A Dark, Seething Underworld

The sirens in the distance were growing louder as Malachi hurdled through the dense woods. The downpour spilling off of the canopy of autumn leaves above him was like ice spikes jabbing through his thick jacket. More than that, it moistened the dirt under his heavy boots into slick mud that, in his mad dash to freedom, had him sliding on almost every step he took. He could only keep himself upright by leaning against nearby trees, as his hands were full; a handgun in his right, a grocery bag of cash in his left. The bag gave Malachi all of the motivation he needed to breathe through his aching, burning lungs and run. Finally, he exits the woods, but the sirens still grow closer. He can see the road next to the edge of the forest. He saw that it was a four way stop, only the side he came out of had any foliage. He saw how the asphalt glistened with rippling puddles that were beginning to glow with red and blue lights, and he knew that he’d have to do something. Malachi searched around, his mind frantic in its search for ideas.

Go back in the woods? They’ll search the woods.

Run down the road? They’ll catch you even faster.

Shoot at them? You fucking genius what do you think is going to happen?

His internal argument ground to a halt when he took notice of where the road directly across from him led. He saw that there was a bridge just past the traffic lights and he ran to it without any other thoughts. He veered off of the road and onto the mud again, hitting an incline with such speed and gracelessness that he, for one panic stricken moment, thought that he might lose his footing.

Which he did.

His right foot slid against slippery brown gunk and shot up high enough that it was, on his way down, eye level with him. He hit the ground back first and slid the rest of the way down with a slimy, nauseating noise. He ignored it, as well as the feeling of the mud that had snuck onto his bare skin when his shirt rode up. He rolled to his hands and knees and scrambled like some oversized cockroach until whatever grey light snuck through the storm above him was blocked out by his sanctuary of wet concrete.

The underside of the bridge was a small arch which he knew at a glance would not allow him to stand up to his full height. He saw further ahead nothing but darkness, indicating he was in some kind of storm drain now but he did not care. He could hear the sirens reach their highest volume yet. He stilled himself and listened, intently, as the shrieking wails of the cops ran through the four way stop, over the bridge, and gradually became quieter, quieter, until he couldn’t hear them in any meaningful way. Malachi, slathered in grime and filth, laying next to a swollen gutter of rain, started laughing hysterically, his voice high and whining.

He’d done it. He couldn’t believe it, they hadn’t even checked! He blew that dumbass tellers brains out and they didn’t even try to find him. He looked to where his gun ought to be - his right hand - and what he saw gave him pause. His right hand was empty.

So was his left.

Malachi felt his heart sink, then squeeze, as he flapped his hands around himself, not for the gun but for the money. The only goddamn reason he did any of this in the first place. Where was it. He couldn’t have dropped it, that’s not right. It couldn’t be in the river, it’s flowing too fast, too thick with liquid. He’d never find it even if it wasn’t ruined. The possibility could make him throw up it was so bad. He felt around, rolling onto his side when touch failed him, and that’s when he saw it. The grocery bag. It was still flush with his his ill gotten gains, but that sight gave him only momentary joy. It was the thing that held it that drew his undivided attention.

It was small, about the size of a rat he figured, but it was certainly no rat he’d ever seen. In place of fur was dark green scales. In place of a snout was a squat, blunted face without eyes, without any nose structure aside a pair of small slits above the mouth. What a mouth it was too. Malachi could see that it had two rows of teeth, and that all of those teeth were sharpened canines that clutched the ragged plastic strap of his money bag.

“Hey.” He called over to it. “Put that down. It ain’t yours.” He whispered these words. He didn’t want to be careless even if he couldn’t hear sirens anymore. The little green thing didn’t move though, and it still clenched the bags strap between its many, many teeth. “Hey!” He yelled at it, his frayed nerves allowing no further patience. “Gimme the bag!” His echoing voice was clear heard by the green thing, which visibly flinched. It’s tail raised above it as its body froze up, and Malachi could see something bulbous on the end of the long, slender thing. It reminded him of somehting he’d seen in a textbook once, well before he found this career for himself. It looked uncannily like a pitcher plant, only it was clearly made of meat, and it was just a clearly throbbing like a heart. The sight was gone quickly, though, as the little green thing scurried deeper into the storm drains dark stomach, dragging the money bag along behind it.

Malachi called after it, but his shouting only hastened its retreat, leaving him with only the recourse of slamming his fist into the soft ground beneath him. The money was gone. The cops were nowhere around. He could cut his losses and book it.

He needed that money though, needed it for his own peace of mind more than any outstanding bills or debts. So, instead of crawling out into the storming overworld, the man crawled on his belly into a dark, seething underworld.

His eyesight abandoned him mere inches further into the darkness, though a few more inches allowed his night vision to manifest and guide him through the blur of lightlessness before him. He could still hear the flowing rapid of rain water beside him as he moved, as well as the booming thunder separated from him by several layers of infrastructure. He paid no mind to the fact that the walls beside him were molded from a softer material than any real storm drain would have, or that these walls became more compress as he scooted himself deeper. He wasn’t looking for that, only the money. Only that scuttling little thing that had taken it. He didn’t need the gun for it, he’d squeeze it to death with his bare hands.

Suddenly, his forward momentum was stopped.

He took stock of his surroundings, which were slowly losing any of the small strokes of light that still remained. The storm water had ceased in its entirety, and Malachi himself was laying dead centre between warm, soft walls. Soft like flesh. He began breathing faster, his mind finally sounding the alarm that ordered him to go back, but no matter how much he thrashed he found that his pitch black tomb would not give him an inch. It was during this thrashing that he picked up a new sensation. A rushing of fluid running down from his chest past his groin. He thought that he was somehow bleeding for all of a second before the burning started. His nerve endings fired off round after round of electrical short signalling the pain, the agony, the threat of death that he could not escape no matter how much he pushed. He realized, in the moment before the fumes filling the tight space knocked him out, that the walls around him were also pushing. Pushing him further down into the dark.

He was unconscious before before the acid began seeping through his liquifying bones.