By the time we reached the Grove of Oddities Rosco looked a lot like the Rock From Another World—just a mangled lump of holes through which blood and guts oozed and squeezed freely; and from which one eye stared wide and white, like a Ping-Pong ball. Nor was it hard to determine what had killed him, for it was clear the chickens had descended on him en masse—their beaks flashing like knives, their awful talons tearing—and gutted him where he stood. It was also clear, by the size of the indentations, that the chickens had grown larger, and might now be bigger even than us.
“So you think ... you think those f*****g chickens did this?”
Iverson was nonplussed, especially now that he’d tried to call the police and found his phone dead—and been informed by me that I didn’t have one.
“Look,” I
