The cloud thickets loom above, clear in their obscurity. Beneath this, the world trembles. Haunted by the sounds of cracking wind as it rakes past, piles and pile of littered leaves are dragged up, gathering loosely in a wide but circular path as they scrape on by.
Then, the lightning snaps forth. Its currents discharge, ionising wet as they burn through the scattered debris with pinkish hues. Flickering brightly, the light travels on its path to bombard the plains, and in doing so, kicks up even more dirt clogging the surrounding air in the process.
Striking randomly, you can hear their electronic hums continuing as they drone on longafter the fact; paralysing this godforsaken land into a fearful static.
It seems that life itself caves under this oppressive atmosphere.
Still, I ride on.
Through this desecrated land, where bacteria festers and moss is overgrown.
The silhouettes of dead and dying trees strangled by their own parasitic roots all form this grim backdrop, the kind where only thorns dare grow and wildflowers bloom bountiful beneath the unceasing black.
It's dark, the kind of dark that makes your pupils hungry, devouring every morsel of light.
Still, we ride on.
Plodding forward on our two yonks. Their prints press the wet back into earth and gravel alike, only for the muddied undergrowth to swallow them back up not moments later.
Thirty minutes. That's how long it has been since we escaped, and yet, it feels like almost nothing has changed.
The rain has thankfully subsided, but that morning dew still clings desperately to my face and body alike, seeping into their pores already drenched and oils already ravaged.
Just how much longer must one endure?
"One hour left till we reach the camp," Tim voice interrupts from ahead.
That's long, too long.
"Does that things usually chase you this much?" I yell over the pounding of our pace.
"No. I've never seen them. They shouldn't have come—they're supposed to stay away; not here, not in the dark lands, but deeper still, where their burrows live buried within the lands of death, leaving only for their monthly feast." He scratches at his arm.
"There's land that's more dead than this?!"
His stare back is completely blank, clearly unimpressed.
It was an honest query. How was I supposed to respond to that? Fine.
"How's your father? Still conscious?"
"He just fell asleep… must've been tired." He scratches his arm even harder.
"How's he really?"
Pausing for a moment, his eyes drift momentarily to the back of their sockets. Concentrating, his fingers dance along the side of his father's neck.
"His breath… it feels shallow, a faint rhythm, and his mana circulation is weak too. But that's normal when sleeping, right?"
Weak energy flow.
Too weak.
The boy's too young to recognise it—the pulse. What he's feeling must barely exist.
Deep sleep? No. He's almost dead.
"Why didn't you say anything earlier?!" I raise my voice.
"You didn't ask. Look—he's fine! There's no bleeding, no injury I can see."
Tim's forearms flex, folding his fingers into a tightly shut fist.
Calm.
We mustn't blame the boy. If he panics, this gets worse.
He's right too: where's the wound?
I saw blood earlier, but now he looks untouched.
The pendant, the beasts. Poison? Paralysis?
More information, less speculation.
"I'm sorry. I'll have a look at him for you."
I watch as the boy nods, his eyes puffing out as he convinces himself that it'll all be fine.
"Can we stop for a second?"
"Nonono… we can't. Impossible."
He stammers, his throat catching on itself.
"Why not?"
"The stories… Marcus, dad's friend said once you're chased by one, more will always follow."
Life can never be simple, can it?
No, stay positive, we still have some time to run before 'the more' comes whatever that means.
What can I do?I can't trust we'll just make it.
First priority: Wake Jimson, then we have an extra hand for defense and his local knowledge. How does this happen though?
. . .
Do I ditch my concerns for this sleeping dog?
No, the kid will eat me.
My hands squeeze against the harness. The dog barks itself awake.
You smell that too, don't you?
"Hey, Tim," I call out, "why does it reek like arse-cheeks out here?"
"Yonking, Mort!"
"What?"
"I forgot about that."
"What part—the cheeks or this shitting anus?"
Disregarding my comment, he explains further.
"We've just entered the mud pit. The smell; that's the bog-rat's territory," his other hand shakes in clear trepidation.
Rats.
My stomach sinks.
They're no fun.
"Can't we go around them?"
"No use. The only way is through." his response is quick.
Great.
"Then what's the danger?!"
"Their skin," Tim answers grimly. "They're infested with that mana plague. Don't ever touch 'em."
Touching rats?
Yuck. A chill runs down my spine.
"Then how the hell are we supposed to get through then?"
"You whistle. If they like your tune, they let you pass. Simple, right? But since we've got the shrieking shell with us, it's all good. Just blow in it and they will leave us."
My brow furrows.
"So simple… how ingenious. Quick question," my pulse quickens.
"This shell… Can you describe it for me?"
"It looks a bit strange but… well, it looks just like a normal shell.?"
Oh shit. My hand twitches.
A shell?One same shell I chucked away.Why the hell did it have to be that random thing of all things?
No.Impossible.I will never take responsibility for this failure.
I'll have to make up some excuse later.For now, find a workable solution and prevent panic. Better for him to die in ignorance than in pain.
"Hey Tim, just one random question from a friend," My voice breaks. "Can you whistle, bud?"
Please. Please. Please. Don't let me down. Don't let me down.
"No. Dad said he'd teach me, though."
His face beams a slightly brighter than before, though only for a second, before the weight of the situation squeezes him back to reality, bitter, sour and yellow.
"Oh, aren't you a studious little… munchkin." A smile plasters itself across my face.
Rat.
"I truly hope you can make your dad proud when he wakes up," I add, letting out a jovial chortle
Non-whistling, rodent-shit. Useless.Dead weight.Fucking liability.
You only add to my list of burdens, fucker.
The tension in his face slightly eases as mine only hardens.
Taking a slow breath, an exhale escapes from the depths of my lungs.
There's no other way to say it.We're dead.
To think it would be some swamp rat that is the culprit; eating, digesting, and finally excreting me out in this turd-bowl soup.
At least take the dog first.No. Not him. He's the only useful ally I've got.I couldn't bear watching him suffer. Just please kill him quickly if anything.
The yonks grunt in weary protest, their limbs sinking deeper into the grunge.
Filth laps at their shanks spraying flecks onto my ankles above my boots; their every step drags us down with a wet and resounding plump.
Our pace falters, their hips strain.
Silence, think this through logically don't let stress get the better of you. No one's at fault. He is your supposed team-mate after all.
He said not to touch the rats, so, can I turn the rope into some sort of fishing net maybe that can haul them away.
No, stupid, the rope's too thick and how am I going to do that.
Then how do I scare them off? Screaming? Actually, that's not the worst bad plan.
"Hey Desmond, over there!" Tim calls out, pointing towards the distance.
There. It's distant at first, but ahead lies a sinking trail. From the muck bursts a worm-like eel, its head swings toward us, tongue flickering, tasting the stink of the air.
They live up to their rattish name. Thugly rodents.
Scaly.
Slimy.
Whiskery.
Wet and eyeless... Eyeless?
Where are its eyes?
Ah—of course.
Buried under the sludge, what good would they do?
Even now, I can't kill my curiosity.
On that much, at least, Mute and I would've agreed.
One by one their trails follow, breaching the muddy surface: heads, bodies, tails; in mere moments every direction is covered.
Slowly, but with unison, they bodies turn locking onto us with their fatty snouts.
How do they see us?
Sound?
Vibration?
No.
It must… taste us somehow, with that black tongue. Like a snake.
Do we taste good, huh?!
Their faces split open. Behind their serrated teeth and glistening drool, its throat orifice gapes wider. Meaty, pink flesh undulates in waves, greedily swallowing the excess saliva.
But why whistle?
Surely these monsters don't care about a lullaby tune.
No.
It has to be something else.
Either the sound mimics a mating call… or a predator.
Their mouths curve into sinister smiles, heads jerking in perfect synchronicity as if condemning my very assessment of them.
Well aware of my powerlessness, their throats rattle, emitting a deep but resonant hum that relentlessly builds upon itself in volume.
Is this finally it—my expiration date?
It wasn't that much fun, this life.
Even this so-called second chance feels so… Illusory.
Maybe it's time to rest at last in this purgatory where I belong.
"What in the Word are you doing? Just blow into the Yonking shell!" Tim squeaks, his voice high-pitched. "Hurry, or you'll kill us all!"
Right, I cannot die, not for a million years, my job here isn't quite finished yet.
"Quick! Does the shell sound high-pitched or low-pitched when you blow into it?" scrambling over my words I yell.
Stunned, Tim voice stammers back. "What, what are you asking? Why!"
"Timothy Wood! Answer the question. NOW! Does the shell sound high-pitched or low-pitched when you blow into it?" I project my voice, sharp and commanding.
The snakes' bodies rapidly retreat into themselves, coiling like springs.
Taut and poised to strike.
Tim's head jerks up and his body stiffens.
His answer bursts out before he even realises he's speaking.
"It's really deep… and growly, like that sound from before."
He blinks, eyes teary and in a daze.
His mouth quivers whilst his belly rises and falls, straining with each breath.
No words follow, only his next action occurs.
He leans forward, dropping to Cindy's back. Shivering, sniffling, and silently he wraps both his arms around her back, sobbing.
I'm sorry Timothy, but I really needed that answer.
This is all a desperate gamble. I'm betting our lives on the odds
If I'm right, we might just survive this.
I just need the right pitch.
Sound is sound. That's all.
And if I'm wrong…
Concentrating, my throat works to stimulate the pharynx, each passing note etches itself a longer life. Like this, I come closer to mimicking that ungodly sound.
Even the rats tickle their snouts in my direction before turning their heads elsewhere. But, suppressing all the doubt, my voice finds what little strength is left.
Cupping my hands over my mouth, my lungs suck in their deepest breath.
Ok here goes.
And finally, everything is released.