Snake Bite

Chapter 1

"I think we lost them," whispers Trish.

"There's gotta be a reason they won't come in here," Mista hisses. "We should go back." His superstition usually annoys Abbacchio, but today Mista might have a point. There is definitely something unsettling about the forest.

Giorno looks ill. "It's true, Mista. There's something wrong. We need to decide which we'd rather face – the Boss's minions, or this forest." He turns to Buccellati.

"I'd like to say it's up to each one of us, but we don't have the choice right now. Whatever we choose, we must stay together. If we turn back, we'll be moving away from the goal. If we keep going, we're getting closer to the ocean." He looks around, checking for approval from the rest of the gang. "My order is to go forward."

"If that's your decision, I'll support it," Abbacchio states. He steps forward to stand next to Buccellati. He always feels best by Buccellati's side. The others nod. Giorno and Mista still seem nervous, though Mista's legs have stopped trembling. Narancia has directed his full attention to examining a leaf.

"Guys?" says Trish. "Where are the animals?"

She's right. A forest like this should at least have the sound of birds. Ever cautious, Giorno touches Gold Experience's fingertips to the leaf in Narancia's hand. It skitters away as a small squirrel, and scrabbles its claws against the bark of a tree as it climbs. Giorno grits his teeth. Necessary it may be, but he hates causing distress or harm to an animal. Even one that used to be a leaf.

Abbacchio snorts under his breath. The thing's probably happier in the forest anyway.

A strange slapping sound rains down from the canopy above. The squirrel leaps back from the tree, shrieking, and lands on Abbacchio's head. Dozens of snakes drop after it. Abbacchio freezes. Snakes wind around his limbs. The squirrel's claws dig into his hair. Suddenly, the claws disappear. A screech rings in the air, then all is silent again. Giorno goes pure white.

"Don't move, Abbacchio," says Buccellati. "Whatever you do, do not move."

"Giorno..." Abbacchio growls, his voice as menacing as he can make it around the slight tremor in his lips. The snakes writhe towards his mouth, faster than snakes should be able to move.

"Don't talk," Giorno says, quiet, serene, unfazed. He's already recovered from the shock of the squirrel's death. Abbacchio wants to punch him. "They might be drawn to motion." Giorno's right, of course, again. It's such an irritating habit. Abbacchio rather likes Giorno. "Hold still and let me try something." Giorno kneels and picks up a twig. He turns it into a rattlesnake.

"If you're going to put that on him, pick something a little less deadly," says Buccellati. The snake shivers its tail in agreement. Abbacchio would like very much to be allowed to protest the idea of having any more snakes on his body.

"I want something that can defend itself." Giorno steps closer to Abbacchio. The snakes move more agitatedly. Giorno reaches out delicately, offering the rattlesnake the chance to slither onto Abbacchio's arm. It turns and disappears up Giorno's sleeve instead. Abbacchio represses a sigh of relief. He has more than enough snakes already. "I can't turn them into anything," muses Giorno. "We need to get out of here. There might be more." The snake pokes its head out of the gap in his shirt. He strokes it absentmindedly. "I'm sorry, Abbacchio, but there doesn't seem to be anything I can do."

Mista shrugs, stuffing his gun back into his pants. "I ain't that confident that I can shoot 'em all before they get ya." No one asked you to.

Narancia looks at the ground. "Same for Aerosmith. Might hit you, too."

"No one is shooting Abbacchio." Buccellati's voice is a flat comfort. "Fugo, Trish, you guys obviously can't do anything either. Everyone else go on without us. I can zip the snakes into a tree, but now that we've located the enemy there's no reason for us all to slow down. Giorno, put your snake back on your shirt. No more animals, alright? Lead the others ahead. We'll catch up."

Abbacchio latches on to the sound of Buccellati's instructions as a distraction from the crawling sensation building under his skin wherever the snakes touch. Abbacchio has experienced a great many unpleasantries in his careers as a police officer and a gangster. One thing that he had not yet suffered, before today, is the coolness of myriad snakes sliding over his skin. He wonders if anything could have prepared him for what is quickly becoming a new phobia. At least he and Buccellati have distracted the enemy and left the others a clear path through the forest. Trish needs it, for goodness' sakes.