The clouded thicket looms above, clear in its obscurity. Beneath which, the land quakes in anticipation; then the lightning snaps forth.
Currents discharge and ionise the wet air, causing pinkish hues to flicker brightly.
Striking in unity, their electrical hums paralyses this godforsaken land into a fearful static.
Life itself caves under this oppressive atmosphere.
We ride on.
Through these desecrated lands, where bacteria festers in moss, overgrowth, and stench.
Countless silhouettes of dead trees, jagged rocks, and tangled roots form the grim backdrop.
Only wildflowers and thorns dare bloom in this miserable space.
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 into earth and gravel alike, only for the mud to swallow them up moments later.
Thirty minutes it has been since we escaped.
The rain has, thankfully, subsided, but the morning dew still clings and seeps into my already drenched pores.
How much fucking longer must I endure.
"One hour left till we reach the camp," Tim interrupts my thoughts.
That's too long, indeed.
"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; not here, not in these dark lands, but deeper still in their burrows within dead lands, only coming out during the mornings." He scratches at his arm.
"There's land that's more dead than this!"
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 harder.
"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 into a fist.
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. Impossible."
He stammers, throat catching on itself.
"Why not?"
"The stories… Marcus, 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 my concerns for 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?"
Disregarding my comment, he explains clearly.
"We've entered the mud pit. The smell; that's bog-rat territory," his shrinking body 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 direct.
Great.
"Then what's our danger?"
"Their skin," Tim answers grimly. "Dad said 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?"
"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."
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 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, find a workable solution and prevent panic. Better for him to die in ignorance then pain.
"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." 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.
Fucker, you only add to my list of burdens.
The tension in his face 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 quick if anything.
The yonks grunt in weary protest, their limbs sink deeper into the grunge.
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.
Silence, think this through logically don't let stress get the better of you. No one's at fault. He is your 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, rope's too thick and I have no skill with that.
Then what do I try to scare them off by screaming, actually that's not a bad plan. Now should I tell him about the shell.
"Hey Desmond, over there!" Tim calls out and points to the distance.
There.
It's distant at first, but ahead lies what appears to be a sinking trail. From the muck bursts a worm-like eel, its head swings toward us, tongue flickering, tasting the stink in the 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 now, I can't kill my curiosity.
On that much, at least, Mute and I agree.
One by one, more trails follow and breach the muddy surface: heads, bodies, tails; in mere moments every direction is blocked.
Slowly but in unison, they turn, locking onto us.
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 a whistle?
Surely these monsters don't care about the 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 complete powerlessness, their rattling throats emit 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 a 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 finished yet.
"Quick! Does the shell sound high-pitched or low-pitched when you blow into it?" scrambling over my words I yell.
"What, what are you asking? Why!" Tim stammers back.
"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 realizes he's speaking.
"It's really deep… and growly, sir."
He blinks, eyes both teary and dazed.
His mouth quivers whilst his belly rises and falls with strained breath.
But no words follow.
His gaze drops to Cindy's back, shivering, sniffling, and silent.
Leaning over, he wraps both arms around her back and sobs.
I'm so sorry Tim, 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 the desired sound.
Even the rats tickle their snouts at me confused, 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.