The iron Rat

Author’s note: This story began as a late-night discussion among friends. We challenged each other to come up with a quick fictional tale off the cuff based upon something that was in the room, and this was mine. It was inspired by a little metal decorative rodent that our host kept on her coffee table. The following week, I went back to type it up properly.

         The young man pulled his motorcycle into the shadow of a long-disused train stop and dropped the kickstand. He had never been to Chicago before. His family would never allow it. It was a dangerous place awash with peril. It was darkness.

         He had grown up on a rural farm After. There was no travel, so he knew little if anything of what lay outside the immediate confines of his community. He and his family raised their own food and bartered occasionally with neighbors but kept unexceptionally to their own clan. All that changed when they came and took her.

         He had been in the field working. He heard the gunshots and saw the smoke. By the time he got to the house, they were gone and his brother was dying. They had taken his woman with them.

         The roving gangs sortied from the city in search of food or whatever else they needed or coveted. Only strength kept them at bay. On that day their timing and numbers had ensured their success. His brother had killed two of them in the process, their scraggly bodies left where they had fallen.

         His parents had begged him not to go. The dangers were too great, and his hope so dim. However, love can be a powerful quantity, some would say the most powerful force in the world, and it reigned supreme over reason. For this reason, on the strength of love, he had filled his motorcycle with what little gasoline remained, strapped his grandfather’s pistol on his belt, and made his way into the city.

         He made good time. There was no traffic. The only impediments were the burned out wrecks that littered the roads. Everything of value had long since been scavenged. He arrived in the heart of the city proper by early afternoon. He noticed furtive eyes that followed him as he motored down the deserted streets, but the unfamiliar sight and sound of a big man on a motorcycle was sufficient to send onlookers scurrying into dark buildings for cover. He felt and was a stranger in a strange land.

         He pocketed the keys to the heavy bike and checked the gas cap to ensure it was locked in place. It would be difficult but not impossible to steal his ride. He hoped he would not be here long enough to worry overly about scavengers. The young man had to admit to himself in the depths of his heart that his was a potentially baseless hope.

He really had no plan. He knew his woman was here, somewhere. He also knew there was nothing he would not do and no one he would not kill to get her back. Beyond that, he was simply drifting.

         He checked his weapon for the fourth time that day. The .40 caliber Glock had belonged to his grandfather, a policeman, and it was meticulously maintained. He carried three loaded magazines, and the chamber was hot. He was young and strong, and he felt ready for whatever awaited him. It took less than five minutes.

         He never saw the weapon or the assailant. The pain in the back of his head was indescribable. There were flashes in his retinas, and the world went dark. When he regained consciousness, he was seated slumped forward in a heavy metal chair. His hands were secured behind him with plastic cuffs and a bag was over his head. He willed himself to sit upright, and the weight of his head tugged on his neck.

The pain where he had been struck was bewildering. Through the heavy cloth hood, he could hear movement. He forced himself not to panic, but the inability to sense his surroundings was utterly terrifying. He struggled, but his hands were utterly immobile.

         When he sat erect, he heard murmurs. The words were muffled and distant and occasionally punctuated with brief spasms of laughter. He heard scurrying footsteps, and then someone poked him in the shoulder with a stick. The molestation was not painful, but he grunted in surprise. With that an unseen hand removed the hood.

         The room was cavernous and dark, and he seemed to sit in its center. A camp lantern sputtered on a table in front of him and cast a finite sphere of light that was insufficient to penetrate more than a few meters into the gloom. The room was cold. The tile of the floor seemed to draw out its warmth.

         Leaning passively with his back against the table was a man. He was of average dimensions, and he held his arms crossed. His unruly shock of gray hair intimated an age in his early sixties.

The man stood passively and studied the boy, his eyes seeming to soak in the young man and his details. After what seemed an eternity, the older man stood erect and walked the short distance toward him. Only after he moved did the captive see the woman seated behind him.

         The woman was much younger, no more than thirty, and she looked as though she had been poured into her clothes. All of the city folk were thin, almost gaunt, but this woman was unnaturally beautiful. She wore fishnet stockings and a short dress that seemed impractically revealing. The woman leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands, smiling at the young man in a way he had never before experienced. In that moment in the dim light, he felt wanted. The look confused him. It seemed incongruous. He shook his head incrementally to clear the thought and turned his attention to the man now standing before him.

         “Well,” the older man said. “Who are you and why are you here? We don’t get many visitors this deep in the city. It must have been something awfully important to bring you all this way to this very strange place.”

         The young man fought to stay focused. The blow to his head had left some residual fuzziness.

         “My name is Silas Thompson. I am from west of here. You…someone, came and took my woman. I just want her back, and then I’ll leave. I didn’t come for a fight.”

The man thought for a moment before replying.

“Didn’t come for a fight, did you?”

The older man reached behind him and retrieved the young man’s pistol from his own belt. He deftly ejected the magazine and jacked the slide. He reached up and caught the ejected round with his free hand before placing all of it on the tabletop.

         “This is Chicago, son.” The man smiled. “Everybody knows that guns are illegal here.” A wave of giggles rolled around the space. “Our fair city has had more than its share of violence.”

         Silas sagged. The fear began to swell and expand as he fought to control it.

         “You know who I am,” he said as he forced himself to sit up straight. “Who are you, and do you know of my woman?”

         The older man resumed his position leaning the small of his back against the table. The girl slid her chair to the side so she could continue to get an unimpeded view of Silas. Somewhere in the periphery of the room there was a deep wet cough.

         “You wish to know who I am?” The older man looked around the room and smiled. The stark shadows from the lantern lit his face from the side and gave him a vaguely skeletal appearance. “As you are a guest of ours, I don’t see that as unreasonable. I’ll tell you who I am.”

         The older man ran his hands through his long gray hair and tied it back in a ponytail.

         “My name is Crispus Gardner, PhD. I was a professor of Philosophy at the University of Chicago before the world came apart. Now I lead these people.” He spread his arms expansively in a broad gesture to the sprawling room.

He now leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin and whispered theatrically, “And to think my parents told me I could never find a job in Philosophy.” Subdued laughter from countless voices joined from the darkness. He stood before continuing.

“My followers call me the Iron Rat, an affectionate metaphor reflecting, I’m informed, both my resilience and my constitution.” He then crossed his arms again and cocked his head slightly, studying Silas yet further.

After a moment he took the young man’s shoulder and squeezed it hard. The thick muscles underneath his homespun shirt tightened reflexively at the contact.

“You are well-fed and healthy. How old are you, Silas Thompson?  I am curious.”

Silas had to fight to stay in the present, but his head was gradually clearing. The pain had retreated to a dull throb.

“I am twenty-three. I am to be married in a few weeks. That is why I came for my woman.”

The Rat seemed to think for a moment. His forehead furrowed with the effort.

“Silas, given your age and pedigree do you know anything at all of life? Do you have any idea why the world is as it is? Do you know anything of history?”

Silas sat silently and glowered at the man.

“Silas, I am, or was, at my heart a teacher. Allow me to illuminate you. Some others in our midst may yet be unclear as to the details as well. A brief didactic might be a healthy exercise.”

The Rat looked at his feet momentarily to collect his thoughts before proceeding.

“They were gone overnight…no, that is not accurate. They were gone in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye. It happened years before you were born. In some places only a smattering of adults were taken, in others almost entire communities. And of course all the children. All the children everywhere.” The Rat at this looked up and grew momentarily wistful.

“My own son was five. One moment he was in the tub taking a bath, and the next he had simply vanished. I watched it happen. In an instant he was just gone. The screams echo inside my skull to this very day.

“Scientists debated, and theologians postulated. Many clergy were gone, yet a remarkable number remained. In the end it simply turned out that we apparently knew less about the world than we thought we had. In retrospect it seems so overtly asinine that we might proclaim that we understood the world in the absence of the divine. Science could not reliably describe the blackness that composes our night skies, and this we could see for ourselves any evening that wanted for an overcast. Why might we ever have assumed that science could answer all of our questions? I guess I should be grateful. It was into this void that we philosophers resolutely strode.

“Before, the world thirsted for facts. After, man quested yet again for Truth. Philosophy became for a time a growth industry. In a world that appeared randomly depopulated and now utterly devoid of children, men plumbed the sublime yet again.” He leaned forward toward Silas and grinned once more, this time sufficient to show a crescent of white teeth in the lamplight.

“When life gives you lemons….” He paused for a moment then continued, excessively satisfied with his own cleverness..

“The dumb ass speaking with man’s voice forbade the madness of the prophet. These are wells without water, clouds that are carried with a tempest, to whom the mist of darkness is reserved forever.”

Silas looked up in surprise.

“It shocks you that I know the scriptures, young Silas? There was a great deal of interest in things scriptural After. I must admit that I myself took a renewed interest in them after so many of Christ’s followers simply disappeared. As I said, there were still clergy to be found, but their words seemed empty and hollow. As you might imagine, the fact that they remained with us strained their credibility. I wanted to see for myself what these words said, mine their truth for what they actually meant.”

Silas looked confused.

“I know many revere the scriptures now as a sort of talisman, particularly in the unenlightened wastes outside the cities. But I think I have gained insight. I really do think I understand the reality we face. I think this is one of the reasons these people follow me. I think that I have finally found Truth, the kind with the big T, not the small.

“What departed this planet along with all those tens of thousands of people and all those precious little children was Good. There simply is no more Good in the world. We studied and quantified the most mundane minutiae in the name of science yet utterly failed to grasp that Good was itself a quantity that might be added to or removed. Now it is thoroughly missing and with it God, whatever He ever actually was.

“I have read the scriptures, Silas. I have committed much of them to memory, and I have prayed. Oh, how I have prayed. After my many years of seeking, I have come to the conclusion that God is no longer listening. He might even be gone along with them.

“Yes, he was most certainly here Before, but now….no. God has departed this world, and He took Good with Him. That is why we are as we are. I think we had our chance, but we blew it.”

He paused to let Silas digest his words. It had been ages since he had kept a classroom enraptured. The sensation was intoxicating.

“We are Yang with no Ying. We are Cold with no Warm. We are Down with no Up; Old without New; Ford without Chevy; Hutch without Starsky. Do you understand, son?”

Silas clearly did not.

The Rat sighed.

“Whatever.”

He turned to the darkness and said flatly, “Kids today, you can’t teach them anything. Despite all that has transpired so little has changed.”

The Rat turned back to face Silas and leaned in close. When he spoke this time his breath was both rank and sour.

“You made a choice, Silas Thompson. As was spoken by the prophet Nahum, you chose to ‘Pursue mine enemies into the darkness.’

“Well, young man, you are in the darkness now, the very depths of it, and what is it that you have found?”

Silas coughed and nearly sputtered, his fear now threatening to overcome him despite his efforts.

The Rat recoiled back to the table and studied him again, a look that could be mistaken for remorse now on his face. In the stark shadows, his face softened. The girl behind the table continued to bore her gaze into Silas with an intensity that communicated passion. When next the Rat spoke, his voice was soft.

“Tell me of your woman, perhaps I can help you. Describe this woman to me.”

Silas looked up so his eyes met the madness of the Rat, tears now welling up despite his best efforts. He fought to keep his voice steady when he responded.

“Her name is Naomi. She stands five foot five and weighs about 120 pounds. She has green eyes and long hair like spun copper. Have you seen her, sir? Can you help me? Please, I’m begging you.”

The Rat stood to his full height and looked at the young man, his own eyes now glistening slightly.

“Hope,” he said softly. “What we have currently in our midst is real, substantive, genuine, passionate hope. It has been so long since I have seen it with my own eyes. It is such a precious commodity in a world devoid of goodness.”

The Rat closed his eyes and angled his face upward before continuing, “It warms me.”

His arm moved faster than Silas could perceive, and the short blade sank to the hilt in the young man’s throat. With a deft snap, the Rat jerked the knife to the side and quickly stepped away to avoid the gout of gore that shown black in the lamplight.

Silas’s head sagged forward, and the room erupted in a growing roar. Raising the bloody blade over his head, the Rat turned to face the unseen mob. The woman behind the table began to writhe slightly in excitement, barely able to remain seated.

“Friends…children…” the Rat shouted, straining to be heard over the crowd. As the din subsided slightly, his eyes shown fiercely in the lamplight and he continued. “Rejoice! For tonight we feast on meat!”