The clouded thicket looms above, clear in its obscurity.
The land quakes, anticipating; then the lightning snaps forth.
Discharging currents ionise the burning wet air, flickering in purple hues.
They strike in unity, seemingly purposeful as they run rampant upon this godforsaken land.
The land caves under loud sound.
We ride on.
Through these desecrated lands, where lifeless opulence festers in moss, overgrowth, and stench.
Silhouettes of dead trees, jagged rocks, and tangled roots form my grim backdrop—only wildflowers and thorns dare bloom beneath the rending sky, 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 press wet into earth and gravel alike, only for the mud to swallow them up moments later.
It's been around thirty minutes since we escaped.
The rain has thankfully subsided, but the morning dew still clings, seeping into my already drenched pores.
How much longer must I endure?
"One hour left till we reach the camp," Tim interrupts.
That long, too long.
"Do those things usually chase you this much?"
"No. I've never seen them before. They shouldn't have come—they're supposed to stay away; in the dead lands, lurking during the mornings." 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." He scratches his hand.
"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.
Too weak.
The boy's too young to recognize it—the pulse. What he's feeling must barely exist.
Deep sleep? No.
Almost dead.
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 gets worse.
He's right too: where's the wound?
He was bleeding earlier, but now looks untouched.
The pendant, the beasts—poison? Paralysis?
More information, less speculation.
"I'm sorry. I'll have a look at him in a moment.
The boy nods, eyes puffed, as if he's convincing himself it'll all be fine.
"Say, can we stop and rest here?"
"Nonono… we can't do that. Impossible."
He stammers, throat catching on itself.
"Why not?"
"The stories… dad's friend said 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 the more comes.
What can I do?I can't trust we'll just make it.
First things first: Wake Jimson, then we have an extra hand for defense.
How does that happen though?
...
Do I ditch the dog?
No—the kid will eat me.
My hands squeeze against the harness.
The dog barks.
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 the anus?" I nervously quip.
"We've entered the mud pit. The smell; that's bog-rat territory," his shrinking body shakes in obvious trepidation.
Rats.
My stomach sinks.
They're no fun.
"Can't we go around them?" I question.
"No use. The only way is through."
Great.
"Then what's our danger?"
"Their skin," Tim answers grimly. "Dad said they're infested with that 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."
I frown.
"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 shit.
My hand twitches.
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.
"Hey, Tim. Can you whistle, bud?"
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. Colour smudges back into his paled cheeks.
Taking a slow breath, I exhale deeply.
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 quick if anything.
The yonks grunt in weary protest, their limbs sink deeper into the quagmire.
Filth laps at their shanks spraying on my boots; 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, Mute and I agree.
One by one, more follow, breaching the surface: heads, bodies, tails—every cardinal direction is blocked. 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 open. Behind serrated teeth and glistening drool, its throat orifice gapes.
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.
They know my inability to do anything to prevent what's about to happen.
Their rattling throats emit a deep resonant hum, relentlessly it 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 Yonking 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 here isn't finished yet.
"Quick, does the shell sound high-pitched or low-pitched when you blow into it?"
"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 and 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 quivers whilst 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 wobbles, sounding out cascading notes across my vocal range. 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. Unconvinced, I suppress all internal critique, followed by a prolonged empty silence.
Concentrating I stimulate my pharynx with clear precision, with each note etching a longer life, I come closer to producing the desired sound.
I do sounds,
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.
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.