Scorpion [Scorpions 01] by Michael R. Linaker Page B

caught a number of them out in the open. The dark skies had been filling with swollen clouds for a few hours now, and suddenly the rain came slanting down. The first drops dusted the dry earth, being swiftly absorbed, but as the rain increased in intensity, there was nowhere else for it to go so it began to pool and gather. It flattened the tall blades of grass, exposing the very ground, and exposing, too, the scorpions that were out foraging for food. As the rain struck their hard, shell-like bodies, they halted and probed the air with their claw-tipped arms. After a time realization came to them that the rain did not present an immediate threat. Even so it seemed to affect their progress. They began to scurry back and forth, their movements hurried, abrupt, the flexing tails curling over their wet backs.
        As if with a single thought they turned and began to retrace their path through the grass. The darkness did little to hinder them. They knew with an inbred instinct the way back to the breeding ground. Scurrying lightly over the sodden ground they returned to the place they had made their home. Almost reluctantly they crawled under cover, gathering at the entrance for a while watching the rain… waiting… But it did not cease. The scorpions slid silently into the shadows. Soon the rain would stop - and when it did they could emerge once again…
        
***
        
        Lemmy Tyson stirred uncomfortably in his sleep. He wriggled his behind on the hard surface, wishing he had something a little more comfortable beneath him. He swore softly, opening his eyes a fraction, and peering out from his shelter. The rain was still pelting down out of a black sky. Lemmy sniffed. Christ, it was cold! That was just like the weather. For weeks now it had been nothing but blazing sunshine. Long hot days and sweltering nights. And now look at it! Fucking rain! He struggled to sit up, groping in the pocket of his filthy, smelly old raincoat. His grubby fingers closed over the bottle of whisky. Lemmy pulled it from his pocket, shaking the bottle and listening to the sloshing sound it made. A swig of that should keep me warm, he decided. He unscrewed the cap, sniffing the fumes that rose from the bottle. He hesitated before he raised it to his lips, recalling how he’d nicked the bottle from the front seat of the Rolls-Royce he’d spotted parked off the road. He’d crept up to the car, keeping his eyes open for the owner, and had peered in through one of the side windows. The first thing he’d seen was the couple on the rear seat. A middle-aged man and a girl who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. There they were, in broad daylight, naked as anyone could be, and going at it as if sex was about to be rationed. For a while Lemmy hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from the pair. Reluctantly he had edged towards the front of the car. The passenger door window was down and there, resting on the rich leather seat was a full, sealed bottle of expensive whisky. Lemmy hadn’t hesitated. He’d stretched his arm through the open window and deftly lifted the bottle off the seat. The sounds coming from the rear seat told him that lust, rather than honor, was about to be satisfied, so Lemmy had slipped quickly into the undergrowth.
        That had been three days ago. The bottle was a big one, and Lemmy had worked out that he could make it last for at least four more days if he rationed himself. He had already had his daily quota, but circumstances had changed. When a man was on the road he had to be prepared to make changes at a moment’s notice. This was one of those times. Lemmy put the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow. The whisky flowed down his throat and warmed his stomach. He leaned back, sighing contentedly. The remembrance of the couple in the back of the Rolls stayed with him. Lemmy found himself forming an image of the girl again. Blonde she’d been, with the sort of rounded, lush young body he