Rat

Furnace

It has come to this. The search--the deadly search for food--continues. I am at my wits end. But there is hope. Oh, finally--there is hope!

But hope does not come without danger.

I have spent long enough in this place to notice the change in the seasons. When the days grow longer the air also grows warmer. This much is expected. But the giant beasts that haunt me use this extra sunlight in ways I am unfamiliar with.

One of these ways involves the furnace.

Of course, I have inspected the machine, but I cannot fathom how it works. It is a simple box, not quite an elongated cube. It is on long metal legs but I can climb up to the top quite easily. Inside this box there are two levels. It always smells of food--rancid oil assaults my nostrils every morning, and it makes me salivate. There are scraps of meat hidden away in the nooks and crannies, but I do not believe they are left there on purpose. It is a bounty. A harvest.

Why, then, do I hesitate? Surely it is obvious: because it is a furnace.

The heat of this machine is incredible. Where it comes from, I do not know; only, if I hunt at the wrong time the metal floor of the machine is too hot to stand on, and the air inside burns my lungs. I have to time my assault... And I am not alone in the search for food. Other creatures come to this place, some with wings and others that slide on their chest, others with a multitude of legs that scamper about. If I wait too long there will be nothing left. If I come too early I will burn.

It is a dance, and not one I always win.

Today, I am wary. It is cold in here. The furnace has been idle, but there is still food. I find a solid chunk of burned meat. It is delicious, but it has made me thirsty. I creep under the main plates to search for more. My feet crunch on oil-stained gravel. The smells overload my senses. It is like being drunk. The constant barrage of food stench makes me feel vertigo.

Careless. Stupid. Foolish.

I should have been on my guard. The furnace is cold--cold! But a furnace is not supposed to be cold, especially when the season is warm. They would be coming: the beasts. Why did I lower my guard?

I hear it, then: a whoosh. A strange smell, like onions and rotting eggs all mixed together. It only lasts a moment and then there is a spark like lightning and my eyes go wide in horror.

Flames erupt from everywhere.

The heat comes with the flame. The oil under my feet goes soft and slick, almost instantly. I am less than an inch beneath the flame. My fur singes. I can smell it along with the heating oil. It stinks.

I run. There is a hole. Through the hole and there they are. The beasts. They scream--an assault on my ears.

I run. And I do not stop.