• Skunk by Larry Menlove

    Becky thought of every contingency except for the rabid skunk. It was down in here with her now scampering around, rooting at everything, biting her, biting Neeko. Not that Neeko cared. Neeko was dead.

    The entire plan was clean, really. As clean as plans like this one can be. Becky had thought it through a dozen times. She’d written it all down on lined paper, memorized it, and burned the paper over the toilet, flushed the ashes. A skunk?

    Neeko’s hand was leaning against the dirt wall. Pale, ragged. The skunk was chewing on the fingertips, chewed down to the phalanxes. Becky made a noise, something akin to disgust, to incredulity, and the little striped bastard turned and came at her again, right for her good ankle. Again. She tried to jump out of its way, to grab for something above her outside the hole, anything to pull herself out or at least out of the reach of the skunk’s little teeth. But those teeth tore into her skin again, through flesh, muscle, tendon. Tooth on bone. What was it the fifth time it had bit her on that ankle? She kick at the skunk with her other leg. Her useless foot swinging, dangling from a ragged pain that nearly put her prone down in the hole again, right on top of Neeko. Again.

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