Because I was grabbing the damn thing's body, the Black Mamba's twitchy, fanged lunge came straight for my arm.
It reared back, ready to strike again.
So I just—grabbed its head.
Yeah.
Grabbed it.
Like a lunatic.
My lungs were doing this awful bellows thing—"hoo! hoo!"—and my thoughts were bouncing all over the place. I didn't even know if the black mist around me could stop those venom-dripping teeth. Not really.
But I held on.
Left hand clamped tight on the snake's head. Its slick, muscular body coiled around my forearm like it wanted to crush the bones underneath. Still, no pain. Nothing. Just pressure, like holding a wet rope.
I looked at my right arm.
Windbreaker sleeve torn.
Two neat, tiny holes where its fangs had punched through.
There was a transparent smear of something wet clinging to the fabric. Venom. Obviously. I didn't need a lab coat to know that's what killed Umar.
