sheriff. "Maybe he'll just clear off."
"And leave all those critters up there to get loose?"
"What are we waiting for?"
We was on our horses and on the road in half an hour with cans of industrial alcohol and some dynamite. We intended to burn the place out, would have been glad to throw Old Man Potter into the fire 'cept none of us could bear to touch him, so we'll shoot him and then burn the carcass.
But we are too late. Old Man Potter must have sensed something, doubled back and turned his centipedes loose.
We get off our horses, advancing cautiously, guns at the ready, when Mr. Hardy lets out a yell.
"My God, somethin' bit me!"
And there on his leg is a six-inch centipede covered with hair, looked like it was growing into him. We had to pull it off in pieces and he is half out of his mind screaming he is burning and beating his head against the ground. Well, he dies, and we hightail it out of there. Gallagher got bitten too, and only the four of us made it back to town.
The centipedes spread throughout the area. There was no antidote for the poison, but one victim with a very light dose recovered and said it was like being in a white-hot oven, torn to pieces by giant centipedes. You could tell just by watching it was the most horrible death anyone could suffer. The 'pedes spread further and further, cases turning up in Michigan, Minnesota, Illinois, Ohio, Nebraska. Seemed it would never stop, but it did sorta level off in certain areas, which nobody could understand—maybe they are all dead in there.
And they finally built the Quarantine Wall, way ahead of the centipedes—they hope—after teams with protective clothing checked it out. The wall is considered impossible to get over. There are electrical barriers, toxic barriers, glue barriers. Of course they dropped tons of pesticide over the area, but you could never get them all.
Lots of talk now. Some say it's all a hoax to starve the poor and keep the best land for themselves. Yep, there's talk of moving in and building behind the Wall.
The island of Esmeraldas is known for its large centipedes, said to attain, on occasion, the incredible length of fifteen inches. There is considerable disagreement as to the danger to humans from a centipede bite, and to the best of my knowledge no precise analysis or classification of the venom has been carried out. We have all heard the story that centipedes carry venomous spines in each leg, leaving a trail of rotten, gangrenous flesh behind them. I think we can dismiss this as mythology. The bite of a centipede is inflicted by a pair of forcipules that grow from the first trunk segment, and not by the legs.
However, there is some factual basis for this lurid story. A doctor with a practice in Puerto Rico told me he had treated centipede bites. The bite produces a localized necrosis which, if untreated, can lead to gangrene. The remedy is surgical excision of the affected area, and washing out the cavity with a disinfectant solution. Then a light, porous dressing is applied. He surmised that the centipede venom may be related to the poison of the brown recluse spider, common throughout the midwestern and southern United States. Fatalities are rare, and usually occasioned by secondary infection of necrotic tissue.
Data on centipede venom is scattered and often contradictory. Tables showing the precise relative potencies of snake venoms, with lethal dosages, annual fatalities and percent of recoveries are readily available, and there is considerable information on scorpion and spider venoms. But one must scrabble about for centipede data. Fortunately, I number among my friends a young man named Dean Ripa, who could have stepped from the pages of a Joseph Conrad novel.
Dean is a snake-catcher by profession, selling his reptiles to zoos and private collectors. It is very dangerous and poorly paid work. He has been bitten three times and can barely recoup the expenses of his trips to far-off places in search of the
"And leave all those critters up there to get loose?"
"What are we waiting for?"
We was on our horses and on the road in half an hour with cans of industrial alcohol and some dynamite. We intended to burn the place out, would have been glad to throw Old Man Potter into the fire 'cept none of us could bear to touch him, so we'll shoot him and then burn the carcass.
But we are too late. Old Man Potter must have sensed something, doubled back and turned his centipedes loose.
We get off our horses, advancing cautiously, guns at the ready, when Mr. Hardy lets out a yell.
"My God, somethin' bit me!"
And there on his leg is a six-inch centipede covered with hair, looked like it was growing into him. We had to pull it off in pieces and he is half out of his mind screaming he is burning and beating his head against the ground. Well, he dies, and we hightail it out of there. Gallagher got bitten too, and only the four of us made it back to town.
The centipedes spread throughout the area. There was no antidote for the poison, but one victim with a very light dose recovered and said it was like being in a white-hot oven, torn to pieces by giant centipedes. You could tell just by watching it was the most horrible death anyone could suffer. The 'pedes spread further and further, cases turning up in Michigan, Minnesota, Illinois, Ohio, Nebraska. Seemed it would never stop, but it did sorta level off in certain areas, which nobody could understand—maybe they are all dead in there.
And they finally built the Quarantine Wall, way ahead of the centipedes—they hope—after teams with protective clothing checked it out. The wall is considered impossible to get over. There are electrical barriers, toxic barriers, glue barriers. Of course they dropped tons of pesticide over the area, but you could never get them all.
Lots of talk now. Some say it's all a hoax to starve the poor and keep the best land for themselves. Yep, there's talk of moving in and building behind the Wall.
The island of Esmeraldas is known for its large centipedes, said to attain, on occasion, the incredible length of fifteen inches. There is considerable disagreement as to the danger to humans from a centipede bite, and to the best of my knowledge no precise analysis or classification of the venom has been carried out. We have all heard the story that centipedes carry venomous spines in each leg, leaving a trail of rotten, gangrenous flesh behind them. I think we can dismiss this as mythology. The bite of a centipede is inflicted by a pair of forcipules that grow from the first trunk segment, and not by the legs.
However, there is some factual basis for this lurid story. A doctor with a practice in Puerto Rico told me he had treated centipede bites. The bite produces a localized necrosis which, if untreated, can lead to gangrene. The remedy is surgical excision of the affected area, and washing out the cavity with a disinfectant solution. Then a light, porous dressing is applied. He surmised that the centipede venom may be related to the poison of the brown recluse spider, common throughout the midwestern and southern United States. Fatalities are rare, and usually occasioned by secondary infection of necrotic tissue.
Data on centipede venom is scattered and often contradictory. Tables showing the precise relative potencies of snake venoms, with lethal dosages, annual fatalities and percent of recoveries are readily available, and there is considerable information on scorpion and spider venoms. But one must scrabble about for centipede data. Fortunately, I number among my friends a young man named Dean Ripa, who could have stepped from the pages of a Joseph Conrad novel.
Dean is a snake-catcher by profession, selling his reptiles to zoos and private collectors. It is very dangerous and poorly paid work. He has been bitten three times and can barely recoup the expenses of his trips to far-off places in search of the
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