A number of black points moving against the dim ceiling streaked with pockmarks drew Glim’s attention. Bats. They wheeled in fast, arcing circles, swooping down at random intervals before climbing back up.
Glim only watched them for a brief moment, the chirps and scuffles of the small creatures quickly falling behind. He’d used the fire from the camp as much as he dared, the faint flickers of light receding far too quickly for his liking. A hand-held torch was dangerous with all the Lostling’s prowling about, but without it he was blind to the bleak environment.
Panic stabbed at him suddenly as the shadows intermixed with red, the faint splotches of blood forming a small and uneven trail that led into a narrow crevice. “Please, let it not be his.” Glim set his jaw and clenched his fists, twisting in the narrow space as best he could, digging away at smaller sections of dirt that hampered any progress. The other side came unexpectedly, dropping down steeply enough to exert a grunt of pain as he landed unsteadily on his feet.
A ravine stretched out far past the drop, the cramped confines affording just enough room to walk without hesitation. Here the sides of the gully were gentle, the riverbed dry and clear of thorns and rock alike. He crossed it easily, head on a constant swivel. The other side resembled little more than a thick copse of reedy plants, the reaching undergrowth throwing tentacles of tangled branches and wide leaves upward.
Glim smelled the first corpse before his squinting eyes took in the forms of another handful of bats, these intent on tearing through the greying jacket and ripped pants that housed a balding man. The second was barely a few feet away, her face and throat torn away, most of her left thigh gnawed to the bone.
The bats soared away at Glim’s sudden approach, chirping sharply before being absorbed by the shadows above. The man lay with his face to the ground. Glim didn’t turn his body over; the bats hadn’t been idle for long. There was no need to examine either of them in detail in any case. Another pair of his company, now lying dead at his feet.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
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The trail of blood finally ended at the edge of the copse. Three more dead Lostling’s lay piled in a clump, these sporting clean wounds along the neck and face. Rusk’s handiwork.
“Knew you’d find me eventually,” a reedy voice called out. Glim turned, his friend staring back meekly from a small recess in the ground, partially hidden by plant and shadow. Rusk’s face was gaunt, pale, dark rings evident around the eyes. Long brown hair sat plastered to his head by the sweat and a thin smile.
“You’re bleeding!” Glim exclaimed, kneeling down and inspecting the man gently.
“This scratch? I gave the hairless bastards far worse.” Rusk looked down at his leg, blood continuing to darken a hastily tied-off strip of cloth. “The rest of the group, they still alive? I ran after the two you just passed, thinking I could lead them to safety, double back when things had died down.”
Glim shook his head a fraction, bowed low. “Lostlings got to all of them. Almost got me as well, chasing after our charge like that.”
“You made a call, Glim. We both did. No need in feeling sorry for that.”
“I know.” He said it quietly, under his breath. He knew the dangers of the traverse, just as well as Rusk. There had been a lot of Lostlings. An awful lot. He had no idea how many had streamed out into the camp’s supposide safety, but there’d be more. There were always more, where they were concerned.
“That leg whole enough to walk?” Glim asked, standing up, supporting Rusk’s weight over his shoulders.
“It’ll have to be,” Rusk responded, grimacing as he too got uneasily to his feet.
“Just you and me now,” said Glim as he shifted his friends arm. Just the two of them. They were the only survivors.