Luger dragged Sydney to a row of glass enclosures that sat opposite the aquariums. Here sharply lit terrariums provided habitats for spiders, frogs, lizards and snakes. Luger flipped the plexiglass lid off the last tank and let it clatter to the floor. He thrust her hand over the tank. Sydney fought the fiery pain where Luger’s rough hand was clasped to her wrist. “You know what these are, kid?”
     Pack looked into the tank inhabited by a half dozen brightly colored, small plump frogs. Three were a blazing yellow, two others a vivid red, and the last was a beautiful shade of green. Most were patterned randomly with dark patches or thin stripes. A hand-lettered “DON’T HANDLE THE FROGS” sign in red marker was stuck to the front of the tank.
     “Little frogs.” Pack answered casually.
     “They’re poison dart frogs all the way from South America. They may look pretty, but don’t let that fool you. You see, they got these glands that produce a real nasty poison. And I mean real nasty. Indians use the poison from these guys to coat the darts they use in their blow guns. One little puff,” Luger curled his free hand into a cylinder, brought it to his mouth and blew out a puff of air, “a tiny prick by the dart, and you’re dead. Like I said, it’s real nasty stuff.” He lowered Sydney’s hand a few inches into the tank. “Where’s the motorcycle, kid? Tell me or she makes some new colorful friends.”
     Pack gazed into the warm wet tank. “You expect me to believe some cockamamie story about little frogs in a pet store? For real? You think I was born yesterday?”
     Sydney strained against Luger’s tight hold. “Pack, he’s not lying. I saw a nature show on TV. The thing about the darts and frogs is true.”
     “He’s bluffing, Syd. And you can’t believe everything you see on TV. It’s all an act, like the sixth grade play with Wendy Walcham. Remember? I’m not giving up the motorcycle to a psycho with some dinky frogs.”
     Luger plunged Sydney’s hand into the tank pinning the soft green and black frog under the palm of her hand. She could feel it squirming against her flesh as she struggled to pull her hand free.
    Sydney’s mind raced,
Are those zombies in his head going to kill me for a stupid motorcycle? “Pack,” she shouted, “focus! The frogs are poisonous.” Without warning Sydney swung her fist around and pummeled Luger’s muscled arm.
     "I am, Syd. Trust me."
     She felt a sticky secretion wet the frog’s body and leach onto her skin. Desperate, she drove her clenched fist into the side of Luger’s face. Undamaged, but irritated by the blow, his elbow sprang out sharply into her rib cage. She gasped.