Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Day Seven-Twenty-Two: Flight of the Platypus

... dwindling...

I wonder if Iko's weird name for me was accurate. 'Dragomir the Farsighted'. It implies a few things... the most likely being that I can see the future. Wouldn't be the first time I've considered as much, given my string of weird, horrifying dreams.

Dreamed that a polar bear would attack me. Happened.

Dreamed that I'd have to deal with werewolves. Happened.

Dreamed that Castle FuckIt would be on fire. Happened. In spades. A few times.

Dreamed of a door, and bad shit associated with said door. Happened.

Dreamed I would be a mayor. Happened.

Dreamed that someone would die. Happened. Even if she was a weird clone thing.

Dreamed of a woman in white. Happened.

Dreamed that Grylock would be skewered by some sharp, black spear. Hasn't happened yet. The rate he's been coughing and spitting up blood, I wonder if the spear will show up in time to do the deed.

And this morning, in my latest fitful rest, tucked into a ruined, sand-filled building, I dreamed that Plato would be attacked by rats. Never has one of my dreams come true so quickly, because when I woke up people were already yelling. Hell, I'm pretty sure the yelling woke me up in the first place.

I mentioned yesterday that this place is teeming with ghost rats. I also mentioned that they don't seem to give two damns about us. Apparently that doesn't apply to the Non, because when I opened my eyes and looked around our crumbling hotel, I immediately spotted a thick swarm of the things swirling and circling 'round Plato. They were holding him aloft, circling and circling with their phantasmal bodies as they lifted him through a nearby window.

Yelling, I jumped out of my sleeping bag and dived for Plato's legs. Logan and Jeffrey beat me to it, though, each grabbing one of the platypus's boots. Plato squealed and yelped, kicking the air so hard that he landed a hard blow on Jeffrey's chin. The one live rat in the place paraded around on Plato's head and, I assume, tried to stop his flailing with a bite, but the panicky duck wouldn't stop.

We locked eyes for the briefest second, the first time he's willingly looked at me in weeks. I saw fear there, fear of death... but also profound sadness. Hell, I'd even call it apology. Then he was gone.

Yelling, I ran for the window, pushing Logan aside. I caught one final glimpse of Plato's tail as it vanished into a veritable sea of silent, swirling rats. We haven't seen his rodent buddy since then, so I can only assume it, too, got swallowed up by the ghostly vermin.

The rat might be okay. It's among its own kind, of a sorts. But I really don't fancy Plato's chances. The rats... regulators... whatever... have made one thing abundantly clear: they fucking hate the Non.

We searched. Spent the whole damned day trying to find Plato, calling his name and following what little trail the ghost rats left behind. A smeared boot print here, an abrupt swirl of sand there. Not nearly enough to go on. Eventually we had to give up and follow the direction Plato sent us on in the first place, which, as far as we can tell, is south.

This trip was the biggest mistake of my life. Wish I'd fucking foreseen that in a dream.


Dragomir the Wanderer

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