Water sloshes underneath our boots as we run. It's pitch black. We have no idea where we're going or where we need to go—just a desperate sprint from the marines behind us.
They're carrying torches and lanterns, and there's more than before. "Lad, you're still with me?" Morgan calls out. There's a slight echo bouncing off the walls.
"Yeah, I'm here," I answer back.
We keep moving. The sewers twist and choke like a serpent swallowing itself. Every path looks the same. It's tight here. Morgan and I can barely stand side-by-side, barely able to fit through each turn. The ceiling hangs too low.
Morgan grunts behind me. "Saints, I'm going to punch the bastard who designed this place."
"We're moving blind," I breathe, slowing down for just a second, clutching the sidewall. "We can be circling."
"Better a circle than a noose," Morgan says. "Keep moving, I can hear them still. Figuring out this place can come later."
Light.
An orange and gold flares burst behind us. The marines are getting close. How are they keeping up?
We run faster, through the black water. My chest tightens as my heart hammers so loud I almost don't notice its warmth. Morgan's boots hammer against the ground, sending plashes of filthy water up our legs. The sound of our steps mixes and resonates as the echoes bounce off the walls.
I can't tell how many there are, three? Four? A dozen? I look back and see their light flicker in the dark, slowly getting closer.
"Go left!" I ask.
We serve, almost slipping on one another. The stone beneath my feet feels slick. My chest heats up from the flame within, spreading fire into my lungs, making me push. I can tell it's overworking. All the pain from last night is coming back into my ribs and skull as the flame attempts to keep me running for more than I can or should.
We take another left.
The sound of splashing boots chasing us doesn't fade. It multiplies. The tunnels are folding in on themselves, eating our steps, making them twice as loud. It's like the whole sewer wants us to know we're being hunted.
Gunfire erupts behind us. Light explodes only for a second from the barrels. I can hear the metal round crush against the stone walls, ricocheting.
Morgan holds my head down until the noise is gone. "Keep your head down! The ricocheting will bite harder than a kiss of a cannon. We can't afford to slow down."
"I know!: I shout back, but it comes out more like a cough.
"Are guys daft!" Morgan barks down the sewer, toward the marines. "You'll kill yourselves just as much as you'll kill us!"
I can't breathe. The air is slick with filth, and now smoke and gunpowder. The gunfire fades, so do the shouts behind us.
But I don't slow down. I can't.
The pressure in my chest feels heavy, like an anchor pulling me down.
We run through the blackness so thick it feels like a tar mask. The sewer bends again, and Morgan grabs and slows us down.
"Why'd we stop?" I ask.
I can hear Morgan breathing heavily. "'Cause lad, I'm tired. And their constant chasing is making me bloody mad." Morgan leans forward, placing one hand on the wall. He's wheezing and spitting.
"I'm tired," he mutters again.
I grip the wall, my palm pressing against the damp stone. My hands and fingers are trembling. How long have we been running?
Morgan wheezes again, his shoulders shaking. "Just one more moment," he growls, slamming a fist against the wall. "One moment to catch my breath before I rip those pretty coats apart."
I listen for the marines. Their boots are slapping closer, their steps are multiplying. Makes it feel like they're already behind us.
"We have to go," I whisper.
My chest is burning. The fire's too loud, it's rising past my ribs, licking the back of my throat, my back. My knees are weak—every breath I take feels like glass.
"I've got an idea," he says. "Go. Keep running. I'll stay ahead. I'll catch up."
"What? No, that's suicide. There are too many of them for you to fight."
Morgan shakes his head. "We can't keep running. Besides, if I run any longer, I'll just collapse. I'm a fat bastard, remember."
Then, we hear the marines: "Over here, boys! Their wet boots are giving them away!"
Morgan's breath steadies. He braces himself against the wall. Then he plants his heel, waits. He grabs something from his coat and places it in my hands. "Careful with that," he says. "Can't have you bleeding now."
I take the object and run my hand against it slowly. It's small, short, and thin. It doesn't take me long to realize what Morgan gave me—a knife. But what Morgan is holding doesn't look like a knife; it's something familiar, except he's keeping it with his middle fingers. I can't tell in this dark.
"They'll come from one side only. This sewer doesn't give them much of a flank. I'll bottle-neck the bastards."
"They'll shoot you," I whisper.
"Only if I allow them. Now go, lad."
I hesitate. He pushes me with one hand. "Go!"
I stumble forward, boots slapping the black water, but I slowly stop. I'm not sure why, but I didn't want to leave him. I turn around and—
I hear pain.
Metal meeting flesh, and gurgling blood.
The sewer explodes into sound. A wet snap of steel punctures the dark. I see a man's silhouette. No, not a man. A beast in a coat.
Morgan's already moving unexpectedly fast. Among their light, a glint of metal in Morgan's hand, a hook. I see it once, and it vanishes into a marine's collarbone. He doesn't scream, only stops and folds.
Morgan tanks him forward with a growl, slamming the body into another. Rifle clatters into the water. Another soldier steps in, swinging a bayonet. Morgan weaves low, hook spinning, reversing like a dagger, driving it under a chin.
Morgan bellows and slams the dead man into another, body first, using it like a hammer. The impact knocks a third man off his feet, his musket clattering into the filth.
Fourth charges screaming, ripping the bayonet from his rifle, aiming for his neck. Morgan ducks, pivoting his hook low, driving the curved steel into the man's gut. He takes the bayonet, chucking it into the marine below him, bursting through his skull like a tusk.
"Come on then!" Morgan laughs wildly, spit coming from his lips. "Come hug the old man!"
Another marine fires. The musket flares next to Morgan's head, a thundercrack right by his ear. The flash burned the sewer white for a heartbeat.
Morgan reels, clutching his ear. The marine drops the gun and socks Morgan in the jaw. He goes for a hit, but Morgan's hook pierces the marine's wrist and yanks him forward.
The man doesn't have time to scream as he grabs him by the neck, choking as he rips the hook from the marine's hand. "You made my ears ring," Morgan seethes. "Bad idea."
He then wraps his arms around the marine's neck, facing the last two. Morgan is smiling like a madman. The marine tries to escape from Morgan's grasp, but he breaks his neck. The sound is audible and echoes through the tunnel. Morgan drops the marine to the ground.
The last two marines try to backpeddle, slipping into the black water. I couldn't see their faces, but their fear is palpable.
One swings his gun like a club, but Morgan leans backward, throwing the weapon from the marine's grip, and slashes the man's neck.
The one last tries to run.
Morgan takes one of the rifles and fires into the marine's leg. The gunfire rolls through the tunnel like thunder trapped in a pipe. The last marine hits the ground screaming, blood soaking in the black water. His leg is mangled.
I don't move. I'm frozen.
He drags his hook through the water as he walks, picking up one of the fallen lanterns. His other arm dangles loose, shoulders shaking with exhaustion.
"You," he growls at the down marine." You're coming with us."
The man tries to crawl away, but Morgan steps on his leg, pinning the man to the stone. He looks back with a tired grin, glancing at me.
"How'd I do, lad?"