Camrarrin
Year 25
The gawky teenager struggled against the surging crowd.
Panic. Fear. Anxiety. Hysteria.
Dread.
Emotions rose and fell over the crowd like waves of the sea, crashing against the shores of reason and logic to destroy those around him.
Others tried to position themselves for battle, to take up arms against the invaders. But the sea of emotion - the sea of living, breathing terror - consumed them. Drowned them. Enveloped them.
Someone stepped on his foot. Camrarrin yelled, but the sound was lost in the crashing waves. He was elbowed in the face. Shoved to the ground. Trampled.
No one saw the faces of those around them. No one knew exactly what was going on. But they struggled anyway. Struggled to fight. Struggled to flee. Struggled to live.
Camrarrin pushed himself to his knees and crawled along the ground. After a few kicks to the ribs he learned to make his body as small as possible as he waded through the throng. An open doorway lurked ahead and he struggled to the safety it provided. The shelter from the storm.
Gossamer curtains tickled his face as he shoved himself into the opening. His breath was labored, from the adrenalin and the soreness in his ribs, but also from his own panic.
His father had abandoned him.
The news had come and his father had fled, leaving Camrarrin unsupervised in the middle of the Bazaar. Then the crowds had come. The pushing, shoving, enveloping, kicking crowds.
A shout burst out of the murmur of the sea. Another. Another. Camrarrin’s head shot up and he pushed himself farther into the small crevice he’d found, eyes wide.
The Scourge.
They were here.
"I’m going to die."
The words were out of his mouth before he’d been aware he was going to speak. A shocked hand fluttered to his mouth, but they were already out. Once they were said, they couldn’t be unsaid.
Something hardened in him. Camrarrin’s eyes narrowed, his labored breath becoming still. His brow furrowed, and crystal tears swooped down his cheekbones.
"I’m going to die," he repeated, the words thick, "and it’s all his fault."
Camrarrin looked at his surroundings. The room was barely anything. A tiny hole in the wall where someone likely lived. A few pots and pans hung from nails in the wall and a cot was sprawled against the far corner. There wasn’t anywhere to hide, and aside from the potential of wielding a cooking pot, there was no weapons to protect himself with.
Outside, the screams grew more frequent. More desperate. Camrarrin swallowed hard. How likely was it that he was just going to avoid the Scourge? How likely was it they would pass over his hiding place?
He scrambled across the room to the cot. If nothing else he would throw himself in bed and force his eyes closed. If he couldn’t see them coming, he wouldn’t scream.
Camrarrin threw aside the worn blanket and threw himself at the molded mattress - only to hear a hollow thump. A root cellar! With fevered eyes he tossed aside the mattress to reveal the battered door. I could hide in here, he thought, laughter bubbling up inside. I could be safe! I could—
A scream. Closer. Outside the door.
Without hesitation, Camrarrin flung open the root cellar door and rolled inside. He let the door slam closed behind him.
The root cellar stunk. There was movement in the darkness, the skittering of rats or worse. But above, the thumping of rotten boots. The clattering of tired bones. The rotten stench of the undead.
Camrarrin curled himself into a ball, gripping his thighs to his chest. He rested a cheek on his knees, praying silently that the Scourge wouldn’t find him. Like a mantra he repeated prayers in his head, blocking out all else. He didn’t dare breathe heavier than a whisper, even when a fat rat, plumped by whatever was rotting in the darkness, crawled over his face.
He didn’t whimper. He didn’t cry out.
Hot, angry tears rolled down his cheek, but he didn’t sniffle.
Instead, he vowed. Vowed to make life miserable for his sad excuse of a father. And then one day, soon or in the future, Camrarrin would kill him.
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