It was hissing at me. The tiny pinhole in the thick plastic was barely allowing decomposition gases to escape. It sounded like a dog whistle. My eyes watered. My stomach churned.
Hundreds flee as deadly gas rips countryside.
Alas, I wasn't raised to be a coward. With what little strength I had left, I leaned over into the sea of death and touched the wicked turkey, which was as hard as a giant bowling ball. In all of the adventure stories I've read, men wear bulletproof suits when they disable bombs, perspiring as they snip the red wire just before a clock ticks midnight. I am not so cowardly. If I were to die, I didn't wish to be buried in coward's clothes.