Rat - YA Fantasy

3

Chapter 3: In Which Rat Makes Funeral Arrangments

We dashed across the alley, for a very brief moment we were bathed in moonlight - the moon riding high and in full glory. There was suddenly a vacuum of time, reality sucked in a breath. Fizz's small toes caught against a loose cobblestone. She flew forward, her little hand slipping out of mine. I tried to save her from falling.

But I couldn't.

It was ice, a fist of ice that closed in on my mind. I was sent into vertigo, unable to tell the ground from the sky. The moonlight felt sharp, its silvery presence edged with knives, stabbing into my flesh. My breath caught in my throat as I gasped, my knees buckling, sweat breaking across my forehead.

The world was hollow and empty; a chill snaked itself up my spine, leaving a burning sensation in its wake. In the deserted alley, the sound of footsteps echoed - many sets of feet, all deliberate and intently marching toward us. "Fizz." I choked, crawling to where she lay, fighting the stone-hard ice in my brain.

"Rat," she moaned. That's my name - Rat. Useful name for a street kid - saves me at least one insult. "I can't..."

I reached out and took her hand, clenching my teeth. Stubborn, that's one thing you can say about me and that wouldn't be stretching the truth. I know our lives weren't really worthwhile. It was no feast, living as we did. But if you want to test the survival instinct of a human being, you just needed to look at us. The only thing we had was our lives and our names, and yet even when it was all over, I was too stubborn to let it go, too stubborn to give up.

I couldn't feel my feet as I shifted them beneath me, rising slowly. I couldn't feel my arms as I pulled Fizz up against me. I could feel the cold sweat trickling down my back; I could feel the lump of bile rising in my throat. I began running, dragging her stumbling behind me.

Before I managed to get more than a few paces, the fist of ice tightened itself inside my head, this time with a vengeance, the way one would stomp on a cockroach a second time after seeing its antennae still wriggling. I completely lost control of my limbs, crashing onto the ground chest first. I was an ant being squashed by a giant's thumb. Fizz, on her hands and knees, crawled toward me; she shook my shoulder, the steadily growing volume of marching feet nearly drowning out her frantic pleas. Fizz always had such a thin voice. "Rat. Rat. Don't die."

I wanted to tell her that she shouldn't worry about me; I wanted to promise her that I wasn't dying. But the ice spread from my mind to my throat. I could only struggle for breath and wonder if actually I was dying.

That's how my life as a street boy ended.

Harsh hands dragged us apart. The sight of her being hoisted away as if she was nothing but a rag doll brought back my voice and my desperation to protect her. The ice kept tightening, but my rage tore through it and I could not be bothered with heeding its painful bite. "No! No!" I screamed. Maybe the Gods, if they existed, would hear. At that moment, I was willing to believe in anything that could save her, even in them. "FIZZ!"

And my shout woke her from her own shock, "RAT!" she screamed.

At the sound of her voice, I became crazed. I fought against the arms holding me back. Kicking, scratching I briefly managed to slither out of their grip. But they caught me again quickly, this time more of them, clutching my wrists and elbows and chest. I kept on struggling aware only of her screams as she was dragged out of sight.

I couldn't get to her and I was going to die. I had nothing to do but to shout her name, over and over again. Fizz, my street sister, innocent yet experienced. Little Fizzegretta, with her curly hair so tangled it turned into chunky dreadlocks, with her pointed chin, her minx smile, her stubbornness that rivalled only by my own. She was taken away, down the alley, her thin voice bouncing off the walls of the buildings. No one woke, no one listened, there were no curious eyes peeking out of the windows overhead. Her screams pierced my bones and rent my heart, yet in the city the sounds she made were no more than the wailing of an abandoned kitten or the insistent call of a night bird.