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Description
III - Lost

  "Rick!" Joe whispered, his words lost in the darkness. Still, nothing. He didn't know - how could - where had he gone? His body shook with cold, and he swore under his breath, still afraid. He couldn't look for him, the warren was too black, the maze too dense, impenetrable - he didn't have a hope. But if he left Rick; then he was dead. The cold, or - those. Those - no, he wasn't going to consider that. Rick wasn't going to be killed by those things. He had to find him, it didn't matter how hard it-
  Behind him, came the sound of metal scraping on concrete, echoing back and forth along the alley. It was coming closer. He started walking again, keeping brisk, the wind biting his face, his footsteps as soft as he could manage. He took the first right turn, the second left - still, it was behind him, a deep reverberating scream of metal, grating, scraping against his nerves, insecapable, always there, always behind - and in the blackness he hit something.
  "Easy, lad." Whispered Ballad. Joe knew that tone - a strong tone, you wouldn't expect it from an old man.
  "Ballad! We have to - can we move?" He whispered hastily, painfully aware of the noise that -
  The noise had stopped. "Come on, lad, fol-ollow me. It's dark. Hold my shoulder."
  They trooped along, elephant style, Joe sometimes stumbling on an object hidden by the darkness. He wanted to protest - had to find Rick, had to save him, he would die - and somehow, the words died in his throat. Ballad knew where he was going. Ballad would take him out of - all this.
  It was just as Joe tripped over some great, bulky mass -  clothes maybe, or perhaps something else - that Ballad stepped up and opened a door. The alley was dark - but within was darker. "Go in lad."
  Nothing visible within. Joe shivered, rubbing his arms - blindly bumped into a table. He sat down on it, putting his hands into whatever thick liquid covered it. Hegroaned, wiped it off onto his coat. He could hear Ballad bringing the door to a close. It shut with an audible thunk, and that was the only sound except the old man shuffling towards him.
  "Are we safe here?" He whispered, feeling with his hands across the table, trying to find somewhere dry to put them. There was no reply. "Well? Is it - oh." His fingers had curled around something on the table. A hand.
  There was a whoosh of air, and Ballad was in his face, breathing, gasping. Joe pushed, but the old man was stronger than he looked, and there was some sort of stinging pain in Joe's stomach, a biting, icy pain. He fell back onto the table under the weight of the old man, the pain driving into him, bearing him down. One gnarled hand reached for his eyes, and all the while, that hot breath in the icy air, great gasping breaths. Joe brought his knees up under him and kicked, sending the old man hurling away - he didn't stay there, and Joe gasped as the old man landed back into him, sending blows into his face. They should have been weak, but the force of them made him gasp, made tears stream from his eyes. There were knees in his stomach, and fists, fists filled his eyes, his mouth, lips, cheeks, it was - he couldn't -
  He hurled himself sideways, and fell of the table, the old man underneath him, scrabbling, pushing, but he weighed enough to keep him down. Joe brought a fist into the old man's face - and then another - and then again, and again, the flesh giving into his demands, breaking under him. He grabbed the old man's head by the ears, and brought it down onto the cold floor, once, twice - he stopped. What had - how had - was the old man dead?
  There was silence. In the darkness, a cry split the air, at first wordless, but then, growing, spreading into meaning, bursting out of the old man's lips -
  " Heeeere"
  Joe brought the man's head down again, and he was silent.  Far away, outside, there was the sound of pipes clinking off concrete.
  Joe shuddered, head to toe wracked with shakes, convulsions, his body revolted. He had... what had he done? He'd just... he'd... he hadn't meant to... and outside there was that clinking, coming closer, always closer. He forced himself up, still shuddering - something banged against his midriff. It was - his finger pricked on it - it was a kitchen knife, thrust halfway through his greatcoat, hanging in a hole it had cut in the material. He put his finger through the hole - through clothing and into flesh. He couldn't tell how deep it went.
  The knife felt good in his hand, so he kept it, slid it into his belt. His hands felt for the walls, and he followed them round, looking for the door - he stopped as they waved over nothing. He thrust a foot forwards - a step, a staircase. Blindly, he began to climb, all fours, like a dog lumbering his way up. He could see light at the top - hazy, distant moonlight. The stairwell opened onto a moonlit corridor, black doorways leering at him - and at the far end, a huge window, pouring in fog-distorted moonlight. He looked up - the stairs continued way up - but the window seemed - inviting.
  He inched out of the window, standing on a fire escape. The wind ripped through him, but out here, in light - it felt as if he had hidden in those warrens for so long. The clang of pipes brought him back to reality, and he began to edge up the fire escape.
  He was one floor up when he noticed something - a board, a plank - it lead to the next building, which had a low roof. Someone had been this way they must have - and he couldn't figure out why. It was eating at him, but - no, he had to move. He shuffled out onto the board, swearing hard as it shook beneath him, edging across. His hands were slick with fear when he finally reached the other side. He sat for a moment on the felt roof, then carefully lay flat. He tried to grab the board with his hands, but - well, it was too heavy to pull across, so he let it clatter to the floor. He was alone up here.
  He inched around the edge of the building, looking down into the silence below - some sort of great opening amongst the buildings, akmost a courtyard. The edges were swallowed in gloom, but in the middle was - he choked. Lying in the moonlight was Rick, his eyes closed, face towards the heavens. Joe wanted to shout, but held his tongue. The man was... he had to be dead.
  From all around the square came the chiming, and the rasping scrape. It was pulling together. Sweat ran down Joe's face as he watched, forced himself to watch. He couldn't bring himself away - he couldn't just abandon this man; this friend. The light faded as a cloud moved over the moon.
  In the square, Rick twitched, and pulled a hand to his head, and the moonlight was gone. Absolute darkness bathed the square. Joe could see nothing, could bring himself to say - nothing. The noises stopped.
  "Joe?" Rick's voice rang out through the square, not even a whisper. A rush of air, the thunk of metal on bone. In the square, there was the sound of meat being dragged along an uncaring earth.
  Joe lay in darkness, and the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Description
III - Lost

  "Rick!" Joe whispered, his words lost in the darkness. Still, nothing. He didn't know - how could - where had he gone? His body shook with cold, and he swore under his breath, still afraid. He couldn't look for him, the warren was too black, the maze too dense, impenetrable - he didn't have a hope. But if he left Rick; then he was dead. The cold, or - those. Those - no, he wasn't going to consider that. Rick wasn't going to be killed by those things. He had to find him, it didn't matter how hard it-
  Behind him, came the sound of metal scraping on concrete, echoing back and forth along the alley. It was coming closer. He started walking again, keeping brisk, the wind biting his face, his footsteps as soft as he could manage. He took the first right turn, the second left - still, it was behind him, a deep reverberating scream of metal, grating, scraping against his nerves, insecapable, always there, always behind - and in the blackness he hit something.
  "Easy, lad." Whispered Ballad. Joe knew that tone - a strong tone, you wouldn't expect it from an old man.
  "Ballad! We have to - can we move?" He whispered hastily, painfully aware of the noise that -
  The noise had stopped. "Come on, lad, fol-ollow me. It's dark. Hold my shoulder."
  They trooped along, elephant style, Joe sometimes stumbling on an object hidden by the darkness. He wanted to protest - had to find Rick, had to save him, he would die - and somehow, the words died in his throat. Ballad knew where he was going. Ballad would take him out of - all this.
  It was just as Joe tripped over some great, bulky mass -  clothes maybe, or perhaps something else - that Ballad stepped up and opened a door. The alley was dark - but within was darker. "Go in lad."
  Nothing visible within. Joe shivered, rubbing his arms - blindly bumped into a table. He sat down on it, putting his hands into whatever thick liquid covered it. Hegroaned, wiped it off onto his coat. He could hear Ballad bringing the door to a close. It shut with an audible thunk, and that was the only sound except the old man shuffling towards him.
  "Are we safe here?" He whispered, feeling with his hands across the table, trying to find somewhere dry to put them. There was no reply. "Well? Is it - oh." His fingers had curled around something on the table. A hand.
  There was a whoosh of air, and Ballad was in his face, breathing, gasping. Joe pushed, but the old man was stronger than he looked, and there was some sort of stinging pain in Joe's stomach, a biting, icy pain. He fell back onto the table under the weight of the old man, the pain driving into him, bearing him down. One gnarled hand reached for his eyes, and all the while, that hot breath in the icy air, great gasping breaths. Joe brought his knees up under him and kicked, sending the old man hurling away - he didn't stay there, and Joe gasped as the old man landed back into him, sending blows into his face. They should have been weak, but the force of them made him gasp, made tears stream from his eyes. There were knees in his stomach, and fists, fists filled his eyes, his mouth, lips, cheeks, it was - he couldn't -
  He hurled himself sideways, and fell of the table, the old man underneath him, scrabbling, pushing, but he weighed enough to keep him down. Joe brought a fist into the old man's face - and then another - and then again, and again, the flesh giving into his demands, breaking under him. He grabbed the old man's head by the ears, and brought it down onto the cold floor, once, twice - he stopped. What had - how had - was the old man dead?
  There was silence. In the darkness, a cry split the air, at first wordless, but then, growing, spreading into meaning, bursting out of the old man's lips -
  " Heeeere"
  Joe brought the man's head down again, and he was silent.  Far away, outside, there was the sound of pipes clinking off concrete.
  Joe shuddered, head to toe wracked with shakes, convulsions, his body revolted. He had... what had he done? He'd just... he'd... he hadn't meant to... and outside there was that clinking, coming closer, always closer. He forced himself up, still shuddering - something banged against his midriff. It was - his finger pricked on it - it was a kitchen knife, thrust halfway through his greatcoat, hanging in a hole it had cut in the material. He put his finger through the hole - through clothing and into flesh. He couldn't tell how deep it went.
  The knife felt good in his hand, so he kept it, slid it into his belt. His hands felt for the walls, and he followed them round, looking for the door - he stopped as they waved over nothing. He thrust a foot forwards - a step, a staircase. Blindly, he began to climb, all fours, like a dog lumbering his way up. He could see light at the top - hazy, distant moonlight. The stairwell opened onto a moonlit corridor, black doorways leering at him - and at the far end, a huge window, pouring in fog-distorted moonlight. He looked up - the stairs continued way up - but the window seemed - inviting.
  He inched out of the window, standing on a fire escape. The wind ripped through him, but out here, in light - it felt as if he had hidden in those warrens for so long. The clang of pipes brought him back to reality, and he began to edge up the fire escape.
  He was one floor up when he noticed something - a board, a plank - it lead to the next building, which had a low roof. Someone had been this way they must have - and he couldn't figure out why. It was eating at him, but - no, he had to move. He shuffled out onto the board, swearing hard as it shook beneath him, edging across. His hands were slick with fear when he finally reached the other side. He sat for a moment on the felt roof, then carefully lay flat. He tried to grab the board with his hands, but - well, it was too heavy to pull across, so he let it clatter to the floor. He was alone up here.
  He inched around the edge of the building, looking down into the silence below - some sort of great opening amongst the buildings, akmost a courtyard. The edges were swallowed in gloom, but in the middle was - he choked. Lying in the moonlight was Rick, his eyes closed, face towards the heavens. Joe wanted to shout, but held his tongue. The man was... he had to be dead.
  From all around the square came the chiming, and the rasping scrape. It was pulling together. Sweat ran down Joe's face as he watched, forced himself to watch. He couldn't bring himself away - he couldn't just abandon this man; this friend. The light faded as a cloud moved over the moon.
  In the square, Rick twitched, and pulled a hand to his head, and the moonlight was gone. Absolute darkness bathed the square. Joe could see nothing, could bring himself to say - nothing. The noises stopped.
  "Joe?" Rick's voice rang out through the square, not even a whisper. A rush of air, the thunk of metal on bone. In the square, there was the sound of meat being dragged along an uncaring earth.
  Joe lay in darkness, and the tears rolled down his cheeks.