11-26-2020, 08:08 PM
The rickety, weather-beaten enclosure was barely standing.
It had the look of an old fashioned outhouse and the cold night wind whipped between
its cracked and oddly spaced boards. No actual bathroom facilities, just a rusty metal pole
he found himself lashed to. A white plastic bucket sat in the corner as a half dozen large
rats fought to bring it down. Their bloodlust seeking its contents: A dead bull snake.
He watched as they pounced on the rotting reptile; tearing it to ribbons. How long would
it be before they came for his bare feet? Footsteps were drawing near. Several. The number of
which he couldn't be certain but it was enough of them to make him very uneasy.
A low whooping rose from the cruel captors circling the old structure. Sounding like birdsong
being played on a warped record, their trills grew louder and more menacing as clacking now
surrounded him. Not only were they taunting him with their shrill cries, he was subject to the
rhythmic assault of what had to be hard wooden sticks thrashing upon the little hut.
Both thumbs were broken. His swollen face stung from the nettle-swatting and he felt short of
breath. Everything was being pushed into the red. Vision blurring. Pain racing. Fear owned him.
If only he had that spare in his trunk, this wouldn't be happening.
It had the look of an old fashioned outhouse and the cold night wind whipped between
its cracked and oddly spaced boards. No actual bathroom facilities, just a rusty metal pole
he found himself lashed to. A white plastic bucket sat in the corner as a half dozen large
rats fought to bring it down. Their bloodlust seeking its contents: A dead bull snake.
He watched as they pounced on the rotting reptile; tearing it to ribbons. How long would
it be before they came for his bare feet? Footsteps were drawing near. Several. The number of
which he couldn't be certain but it was enough of them to make him very uneasy.
A low whooping rose from the cruel captors circling the old structure. Sounding like birdsong
being played on a warped record, their trills grew louder and more menacing as clacking now
surrounded him. Not only were they taunting him with their shrill cries, he was subject to the
rhythmic assault of what had to be hard wooden sticks thrashing upon the little hut.
Both thumbs were broken. His swollen face stung from the nettle-swatting and he felt short of
breath. Everything was being pushed into the red. Vision blurring. Pain racing. Fear owned him.
If only he had that spare in his trunk, this wouldn't be happening.
