Callisto

Jespar Alone (pt. 3)

The reptile, meanwhile, did not give chase. It merely looked after his skittering form to its hand, oozing a small emerald stain where the dog's teeth had managed to cut through its soft palm. It wiped its eyes and scratched its head, greatly puzzled.

Pestilential water filled with the bile of long-dead souls slapped Jespar in his face as he forged toward some kind of salvation. He knew he'd have to find some way out of the water. He was practically in the lizard's natural habitat. That's how it had found him so quickly.

His mind started racing with him, leading him down path after path of this squalid maze that he could swear he'd been down already. His thought process was as ragged and disjointed as the hairs that stood up all over his body by this point.

Scan the ceiling. No light. Not even a crack. Fuck.

Ok.

Round another corner; come on.

Fucking spirits of The Deadlands, give me something. That's what you'd say, right, Chief? Only they'd listen to you.

He heard only the desperate scrabbling of his paws underneath him and the raspy, ragged breath he coughed out into the stale air of this dungeon.

This is how it's gonna end? Fucking underground? Again?

Nah. Screw that. It ain't happening. Maybe you could fight the thing off? That's what she would do.

Another ear-splitting roar reverberated off the walls of the hollow prison around him and told him that he had no choice but to run faster.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. Sorry Chief, but I ain't you. This is all I know how to do.

He suddenly stopped in his tracks. He'd surprised even himself with that one.

"Damn. Heavy."

He was at another junction and spared a look behind to find his interloper. He wasn't around. Yet.

He scanned the area and found what may be his salvation: a small fissure in the nearby brickwork that seemed like it had been filled in with dirt and covered with mold. It was his only chance; this way, he could be spared the self-imposed embarrassment of running.

Hiding was clever, not cowardly. That's what he'd tell his autobiographer.

He began scratching away at the mud and felt it come loose. He threw himself forcefully into the operation, piercing each section of the plugged wall with his claws and dislodging another great chunk to be tossed into the water below. As another part gave way, he beheld the impossible: there, yes! There was light being cast somewhere passed this point. He could just make it out from the small hole he had made. He felt relatively proud of himself until the bestial roar echoed through his ears again.

He started using his mouth, his fangs glinting in the sewer's shadowed environment – snarling maw chewing through muck and mucus that must have seeped into the wall over time. More light began to shine through as though mocking him, the world of the surface teasing him all over again, letting him know that his salvation that was so close was soon to be taken from him. But he ignored these thoughts. Instead, he kept on. He'd get out. He had to.

When the last load-bearing mud flap caved in, he turned and saw those amber eyes, narrowed, staring right at him from the bottom of the tunnel.

He squeezed into the wall without hesitation and kept pressing till he felt his brain was at bursting point. He felt the movement of air behind him. Something sharp nicked his back.

And then he was through.

He checked his posterior as best he could before any declaration of victory. He spun around several times, chasing his tail to get a good look for any signs of lacerations, but, thankfully, found nothing. The beast's hand must have been grasping for him and come up just short. For now, he was alone again.