Prompt: End of the World, Chance Meeting, Survival

I breathe in damp, musty air, my lip curling as I feel grime coat my lungs. Mold grows in corners of the room I'm bunked in. Rats scatter around, not a strand of fear in their DNA. Their nose twitch in the air, whiskers catching on the few beams of light filtering through the boards I'd put against the windows.

"Go ahead," I muttered, pulling my knees to my chest. I watch as the rat makes a daring go for my rucksack, the worn material sporting enough holes it wouldn't even be a challenge for the little critter to get in. "If you can find anything in there worth a shit, it's all yours."

The rodents head swivels my way as if to ask, "Do you mean it?" And I motions to the bag, a chapped smile lifting a corner of my mouth. It turns, makes for the bag. I slip my hand into my tattered boot, pulling out a knife.

Sorry buddy, no one gets handouts anymore.

The blade slices through the air, a small whistle sounding through the room. A high pictured squeal replaces it. I stare at the dead rant, unmoving. The body twitches as a small, crimson liquid pools beneath it. Seconds pass and I wait in my spot.

One.

My breathing becomes elevated, my nose twitching as the smell of rot grows in the room.

Two.

My muscles become taught, shoulders curling forward.

Three.

I close my eyes, breathe, look up.

Four.

My bones groan, and dry skin pulls against them as I lean forward. One palm at a time I cross the small room.

Five. Six.

The rat's no longer twitching, the blood seemingly done flowing. My knife sticks out from the body, the metal catching on a stream of light. It shimmers in my eye, forcing my to squint.

Seven.

Small dots flicker in my vision and I frown as I watch the carcass. My stomach turns over, a low rumble gradually turning into a vicious roar. Saliva forms in my mouth. A dribble of it slips out from the corner and I wipe at it.

Eight.

My eyes glaze over as thoughts of food fill my body. Blood begins rushing through my veins. My heart beats a faster tune. The silence grows into a roaring, static sound.

Nine.

My hand darts out, fingers curling around the hilt of the knife. I pull it from it's piercing in the rotten wood flooring, the rat coming with it.

Ten.

Something heavy slams against the boarded up window, followed by gurgling sounds and hisses. The hair on the back of my neck stands and I watch the window, the streams of light going in and out now. More pounds follow and I crawl back to my original position against the wall, knees pulled to my shoulders.

I look at the rat, it's dead body handling lip from the small blade. A droplet of blood falls to my knuckle, the color a stark contrast to my flaky, pale skin. It's warm, much warmer than I've been the last few months, warmer then I'll probably ever be again.

More loud hits to the window and I look up, making out dark silhouettes beyond the cracks. I know what they want. It's always the same. Exactly ten seconds after any kill.

Scavengers.

My eyes travel back down to the droplet of blood, still sitting perfect atop my knuckle. My tongue flicks out, tasting the dead skin of my lips. My stomach screams at my, pleads with me, just a taste. Just a lick, and it'll be satisfied, but I know it's lying.

And I know I'll give in.

My eyes flicker to the boarded up window.

"They're scavengers," I look to the droplet, lifting it to my mouth, savoring the sweet, rustic taste.

But I'm the shark.