The Rain, The Flies and Other Stories

I didn't find the shelter I knew was close by. Instead, I slipped, stumbled, slipped again and again, and then came crashing to the ground where I chose to lay still and wait, with utter hopelessness like stones in my gut, for The Rain to end. My arms were wrapped around Rocky tightly. I didn't let go of her. Even when her whimpers reached such a horrendous screeching and she struggled so badly to escape me that I knew I was hurting her, I didn't let go. I didn't want her to run off, blinded in all this red rain falling from the sky, to stumble and slide dangerously through the wake of The Rain as it proceeded to crash down upon us. And then came the smell again. Death and decay. It was in my nostrils and I wanted to vomit before I had physically breathed its toxins in. My stomach tightened with an awful feeling and my throat filled with sick. I laid there like this, spewing my last meal up, drenched in a slimy, sticky, red liquid, cold and terrified, until The Rain stopped and all that was left was an evaporating red mist and that vile, vile smell.