Lake sensed carnivorous eyes examining
her body from the damp, dark corner of the cell. It was just a rat. She hoped.
But even a rat with eyes that size was worrisome—especially here. The last
thing Lake of the Bluewings desired before death was chunks of her leg gnawed
off each time she fell in and out of consciousness.
They had left her unchained this time,
but she gently rubbed her aching wrists still crusted with blood. She was being
tested. A failed escape meant they could consume her slowly and painfully
through an array of flesh-piercing festivities from their tusk-like fangs. If
she stayed put and awaited punishment for stepping foot on Their planet, she
was doomed to an eternity of slavery in the Catacombs of Cryvelm Hollows. There
was no human justice in the Shattered Galaxy. They lusted for nothing more than
to gorge themselves on her flesh and her soul. Escape showed little success,
and even if Lake managed to reach the Forest of Rust, she would be lost in the
never-ending puzzle of sharp turns and even sharper trees, unless They found
her first. She knew Planet Neurot well, studying the atmosphere and inhabitants
ever since finishing her PhD in galactic anthropology, but soon realized not
well enough to navigate that maze. Lake thought she knew the star-planet’s
every terrain—a shocking discovery of how different the environment looked on a
map and pixilated photos.
The rat sniffed forward from shadows
blacker than ink, whiskers dancing with each cautious wiggle of its nose. She
considered smashing its neck with the heel of her bare foot, but the size of
the red-eyed rodent would be problematic. It was only slightly smaller than her
Pomeranian, and she’d be lucky to end its life with several thumps of her heel.
Instead, she held her hand out for the rat. Bite me, poison me, kill me, eat
me—just don’t take my soul, she thought as the rat nosed closer.
The rat hacked and coughed as if
something were stuck in its throat. Lake felt the sudden urge to pet the
rodent—to aide its struggle. She reached trembling fingers to rub down its
spine, and the rat violently vomited an object near her feet. Whatever it was
thudded through a whisper as it hit the shit-stained stone floor. The rat, her
only friend in this world retreated into the shadows that danced along
the corroded walls. She probed the thick, sticky bile; poking at it to find
what had made the noise. A key…
Lake of the Bluewings used her tattered
sleeve to wipe away the hot phlegm, and then held it toward the dim torch that
hung outside the rusted bars of her cell. She closed one eye and focused on the
object. It really was a key. Not a typical key for unlocking cell doors—but a
special key—with more than one home. It constantly changed shapes as if it
might mold to any lock. She felt her broken heart crack more with each hopeful
thump in her chest. Could this be her chance? Her chance to free herself? But…
that wasn’t the plan.
She stood, knees popping as if they
hadn't unbent in ages. Her jumpsuit had several sneaky pockets—good places to
hide secrets. One of the only advantages of being a woman of six foot four was
that They had no prison garb that fit her. For such cannibalistic life forms,
They certainly had a method to their madness. She expected to be stripped when
she was first captured just outside of the gathering point, like the corpses of
her fallen comrades that laid in a pile by the glowing, crimson portal, but
Lake knew not to resist. Her years of study showed that They wouldn’t attack a
non-aggressive intruder of any life form—at first. The pile of bones in the
next cell over didn’t ease her fear.
Lake tucked the key in her pocket, and it
wiggled like a scorpion lost against her thigh; she wanted to smash the seizing
key each time it moved.
She scanned the halls splattered with
blood and noticed they were empty. This was the first time in three, four, five
days that no guards were perched on their hind legs outside of her cell,
constantly dozing off as they leaned their serpentine heads against their
bolt-axes. In her studies, she found that They were rarely lazy through the
photos she’d obsessively studied, taken by their tranquil drone. Indoors,
beyond the rock of the Poisoned Eye, They must have sanctuary for sloth.
The Bluewings had once before come to
Planet Neurot, and failed that mission. Now, seventy years later, history was
repeating itself. If Chris or Nikolai were somehow still alive, they’d surely
be through the portal and back on Earth. They had a rule, although she never
planned to follow it: if shit hits the fan, save yourself. They had all been
comrades for a long time, but life on Earth was better than death in a
different galaxy.
The hall was empty and quiet. Too quiet.
She reached into her pocket and gripped
the key in her fist as if she were trying to squash a bug, then launched it
against the stone wall. It exploded into a green flame, and left the wall
stained a mushy olive color. A horned beetle fell from what had once been the
key to her salvation and scurried through the barred wall.
“Nice try, you bastards!” she yelled, her
knuckles whitening as she gripped the bars of her cell. She would wait for Them
to come to her no matter how many times They tried to push her to escape.
Her forehead reddened beneath her matted
black bangs. Her father said he could always tell when she was mad because of
the little red bump that formed between her eyebrows. “A burning sun above two
blue moons,” he’d say.
“You hear that?” she shrieked. Lake
grabbed her waste pail—Their idea of a universal amenity, although They never
emptied it—and flung the contents through the bars, painting the hallway.
Several loud screeches of hissing rage
echoed down the hall. The illumination from the single orb-torch was blanketed
by a mass of bodies, and all Lake could see was hundreds of hell-hungered eyes
staring at her from the other side of the bars. Diamond-shaped pupils
undressing her flesh; she stepped back to the far wall, slid down to the floor,
hugged her knees to her chest, and mockingly stared back at her captors.
They would have to wait a little longer
for their chance to swallow her soul.
Justin Chasteen is an emerging writer who will complete
his degree in creative writing from Southern New Hampshire University in
January. He has completed the first draft of three separate novels and is now,
regrettably and learnedly, editing three separate novels. “The Shattered
Galaxy” is his first published work, but he plans to do more short and flash
fiction in the future. His son, Owen, is a toddler model.
