Flight of the Gazebo

Chapter 15 - A Bone to Pick

In times past there had been many things Drome had wished for, but right now the thing he longed for most was his bike's headlight.

The smell that had so put him off when he had first approached the drain in his cell hadn't actually been the most unpleasant thing once he climbed down into the square-sided sewer. The stench sort of faded away after a while. The worst thing was the clammy darkness.

His skin crawled each time he gingerly put down his foot for another step. There were things underfoot - soft, squashy things - that he'd rather not know about. Things he'd rather like to avoid stepping in.

The sewer wasn't entirely dark. Little islands of colour appeared where light dribbled down many of the frequently spaced drainage shafts overhead and glistened on the turgid liquid oozing along at his feet.

But the spaces between the drainage shafts were as black as coal and, he admitted to himself, a little scary. The faint light from the shafts did nothing to relieve the blackness of those in-between places, and the only clue to keep him from walking into the sewer's slimy stone sides was the glimmer of the shaft ahead. He briefly considered using his compass to work out his bearings but abandoned the idea, seeing as it was too dark to see the dial and he had no idea which direction he should go, anyway.

There was an odd noise underneath the splashing and sucking sounds his feet made in the sludge: a scuttling noise like little claws clicking on stone. He wasn't sure where it came from because it stopped every time he paused to listen. It couldn't be rats, he thought, seeing as he wasn't on Earth.

His stomach dropped. It could be something much worse than rats, something alien with big, blood sucking teeth.

Blood sucking teeth? What the hell am I thinking of?

He clamped his jaws together and strode in a determined manner, but his resolve weakened when his foot skidded on something slippery and he thumped down on his backside. He pulled himself to his haunches, rubbing his bruised buttock and cursing the luck that had brought him to this.

God, I wish I was back home! I'm sick of this place. Sick of people trying to kill me. Sick of not knowing what's going on.

He hugged his knees and rocked himself back and forward, his heels making little squelching noises. It was pitch black around him. The next drainage shaft showed as a soft pool of light some thirty feet ahead, and the last one was about the same distance behind. Effluent dripped and splashed.

The clicking started again, getting closer. He was sure it was coming from the direction he was facing. It came close, and he froze, his mouth open, ready to scream the moment something leaped at him.

"Don't move. I've got a knife" said a voice in front of him. It had a sort of echoey breathlessness about it, like an asthmatic speaking through a long cardboard tube.

The hairs on the back of Drome's neck stood on end.

He'd been caught. They'd take him back to Ranthar and Lungwil. A drop of sweat rolled down his armpit.

"What?" he said.

"I said, I've got a knife. Let me pass."

"What? Let you go past? I thought..." Was it possible this person didn't realise he was the fugitive they were pursuing? "Who... who are you?"

"I'm the one asking the questions," said the voice. "I'm the one with the knife, remember. How many of you are there?"

That didn't sound right. Surely someone chasing him would know that?

"Just me," said Drome. He groaned inwardly. Why hadn't he said there were loads of people with him, armed to the teeth and ready to back him up? Damn! Why couldn't he think faster?