I'm assuming that this refers to people in the house all catching whatever Miles had?
Caught There wasn't much light in the corridor. There were lightbulbs but they were cracked and burned out except for the one at the end of the corridor where they'd come in. The walls were wet and slimy with either moss or lichen; more light would have helped identify it. There was a cold smell brought in by a draught from the outside that almost, but not quite, covered up a darker, iron-like smell that had to be blood. Fresh blood. Bill's footsteps squelched as he walked along the corridor. He was wearing black patent leather shoes and, in his head, hadn't stopped complaining about the conditions of this underground complex since they'd arrived. He stopped outside a wooden door with a small grille at eye-level where the draught seemed strongest and looked through out of habit rather than hope. There was only blackness. "This should be the right place," he said. His voice rang in the empty corridor, sounding almost twice as loud as it actually was. Ben appeared at the end of the corridor in the puddle of yellowish light from the lightbulb. "Awesome!" he said. He was wearing wellington boots, and Bill had found a thousand silent complaints about that too. "Is he in there?" "I can't tell," said Bill, containing his impatience with stupid questions. "Too dark." "No torch?" Bill chose his words carefully. "No," he said. "I threw it at that dog-thing, the one that chased Hench off. Remember?" "Oh yes!" Ben sounded ridiculously cheerful. "That was your torch? I thought it was a knife." Bill considered that his knife was still securely in its sheath attached to his belt and wondered if maybe throwing the knife and keeping the torch might not have been the better idea. "No," he said. "I wanted to be armed in case there were any more dog-things." "Good plan. Well, catch!" Ben tossed a torch with a generous underarm throw and Bill caught it, one-handed, almost reflexively. He turned it on and shone it through the grille. "Is he in there?" "Yes," said Bill. "At least, his bones are. What happened to him again?" "He got caught," said Ben. "Obviously." "Then the dog things would have eaten the flesh, and left the bones behind. And now we're collecting them because some old guy with a beard thinks he's a martyr." "Wasn't he a poet?" "We don't get to say who's a martyr and who isn't," said Ben. "But for what it's worth, he was a legendary poet, so there might be some benefit to owning his bones." Bill contemplated that. "We got a spare skeleton?" "Check the other cells."
Greg - yeah, probably. Makes sense... oh, no, that wasn't it. Pretty sure it was inspired by a mouse getting caught in a trap. Still have no idea how it got in the house.
These two continue to be quite the pair. I was not expecting that ending, so well done there. I wonder if the old guy with a beard will notice the switcheroo?
2 comments:
I'm assuming that this refers to people in the house all catching whatever Miles had?
Caught
There wasn't much light in the corridor. There were lightbulbs but they were cracked and burned out except for the one at the end of the corridor where they'd come in. The walls were wet and slimy with either moss or lichen; more light would have helped identify it. There was a cold smell brought in by a draught from the outside that almost, but not quite, covered up a darker, iron-like smell that had to be blood. Fresh blood.
Bill's footsteps squelched as he walked along the corridor. He was wearing black patent leather shoes and, in his head, hadn't stopped complaining about the conditions of this underground complex since they'd arrived. He stopped outside a wooden door with a small grille at eye-level where the draught seemed strongest and looked through out of habit rather than hope. There was only blackness.
"This should be the right place," he said. His voice rang in the empty corridor, sounding almost twice as loud as it actually was. Ben appeared at the end of the corridor in the puddle of yellowish light from the lightbulb.
"Awesome!" he said. He was wearing wellington boots, and Bill had found a thousand silent complaints about that too. "Is he in there?"
"I can't tell," said Bill, containing his impatience with stupid questions. "Too dark."
"No torch?"
Bill chose his words carefully. "No," he said. "I threw it at that dog-thing, the one that chased Hench off. Remember?"
"Oh yes!" Ben sounded ridiculously cheerful. "That was your torch? I thought it was a knife."
Bill considered that his knife was still securely in its sheath attached to his belt and wondered if maybe throwing the knife and keeping the torch might not have been the better idea.
"No," he said. "I wanted to be armed in case there were any more dog-things."
"Good plan. Well, catch!"
Ben tossed a torch with a generous underarm throw and Bill caught it, one-handed, almost reflexively. He turned it on and shone it through the grille.
"Is he in there?"
"Yes," said Bill. "At least, his bones are. What happened to him again?"
"He got caught," said Ben.
"Obviously."
"Then the dog things would have eaten the flesh, and left the bones behind. And now we're collecting them because some old guy with a beard thinks he's a martyr."
"Wasn't he a poet?"
"We don't get to say who's a martyr and who isn't," said Ben. "But for what it's worth, he was a legendary poet, so there might be some benefit to owning his bones."
Bill contemplated that. "We got a spare skeleton?"
"Check the other cells."
Greg - yeah, probably. Makes sense... oh, no, that wasn't it. Pretty sure it was inspired by a mouse getting caught in a trap. Still have no idea how it got in the house.
These two continue to be quite the pair. I was not expecting that ending, so well done there. I wonder if the old guy with a beard will notice the switcheroo?
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