Link to part 1
https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/12qfcjt/one_thousand_rats_part_1/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
The night drags on, I pace my apartment, reeking fear-sweat soaking my clothing.
I wish I had any reason to believe I was just losing my mind. But as the minutes tick by I begin to understand the reality, the worldview shattering reality, of my situation.
I look to the red led clock on my work desk, my thighs burn from frantic circles around my tiny place, but assuming the ancient timepiece is right, it’s only been about 45 minutes.
I file this under ‘shit that I can’ t deal with right now. ‘, and pour myself a quarter glass of Lemoncello. Yes, I drink like an 85 year old Italian woman, but it’s the only booze I can stomach. Sue me.
The thick astringent liquor barely burns, but it calms me down a bit. And I start taking inventory of my situation.
My life skills, well, not the most useful. Programming mostly, of course out here, working in the plants, that comes with a side order of engineering, and electrical experience, but again, nothing that is going to be of much use unless we strike a vein of oil or need to edit some bad code out of a 30 year old computer.
Physical condition? I mean, I’m not the tube shaped stereotype you might think, but on the other hand, I don’t really like the idea of relying on my physical prowess.
Nothing in my apartment that would make an overly effective weapon. Or, maybe there is, what I know about Rats, other than the obvious, can fit in a thimble.
A noise from outside gets my attention, some kind of screaming, no, roaring from the parking lot.
“For fuck sakes, what now? “ I say to myself making my way toward the window.
I know the guy, from seeing him around at least. Huge man, early thirties, Joe, if I remember right.
He’s wearing loose grey sweatpants and a torn sleeveless white undershirt. He holds his left hand close to his chest, I’m guessing if I could see it from here it’d have a missing piece.
He’s surrounded by twenty or so Rats, massive things, nearly the size of a basset hound. But he keeps them at bay, mangling bodies with bare footed stomps and pushing back the swarm with open throated rage and low sweeps of his unwounded arm.
I’d like to tell you I took the risk to help another person trapped in this reality warped hell, but I’m going to be honest here.
I saw someone who had at least one of the qualities I lacked. If that had been a ten year old with a cast on his leg, I’d like to say I’d have helped, but, who knows. I’ve never been a hero.
“Joey! “ I scream out my open window, I observe the area between him and the entrance, if he can get away from the Rats surrounding him, he has a clear path.
He’s holding his own, but bit by bit, piece by piece, the Rats are wearing this giant down. It’s a war of attrition he can’t win.
“Mr. Remi! “ he screams back.
I turn on my television, I can’t say the lobby is rat free, but there seem to be significantly less than during my trip.
I try not to think about the fact that all of those Rats have to have gone somewhere.
“Get to the stairwell! “ I yell, I shudder as a few of the Rats turn to me, I convince myself they have no idea what I’m saying.
Without question, and taking some nasty bites for doing so, the NFL linebacker sized man charges toward the lobby.
I scramble to try and keep pace, my hallway is oddly silent, the hellstorm below may as well not exist to the blissfully unaware residents of the fourth floor.
I can hear Joe scream as I frantically drag the furniture blocking the door back far enough to accommodate his fridge like frame.
I don’t like what I see, already the metal is bending inwards, one corner almost bent enough to accommodate the smallest of the vermin.
I crack the door enough to see into the lobby, instantly fang filled snouts hiss and bite at the opening, I have to brace my shoulder against the door, I’m astounded at the power in the dozen or so rodents trying to breach the next floor of the building.
Joe, on the other hand, is not.
He doesn’t so much run, as stumble violently in a controlled manner. I think it’s damage at first, ripped out tendon or something, but his stride is purposeful. Sure it’s off balance, and taking a hell of a lot of energy, but every footfall sends Rats scattering, and those that don’t, like the 4 brave twenty pound beasts slamming themselves against the cheap steel door, wind up twisted and dying.
The door sends me flying backwards, nearly three hundred pounds of human being launching me into the unforgiving cement behind me.
Joe slams the door, and even one armed, gets the collection of furniture and other urban flotsam against it quicker than I could on my best day.
“Holy shit, do you have any idea what’s going on here? “ I ask, panting.
“No. I have to get home. “ Joe says, his voice is rough and cracked from screaming.
He walks by me, and I notice, out of all the seeping cuts and gouges on the man, his arm, is actually fine.
I begin to follow him, and find myself stunned at how well he came out of his situation.
“I get that, but we don’t know how bad this is. Maybe you and I go to my place up on the fourth floor and figure something out. Somehow, I can’t manage to get anyone else to hear me out about this. “ I plead.
“Maybe. But I have to see mom. And CeeJay. “ Something about his tone makes me uneasy. His clipped way of speaking, and his strange indifference.
“okay… well your Mom and, brother? They can come up too. I think the farther everyone is away from the ground floor, the better. “ I’m still talking as Joe enters the second floor, he doesn’t look back, just gives me a thumbs up.
I’m not so frazzled that I don’t try a few of the doors on the second floor, my responses were 3 “Fuck offs”, two “No thank you’s”, and one person that I’m pretty sure just cocked a pistol .
Back at my apartment I scream at the hostile idiocy of people. I have no doubt plenty of folks have started to notice all of the strange shit going on, rats or no, but everyone seems to want to wallow in their own personal hell rather than try to face whatever is coming together.
Panic is setting in full force, everything is feeling surreal and dreamlike.
The clock has barely moved. I know people’s perception of time can get messed up in crisis, but this feels different.
I smile a bit, as I realise this could be as simple as whoever is pulling the strings on this event slowing down all the clocks in the building. I guess my life skills aren’t that useful at all.
But if it was that simple, I should be seeing the first rays of sunlight coming over the horizon any minute, but the night remains, pitch colored and full of terror.
My mind spins it’s wheels trying to come up with some course of action to start to band together the isolated victims my fellow residents currently are. The reactions I’ve received so far throw a bucket of cold water on most of the plans.
I hear a knock on my door, and when I look out the scratched peephole what I see makes me feel like the universe just wanted to see how much of a hypocrite I am.
It’s Joe, I can tell that much by the general shape. But, the getup he has on makes me bolt and chain the door.
I want you to get thoughts of bondage gear out of your head, I know that’s the first thing you are going to think of when I talk about a large guy in leather clothing. But this, wasn’t like that. They were loose fitting layers of dark black leather, and a plain, boiled leather mask. It sat somewhere on the Venn diagram of stage puppeteer and blacksmith.
But, somehow, that wasn’t the strangest part.
I recognise the base of the sock puppet like thing as a thick, leather welding glove, though it looks older than any I’ve seen or used, it was mitten-like, lacking individual fingers. But from there, someone had given it triangular metal teeth, used chain to give the impression of long hair parted down the middle, and affixed two gleaming opals for eyes.
“Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. “ I whisper, backing slowly away from the door.
“You feel like letting us in, or do we gotta stand out here till we get eaten? “ a voice I don’t recognise says.
I repeat my cursing as i picture that puppet mouthing the words.
I twist the handle from the cheap broom in my kitchen. The metal is thin and light, but it makes me feel more confidant. I try to push down the fear threatening to overtake me.
“I’m armed, and I’ve had enough supernatural bullshit to last me a lifetime. Come on in if you don’t mind buckshot. “ I scream, and in a moment of inspiration I grab a large metal stapler from my desk, I press it as hard as I can and hope the sound is a convincing imitation of a firearm.
“Yeah, us too. Kinda why we want to get in there. “ That voice that is certainly not Joe says.
There is silence, the only noise the slightly closer scratching of the Rats. Something clicks in my brain. I’ve already envisioned a scenario where Joe is some kind of Jason Vorhees knockoff, maybe even the ‘grinning killer’ this whole shit storm is supposed to be targeting. But something in me knows this doesn’t quite fit. You know the difference between crazy and eccentric? Usefulness.
Cold, I know, but as far as things go, very accurate.
Everything else being equal, if I knew this about Joe, I’d write him off as crazy, and avoid the hell out of him.
But as I stand, listening to slowly encroaching Doom, I realise that he may have became, simply eccentric. And, while extending a hand may be dangerous, this situation isn’t getting any better without taking some risks.
“You aren’t with Art? “ I say, making my way toward the door, holding the broom handle spear-like.
“No idea who the hell that is, but if your asking if we are involved with this ‘The Birds’ situation, hell no.
And if you are asking if Joe and myself are some kinda Golem, I’ll let you in on a little secret.
I’m a God damned puppet, Joe just prefers having me around if he can, but at the end of the day, you know, I’m a coping mechanism. Self aware and handsome as I may be.
The name is Ceejay, by the way. “ If I don’t picture a sock puppet on steroids saying it, it all seems pretty reasonable.
Laugh, cry or run.
I’m no hero, but I’m proud of myself as I pick laugh.
I lean the broom handle against the wall, and open the door without trepidation. I’m either right or wrong, and dragging things out isn’t going to change that.
Joe walks in, seemingly disinterested in the situation, but that puppet, Ceejay, turns it’s head, scanning my apartment.
I lock the door, nerves still frayed, still on edge.
I walk to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, never letting the hulking leather clad man fully out of my sight.
I pour the glass as I watch him take a seat on the couch.
I notice the smell long before I take a sip. The fluid inside the clear glass is yellowed, with bits of debris floating in it, it smells like piss and old laundry. I sigh, pouring the liquid down the drain.
I look at the contents of my fridge and worry. A six pack of bottled water, three quarters of a bottle of Lemoncello, and a quarter bottle of Pepsi that I don’t even remember buying. I realize my food situation isn’t much better.
I sit across from Joe… and Ceejay, I guess, being careful to stay out of arms reach.
I give him the run down on the almost nothing I know about the situation, and sadly neither Joe, or his… friend, have anything to add.
“So, at this point, all I can think of is getting people together. You and I, that’s a start, but, my God, there is a lot of those things out there. “ I say.
“Joe’s dad used to do a lot of the repair work around here, there used to be one of those old intercom systems. “ Ceejay says, as Joe gets up, and starts to tap along one of my living room walls with his right hand.
There is a strange noise, and my new companions stop. Joe uses the puppet to punch a hole in the thick plaster, easily tearing the material away in foot sized chunks.
Behind it sits an old, yellowed plastic intercom speaker, I smile.
Legacy systems are my specialty. For all the talk of major corporations being on the cutting edge of technology, for the most part, when it comes to things that have the potential to take out a city if they go sideways, the tried and true always wins out over the new and shiny.
I recognise the model and grin, grabbing a small thin awl from my toolbox.
I pop open a small hatch, it’s ancient plastic snaps. After flipping a small breaker, I start to press the call button.
The first few presses are fruitless, but then I hear it.
Normally these things only connect to one switchboard, the speaker in the lobby. But, each unit is also given the ability to broadcast, used to diagnose repair issues for all my fellow tech nerds wondering.
A grating tone can be heard through the thin walls, I keep pressing the button, even starting to tap out S. O. S.
“Well look at you Mcguyver “ Ceejay says, I laugh and almost forget that I’m talking to someone’s hand.
“Hello? “ The voice is distorted and faint, but I hear it. It’s a woman, and if I had to guess, elderly.
I slam my hand against the wall in triumph, finally feeling like I have some kind of a grasp on the situation.
“I’m Phil, Big Joe is with me, I’m up on the fourth floor, where are you? “ I say, quickly, not knowing how long the outdated systems will function.
“I’m Bridgette, there are four of us on the first floor, we need help. “ She says, I turn on the television, and the view of the first floor tells me they need a lot more than help.
I wonder if it was my rescue operation that riled up the Rats and get a sinking feeling in my stomach. There has to be twice as many in the lobby, more doors are chewed through or broken inward, and a thick mass of teeming rodent flesh is rapidly chipping away at the faux oak of the apartment housing Bridgette.
They don’t have long, I saw three of them go in at the start of this mess ( a time that feels like days ago at this point.), and all were long past their prime.
I’m not a hero, but maybe making quick decisions makes people lean in that direction. I know that four elderly folks isn’t exactly a death squad, but I can’t bring myself to start treating human lives like ammunition.
“Grab everything useful you can and get to the bedroom window. “ I say, pulling out a couple hundred feet of Ethernet cable from my closet, “ Joe, Ceejay, whoever, you better be as scary as you look, because we don’t have time to plan. “
A Swiss armchair, slang term for a simple, but effective Knot for lifting people in an emergency. Like the kind that can happen with oil tanks the size of McMansions. It secures a person around their thighs and waist, and as long as someone on the other end of the rope ( or in this case, braided wire.) can pull the weight, everything usually turns out fine.
My plan is to use this half remembered piece of workplace safety to hoist Bridgette and her friends from the first floor to the second. And I relay this to Joe and Ceejay as we sprint down the stairs.
The gnawing and scraping is turning into a din, the stairwell sounds like a rock tumbler. I here small clawed feet from the first floor and wonder how much longer the barricade will last.
We slow down as we reach the apartment above Bridgette, I don’t have to tell Joe we don’t have time to knock, with a graceless kick he breaks it open, leaving it hanging by one hinge.
The apartment is empty, and looks like it’s been that way for a while.
My first two attempts at making the Knot fail, turning into useless bunches of hopelessly tangled wire, but, third time is the charm, and I produce what I hope is a passable transport for the endangered elderly.
The scratching is worse down here, seeming to come from several points in the walls and floor. I push this out of my head as I drop the wire and hand it to Joe.
There are several tense minutes before I notice slack in the wires go tight. Joe begins to haul up the first of the pensioners, his bulk making short work of it.
The scratching, there is something I don’t like about it, like it’s getting more purposeful. I keep an eye out for any sign of a swarm. I may be trying to get a good deed in, but I have no intention of killing myself doing it.
The first person in is a man in his 60’s, hair thick but white, one arm has a massive missing patch of flesh, barely covered by bedsheet trying it’s best to be a bandage. It’s off color, and smells from feet away.
I file this away with all of the other mounting massive problems, and realize that the cabinet is about ready to burst.
I recognize the next two people as two of the elderly ladies from before, I try to make some kind of introduction as Joe pulls up Bridgette.
“I’m Kathy, that’s Jewel. “ The first woman says, her hair is dyed purple, but it sits the woman, who must be pushing 70 well. Her friend is a small woman who clutches a red leather purse full of food and what appears to be pill bottles.
“and I’m… “ I never get the old man’s name.
The plaster behind him explodes outward, and quicker than I can react, two sets of long yellowed fangs sink into his neck. My reaction is to grab the man, pull him away from the two rodents, but unfortunately I know less about rat attacks than I do knots.
They clutch the stud inside the wall with unnatural strength, and instead of pulling them out, and dispatching the things, the old man loses two massive pieces of his throat.
The sound is like a wet washcloth being torn, and as a vein is destroyed, I’m suddenly blinded by hot blood.
My composure breaks, literally having the stark reality of the situation thrown in my face. I push the old man off of me, all sense of heroics having left the moment I saw him take the mortal wound.
I don’t feel good about it, but unless Joe is a surgeon, the 60 year old had no way of surviving.
“Get to the fourth floor, get something in front of the door to the stairwell. Don’t open it unless you hear us. “ I scream to the old women, desperately trying to wipe the clinging blood from my eyes.
I hear them leave, hoping they are quick enough and all of this isn’t in vain.
My vision clears, and I see Joe struggling to pull the wire, it’s caught on something and he’s trying not to snap it.
“Shit! “ I scream, hopping, something tiny and black racing away from me, my ankle sporting a bite clean to the bone.
A wave of fear and revulsion hits me as I see the holes made by the first two Rats. Small, nearly mouse sized rodents spill from them, I stop counting after twenty.
“ Joe we have to hurry up!. “ I say, fruitlessly stomping at a black blur that races past.
Ceejay says something but it’s muffled by the wire.
I realize that this is really Joe, taking the time to sound like Ceejay muffled by the wire and wish I had more, conventional backup.
The wire starts moving again and I can hear Bridgette scream, the only thing I can find is an old, water hardened phone book, I try to use it to kill some of the darting, swarming Rats, but they stay just out of reach.
I see a lump of the things so close together they look like one organism, they are making a bee line toward Joe, instinct has me throw the phone book, the scatter as the massive man pulls the brave grandmother inside.
Rats fall from the ceiling, scurry across the floor, the walls are studded with clinging, hissing vermin.
It’s all I can do to keep the lightning quick things off of me, but still I take dozens of small deep wounds, the sheer amount of the things too great to track.
Joe, on the other hand being clad in leather, has no such problems.
He carries the old woman, his pace is slowed, and I try to match it, but it makes me an easy target for the growing swarm.
An old fire extinguisher sits behind a glass panel in the hallway. It’s been expired since the Macarena was popular, but I’m not looking to put out a fire.
I feel a searing pain on my foot and realize that my shoes are torn to nearly nothing.
I panic, realizing that the situation is well out of my control. I’m about to tell Joe that I’m going to run ahead, but then I see it.
Between us and the stairwell are dozens of Rats. Not the tiny things that are still swarming, but massive, unnatural beasts, asymmetrical and with a glint of intellect that makes my blood run cold.
One of the things moves forward, and begins to speak, blood and puss spraying from it’s throat as it does so. The voice is horrific, like that of a child recreated using rusty wire.
“Must… Find…. Him. “ it says, collapsing.
I press the handle on the fire extinguisher and aim it toward the ground, in an instant there is a thick, white fog, that the tiny Rats want nothing to do with.
Joe puts Bridgette down, and couches low, animalistic, his right hand grasping, Ceejay, his left, starting to make threats and promises. Poised like a scorpions stinger.
No words are spoken between us, there is one way this situation ends in our favor.
I wield the fire extinguisher like a torch, using it’s choking blasts ti keep the worst of the Rats at bay, hoping Joe is up to his task.
He runs low and fast, almost as if he is avoiding gunfire. He shows no hesitation, landing in the middle of the mass of horror and using his bulk and hardened leather to wreak carnage.
The swarm around me thickens, and I try to make slow progress toward the stairwell, closer to the blood spurting scrum of rat and giant. Bridgette, must have seen some shit in her day, she stays calm, squashing the odd straggler rat with a four legged cane.
Joe’s fight doesn’t remain one sided for long, Ceejay’s teeth are more than decorative, shredding Rats into fistfulls of gore, but he is one guy, and the size and determination of the Rats starts to slow him down. Tears appear in his leather costume, his own blood begins to mix with that of the Rats.
Bridgette and I are within arms reach of the stairwell, only feet away from the surreal struggle of man and beast.
The extinguisher runs out, I shove the old woman through the door to the stairwell and slam it shut.
Joe is trying to rise, his momentum spent, and though rat corpses are piled around him, enough are still alive to stop him from getting his balance.
The extinguisher makes a terrible bludgeon, I hit Joe as much as the Rats, but Joe, can take my feeble swings, the distracted Rats on the other hand, they fall like ripe fruit.
It’s not long before the swarm sees me as a threat, Rats leaping from Joe to attack me.
But that was the break he needed.
He shakes the Rats off in a herculean effort, pieces of his flesh and costume going with them. He picks me up, and sends both of us through the stairwell door.
He kicks the cheap steel portal several times, awkwardly wedging it shut against the tide of vermin.
We both know it won’t last long.
Bridgette’s friends never made it to the fourth floor. We find what’s left of them on the third floor stairwell, stripped to the bone. Around them, perfectly still, almost comatose, were dozens of fist sized Rats, gorged well beyond what anything living could contain. Distended stomachs larger than the rat itself.
One touch, catches my eye, It’s stomach isn’t just swollen, but is growing four extra, tiny, pink legs.
“Grab that. “ I say to Joe, as we make our way back to my apartment, knowing that we will have to build a barricade before tending to either our mental or physical wounds.
Bridgette says nothing, scraping rat gore from her cane as we walk.