Chett and Harry are two recently unemployed construction workers on their way to a weekend of Southern Comfort, and frog gigging at their favorite hunting camp when they stumble on Bob, the mysterious, busty, burqa-clad, non-English speaking beauty just standing in the middle of nowhere on the side of dusty Nine Mile Cutoff in rural Bovina, Mississippi.
Then all hell breaks loose. Their favorite pond is missing. They're being chased by truck driving zombies, dirty cops, UFOs and other ne'er-do-wells. Someone stole Chett's jacked up Scottsdale four-by-four. Zombies are traipsing around their trailer, and crazy Uncle Crank is trying to feed them zombie chicken for dinner ...
Nine Mile Cutoff was still an aptly named stretch of dusty gravel road. Perfect for winding up one's big-block 440 jacked-up Scottsdale four-by-four. Chett and Harry had just been forcibly removed from their job at Alco Construction. They were pissed too. Accidents happen. That's why places like that had insurance. And they weren't drinking on the job. For the most part. Well, they weren't drunk. For the most part. And the resulting accident from their little tipsy revelry wasn't that bad.
It was a little joke, that's all. Chett was normally pretty good with a nail gun. And had his aim been any truer, no one would have gotten hurt. Okay, so maybe they were a little tipsy.
But what's so bad about sitting down to pee anyway? That guy's got it made for the next six months. Worker's Comp, sexy rehab nurses. He'd recover. They should be so lucky. He gets the royal treatment and they got fired.
No, no, Chett and Harry had just quit their job at Alco. They couldn't be happier. It's all a matter of perspective. They had a cooler of beverages in the back and a date with a musty rusted RV at the hunting camp. The only thing between them and Rocky Bayou was seven more miles of Nine Mile Cutoff.
The snake, having made his way to the woods only to realize that suddenly it was too damned hot thanks to the bits of burning brush scattered throughout, turned around, confused, to make his way to somewhere quieter and cooler. The air was much hotter and steamier than he remembered.
Back on the road, halfway across, and he began to grow more confused. It's not enough that stuff was falling out of the sky. Now there was a distinct tremor he felt in his belly. Earthquakes? This too? What a strange day.
But maybe if he recognized Hank Williams Jr. he'd have known that it wasn't an earthquake after all, and he'd have gotten out of the way of the big-assed tire that was about to make his day much worse. But snakes are dumb like that; the tire flattened what was left of his already shortened back end.
Now, like its disconnected cousin in the road, it too was wiggling and dancing and hurting like hell. Because unlike its disconnected cousin, it was still attached to his front end.
The snake was certainly having the worst day of its life. After the flaming things and the big tire, he was doing everything he could in light of his uncontrollably twitching tail to get across the street. Except now his progress was impeded by something else clobbering him. Though, unlike the fiery objects from the sky, whatever was hitting him now was freezing cold. And round. Cold, hard, short and round – not a snake, not any sort of animal – but he decided to put the death in one, no matter what it was, just in case. Which turned out to be a bad idea. Snakes don't have the instinct not to bite a beer can that has just been thrown from the back of a truck.
He struck and was rewarded with a mouth full of bitter liquid. Try as hard as he could, one fang was stuck. He was definitely raging mad. He had a deep, biological need to kill something even if it killed him in the process.