InkTober 2020 (written)

6. Rodent

Chains, rattling at every step. Worn out boots, treading through the filth and grime. The tip of a saw-spear leaves a trail in the dark.

Someone panics and tries to run. Frenzied, foolish, he dashes to another spot.

To no avail.

In a second, he caught up. The cry rips through the night for a long second, rodents scurry and crows take flight, until silence falls again, with a heavy thud.

Someone is trying to be brave, to give his life for the others. A light turned on, just a few paces down. A hopeful idiot, who still believes in tomorrow. He now circles that area. Looking, searching, stabbing through barrels of hay. They all hold their breath and wait for the cry. A door opens with a metallic shriek, then shuts closed with indignation. He moves away, the rattling of chains becoming distant. The idiot was quick to hide it seems. The others will be grateful.

But you must stay on your toes, for even if you do not hear the chains, he is always near.

The time is now or never. One last rotation. One final push.

Two of them meet up, by chance. Or is it? No words, a synchronized nod, and they get to work. The seems of their shirts' sleeves are long gone. Color has been replaced with blood and oil, sweat and soil. A rat dashes by, the pitter patter of its paws scaring them. One almost drops his tools under the other's maddened gaze. But the tragedy is avoided. In extremis. Both are naïve, like children. Unaware of what's happening behind them. Hopeful idiots. They could have saved her.

For on the other side of the compound, had they dropped their tools, he wouldn't have noticed the rodents running up the stairs. But he saw. And now it's far too late. With every step, he lowers himself below ground. At every movement, she can hear the cathedral's bell toll. She holds her breath and trembles. Not of cold, nor fear, but insurmountable dread.

If you breathe, Death hears you.

The words ring clear in her mind, their truth resounding more than ever.

A door slams into the wall, metal torn from metal in frustration. He cannot find them. What a joke. Chains rattle with indignation, further and further up the stairs. It sounds like he is leaving. She is suffocating, and now thinks it might be safe. A shaky breath, exhaled through cold chapped lips, is all it took.

In a second, doom was staring through her eyes, straight into her shattered soul.

A shriek, a lucky instinct. The basest form of survival instincts.

The door flies open, but from inside, hitting him when he least expected it. Who would have known that they would oppose so much resistance?

Adrenaline gives her wings while he regains his bearings. Almost falling over, forced to use her hands, she climbs the stairs at the speed of desperation. Rodents, rattled by the ruckus, dart into their holes. The door is not an option, it would be too obvious. Maybe there's still hope? At least, she must buy time. On the last step, her body darts off to the right, choosing the open window as her way out.

But she doesn't stop. Now that he saw her, she can never stop.

Cold air fills her lungs as she dashes through the field, corn stalks and leaves whipping at her skin. A thousand cuts on baren arms, gashes on salt-streaked cheeks, a million pairs of blood starved eyes, waiting for their feast. Like a frightened animal, she jumps a barrier, and then a fence, thinking it might put enough distance between them. He might be fast, but he is not nimble. A look over her shoulder, nothing in sight. Her legs might fail soon, blood pumps in her ears and deafens her, her heart beats in her throat and chokes her. Behind a wall, in the old ruins, she has to stop. Falling to her knees, she desperately tries to catch her breath.