Arron sprinted the last hundred feet, nervous. Another player eagerly bobbed his head as the lady inn keeper spoke of her rats.
“Whoa!” Arron called, flashing his best smile. “Not to worry, exterminator’s here.”
Arron put his large hand on the other players shoulder, brandishing all the charm he could muster as he wedged himself between the player and the woman. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it taken care of. We appreciate your help though.”
“But I need this quest,” the player said.
“Nah. I’ve got it under control,” Arron responded, smiling over his shoulder at the player.
“Umm… okay. But I need this quest too, don’t I?”
“Nah. This is just rats, way too low for someone with all your… uh… magic-y talents and… things.”
“You’re working spells already? That’s awesome! I knew this was a higher-level quest, but didn’t know it was that high. I’m just a guy with a boomerang right now, probably need to level a bit before I tackle Wesley. Do you know of any other quests in this area?”
“Well, the blacksmith needed help. He wanted me to run an errand,” Arron said, having absolutely no idea what the player was going on about.
The player’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I haven’t done that yet.” He turned to run off and shouted, “Thanks, Arron! I’ll hit this one up after a bit of grinding!”
Arron watched him go, wondering how he’d known his name.
“Oh, sir! You have returned!” The woman’s voice brought Arron back to reality. “The rats are becoming a real nuisance, I would normally clear them myself, but they are so large! Surely you can help if I can spare a little coin?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry I was so rude before. It’s been a heck of a day.”
“Thank you for agreeing to assist me! You will find the rats I mentioned in the cellar. I would caution you though, lately I have caught glimpses of a very large rat running between the barrels. Do be careful! Return to me after you have slain some rats for your reward. The more you slay, the larger your reward!”
“Er, right. Will do. I’ll just see you when I finish then.” Arron headed into the tavern shaking his head. Killing a few rats shouldn’t be a problem. Especially if they were running around. He would take a few minutes, kill whatever he could, and head back to the caravan. No problem.
The tavern was empty of patrons. Only a few kitchen helpers were around, cleaning the main area. In the corner, a thin man plucked at a weird guitar-shaped thing, humming melodiously under his breath. It was odd seeing a place of fun and drinking during its off hours. Arron wondered if his own watering holes looked like this during the day.
“Excuse me,” he gestured to a serving girl setting up chairs. “I agreed to help… Umm…” Arron realized he never got the woman’s name.
“Maggie,” the girl provided.
“Yes, Maggie. I agreed to help Maggie with some rats you guys have in your basement. Do you know where it is?”
The girl’s expression changed to one of shock and wonder. “Of course, sir,” she said with a little curtsey. “I’m happy to help a hero as brave as yourself.” She flickered her eyelashes and her voice went up an octave. “The entrance to the cellar is in the kitchen at the end of the butcher’s block. Do be careful while you are down there. Wesley hasn’t had a meal in days, and he gets angry when he is hungry!”
“Wesley?” he asked, trying to ignore the wild change in the girl’s demeanor.
The girl shook her head, muttering a curse under her breath. “Aye, the R.O.U.S., Wesley. He’s the leader of the pack. A real bastard that one. Good luck with him,” she replied, her voice once again going up an octave.
Arron wanted to ask more questions, but the girl moved on to clean other tables. She kept changing her demeanor so fast it was giving him whiplash. And what was that about anyway? Whoever heard of rats having a leader? And what the hell was a R.O.U.S?
“Thanks!” he shouted to her retreating back. “I’ll just go down then.”
“As you wish,” she replied, continuing on with her tables.
Blowing out an exasperated sigh, Arron found the kitchen. The busy workers paid him no mind while he located the butcher’s block and the accompanying hatch for the cellar.
As he climbed down the ladder, he spotted a hammer on the ground below, one that could have come from any toolbox in the bed of any F-150.
“Nice! That’s a lucky find. Better that than getting my sandals dirty stomping on them.” Arron grabbed the hammer when he reached the bottom of the ladder, and paused taking in his new surroundings.
The cellar was larger than expected. Around the size of a two-car garage, with stacks of barrels in orderly rows from floor to ceiling. Two torches on the wall at the bottom of the ladder cast a flickering glow among the barrels, darkness eagerly consuming its jovial flame.
“Great. Just what I was hoping for,” he mumbled, taking a torch off the wall and tightening his grip on the hammer.
The cellar was eerily quiet, and strangely, there was no noise from upstairs. Not even the clatter of people making the floorboards squeak. Only the squelch of his sandals on the slightly muddy floor and the chaotic crackle of the torch gave any background sound to his presence. He moved a few steps in, picking out the steady drip-drip of water from somewhere in the gloom. His gaze flicked around, and when his sight couldn’t break through the darkness, he squinted suspiciously.
If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
He stepped cautiously, alert, watching his feet, and was quickly rewarded by a rat scurrying across his path.
Arron definitely did not scream. Certainly not in imitation of a four-year-old girl presented with her first tea party… and a real pony in attendance.
He may have been slightly surprised and let out a manly, “Oh, shit!” before adjusting his feet to get better leverage on both his torch and hammer. But he definitely did not jump away with a shrill wail that immediately made him look to make sure no one else was around.
Arron’s “readjustment” unfortunately cost him the precious moments necessary to strike. He cursed when the rat disappeared under a large barrel embossed with a symbol he didn’t recognize.
Arron checked once more to make sure he was alone before continuing down the row of barrels.
The next time a rat appeared, he was ready.
With a scream that would draw respect from fallen Viking warriors of old, he slammed his hammer into the head of the furry villain standing between him and Bella. He struck with such force, the head sank into the mud below. Blood splattered his face, and the sensation of droplets running across his eye socket were surprising, and yet oddly comforting.
“YES!” A victorious hammer to the air, Arron reveled in the feeling of finally having something work in his favor.
After his moment, Arron grabbed the body of the rat and tossed it to the bottom of the cellars ladder for easy transport later.
Feeling more confident, he continued on.
He added five more rats to his pile, the task growing easier the more he hunted. But thus far, he hadn’t seen any that were uniquely large. Both Maggie and the serving girl mentioned a large rat, Wesley, so he reasoned if he found the big one, he would get the biggest reward.
Circling back, Arron found no more rats by the time he was beside the ladder again.
Swearing, Arron crouched and stared into the gloom.
On the construction sites he ran as foreman, it was important to be able to reach the various areas of the structure with as little damage as possible, in case of an infestation or repair needs later. If something set up home in the wall, simply remove the drywall and you have access. He was betting it was something similar in these old houses.
Which meant a nest was hidden here somewhere, he just had to find it.
Arron remembered the first rat he missed and the barrel it disappeared under. Shrugging, he figured it was as good a place to start as any.
The symbol on the barrel looked vaguely like a stick man standing over a whirlpool. As Arron studied it, he felt a vague familiarity, like he’d seen the image before, and might even know what it meant. Ultimately, he couldn’t quite place it.
He started with the shelf, searching for clues. He even knocked on the barrels to make sure they weren’t hollow. Towards the bottom, he noticed a small scratch in the mud moving away from the shelves.
“No way,” Arron said, pulling tentatively on the shelf. It swung away from the wall, silent and smooth.
“A hidden alcove! The counter weights on this shelf must be fantastic.”
Arron entered the narrow space, the flickering light of his torch revealing the short, muddy opening into a room walled with packed earth. Marks on the walls proved it had been carved out with what could have been claws, large claws. Much bigger than the ones on the rats in his pile.
Unconcerned, Arron stepped into the alcove, hammer ready, and stared down to catch the next rodent who ran across his path.
He was so focused on the next rat he knew was coming, he didn’t see the Labrador-sized rodent emerge from a shadowy corner.
Deep bass notes rumbled from its throat and it bared two, long rodent-like teeth. Saliva dripped from the sides of its mouth as it lowered its body, ready to pounce.
Arron’s gaze snapped up at the sound and he froze in shock.
“What the—?”
Wesley the Rat King slammed into his chest with the power of a freight train.
His torch was knocked from his hand and sputtered on the damp ground, half burned out, making it difficult to see. The swinging barrel wall Arron stepped through crashed open, his body being slammed through it, Wesley riding along in tow. Several of the barrels splintered at the impact and leaked alcohol onto the already slick ground.
Wesley’s long teeth bit into Arron’s shoulder, sinking in impossibly far before it shook its head back and forth like a dog with its owner’s favorite sock.
Arron screamed in pain as his arm gave way and his shoulder popped out of the socket. He grabbed onto the rodent’s head with his good hand, trying to shove fingers into its eyes, grab fur, anything he could hold onto while it shook him. Finally finding purchase, he managed to close his grasp on an ear and pulled it toward himself with enough force it dislodged from the rat’s head in a messy string of fur, flesh, and blood.
The giant rodent released him, scurrying back as it cried out. Arron pulled on the ear until it detached from the rat’s flailing head entirely, bringing a line of skin with it, blood splattering the space between them, and leaking into the animal’s eye.
Screaming in rage, the rat charged Arron, this time aiming for his legs.
Arron smiled and waited, like a bull fighter prepared for the kill. He swung the hammer with all the force a corn-fed Nebraska boy could muster, exulted when the hammer’s head crunched into the side of the beast’s temple.
It was short-lived. Wesley crashed into his left knee, snapping it backwards and bringing Arron face first into the edge of one of the shelves nearby. Mud, blood, and broken teeth filled his mouth.
Arron almost passed out from the pain. When he looked down, his leg bent at an unnatural angle, and blood covered his tunic, he fought down a surge of fear. An echo of real life, of being unable to walk, came unbidden from its buried place in his mind.
Tiny spots of crimson splatter began to cloud the edges of his vision as he looked at the giant rat taking its time to stalk toward him.
He swore he could see the damn thing smiling.
Grinding his teeth, he grabbed his hammer and pushed himself up as much as he was able.
“Fuck you, you stupid fucking rat!” Through his pain and rage, spittle flung from his mouth, and he readied himself.
Step by step, Wesley grew closer, blood dripping off its face, turning the ground underneath to a crimson mud.
Arron grabbed onto a nearby beam, using it to drag himself a foot or two. He searched for some leverage. Something, anything, to give him enough time to swing a killing blow. That’s when he noticed the strut he held for what it really was.
They were similar to what miners used in the old days to keep the ceiling up, and he’d installed several in his life. Load-bearing beams to keep the roof or floor above from caving in.
Load-bearing…
Arron’s hope surged and he roared as he laid into the beam with his hammer. Splinters flew off the wood. The hammer was a poor tool for this job, hopelessly undersized, but stubbornness and rage lent strength to Arron’s hand as he swung.
Wesley paused briefly, looking at the crazed human attacking the dungeon walls. With saliva dripping, it continued forward to its next meal.
Arron swung harder, a red haze encroaching deeper into his line of sight, separate from the crimson splatters at the edge of his vision that seemed to grow in size.
Swing. Swing.
Step.
Swing. Swing.
Step.
Arron cried out, the slow progress on the beam and the speed Wesley stalked him fueling his frustration, his hammering wild and unrelenting.
No! He would not stop!
Red flooded his entire vision, creating a vignette around the beam, driving him to strike again and again with all the might he could summon.
Crack!
The cellar went silent and their eyes met briefly before the ceiling fell in, crushing Wesley the Rat King in his own kingdom.
Arron passed out.