The clouded thicket looms above, clear in its obscurity.
Its monochromatic tides collapse under the sporadic flickering of purple light.
The land quakes in dread, anticipating—Lightning snaps forth.
Not in singularity, but in uniformity: a concentrated assembly discharges without reprisal, loose upon this godforsaken area with a sky-rending cleave.
We ride on.
Through these desecrated lands, where lifeless opulence festers in moss, overgrowth, and stench.
The silhouettes of dead trees, jagged rocks, and tangled roots form a grim backdrop—only wildflowers and thorns dare bloom beneath the moonlight's jaded splendor, piercing the nocturnal gloom.
It's dark.
The kind of dark that makes your pupils hungry, devouring every morsel of light.
Still, we ride on.
Our two yonks plod forward, their prints pressing into wet earth and gravel alike.
The mud swallows them as if the ground itself were trying to forget, shrouded by the receding firelight of my torch.
It's been around thirty minutes since we escaped.
The rain has thankfully subsided, but morning dew still clings, seeping into already drenched pores.
How much longer must we endure?
"One hour left till we reach the camp," Tim interrupts.
That long, huh.
Too long.
"Do they usually chase you this much?" I ask.
"No. I've never seen them before. Don't know why they came this time—they're supposed to stay at home; in the dead lands."
He scratches at his arm.
"There's land that's more dead than this!" I exclaim.
He stares back blankly, clearly unimpressed.
It was an honest query. How am I supposed to respond? Fine.
"How's your father? Still conscious?"
"He just fell asleep… must've been tired."
"How's he really?"
Tim pauses.
His eyes drift momentarily, entranced, concentrating as he presses 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.
More like a weak pulse.
Too weak.
The boy's too young to know the science of the world—whatever he's feeling must barely exist.
Deep sleep?
No.
More like almost dead.
Sorry, but we can't afford that.
We need him alive.
"Why didn't you say anything earlier?"
"You didn't ask. Look—he's fine! There's no bleeding, no injury I can see."
His left forearm flexes, folding his fingers shut.
Calm.
We can't blame the boy.
If he panics, this all gets worse.
He's right too—where's the wound?
He was bleeding earlier. Clearly.
The blood has barely dried.
But now he looks untouched.
Something isn't right.
The pendant.
The beasts.
All variables must be accounted for.
Poison? Paralysis?
No certainty.
More information is required.
"I'm sorry. I'll have a look at him in a moment."
The boy nods, eyes puffed, as if convincing himself it'll all be fine.
"Say, can we stop and rest here?" I ask.
"Nonono… we can't do that. Impossible."
His throat catches.
"Why not?"
"The stories… dad's friends say once you're chased, more will always follow."
Life can never be simple, can it?
No—stay positive.
We still have a little time before more comes.
What can I do?
I can't trust we'll just make it.
First things first: if I can wake Jimson up, we have an extra hand for defense.
How the hell do I do that, though?
Do I ditch the dog?
No—the kid will eat me.
Fuck.
My hands squeeze around the harness.
The dog barks up at me.
Yes, you're right, boy—it does stink.
Nothing I can do about it.
But it's getting worse, isn't it?
You smell it too?
"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 the anus?" I quip.
"This smell means we've entered the mud pit. That's bog-rat territory," he says trepidaciously.
Rats.
My stomach sinks.
They're no fun.
"Can't we go around?"
"No use. The only way is through."
Great.
"What's the danger then?"
"Their skin," Tim answers grimly.
"Dad said they're infested with the 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?"
"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 on it."
"Ahh, 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 just looks like a normal shell, I suppose?"
Oh no.
My hand twitches, reminding me.
It's the same shell I chucked away.
Why the hell did it have to be that random thing?
No.
Impossible.
I will never take responsibility for this failure.
Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission as they say…
I'll make up some excuse later.
For now, we must endure.
I just have to ask.
"Hey, Tim. Can you whistle, perchance?"
Please. Please. Please. Don't let me down.
"No. Dad said he'd teach me, though."
His face beams a little brighter than before, though only for a moment, before the weight of the situation squeezes him back to reality, bitter, sour and yellow.
"Oh, aren't you a studious little… munchkin," I say, plastering a smile across my face.
Rat.
"I truly hope you can make your dad proud when he wakes up," I add, letting out a jovial chortle.
1. Non-whistling, rodent-shit.
2. Useless.
3. Dead weight.
4. Fucking liability.
There's my list check it twice. BAAAAAAAAAH!
fuckers.
The tension in his face eases.
Color smudges back into his cheeks.
Taking a slow deep breath, I exhale.
We're dead.
There's no other way to say it.
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 quick.
The yonks grunt in weary protest, their limbs sinking deeper into the quagmire.
Filth laps at their shanks; each step drags us down with a wet, resounding plump.
Our pace falters as their hips strain, slogging through the thickening muck.
Then I see it.
Distant at first, a sinking trail snakes closer.
The ground heaves, and from it bursts a worm-like eel, its head swinging toward us, tongue flickering, tasting the stale air.
They live up to their rat 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 in death, I can't kill my curiosity.
On that much, at least, the cat and I agree.
One by one, more follow, breaching the surface: heads, bodies, tails—every cardinal direction is filled.
Slowly they turn, in unison, locking onto us.
How do they see us?
Sound.
Vibration.
No.
It must… taste us somehow, with that black tongue.
Do we taste good, huh?
Their faces split.
Behind serrated teeth and glistening drool, a throat orifice is gaping.
Its meaty, pink flesh undulates in waves, greedily swallowing excess saliva.
But why a whistle?
Surely these monsters don't care about the tune.
No.
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, knowing my inability to do anything to prevent whats about to happen.
Their throats rattle, vociferating a deep, resonant hum that relentlessly builds upon itself in volume.
Is this finally it—my expiration date?
It wasn't that much fun—life.
Even this so-called second chance feels so…
Illusory.
Maybe it's time to rest at last in purgatory where I belong—
"What in the Word are you doing? Just blow into the fucking shell!" Tim squeaks, his voice high-pitched.
Hurry, or you'll kill us all!"
Right, I cannot die here, not for a million years my job isn't finished yet.
"Quick, does the shell sound high-pitched or low-pitched when you blow into it?" I sound in compressed syllables.
"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.
His head jerks up.
His body stiffens.
The answer bursts out before he even realizes he's speaking.
"It's really deep… and growly, sir."
He blinks, eyes teary and dazed.
His mouth quivering while his belly rises and falls with strained breath.
But no words follow.
His gaze drops to the ground, shivering, sniffling, and silent.
He leans down and hugs Cindy with both shaky arms.
I'm so sorry Tim, but I really needed that answer.
This is all a desperate gamble, a die cast in-which I bet our very 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…
…heheh.
My tongue begins wobbling, sounding a cascade of notes across a vast range of vocal capability, before my engine—too stressed, overworked in its attempt to reach the highest pitch; starts to crack and hum, brimming with exhaust.
All professionals warm up before recitals; this is nothing unusual. I convince myself, suppressing internal doubt, followed by a prolonged empty silence. Concentrating, stimulating my pharynx to the precise degree, with clear precision, each note etches a new line, bringing me closer to producing the desired sound.
My screeching continues, splintering into its various fonts: squawking, mewing, nasally breathing heavily even throat singing.
I do it all,
and again.
Even the rats look at me in prolonged confusion turning their heads elsewhere. But I persist.
Searching
Finding the little strength left in my voice.
Ahuh that's the sound I want yeah,
Nothing you can't do when you put your mind to it.
I cup my hands over my mouth,
Ok here goes.
I suck in a deep breath.
And finally release.