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 swallowing 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 qi circulation is weak too. But that's normal when sleeping, right?"
Weak qi flow. More like a weak pulse. Too weak. The boy's too young to know the difference—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, you… you can't do that." His throat catches.
"Why not?"
"The stories… they 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 ass cheeks out here?"
"Yonking, Mort!"
"What?"
"I forgot about that part."
"What part—the butt or the hole?"
"This smell means we've entered the mud pit. That's bog-rat territory," he says dismissively.
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 venomous. 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… 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.
Non-whistling, rodent-shit. Useless. Dead weight. Fucking liability.
The tension in his face eases. Color seeps back into his cheeks. I take a deep breath and 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. 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.
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, hips straining as they slog through 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, turning in unison, they lock onto us.
How do they see us?
Sound. Vibration.
No.
It must… taste it somehow, with that black tongue.
Do we taste good, huh?
Their faces split. Behind serrated teeth and glistening drool, a throat orifice gapes. 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 life, bending my will. 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—
"What in the Dao are you doing? Just blow into the fucking shell!" Tim squeaks, his voice high-pitched.
"Hurry, or you'll kil us all!"
"Does the shell sound high-pitched or low-pitched when you blow into it?"
"What, why are you asking that!"
"Timothy Wood! Answer the question. NOW!" I project, my voice sharp and commanding.
The snakes' bodies retreat into themselves, coiling like springs. Poised to strike.
"Does the shell sound high-pitched or low-pitched?"
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 moves, belly rising and falling with strained breaths, but no words follow. Finally, his gaze drops to the ground, shivering, sniffling, and silent. He leans down to hug the yonk with both arms.
I'm so sorry Tim, but I really needed that answer.
This is all a desperate gamble, and If I'm right, we might just survive.
I just need the right pitch. Sound is sound. That's all.
And if I'm wrong…
…heheh.
I cup my hands over my mouth, sucking in deep breath.
And release.