Drainworld by Mike Rader

The first thing the rat did was slink back along the slippery ledge. The cat came toward it on the swollen tide of greasy water. The rat sniffed at the air. The cat’s body flowed past, its entrails bobbing like seaweed. 

Next came a head, severed at the neck, a look of disbelief permanently plastered onto its grim features. 

The rat stretched out a paw, scooping the gruesome head closer. It noted the strange symbol on the dead creature’s forehead, almost covered by congealed mud. 

Rats had seen such things before. They’d often discussed them in the drains beneath the city. They didn’t know they were called tattoos. Nor did they have any way of associating the symbols with gangs or tribes. 

The head broke loose from the rat’s claw and vanished around a bend in the drain. It was heading into another rat’s territory. 

It was forbidden to breach the rules and follow. 

Whiskers twitching busily, the rat went back to picking on the body of a sodden pigeon. 

Suddenly, from the pitch-black outlet on its left, came heavy sounds — splashing, and an alien moaning noise. 

A huge shape was swept into sight. 

The rat had been trained to be cautious. Too many of its family had perished as a result of impatience or curiosity. It watched from the shadows, its nerves sharp, on full alert. 

The shape was wallowing in the foul tide. The rat knew at once it was another member of the race that dwelled above. Parts of the shape were moving and flailing. The words “arm” and “leg” were not part of a rat’s vocabulary. 

And when the creature’s head bobbed level with the rat, it boasted another symbol on its forehead. The same symbol the rat had seen on the first head. 

The rat’s heart leaped. Its tail swished. 

The huge mass of struggling food brushed against the ledge. A large chunk of flesh fell within the rat’s grasp. Its teeth sank into the warm target, just below a strange glowing dial that circled the alien’s wrist. The creature let out a loud cry as the rat tore flesh from flesh and began devouring it. 

As the body stopped struggling and surging water filled its lungs, the torrent whisked it around the next bend where so many more mouths awaited a feed. 

Rats knew nothing of street wars. All they knew was that food, marked with strange symbols, at times suddenly became more plentiful. 

James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet.  As Mike Rader, he writes horror and noir fiction and poetry.  His work has twice appeared in Black Poppy Review, as well as Horror Tree (Trembling with Fear), Thriller, Akashic Books (Mondays are Murder) and many other magazines and anthologies.