A lot of small furry bodies with long spiderweb whiskers and scaly pink tails. Dozens of white furry bodies with little black hoods. Like a mass grave for tiny monks after some religious massacre. “Are those … rats?” “Too big to be mice,” Edie said. “What’s wrong with them?” They were all dead, stiff in the grip of rigor mortis, mouths gaping to show their sharp yellow teeth. Tuck had lived in more than his fair share of shitholes, was no stranger to the sight of dead rodents. But their eyes were wide open—each one frozen in that attitude of paralyzed surprise.
