I doubted very much that I would ever equal Daniel Goodman's audience share. For one thing, I wasn't tempted to try, and for another, there weren't that many people left alive on the Earththat is, if the latest government projections were to be believed. And besides, watching someone being eaten alive by shambler tenants—even as live interactive drama-is apparently nowhere near as interesting to the average viewer as finding out whose convexities have been inserted into whose concavities.
I took another's… I… o… w step, tugging Major Bellus after me. He was alternating between fury and panic. I wondered how long until he slipped over the edge and bolted like a frightened rabbit. This was going to be very interesting.
I itched all over. I wanted nothing more than a long deep soul-satisfying scratch all over my body. I wanted someone-preferably a professional, but an enthusiastic amateur would not be turned away—to start at the little bald spot at the center of my itchy scalp and then work her way slowly down my body, working with gentle fingertips across the painfully tight muscles of my shoulders, and then vigorotWy massaging all the way down my back, kneading my spine until it cracked, then proceeding down through the cramped muscles of my legs, rolling them like bread dough, and stoping only when he or she or it (who cares?) reached the soles of my aching feet. Ahhh!