Torrents of rabid rodents overtook me. They didn't pause to notice the latest obstacle before them was moving in the same direction, was breathing, or that it was covered in fecal war paint. They didn't notice, that is, until I freaked out and tried to swipe them off my body.

The effort was futile. For every crimson eyed turd factory I knocked away, seven clawed onto me, using my clothing, hair, and skin for purchase. Rats have claws. Little claws, but claws nonetheless. They slipped through my skin and hooked around capillaries, tugging them out, speckling me with blood welts.

I thought I'd freaked out when they first reached me. As their numbers swelled, I lost my composure even further. I abandoned my quest to leave the tunnel, and to remove them from my blood speckled body, choosing instead to attack as many rodents as possible. I tore one from me and squeezed it until its entrails exploded from its anus. I screamed with feral joy. I smashed another against the concrete, collapsing its fragile skull. It sounded like an egg cracking. I bit another that had the gall to traipse across my lips. It rewarded me with a high quiet tiny little scream. I spat him out and laughed. I have to admit, I was enjoying myself.

I always thought rats were cutthroat vagabond pirates. You know, mammalian mercenaries, with no allegiance to each other. Every rat for itself. Cut granny's throat for a stale anchovy. Mean little bastards.

As it turns out, there exists within rat society the concepts of solidarity, teamwork, and perhaps even love. Maybe it's just some sort of genetic preservation instinct. I don't know. What I can tell you with certainty is this: when threatened, they can and will ally together. In unison they'll assault the threat upon their peers' safety.

That's what they did. They stopped fleeing the rising tide of brackish sewage to nibble me to death. Smart little fuckers went straight for my eyes. Sadly, the thin little membranes known as lids offered little protection from their needletip incisors. I managed to swat them off for a few moments, but once they found their way into my poopy pants, all I could do was whip my head to and fro to protect my eyes. My hands were busy with more important matters: I thrust them into my shorts in an effort to save my flaccid penis and my tender testicles. I was in trouble.

What can I say? They got me. They got me good. Sure, I took a few with me, but that's hardly a consolation. Killing a few rats isn't exactly much to brag about in the afterlife. Like, say, genocide, war crimes, or engineering biological weapons. No trumpeted fanfare awaited me, nor any army of tortured souls crooning with glee at my arrival, all victims fallen at my hands.

Oh yeah, the concrete tunnel. And the rats. Well, there isn't much left to tell about that. Once I lost my eyesight, I know there was a lot of flailing, wailing, and convulsing. Bleeding, too. They took crumb sized pieces of me, one morsel at a time, I suppose, until I died or the stormwater rose too high for them and they were washed away. Hell, maybe the water killed me instead of the rats. I can't say for sure. It's all a blur, and then darkness. The last thing I smelled was shit. I wish it was cocaine. I wonder if they found that.

To be continued. (Yes, really.)
7:25 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm