Trembling With Fear 11/21/21

The Rat Goes Underground by Rodolfo Boskovic

They call him the Rat. It’s an unfortunate name–not even original. You open a hole in the ground, you’ll find a dozen Rats.

There were four ‘Rat’s in the juvenile institute he grew up in, but what can a man do? You can’t control public opinion. To the Rat’s thinking, all you can do is be yourself and let the cards fall where they may.

When he was young, he was the funny guy–the guy people went to for a quick joke with a side of blow. As he found out, that ain’t no way to make a living. Cops bust you, they take your things and lock you up, no matter how many jokes you got. So, he decided to go straight behind the scenes. No need to sell drugs if you can sell out your friends. Way more money in that. Things were good for a while–now, not so much.

One loud-mouth cop talked to another in front of somebody they shouldn’t have, and the Rat’s double-dealing was through. Public opinion was out: The Rat is a rat. Surprise! Surprise! 

For half a sec the Rat thought his cop friends would have his back, but nope. No loyalty among thieves, looks like. So, the Rat is on the run, at least for the next little while. He’s waiting for the dust to settle where no one would think to find him: the bone yard.

What do most rats do when the boat is sinking? Run? Ha! Well, not this rat. He’s going to stay put. He’s got people looking for his mug in train stations and airports all over Boston, but in the bone yard he hasn’t seen a soul in days–it is goddamn January after all. People love their dead relatives a whole bunch more when it’s warm out.

Here’s where he’s at: Three feet of snow, no heating, not much food, and frostbite all over. So, it’s not looking so hot. Ha-Ha. 

As long as nobody comes here looking for him, the Rat can make do.  

“Rattie-boy!” a voice shouts from close-by. “We know you’re out here somewhere, buddy! 

Fuck.

Okay, new plan! The Rat’s gonna find a hole to dig himself in for cover.

Slipping out of the mausoleum he’s been sleeping in, the Rat drags his limp leg over some wet snow. His frostbitten toes outgrew his shoes, so he’s been doing without. 

The men have flashlights out looking for him. He can see at least six of them–all guys he knows. Killers. Whatever, the Rat is nothing if not prepared. There’s a fresh open grave he’s been eyeing for just such an occasion. A minute or so of crawling through the snow and–Bam! He’s in. 

“Come out, come out, Ratty!” a silhouette shouts. “We won’t hurt ya!”

The Rat takes his chance with the grave instead. He’s three feet deep now–he’d be as deep as a corpse if not for the snow. During the day, he’d be screwed. At night, there ain’t no way they’ll find him. The hole is so dark, the Rat can’t even see his toes.

He waits.

The men move about looking for him. He can hear them busting down the mausoleum, going through his last bit of rations–some soup and cheese. Can’t be helped. He’s just gonna have to find himself some grub in the morning. As long as he’s alive, he’ll figure something out.

“What we got here, boys?” A voice shouts above him. “I do believe our Rat has left us a trail.”

Fuck. His limp leg through the snow! Shit! He’s got to get out of here, he’s got to find somewhere new. 

His legs won’t move. He’s got no feeling from the waist down. With his hands, he starts digging himself outta that hole, but it ain’t no use. His fingers have no strength in them. They’re black and blue!

A flashlight shines right on him. It’s so goddamn bright, his eyes tear up.

“Ha! Looks like you found yourself some like-minded individuals, Rat!” a voice above him shouts. “Why don’t I leave your new friends to it, huh!?”

Something hits him on the chest. He’s so weak, he barely notices. What’s this–wet and slimy?  The little bit of rations he had left! They’re giving it back to him–trying to lure him out.

The light moves away. He hears footsteps crunching down on snow. They’re gone! Now he’s just got to get out of this hole.

He moves about, but can’t make any progress. Right next to his ear, there’s some kind of sniffling going on. At first he thought it was the snow under his weight, but it’s getting closer. It’s all around him now. 

Something brushes against his feet. He can’t feel it, but his toes are brushed aside. His neck won’t move to look down. He’s got nothing left in him. 

Little feet climb on his chest. They’re furry and quick. There’s more of them. Must be a dozen at least!

Red eyes, all of them searching, wiz about on top of him. Then, like a switch, the teeth come down. They start on his chest where the soup hit! The pain is excruciating! He tries to slap them away, but their teeth connect with his hand first. There’s too many of them! Way too many to count. They’re swarming him! The Rat tries to scream, but when he opens his mouth they go for his soft tongue!

As the snow falls, the Rat is quietly buried below with his fellows.

#

When the sun rises the next day, it melts the snow. The groundskeeper, making his rounds, looks into the hole. The morning shines down on bones so gnawed, he can’t tell they may have once been human.