In the darkness, bats screeched. A sewer tunnel—the stench of manure and the slow drip of tainted water. Whatever's left of it, that is. Rats scurried across mildewed cement. A small hand scratched at bumpy, pale skin. The hand went flat, rubbed, moved down to fur—a dirty cat purred at the hand’s touch.

Micah's hand, 11-years-old with a Karate band tied around his head. He's a small silhouette framed against a distant bleach of sunlight.

Micah's voice slowly filled the damp air of the tunnel. A singing voice: "There’s a hero in the sewer, a hero in the sewer. There’s a hero for the heathens, a hero for the demons. There’s a hero in the sewer, the master of the cretins."

Footsteps echoed from the tunnel’s dark throat, grew closer. The footsteps ceased. Another boy, 14-year-old Ryker, knelt a few yards from Micah, whistled and said, "Oh, Micah. Oh...Micah."

"Who is it?"

Ryker said, "The preacher wants to see you."

"Ryker?"

Ryker splashed closer, sank to his knees beside Micah, a much smaller boy. He placed a hand on the cat, squeezed. The cat snarled, slinked away from the boys, toward the distant light.

Micah said, "What’s he want me for?"

"You’re supposed to eat the heart."

"What if I don’t want to?" Micah turned away from the older boy, stared at the sunlight. So far away from him. But so close. Not close enough. A dark shadow closed over the tunnel’s opening, put the boys into black.

***

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Dirty feet slapped along cold cement—Micah running.

He fell, skidded along the cement. He grunted in pain. Yelped.

Lifted his face slowly and struggled to his knees. He rubbed mud on his cheeks, left a black smear across one side of his face. "Gross. So...Gross."

Laughter bubbled up from the sewer’s depths.

Micah hopped to his feet, lunged forward in the tunnel, vanished down some other dark sewer artery.

***

Blackened lips hooted, kissed a serrated knife blade. Grunge, an ugly older teen, held a palm in front of Micah’s muddy face. Grunge's perpetual sneer showed like an illustration on his face.

The lair around them was lit by kerosene lamps. Odd shadows flittred back and forth along the walls. Somewhere, a child strummed a banjo.

Various-aged kids, dirty and dark-eyed, reclined or slept on tattered couches, chairs, and other odd furniture pieces. They looked like a gang of stray cats, all lounging sleepily in their piss-stinking hangout.

Grunge said, "Where you think you’re fuckin’ goin’?"

Micah said, "The preacher wants to see me."

"What for?"

"Ryker said I’m supposed to-to-to..."

Grunge flicked Micah in the forehead. "C’mon, dummy. What you want with the preacher?"

Micah said, "He wants me. I’m supposed to eat the heart. They said I was—"

"You? I doubt it, bozo."

"Ask Ryker then," Micah said.

"Ryker!" Grunge yelled into the darkness. "Get yer ass in here."

A shadow loped along one wall, crossed in front of a lamp. Ryker appeared, knelt beside Grunge, looked up to him as if he was a prophet. "Master Grunge?"

"The fuck is this slug talking about?"

Ryker gulped and said, "The preacher told me to get him. That he’s got to eat the heart."

Grunge surveyed Micah with disgust, turned away...A fit of hacking coughs struck him as he stared into the darkness. When he turned back to the boys, Grunge lifted the knife, used the blade to scrape wet blood from around his lips. He kissed the air. "Sluggo gets to eat the heart, huh? Well I'll be damed to a hell worse than this."

"I can come back," Micah said. "If the preacher doesn’t want—"

Grunge snarled and said, "Take this dirty slug to the altar....And wipe his fucking face."

Micah turned to stare into Ryker's unblinking eyes. They said only one thing to him—come with me.