Cat and Mouse

Torrential rain poured down in sheets, an onslaught of rain that would put the great monsoons to shame. Indeed, the wrath of all the mythological storm Gods seemed to combine to increase his punishment. He was cold and thouroghly drenched. He could see no more than an inch in front of his face and hear nothing but the pounding of the rain on the cold pavement. He kept running fear driving him forward.

A large shape loomed up in front of him and he stopped just in time to avoid smashing into it. It was a ruined wharehouse. He had been running fear driven for close to an hour. Originally, part of a ten man tactical squad he was the only one left. They had been hunted. Picked off one by one by an unseen menace. Men would jusst disapeer in silence with no one even noticing until the screaming started. He shuddered. In the last encounter he had seen a shape flash out in the hallway behind him and the blood of his sergent exploding all over him. He left his squad then in his panic to get out of the ruined apartment. He left them all to die. He had smashed straight through the second story window leaping into the rain. The impact of the ground had knocked the wind out of him and he figured he had cracked a rib or more but fear drove him on and he had run into the rain. An hour ago.

Suddenly, he became aware of how tired he was. Surely whatever it was that was stalking him hadn't followed him this far. It could have easily killed him by now. The rain likely confused the creatures senses as much as his perhaps it didn't stock him this far. His body was numb, both from fear and the chill of the rain. He couldn't continue running blind.

Pressing his shoulder to the wall he brought his gun up to his shoulder. Better to be cautious, he thought Cautious men live longer. With his shoulder against the wall he followed the wall of the building until he came to the half open bay doors. Ducking underneath and into the shelter of the wharehous he scanned the area for signs of life. Nothing. Then his knees gave out and he collapsed in heap on the ground. Fatigue, pain, sorrow and a multitude of other feelings washed over him then, but he forced himself to sob silently by biting the leather shoulder strap of the gun.

Time passed along as he rocked back and forth reliving the whole traumatic incident over and over in his mind but finaly he rose to his feet. He had enough sense to know he needed rest or he would never be able to continue. Rumaging in his pack he found a claymore and positioned it on the side of the door. Moving along the inside wall now he found a corner behind some crates where two solid concrete walls met and propped himself there. It did not take long for him to fall asleep.

He awoke violently to the sound of his exploding claymore and horribly violent shreiks. He could neither tell whether they were from pain or anger but the sound stopped his heart cold and froze him solid in place. Gripping his gun tight to his body he pushed himself harder into his corner his eyes searching the darkness in a desperate but futile manner. Did it know he was here. Could it sense him. A crash of metal collapsing took his glance upward to the right of where the door of the wharehouse was. Bringing the scope of his rifle up ever so slowly to his eye he peered through the nightvision enhanced lens. The crashing of metal had come from a collapsing stairway leading to a second story on the opposite side of the wharehouse. Scanning left and right with the lens he spotted no sign of the creature that lurked in the darkness. I need to go now while it doesn't know I am here. He thought but although his brain screamed about the urgency of moving his body was not functioning properly and he sat for another two minutes in the same place.

Thunder rumbled outside and the pounding of the rain on the wharehouse roof became the climactic percussion in the disharmonous symphony of his inevitable destruction. Fear crawled up his spine with needle like feet and only through sheer willpower did he resist gasping as a hot pain shot through his rib cage like a knife peirces flesh. Despair clutched his soul, its chilling claws grasping his heart with an icy grip that shattered hope and sanity. Desperate not to loose his grip on reality he frantically dug his hand into the secret pocket of his vest and extracted a needle. Again biting down on his shoulder strap he jammed the needle hard into the side of his neck. In this play, he decided, I am the hero.

He let his hand drop back into his lap regrasping the hilt of his gun. For some reason he left the needle stuck in his neck. He knew he was going crazy. The trickle of blood from the small hole in his neck was comforting. It meant he was alive. Hot Adrenaline poured into his body. A euphoric feeling swept over his whole body wiping his pain from his body even though he could not entirely forget his fear. His vision blurred for a moment then cleared and a renewed energy flowed into his body. Using the wall as a brace he silently got to his feet. The second story was too close to the way he had come in he had to leave by another way. Keeping his gun at the ready and moving only as fast as he dared in order to keep the silence he moved toward the rear of the warhouse following the wall. There had to be a second door out of the warehouse.

A short and violent shreik the rent throught the drumming of the rain. And the glance he cast over his shoulder caused him to miss his step. Toppling headlong into a a metal rack resulted in a resounding crash. Quickly rolling onto his back and bringing up his scope he spotted a shape exit the second story in a leap and disapeer into the metal crossbeams of the rafters.

And so the villan re-enters the play for the final battle with the hero And when does the hero not come out on top? he forced himself to think before remembering the fate of Hamelet even after disposing of all the villans. Something warm dripped onto his cheek. Blood! Rolling as fast as he could to the left off of the collapsed rack he narrowly avoided a fleshy hook that desended like lightning from the rafters peircing straight through the metal of the rrack and hauling it into the rafters.

Screaming in fury and rage he unloaded his gun spraying an entire clip into the dark area where he thought the creature would be. He was rewarded with a shreik and then moments later a crashing sound as a shape tumbled from the rafters into a pile of crates. Scrambling to his feet he tore a grenade from his vest pulling the pin and hurling it in the direction of the crash before reloading and ssprinting for the rear. An explosion. More shreiks. Of pain? No, of fury! Raising the sight to his eye he spotted a door in the wall. The sound of claws on concrete and splintering crates told him whatever was stalking him was in close pursuit. Sprinting now. Three more, two more, one more step and then a muscular force slammed him aside like a sledgehammer would crush an egg. He felt more bones shatter in his body as it impacted on the ground and the needle he had left in his neck tore itself free with a big hunk of flesh. He felt no pain thanks to its contents though and through sheer willpower forced himself to crawl behind some dark crates. There was a smashing sound as a huge wooden crate crashed down beside him splintering in all directions. The shreiks now sounded more like shrieks of glee than pain.

Its playing with me, as a cat plays with a mouse. He realized. But I'm not going to give it the satisfaction. If I am going to die I will die a hero! The scraping of claws drew nearer and he waited. Another crate crashed down on the oposite side of him this time. I am prepared to die now, he thought Where before I was afraid now I am not. I no longer fear death. It is a but a glorious end to tragic play filled with pain and sorrow. A play where a hero finds his courage in the heart of a battle for humanity and his own life after the death of his comrades. Death is but a path to a glory beyond life that is free from the pain, guilt and greif. A death without fear means a place to reunite with comrades you lost no longer ashamed for you faced the undefeatable horror to avenge there death. This play may be scripted as a tragedy but I, the hero, must overcome the enemy before I fall. If the mouse must dies so will the cat choking on the bones of the mouse. He pulled the pin of a grenade and clamped it in the teeth of his mouth. Then as the crates behind him exploded and a razor blade peirced through his stomach he died at peace with himself. And as the jaws of the beast opened to eat him his own jaw slackened no longer held closed with his life and the grenade exploded in fire and flame. Here ends the final act.

-Nathan-