.”

  “Stu, shut up,” Duncan told him. “And use the Celox.”

  “I don’t trust pouring weird powder into an open sore.”

  “You’re a scientist,” Duncan reminded him.

  “Scientists are skeptics. I’ve never heard of coagulating powder. I want to do some research before I stick it into my damn body.”

  Duncan ignored him. “Can you open your eye, Chuck?”

  “It’s not open now?”

  Chuck’s eye looked like a maroon lemon with an eyelash glued to the middle.

  “I’m going to take my fingers and gently spread it open. Okay?”

  Chuck nodded. Duncan sucked in a breath and steeled his wobbly legs and forced his stomach not to clench as he gingerly touched his friend’s puffy face, trying to pry apart the mottled flesh. But when he spread Chuck’s eyelids open, all he saw was more red.

  A bright red eyeball, with a bumpy yellow pupil.

  It doesn’t even look human. It looks like some monster or zombie eye, bulging and slathered in mucus.

  That’s when Duncan realized what he was looking at.

  That’s not his pupil. It’s the lower white of his eye with something stuck in it. Some foreign body that looks like a discolored pupil.

  A stinger?

  “Stu, do flies have stingers?”

  “That one did. Never saw anything like it.”

  “Do they detach their stingers, like bees?”

  “Sting autonomy? No. The fly that got Chuck still has its stinger, if it’s even a real stinger. Lemme see.” Stu stood behind Duncan, peering over his shoulder. “Holy shit, that’s disgusting! What the fuck, man!”

  Duncan whirled on his friend. “Stu, you’re not helping.”

  “Sorry. Jesus, Chuck, does it hurt?”

  “My whole eyeball is throbbing. It feels like there’s something inside.”

  “Shit.” Stu walked away, pacing to the stern of the pontoon. “Shit. Shit. Shit. It’s an ovipositor. Shit.”

  “Ovi—what?” Chuck asked.

  Duncan had no idea what that word meant, either. He scratched at his sore thigh and felt something weird.

  Something… moving.

  He glanced down at his leg. The fly bite he’d gotten earlier had burst like a zit, with a big, moist drop of pus coming out.

  Except—

  The pus is wiggling.

  Because it isn’t pus. It’s some sort of worm, squirming its way out of my wound.

  Duncan tried to brush the creature off, but it pulled itself inward, retreating back inside Duncan’s body.

  I’m going to be sick.

  I’m going to pass out.

  “What’s happening?” Chuck asked, his voice high-pitched and frantic.

  I need to keep my shit together.

  I can do this.

  I can get over my squeamishness.

  Duncan dropped to one knee and pressed his thumbs on either side of the worm and tried to squeeze it out. The pain, and the pressure, made his vision get spinny. Grunting with effort, Duncan pinched hard as he could, and the thing shot out of his leg like a spit watermelon seed and bounced onto the pontoon flooring where it tried to squirm away.

  Duncan reflexively stomped on it.

  “What was that?” Chuck groaned. “Was that in your leg?”

  “Fly larva,” Stu said. “That fly laid an egg inside you, it hatched into a pupa.”

  “Like the movie Alien?” Chuck said, at this point fully hysterical. “Do I have some kind of maggot growing in my eye?!?”

  “Keep calm, Chuck.” Duncan turned to Stu. “We need to get him to a hospital.”

  “Get it out of my eye, Duncan!”

  “Screw-worm flies—Cochliomyia hominivorax— they lay eggs in open wounds.” Stu took off his glasses and tried cleaning them on his shirt. “Their maggots eat the host’s tissue as they grow. Most bugs prefer necrotic—dead—tissue, but the screw-fly likes it alive. Botflies, too. They make a little cave inside a victim’s flesh, a little carved out home. They live there for weeks. They poke their heads out to breathe. In old times they used to put raw meat over the bite to lure it out. The maggot would chew its way through it in order to get some air.”

  Chuck clenched his fists and beat them against his hips. “GET IT OUT OF MY EYE, DUNCAN!!!”

  Duncan turned the ignition key and tried to start the boat.

  It didn’t start.

  “DUNCAN!”

  “Stop yelling, Chuck,” Stu turned away. “You’re freaking me out.”

  “I’m freaking out!”

  Duncan kept trying to start, without success, until the motor began to click.