Five
First written for a university writing course, and submitted to a college journal and DeviantArt, Five is a short, horror vignette exploring fear, darkness, and a slow descent into madness.
We look like demons against the firelight, the red shining off our skin. Our rifles are useless – we ran out of ammo, or lost it on the way down. It's dark, so dark. We almost lost the lighter. What a tragedy that would've been.
Jack's nervous tic is coming back, and he keeps pressing the push button of his pocket knife. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click, like the shutter flash of an old camera.
Between us, there's still enough water for three days, and Marco has five MREs. If we're careful, there'll be one for each of us. If we're lucky, they'll last a few days. Hopefully, someone will find us by then.
It's so quiet down here. I wonder if I'll be able to sleep.
***
We're running out of things to burn, and what little kindling we have left is shooting off sparks like fireworks. The wood's a little wet. Simon calls it a safety hazard. Marco tells him to shut up. Mike is starting to whimper softly, his jacket gumming with sweat and blood.
Jack keeps pressing the pocket knife's push button. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click, like the shutter flash of an old camera.
Mike is the first to fall asleep.
***
There's no more wood to burn. I'm surprised it lasted three days. The darkness is total, oppressive, down here. The only sound is Jack pressing that goddamn push button. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click. Click-click, like the shutter flash of an old camera.
I count Mike's fingers – he won't wake. Sometimes, I search for the bullet hole. It's high up on his left shoulder. I can feel the ridge of his collarbone. I hold my breath and wait a while, maybe hoping I'll hear him breathe.
We ration off our water, and discuss who'll get Mike's MRE. Simon is mumbling about someone's eyes. Marco and Jack start singing. They keep time with the clicks of the pocket knife. Sometimes Simon's watch will flash like a distress signal out in the bay. Nobody asks him what time it is.
***
There used to be an old Ferris wheel that my brother would take me on. At night, after it rained, if you closed your eyes, you could feel the Ferris wheel spin. You'd close your eyes – you couldn't see – but you'd feel the Ferris wheel spin. That's how it feels down here, a Ferris wheel without lights, spinning. Spinning into darkness, into an abyss.
Jack is pressing that push button. Should I be grateful there's no ammo in our guns? Simon is murmuring, murmuring. He thinks something's watching us from the abyss. I make sure Mike's eyes are closed. Simon says they're watching us, but none of us know who they are. It's only been four days. I can't stand the sound of Jack's camera flash. Click-click. Click-click, all day.
We don't have any more MREs, and the water is going fast. We barely drink enough to wet our lips. It's gone before it reaches our throats. I know all of it will be gone by today.
I don't know which one will snap first, Simon or Jack. I can feel Mike's bones through his skin. I wonder if I'll be joining him.
I'm hungry.
It's only been four days.
***
Simon is preaching to us. He's telling us about the eyes. The eyes – whose eyes? – are in the darkness. Marco tells Simon it's only ours, reflecting in the glow of his watch, but Simon's watch died a day or two ago. I can't tell. Time stands still in the dark.
I can hear Jack clicking away with his camera… It's a pocket knife. It's cold. I want to light a fire. I wonder if Kevlar will burn. I count Mike's fingers – there are four. I took one off yesterday. I can't remember what I did with it. I think I threw it away.
Five. There were only five of us. God help us, it's only been five days. Mike fell asleep three days ago. There are only four of us today.
Jack is pressing the push button.
I didn't throw Mike's finger away.
Overhead, I can hear it raining. I want to hear the sound of rotor blades. I can't see anything, but I'm watching them, and I know they are watching me. Maybe Jack will be next; I hope he is. I want that pocket knife of his. And maybe when I get it, it'll be easier to cut off fingers. What did I do with Mike's finger? I think I threw it away.
About the Creator
Rin the Scribbler
Rin has been a writer since the age of twelve, but has been a dreamer, creator, and storyteller for as long as she can remember. She would love for you to come along on her journeys, but tread carefully. Sometimes there be nightmares.
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