Number Five looked like a simple house plant with a single bloom. “This is the only species we saved that does not have the gift of independent movement,” Chay said. “But if you stumble upon it, it will kill you.” As if on cue, a “tongue” darted from the “flower” and slapped against the curtain. “That punctured a man’s eye and burrowed into his brain,” Chay announced, seemingly bored.
Number Six had similar features. Known as the Whiplash Tree, the only species with a nickname, its rigid gnarly lime green limbs could suddenly swing out, take a man’s head off and guzzle his bodily fluids.
Tedd Magnal sat on Number Seven, believing it was a simple igneous rock. It was not. It was an animal that suddenly flattened out and wrapped itself around its prone captive, crushing it into a hideous,
