Naphtha
Tonin, March 10, 2014

Blackness and dust. Urine, soot, sweat and the reek of rotting flesh. Best not to think whose
or why. A 'whoomp' more felt than heard, and pebbles rattle from the ceiling.

Tartarus retches, but we refuse expulsion. The demons wait outside.

The softer crump of artillery falls silent, and the rabbit suggests it might be over. But it isn't.
We all know there is no 'over'. The rabbit knows it too, his voice quavering like jello as he
thrusts hope against the dark.

They say if you stay in the dark long enough, you can make friends with it. That you can
perceive without sight.

All we see is black.

The quiet outside lengthens, and the rabbit's hope burrows where it has no place.

Perhaps they think us dead? Perhaps it really is over?

A sound. The gurgle of flowing water. A new smell subjugates its foul brethren. Sharp. Chemical.
Gasoline.

Bodies stagger past, fur sodden, screaming. Oil slicks the floor beneath our paws. We move as a
flood, deeper into the earth.

There is no escape. The east passage was crushed days ago. Fumes fill the dark. Our heads throb
and lungs burn. The dead are piled here. We crawl over them, clawing toward the half remembered
shattered exit. Some of those beneath still writhe. Best not to think who or why.

There is no way out. Claws bleed and teeth crack against stone. We cannot breathe--air hot and thick.
Screams die into moans into silence.

Fallen in fear and darkness, we pray, begging death to come before the flames.

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