No sooner had the research team set foot in the forest than it had poured down incessantly – despite the forecast that wet season probably wouldn’t start for another three weeks – slowing them down considerably.
Rory and Nathan sat in their tent that night, bored, listening to the steady patter of rain hammering down on the surrounding flora, as they had for a few days now.
Nathan took a swig of lager from his can, swilled the dregs around. “Hey, how many tinnies do we have left?”
Rory dug around their cool bag. “Four or five.”
Nathan sighed. “Well, we can’t go on like this, that’s for sure. Damned if I’m going to stay here in this bloody tent with no beer.” He pulled the hood of his cagoule over his head, and ventured out into the darkness.
Walking away from the cluster of tents, he kept his head down as he made his way towards the nearby vehicles. It was all very well to say that there wasn’t enough room in the tent for the ice-box and that it had to stay in the truck, but that cool bag was way too small for the amount of cans they were knocking back lately.
Something heavy thumped onto his back, snarling.
Flailing around frantically, he felt something hard and sharp digging into his ribs and shoulders, intense pain piercing deep within the meat of his neck, wet sticky warmth spreading out through his shirt.
Based on a prompt from CreativeWritingPrompts.com