They That Bite and Devour Pt. 2

Yangala Short Fiction

The last edition of the Enormous Room kicked off a short story set in my Yangala War series. Part three will be sent out on September 6th, but in between that, on August 23rd, I plan on addressing some rewriting and other narrative strategies in front of you. Why did I think it would be fun (and only mildly humiliating) to polish (dear Lord, please help it not be an overhaul) a story in front of an audience? Mostly because I (mostly) finished something for the first time in a while and wanted to get it out, but also knew that it wasn’t wear I wanted craftwise. So you can get a glimpse under the hood, so to speak.

And don’t forget that I’m running a special for the second book of the Yangala War for the next five days. We Did Not Reason Why is currently only .99!

If you missed the first part of They That Bite and Devour, you can read it here (a 7 minute read). Part Two is 2,610 words and will take you around 9 minutes and 29 seconds to read.

Let them taste our terrible power.
In firebomb and acid-flower,
Rain down death and deadly shower.

We woke and cursed. We cursed because we woke. We cursed because to wake meant to enter into the horror once more. We cursed because we knew, one day we would not wake. But we did not wake at day break. Or day broken. Or day swept up and deposited in the bin. We woke up at day's last gasp, short of dusk. We were Elites. The day holds nothing for us. Our best work was done in darkness.

At the edge of the swamp, out of sight of the camp, before Str. Gage joined us, we brought the recruits to the Purple Pond, stained from the poisonous Vuxberry vines that encircled it like serpents. 

'Get naked,' Barnyard said. He stroked the gangly wires of his mustache. Each blonde hair had back out of his face like it didn't know where it was going.

Premie and Freshie looked stunned, then looked to Earlybird. 'That any kind of order?' Freshie asked. Earlybird sucked his teeth. 'Fraid so.'

The recruits stripped. Thick Cakes, newly shorn and like a new man himself, picked out their underwear and tossed it into the Purple Pond. 'Trust us, we doin yall a favor,' he said.

'Trenchdick is no laughing matter,' Wicks said in consolation.

Wicks and Barnyard went digging through their bags, occasionally throwing things into the pond. At each toss and plop Freshie would complain. Premie watched their army issued gear sink away with befuddlement. 'Come on, guys, we need that stuff,' Freshie said.

Barnyard held up a chrono. 'These attract vipernats, you don't want em.' Tossed.

Wicks held up a toothbrush. 'Want a mouth the bugs can smell a mile away or do you want to disguise your breath by chewing dolnweed like the rest of us?' Tossed.

'But this, you'll need.' Barnyard held up a tube of toothpaste. He tossed it to Premie as Wicks tossed one to Freshie. 'Squeeze out the entire tube into your palm.'

The two recruits crushed the tube until their palms were filled by a glob of pale green paste.

'Grease your pole, baby boys,' said Thick Cakes.

Freshie shook his head. 'Naw,' he said. 'You assholes are fuckin with us.'

Unkle scraped up a batch of godawful from his throat and launched it into the pond. His congesticulation drew our attention. 'Out there is bone-roaches, dugbugs, and every kind of slithering cock-biting snake there is. And they got teeth all the way down they throats.'

Barnyard chuckled. 'You can choose, get a knob-job from a creepie-crawly or grease your pole.'

Wicks patted his junk and said, 'We all did it.'

Freshie and Premie, eyes agog, rubbed their bristled crotches with the paste. The wind carried the smell of Ahi Grass and mint to our noses. A second later, the burning hit and they crumbled like cheap wrappers in fire. 

We laughed. We slapped backs and shoved shoulders. We were jokers, mockers, vulgar and young. Str. Gage showed up right as Premie and Freshie got their pants up. Their faces were still flushed, but already they felt slightly tighter to the unit. We shared our own initiations, allowed them to laugh, and bound up our loyalty with theirs. They were almost with us.

Gage nodded to each of them, letting them know the ordeal wasn't over. 'Did we swap boots yet?'

We didn't loot the dead. It was distasteful, disrespectful, and, above all, unlucky. Into the bag went all your goods, and any dirt or twig that clung to you. Into the bag goes your flesh or as much of it as we could find. We left the things of the dead alone. We didn't want that bad juju on us. We traded, we bartered, we begged among ourselves, but the dead got all they had once they got what was coming to them.

However, from the newbies that joined us, we owned them from dick, nose, and toes to their hidden assholes. We claimed their mommas and their sweethearts, and divied up their luck and any innocence that could be got. But most especially, we claimed their boots, firm as a teen's hard-on.

Unkle scratched his jaw as he did greater than normal calculations. His larger, but slightly less crazy eyeball scanned Freshie's feet. 'I'd say yer about a twelve.'

Freshie whined. 'What now?'

Barnyard, ever first into the shit, stepped forward. 'Unk's had first claim on new boots for six weeks. I believe you're the first to come to us in his size.' Unkle was already crouched down and unlacing. His boots weren't the worst we'd seen, but they were banged up and grimly stained, blood and other filth from the jungle, the treads worn low.

'Rules of the Ranger Elites,' Gage said. 'Newbies don't deserve new boots.'

'Damn,' Freshie said quietly, but knew that complaining would only make his life cheaper in our eyes.

Premie was nervously looking around to see if he'd missed this last hazing ritual. Wicks patted him on the back, causing the recruit to jump. 'Don't worry, kid, your feet are so dainty a man's foot wouldn't fit.'

Thick Cakes, whose boots were swapped when Smidgeon joined, evaluated Premie. 'My momma had shits bigger'n you.'

Freshie's accepted Unkle's boots and exchanged his own. He pulled on the gnarled boots and examined the gap between the tread and armor. It was big enough for two fingers. He sighed and joined the group as they descended into the Purple Pond and entered the deadly jungle.

* * *

The purple juice got into our clothes and skin, seeping into every crack, crevice, and pore. It tingled until it found a cut, even the smallest slit, and then it burned. It was the background of all our pain, the ticking of a clock that you forgot, the hurt that was lost in the hum, song, and shouting of the other suffering we would get.

We went forth, Earlybird at the lead, followed by Slickwick, Premie, and Thick Cakes. Stratos Gage was in the middle, where he would remain. At some point, those that followed would take a shift at the front of the line, pivoting around our Stratos: Freshie, Unkle with the Ziggie gun swinging like a dick, and Barnyard bringing up the rear.

Under the thick canopy at day's end, light was snuffed out, so we went with our noculars, night-glasses that rendered the jungle in shades of black and violet. Life teemed, squiggled, squatted, and skittered away as we moved softly. It was unnerving to see our noculars highlight them.

The path was largely out of water, but the farther from the base we worked, the thicker the soup. Soon we'd be in and out of the murk, up and down the fallen trees, sodden and moss-laden, forever slapping aside the slick rubbery fronds that dipped and stirred the dark water, clinging to the vines that came down from the canopy like streamers, and chopping back the bristling bushes, the swimming thorn plants, the noxious reeds.

'Why'd we walk through that pond before we left if we werent going to be walking through water till later?' Premie examined his purple stained arms before rolling down his sleeves.

'Baptism,' quipped Wicks.

'Camouflage,' said Str. Gage.

'How'd you get a nickname like Thick Cakes?' Freshie asked. 'I can figure some of the others. You're Wicks, short for Wikkens—'

'It's Slickwick on account of my brains,' Wicks said. 'I know Yangalese, botany, and astrography.'

Unkle snorted. 'He knows enough Yangalese to curse and make threats,' he said. On account of his missing front teeth, 'threats' came out slushy, but nobody made fun of Unkle.

'I can figure out Earlybird,' said Freshie.

'No you can't,' said Earlybird.

Freshie shrugged. 'So how did you become Thick Cakes?'

'You dont get to know that yet,' Cakes replied. His grumble came down his chest like thunder from a cloud covered mount.

'What about you, Unkle? How'd you get that name?' asked Freshie.

We were waiting for Unkle to navigate a fallen tree. Unkle's short frame under the weight of the Ziggie meant slow going in places.

'You’ll find out soon,' Unkle said and grunted as he heaved himself atop the rotten trunk.

Noting impatience, Str. Gage put a hand on Premie's shoulder. 'You’ll be thankful for the ponderous pace of Unkle.'

'I didnt say nothing,' Premie said quietly.

Gage nodded. The line rearranged itself and we slung ourselves forward.

'Know why I'm Barnyard?'

Freshie turned with a smirk like God's favorite asshole. 'Cause you act like you were raised in a barnyard?'

'Fuckin aye,' Barnyard said. He rested his sabre rifle on a shoulder and pulled his dick out with his other hand. As he marched, he pissed, on himself, his boots, and the heels of Unkle. Nobody cared.

We were in the shit and piss. Shit and piss only made you better equipped to deal with it. The swamp slapped and swayed with filth and life, our noculars jittered and flinched at every tendril and leggy rodent, insect, and bird it detected. Each one wanted a piece of us. At least the piss claimed you as your own.

Steadily the ground slickened and grew sloppy as we descended into the toilet bowl. Stepping into it, Freshie pulled a foot free from a deep brown sucking hole. He slung off mud in disgust. 'What the hell happened to these boots, Unkle?'

We all chuckled. 'I put it up the ass of a rowdy python,' he replied. 

'Pythonicus acidious,' said Wicks, faking like he knew a thing.

Unkle was off on the story. Yangala was full of surprises. Like the pythons having corrosive albumen. He told the story with aplomb, a veteran of bullshit and embellishing. Tangled up with a momma snake, he stomped the nest of eggs fighting her off. 'I got a snake bone that went through my palm when I crushed it,' he said. 'Still got the stigmata from it.'

The new recruits followed the story with eyes as wide as their fears, but werent yet of it. The story was outside and distant yet. To enter the story, to have it as our own, takes fire, blood, and foul language while dying or prayers of thanks after surviving.

Freshie scuffed his boot against a root buckled up from the earth. 'God fuck it, can't wait til it's my turn for better boots.'

That stopped us in our tracks. A cloud descended. With unhidden malice peeling from his shoulders, Str. Gage turned to look at Freshie. 'Do you realize you just wished a man dead?'

Freshie's face went pale as he realized what he'd said. He started to correct himself, but we all turned and kept going. He muttered curses to himself and a smoldering followed our trail.

The journey did not require quiet yet, but quiet we became. We could jest and carouse for miles more before we had to enter silence and vigilance, but our jolly was wrecked. We tromped until near dawn, then found whatever dry furrows could be found. We swept clear any fiery biting Ursants or any thorny thousand footed crawlies and bedded down. We'd let the proud bare ass of the day parade over us while we slept and then shove ourselves deeper into the swamp.

* * *

When we woke, the world had declined into twilight. We went into ghost-mode. Our path was directed by hand signals our noculars noted in white hues. Move up, Str. Gage signaled. A lateral swipe meant hunker and hold. A twirl, circle around.

The swamp was in full force by then and our moods were as muddy. Sunk in, we staggered against the hook and barb of thick muck. Gripped deep, we tugged, heaved-ho'd, slipped, pulled hips out of socket, slopped, shuddered, and climbed. All with a glower and a stone upon our tongues, we became one with the jungle. 

All day we searched for a bug nest, a launchpad that could sling Hexes at our forces. We wouldnt get a foothold on the bug capital until the swamp was ours. We wormed into the slurry and searched. We slept in wet and sodden logs, huddled, bug bitten and sweaty.

Days later, deeper and somehow screwed tight by swamp, we found an outpost, high up in a Kopak tree. Just a ledge set among netting, but no movement within.

Two forward, Str. Gage signaled, sentry with ziggies. A sweep of three fingers and Wicks and Premie, the snipes, were sent ahead. 

Freshie and Thick Cakes crept back to cover our tail. Cakes positioned the ziggie and Freshie unclipped a can for ready access. As they stood, they sank into the soft earth.

'Goddamn,' muttered Freshie. 'It's like walking in a pool of baked beans.' His eyes bounced. 'Hey, Cakes, that where you got youre name? Did you say it's like walking through a thick cake out here and it stuck?'

Cakes looked down where Freshie squat. 'You dont get to know about that yet.'

'All clear,' clicked over the comms. Freshie relaxed and stood, stepping into the pool. Something moved in the water and Freshies fell. He kicked, screamed, and grabbed his leg. Cakes slung down the ziggie and clapped a meaty palm across Freshie's mouth. 

'Something,' Freshie said in panic before stifling another scream. 

Thick Cakes noted the nub of a gray something tucking up into Freshie's boot. 'Yeah, it got you.'

Earlybird got there first, followed by Barnyard. Freshie was clawing at his boot. Cakes had hauled him out of the pool.

Str. Gage strode forward. 'Stop the howling, soldier,' he hissed. Freshie went into a soft whimper.

His eyes in a wild panic, he plucked Thick Cakes' hand from his face. 'Something got me, boys. I can feel it gnawing my toe.' He buckled and clamped his mouth shut over a scream.

'Alright, let's get it,' said Earlybird. He caught hold of Freshie's flailing foot and began unlacing the boot.

The rest arrived. Unkle noticed the stricken face of Premie as he broke onto the scene. 'Dugbug,' he said with tongue cantilevered to his canine. His gaping grin gave Premie no ease.

The boot was off and the blue metal of the dugbug was seen affixed midway up the long toe. Exposed to the air, it inched up Freshie's toe, causing another spasm of pain. Wicks broke off a limb and handed it to Freshie. He bit down on it and his agony went gutteral. 

Earlybird unsheathed a blade as the creature's articulated spine flexed, shivered and surged up Freshie's toe. A dull crunch could be heard of the dugbug eating the bone. 'Fuck you waiting for?' Freshie said between clinched teeth. 'Kill and cut the little fucker off.'

'Almost,' Earlybird said. He waited until the dugbug swallowed the length of Freshie's toe and then pinned the foot to his lap. Like he were whittling a whistle, Earlybird went down the dugbug's carapace and cut off the needle-like legs, fourteen in all.

'There,' said Earlybird as he put away his knife. Freshie bucked up out of his slouch. 'Wait, you can't leave it there. Cut the damn thing off my toe.'

Str. Gage knelt down next to Freshie. The Stratos spoke quietly into his ear as if confessing his love. 'You dont understand, soldier. That thing is your toe now.' Then he signaled a defensive perimeter and we disbanded, leaving Freshie alone to boot up and fall in.

We were silent once again, mute as leaves in airless nights. Step by step we took to the jungle, inch by inch we claimed her, but piece by piece the jungle took us for her own. One way or another, you became one with the jungle.

---

For More Fun

Here’s a list of TV scripts that are free for your perusal. If you’re interested in the format or just want to dig into the storytelling techniques of your favorite shows, go check it out. I’m partial to Better Call Saul and Batman the Animated Series.

The next edition of the Enormous Room will begin my public rewrite and story discussion. Come for the Crushing Disappointment of a Staggering Wannabe Genius, stay for the Story Discussion and Narrative Rehabilitation.