I recognize a distinct connection between cowardice and fear. Not the words themselves but instead what they represented. Fear was the trembles, the heartaches, the wandering mind that balks at risks, whether simple or grand and cowardice was the inability to overcome such fears. One could not exist without the other. The two were like the chicken and the egg, except the egg needed to come first.

Everyone had them, too—fears. It was normal to face them daily; they're unavoidable and influence a person's life. A person could summarize their life’s struggle with how a person manages their fears.

I had fears. Many of them, in fact. I disliked fish with bones in them because I was afraid I would choke, I never stuck a foot outside my covers for worry of imaginary demons, and I always locked the door to my room for reasons left unmentioned. Most of my fears were childish and easy to outgrow. And yet, one remained. A common fear that I believed should afflict anyone with eyes. I was afraid of…rats.

I hated how they scampered. I hated their high-pitched feral screeches. I hated the idea of the diseases they may carry. I hated how small and agile they were, sneaking into tiny crevices. I hated how hard it was to catch them. All around, I just hated them, so when Mr. Moseley and I opened the hatch leading to the seventh floor from the top, I was overcome in fright by the sea of rats.

“Never seen a nest this big. Shoot, I've never seen a rat that big. How many of them do you think there are,” he asked. He was holding his nose closed with his thumb and pointer finger. We’d realized earlier that the horrid smell perforating the air was getting worse as we descended, but we certainly weren't expecting to see the horde of rats.

The rats were as big as house cats and had black fur that was slicked wet with what I assumed was their filth. When I’d first opened the door, and the smell hit us, I hadn’t even realized that there were rats down there at all. The color of their fur had made them nearly impossible to see. Only when I had made a [Platform] appear closer did the black monstrosities become known to us. And when I did, the near-silent room had exploded into a frenzy of activity.

“What do they even eat? Probably each other,” He said, answering his question. “Maybe that's why they got so big. None of the vases on the other floors looked like they'd been touched—by God, it stinks. They have to be eating their own shit and drinking their piss. I hope none of those things outside can smell good because even if they can’t hear, they’d certainly be able to smell these vermin. Even as far away as a person could get from civilization, you still find rats. Figures.”

“It’s disgusting,” I said. I also was plugging my nose with my fingers. I dismissed the [Platform] by summoning [Shield], leaving the rats in darkness again. The distance from the hatch to the floor was big enough that the Shield light couldn’t pierce the darkness to reach the rats on the floor. “Close the door, or the smell may get worse.”

The rat's discordant choir stopped as soon as Mr. Mosely shut the door. It was as if the hatch were a snooze button. With the rats out of sight and out of mind, my nerves began to subside. I was doing my best not to allow my trembling hands to show, but if Mr. Moseley were observant, my jitters would be evident to him. I hoped he wasn’t being too observant. Openly displaying my nerves was an embarrassing betrayal of self. I didn’t want to be observed in that way, to be perceived as easily cowed. I wanted to be fearless no matter the obstacle. Even if the obstacle was a vile, enlarged, nauseating, beady-eyed, shit-covered rat, I wasn’t going to survive, much less find out about my family, if I couldn't be fearless, so that's what I’d be from the safety of far above, of course.

“At least we found something to eat in the worst-case scenario. I've never had rats before, but it’ll probably beat starvin’, I think. The vases were sloshin’ around, probably water in them. Good thing you listened to me, huh? We would’ve been exploring rooftops in the dark out there and got eaten by one of those monsters.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not eating a rat. Did you see those things? They were as big as cats, and they smelled putrid. You’ll get sick from eating that. The vases, though, are worth taking a look at. The liquid might be water, but who knows? Let's bring a couple up to the roof and start cracking them open up there in case it’s toxic.”

“Toxic? I don’t think so.”

“And why’s that?”

“Let’s call it a gut feeling,” he replied smugly. The ego of this guy. One correct hunch, and he’s an oracle.

He turned and walked toward the hole that led to the fifth floor. I followed. “You’re drinking it first,” I said.

“That was a given. Not gonna make a kid do it. Plus, If I have to go another hour without something to drink, I'll die of thirst anyway.”

“You made a kid crawl down the hole first.” He glared at me for the comment, and I gave a halfhearted smirk in reply before continuing.“We could go another day without water If we had to.”

“Maybe you can, but not me,” he grumbled. “My spit has never been so lackin’, my lips so dry. I’m going to do a good ‘ol fashioned sniff and gargle, and if ain’t dead by then, I’m chugging one of the vases.” He stopped under the entrance to the fifth floor. “Put one of them [Platform] thingies here so I can climb up.”

I made a [platform] appear right in front of him. “You mind giving me a boost,” He asked. So I did. The old man was heavier than he looked.

“Hey, Mr. Moseley,” I called out as I climbed up after him. It was time to put my small talk skills, which I learned from working weekends at the convenience store, to the test.

“What?”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“No.”

“What was it like for you when the world ended? You said you were from Atlanta, right? I heard the big cities were pretty hectic during the countdown.”

“Augusta. And did you not hear me? I said no.” Mr. Moseley had already reached the fifth floor and was catching his breath near the edge when I pulled myself beside him. The fifth floor was empty like the sixth unless you counted the dust and the runes on the wall as something of note. Seeing as I couldn’t read the runes, I decided to list them as unimportant in the short term.

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“I was reading between the lines,” I replied.

“What lines? There ain’t no lines between no.”

“That is true, but the way I see it, you and I will be together for who knows how long, so we should know each other. Not like the deepest, darkest secret, of course, but we should know the basics. Like, do you snore when you sleep? I saw you yawn not too long ago. And I can’t imagine a worse scenario than the stress of a rat or monster attacking me in my sleep, coupled with your snoring habit. I come from a long line of sound sleepers, and we sleep our soundest in silence. I can’t have your snoring getting in the way of my beauty rest, you know?”

He gave me a blank stare.

“That’s if you're snorer,” I added. Mr. Moseley pushed himself to stand and contorted his bushy unibrow into a scrunched frown. Glowering from above, he looked like every stern male figure I’d ever known; for some reason, they instinctively knew the same pseudo-angry face as if it came naturally with age.

Mr. Moseley pointed a finger toward me as if to lecture and said, “I’m making a list of rules. It will be our own rules of survival. I know a bit about surviving, so I have much to add to this portion, so listen closely. Rule number one: listen to what I say and do as I do. Rule number two: no random tangents. Bein’ here is stressful enough without a kid ramblin’ ‘bout sleep or whatever other questions you may deem to ask. I know you’re scared and tired—I’m a little of both also—but that doesn't mean I’m keen on lettin’ you talk my ear off. Listen out for monsters and stay quiet for me, would ya’.”

With that, he turned to leave me, and walked toward the hole leading to the fourth floor. I watched his form diligently as it shrunk away and felt a tinge of annoyance. He was treating me like a kid. I had fought a Blizard and won—without a single scratch, I might add. (Technically, a slightly swollen ankle, first-degree burns from [blast], and a bruised rib cage didn’t count as a scratch) I wasn’t content to be brushed off like I was just some annoying burden, though I guess, in some sense, I was.

I quickly followed after him, partly to avoid navigating the dark alone but mainly to explain myself. We needed to come to an understanding that from now on, we would be equal partners. Age be damned.

“Hey,” I said as I caught up. Mr. Mosely ignored me and created a [platform] to climb. “Hey!”

“What?”

“I was trying to keep things light-hearted, but it seems you don’t want it that way, so let’s be frank with each other. Are you going to murder me in my sleep? I was alluding to it, but you weren’t picking up what I was putting down.”

“What type of fuckin’ question is that?” Mr. Mosely was struggling mid-hang on the ledge leading to the fourth floor when he responded. I watched momentarily as he struggled to pull himself up before I stepped forward to boost him. He scrambled up to the fourth floor, and the [platform] I was standing on disappeared, forcing me to land on my ankle. I yelped and fell back on my bum.

“Thanks,” Mr. Mosely called out. “And no, I’m not gonna’ to murder you in your sleep. I wouldn’t even harm a fly, much less a kid.”

“That’s nice,” I replied, my voice strained as the pain from the fall hadn’t finished reverberating through my body. “I’ll sleep better when the time comes.”

“Good. Now, hurry and get up here. I may need your help.”

I waited for the stinging sensation to fade and then climbed up to the fourth floor, where Mr. Moseley was patiently waiting. He stood next to one of the vases that outlined the walls along the floor. The vases, a light tan color, were sculpted from some type of clay and had a rounded top like a cookie jar.

“I’m gonna’ to open one. Are you ready? Snake not likely gon’ jump out, but after thinkin’ ’bout it, you may be right. It may be toxic.”

I took two steps back. “Ready.”

Mr. Mosely worked slowly, scraping at the vase with a quiet reverence one might find in a master workshop. Soon, clay chips littered the ground, a single fingernail doing all the work. Mr. Mosely’s nail on his pointer finger was longer and sharper than any working man's, much less mine. I hadn’t noticed before because it wasn’t worth noticing. It was strange to think my nails would be like that soon enough. No fingernail clippers in the labyrinth. Only monsters and disgruntled old men.

After what felt like an eternity, the vase sprung a leak. It was leaking on the side, and the liquid—what I hoped was water—started to trickle out. Mr. Mosley turned the vase on its side to stop the liquid from splashing everywhere, but not before a small puddle formed.

“Did any of it get on you,” I asked.

“A little might’ve splashed on my clothes, but that's about it.” Mr. Mosely picked the vase up off the ground. “Heavy,” he grunted. It was about as big as his head.

“You're not going to drink it now, are you? I thought you were going to test it first?”

“I’m just putting it up here.” He placed the vase on his [platform] and held it steady so it wouldn’t roll.

“How are you going to test it?”

“Easy.” Mr. Moseley leaned over the vase and took a deep inhale. “Smells sweet. I’m gonna put my pinky in it, wait a few minutes, and if that works, I’ll put it on the inside of my lip. After that, we’ll see how lucky we are.”

With those words, the procedure began. Mr. Mosely waited a considerable amount of time between each step, which I used to pepper him with more questions about himself. When that proved futile, I passed the time by tracing my finger along the runes on the wall. I was nearly fast asleep—standing up, mind you—by the time he deemed the liquid safe to drink.

“I’m gonna’ go for it,” he said. “Been almost two hours. It should be safe.”

“I’m right here if anything happens.” If anything did happen, I doubt my saying so would change much. A kind gesture, that's all it was.

He tilted the vase upward, with the hole facing off the platform's edge. The position made it easy for the liquid to trickle out, splashing into the ground below. It was sort of like a water cooler but without a plug to stop the flow.

Mr. Mosley cupped his hands below the trickle and formed a hand basin that quickly began to overflow. “Our father, in art and in heaven…”He recited the prayer with his eyes closed, stumbling over quite a few of the words. When finished, he brought his cupped hands to his lips and lapped the liquid like a cat.

“Religious, huh? I wouldn’t have thought it.”

“I’m not. My mother was. I learned what I know by watchin’ her.” He allowed his hands to fill again and began drinking more and more of the liquid.

“So… uhh, does your stomach feel like it’s going to explode.”

“Not yet, but if I keel over in pain in the next few minutes, then you’ll have an answer.”

We waited a few minutes, and Mr. Moseley didn’t keel over. If anything, he became more light and carefree after quenching his thirst. That gave me all the confidence I needed. I approached the vase, took a swig, and choked down the sweet liquid. It had a peppermint-esque aftertaste. After one sip, I needed another.

The two of us sat there, drinking the liquid until it was all gone.