Orc was struggling, staggering, then running toward the truck, his great stone feet pounding six-inch-deep impressions into the dirt.

One of the worms was on his face.

In his face.

He tripped at the edge of the field and fell hard onto neutral territory.

“Help me. Howard, man, help me!” Orc cried.

Albert broke his trance and ran. Up close he could see the worm, just one, but its black snake’s head was buried in pink flesh, boring through Orc’s cheek.

Up close Albert could see the blur of the tiny paddle feet driving the worm into strained flesh.

Orc had the tail of the thing in his fist and was pulling hard. But the worm wasn’t letting go. Orc was pulling so hard, it seemed he might pull the last of his living flesh away from the rock skin surrounding it.

Howard grabbed on, too, and he was pulling. Weeping and cursing and pulling, despite the danger to himself if the worm should release its grip on Orc and turn against Howard.

“Bite it!” Albert shouted.

“My tongue!” Orc wailed, his speech garbled as the worm slid another inch
through his cheek.

Hunger, Chapter 9