The World's Worst Hangover

Written for a contest. The title may be misleading - I suppose there could be worse hangovers, but this one is certainly up there on the list.

Blood and bile lay mixed in his mouth, thick and sour. The rats were a dense, migrating carpet, their bodies writhing in rhythm one moment and turning on each other in ferocity the next. The chorus of their procession intensified as they spilled over the latest corpse to find itself on the river's edge, and the air was split by the wet tearing of flesh, the splintering of bone.

Reek, soreness, moisture. The grey, indistinct light of a morning that would doubtless end in rain. Those were the greeters of his renewed consciousness, blinking against the attentive stare of an oversized rat not six inches from his face.

A clumsy sweep of his hand set it in motion, chirping its protests as it ran to reunite with its brethren. Their cacophony was joined by his low, extended groan, shuddering in its last second of being as he pushed himself up to sit and stretched damp arms together over his head.

There he lingered for a few moments longer, trying to piece together a sensible series of events that would have left him next to the brown, nigh-stagnant expanse of the river. Something that would have left him with that hot, insistent ache in the back of his head, and robbed him of the limited warmth of his coat.

Glancing down for an examination of his own body did nothing to answer the question. In fact, it derailed his train of thought entirely, hands raised to clutch at the peculiar stains that marred the front of his shirt. Red on white, just starting to dry and unmistakeable in its consistency.

No tears in the fabric, not the result of his own injuries. What had he done?

And more importantly, who might be looking for him because of it?

The threat of that unanswered question was enough to force him to his feet, steadying himself against the ever-damp stone that bordered the river's unseen depths. Depths in which he would have breathed his last if not for the narrow shelf of similar stone on which he'd regained consciousness.

Removing himself from those circumstances was a clumsy proposition, bracing arms across the uppermost edge of that wall and struggling to hoist himself over. To where one of the city's poorest streets would run alongside it, where he'd stand a much better chance of disappearing before anyone came to find him.

Through much heaving and groaning, and no small amount of slipping, he found himself lying face-down on the gravel of that street's edge. Still sore in every place that mattered, limiting him to the most careful and feeble of movements. So it was with ginger care that he pushed himself onto his knees, and looked up into the startled faces of two of the city's finest.

Eyes round, lips hanging open as though they'd seen a spirit. Reaching in tandem for the pistols that hung on their belts.

His voice was as much of a mess as the rest of him, slurring in desperation as he forced himself to his feet. “Now wait,” he attempted to urge them. “I'm not-”

Shot?

Shot, clean through the chest. The report was still roaring in his ears, and though he'd felt it only once before, there was no mistaking the impact of bullet against flesh. Every detail seemed to brand itself against his vision, the smoking barrel, the ghastly stare of its bearer. The pressure of his own hand against the wound, expecting the rush of warmth that would come of his blood escaping through the hole.

Nothing. Hole in the fabric, still gummy and cold from whatever had happened the night before. But his searching fingers found nothing out of place on the skin beneath, no wound, no place where the bullet could have entered without him noticing.

No pain, aside from that general ache.

He could see the moment in which panic overtook the men before him, curses overlapping between them as one chambered a second round and the other fired.

A hand was raised reflexively in the path of the shot, blood and bone spraying together as the bullet punched through his palm. That awful impact, a moment's sharp discomfort, and the hole in his body flowed shut as water would close around a fallen rock.

Disbelief hung between the three of them for a matter of silent seconds, glances exchanged in obvious ignorance. When the first shooter closed his finger over the trigger again, however, it became clear that his sudden immunity to their methods wouldn't be changing their minds.

He was moving on impulse again, ignoring the momentary heat of a bullet in his shoulder. Gone as quickly as the rest, allowing for the free movement of that arm as he raised both above his head. Bracing himself against the unpleasantness that was sure to follow, and springing into a dive that would carry him back toward the stench of the river.

Its surface met him with an ugly slap, driving his eyes shut against the thickness of its debris. Still he forced himself to remain beneath its surface, kicking and paddling where they would be hard-pressed to target him again. Only when his lungs burned in protest did he force himself upward, gasping and spitting for a second's time before he ducked into the cold and wet again.

A process repeated half a dozen times before he surfaced and remained that way, treading water in search of anyone else who might like to take a shot at him. Sheltered from the grey sky and nearby street by the wood and metal of the ramshackle bridge overhead.

Still spluttering against the odour that surrounded him, he hauled himself onto the same stone shelf that had supported him throughout the night. There to shiver and shake strands of something unknown from his hands, searching in vain for any sign of the three bullets that had struck him.

No bullets, no damage. Even the blood that had caked his shirt before was obscured by the staining brown in which he'd been swimming.

Perfectly fine, and he could only guess at why. Forcing himself to his feet again, balancing against the stone's edge and setting off at the quickest pace that his body would tolerate. Still hunted, for all he knew, and that was all he knew.

Only one place where he could think to look for answers, and judging by the district in which he'd found himself, getting there would require crossing more than half of the city.