“What is it, Mark? What do you see?” I shoved past him and put my own light to the window, squinting as my eyes adjusted, thinking I saw something move.
And I did. I did see something move, several somethings, a hundred—a thousand, maybe more. For the store was crawling with centipedes, huge ones, and ones still larger than those, ones ranging from 3 feet to 8 feet and some several feet across, ranging in color from lime green to faded salmon, from drab brown to sickly ochre, all of them winding and weaving, gliding on scurrying legs, flopping and scrambling over themselves, glistening like moist, wet clay.
“We have to go!” he shouted, dropping his g*n, and bolted for the door.
“Wait! Maldano! It isn’t safe!”
I moved to follow him but froze, adjusting the rifle sling, looking at the s
