“I think it’s a helicopter…” Ginger heard one man say, with a handkerchief around his nose – as if that was going to do anything to stop him from vomiting out his own intestines.
But It wasn’t a helicopter. It wasn’t a figment of her imagination, because she could see it too. It was a motherf***ing full on giant UFO. It just hovered and waited for everyone to drop off like flies.
The Boy was accustomed to insects. He’d grown up on a farm. Barnyard animals, bails of hay, stacks of pallets upon which countless cobwebs were spun. He was not afraid of it, but the feeling was not mutual. It was a defensive mechanism that no one seemed to be aware of – the tarantula rubbed its abdomen and released a cloud of tiny barbed hairs, embedding straight into The Boy’s right eye. He screamed like he had never screamed before. Flushing station, saline drops, useless. There was nothing his father could do to alleviate the burn. Urticulating Hairs. That’s what the doctor kept calling them. Potential damage of vision, he kept telling them. Permanent.