He was roused out of a whiskey soaked sleep by something nibbling on his toes.
Sam Jones blinked blearily as the room swam into focus. He felt it again, sharp little teeth nibbling on his right big toe, and fumbled for the bedside lamp. He switched it on and dim light permeated the room. Sam blinked, trying to make himself stop seeing triple, and focused on his right foot, which was sticking out from under his threadbare blanket.
There didn't appear to be anything there. He shook his foot, but no bugs or other vermin flew off. Sam cussed and reached for the bottle on the nightstand, but misjudged his coordination. The bottle wobbled crazily, then fell to the floor with a dull thud. Whiskey ran across the rug, staining it an ugly brown color. “Fuck me running.” Sam swore under his breath before reaching inside the mattress and pulling out another bottle, the one half-empty. He uncapped it and took a long swallow, then wiped his mouth and belched.
He yelped in surprise as the bug or rat or whatever bit him again, this time on his ankle. It felt like the time his ex wife's stupid little Pom had bit him. Sam had kicked the evil little bastard, and that had set Felicia off. He took another drink as he thought of her, sitting pretty in their Malibu beach house while he was freezing his ass off in this shit hole. He drained the last of the bottle and tossed it indifferently on the floor. He grabbed the lamp, focusing the dim light toward his ankle, straining his eyes until they felt hot. Still nothing. His toes felt numb, and he wiggled them. There was nothing, not even a pins and needles feeling, and he sat up, tossing the blanket and sheet aside.
Sam reached down and rubbed his toes, hoping to get some circulation back, and felt something warm and sticky on his fingers. He pulled his hand back, examining it. Even in the murky half-light, he knew it was blood. Whatever had bit him had bit him hard enough and deep enough to draw blood. He touched his ankle and felt the same sticky warmth.
He half fell, half stumbled out of bed and limped his way towards the bathroom, his foot and ankle throbbing with pain. He blinked against the harsh florescent light before somehow managing to get his foot on the toilet lid without somersaulting into the tub.
There were small, neat holes in his toes and foot. They didn't look like any sort of bites he had ever seen. He bent and examined his ankle. Same holes. He touched one, and drew his finger back with a hiss. The flesh felt hot and oddly soft. And the smell! It smelled like a biology lab had exploded.
The numbness was starting to spread to his legs now. He slapped his thighs until his hands stung, but he might have been slapping slabs of wood for all the difference it made. He was seriously considering calling for an ambulance when he noticed that there were more holes, this time on his arms. And now he could see something wiggling just underneath his skin.
With a cry of revulsion, Sam scratched at his arms. A long, white worm poked its head out of a hole in his arm, and he grabbed it, throwing it to the floor and stomping on it. It felt hot and oddly slick under his foot.
Now he could see more worms wriggling, trying to escape. He grabbed and killed as many as he could, and the tile floor became slick with blood and worm guts. A sudden, sharp pain in his chest and a glance in the mirror told him that there was a giant worm buried in there. He could see the flesh rippling as the worm twisted and turned, seeking a way out. The pain was worse than anything he had ever experienced.
Sam ran into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. His hand shook so bad he almost dropped it, but he got a grip and aimed the point right where he thought the worm's head might be. All he cared about was getting these things out!
His landlord found him the next day, sprawled out on the kitchen floor with the knife stuck in his ribs. His feet and arms were bare and unmarked.