Plague

London 1349

The cat’s claw tore into the rat’s back exposing its spine as the vermin let out a high-pitched wail. The little boy watched it with wide eyes. It was one of the only things to do on a rainy day, and even if it had been sunny, his parents would’ve made him stay inside.

Heavy footsteps came up the stairs and his father shouted and reached for the cat, but it drove its fangs into the flesh of the small creature then darted off and away to one of its various hiding spots.

“Damnit, boy,” his father turned to the boy who lowered his head and shoulders. “I told you to get rid of that filthy cat. If you don’t do it, I’m going to skin the bastard alive.”

“But, father,” the boy lifted his head. “She kills rats. They’re the filthy ones. They’ve been getting into the food. They’re going to get us sick.”

“Boy, it's not the rats,” his father said and redirected the boy’s attention to the rainy window behind him and the city lights off in the distance. “It’s the people, as long as we stay away from them and stay out here in our little home, we’ll be safe.”

“How long do we have to stay away?” the boy asked and before he heard his father’s answer, he heard the small pattering feet of vermin in the attic.