Rats

There are rats in the walls. I hear them gnawing. My empty kitchen sink sparkles in fear under the aim of my rifle. I’ll blow that sterling sky-high just to get to those disgusting fuckers underneath.

Someone rings through the phone. My kid, maybe, crying his snot through my speaker, begging me to lay down and let them eat at me, turn me into corn on the cob. It’s not so bad, Dad. Each kernel leaves a little cavity like a tooth falling out. When you’re empty, you can’t bite anymore. I swing the gun, get the evil little screaming square in my sights, and shoot. Now there’s a hole through the screen, hole through the table, and hole through the shining wooden flooring beneath.

My heart pales in my chest. Fuck. A way for them to get in.

I run over like a puppet on rotted strings and stomp a foot on top of the hole. They throw themselves against the sole of my foot, gnashing their diseased teeth against the flat rubber. I grind my foot down and swing my aim back to the walls, straining to hear the next squeak or scrabble of feet. They surround me. Just when I think I’ve found a place to shoot, I hear their skittering laughter in a different place.

A knock comes at the door. My blood congeals in my body.

“Mr. Roberts? Are you okay?”

My neighbor, a young kid fresh out of college. Or so the rats would have me believe. I turn in that direction, quietly, stealthily, and, again, swing my rifle to follow my suspicion.

“I thought I heard something like a gunshot. I just wanted to make sure you’re not hurt.”

A big rat at my door, snuffling, squeaking under his breath, rubbing his paws together. Waiting for me to open the door so he can sink his sharp little teeth in. I step towards the door, never letting my rifle go flaccid.

Another knock. “Mr. Roberts?”

I’m at the door now. My heart beats its fists onto my eardrums. Behind me I hear them, shoving their hungry noses through that hole in the floor, and I know it’s now or never.

I aim for the middle of the door, every muscle turning to piano wire, and curl my finger around the trigger.

***

Abigail Diaz is a Pushcart-Prize-nominated author of poetry and fiction. She has been published in the Blue Marble Review, the San Antonio Public Library 2019 Young Pegasus Anthology, and HauntedMTL's 101 Proof Horror Anthology, among others. She recently earned her B.A. from Texas State University and looks forward to attending grad school next year, with hopes of someday publishing writing full-time.