Chapter 6
Chapter Six
I put the phone away and get to my feet while I avoid glancing down at the bodies in the car park.
My eyes scan the road. “Ah, crap.” Of course, they’ve been caught in the spell.
The baddies are using it to zombie people out of their houses.
They hit our strongest, and now they are rounding the dragon bloods up like rats.
People are leaving their homes in droves and joining together to wobble down the street towards the source of the magic.
Hopeless.
I never knew what true hopelessness felt like until this very moment. I’m powerless. I have no magic on me and can’t do anything to help; there are too many people—hundreds of people. I have nothing to counteract such a potent spell.
Instead of debilitating tears, righteous anger burns in my chest and licks up my collarbone. A tiny mercy, they seem to be stumbling away from my parents’ house and towards the centre of town. Wow, and there we have it. I huff out a self-deprecating laugh. My selfishness astounds me.
You really see what you’re made of when things go awry.
As long as my family is all right, fuck everyone else. Right? Right? Bloody hell, Kricket, you are a twat. I rub my neck. That lump is back, grinding, clawing against the soft tissues of my throat.
It’s something else I’ll need to contemplate later. Bury everything. Forget what I’ve seen, and stuff everything away to deal with later. That’s probably where PTSD comes from—when people hide things and get on with it, and then later the memories sneak up and attack.
As if I can stare through the roof, I wonder if the supermarket is better insulated from sound.
If I act quickly, I can warn my colleagues and remaining customers.
They might not believe me and won’t be able to see with all the smoke.
If they are caught in the spell, there’s also a good chance that they won’t be able to get out if the doors are locked.
I might be able to help. Do something to prove I’m not a total loss of a human being.
I move to go back inside, turning my head for one last glimpse at the shuffling horde, and it’s then that I see them.
They move down the road in what I can only describe as a creepy half-shifted form, their bodies overly large. That’s not right. I don’t know massive amounts about shifters, but I do know they don’t have a half form—not like that.
Yet these creatures stalk down the street, their faces distorted and grotesque. They move in an arrow formation: one takes point, and the other five are spread out behind like a wedding train.
A strike team.
A kill squad.
I don’t know why I’m so sure, but fear of what they represent grabs hold of my insides and almost brings me to my knees.
I’ve never seen creatures move like that—like murderous dancers.
These six creatures ooze menace as they drift across the car park.
Even the freaky rolling magic smoke parts out of their way.
Under the tea towel, my mouth hangs open. I realise then that I’m standing, staring. I drop down so my silhouette doesn’t stand out against the night.
The creature at the rear on the far right cants his head in a weird, birdlike motion. The scary man’s attention is caught on something within the swirling smoke. I narrow my eyes, and the smoke rolls and shifts.
I see what has got his attention: a crawling woman. She’s caught in the sound spell, and she’s dragging herself along the tarmac; her legs appear to be broken. I bite my tongue so I don’t cry out a warning that she wouldn’t be able to understand as the spell has taken hold of her mind.
The creature at the back flicks his wrist, casually tossing a spell, and it hits the centre of her back.
There’s a flash of red, and she isn’t crawling anymore.
I jerk back. I’ve never seen that medical technique.
The tone of my inner voice is now bordering on manic.
Madness bites at my brain, and only the shock of the sick comment keeps me from wetting myself.
They’re closer to the supermarket now, and the big one at the front of the pack stops and lifts his hand. From his palm comes a bolt of something, almost like a lightning flash.
The bolt of magic hits the front of the building, and the same glass windows I was so worried about before shatter.
The building shudders. The lack of blowback suggests all the glass debris has blown inside the store.
I lean forward as far as I dare, trying to see what they’re doing, but the angle is all wrong.
I can’t see. They don’t stop advancing. Boots must crunch on the glass as they enter the store.
Shit. I’m trapped—or will be trapped if I stay here for a second longer.
I can’t go down there, and I can’t stay here.
I force myself to move. I haven’t got time to think.
I run for the roof door and scramble through the office to the stairs.
I slow before I hit the metal. I don’t need to break my neck.
On my toes, I move down the steps as quietly as possible—no need to rattle them.
Just as my trainers hit the stock room floor, Rich staggers into the back area. His eyes are wide and glazed with fear. “Kricket.” Even with the tea towel covering half my face, he recognises me.
Rich is alive!
I wave him into silence. Grabbing his wrist, I drag him away from the wide-open doorway and deeper into the shelves, holding the flat of my hand out in a universal sign for him to wait.
He nods.
I haven’t got much time. I dash to the office and grab two noise-cancelling sensory headphones hanging by the door. We only have the two; they’re for our autistic customers.
“Outside, they are using a Pied Piper spell.” My lips barely move, but my words must make it through the tea towel as Rich nods his understanding. I can’t believe he hasn’t already been caught up in the magic. Whatever the kill squad are doing must be louder than the spell.
The freckles across his cheekbones stand out stark against his sickly pale face. I plop the set of expensive headphones over his ears while donning my own.
I don’t remove my hat or the hair stuffing my ears. I’m scared to let any sound in. Instead, I tug the hood of my coat up for added security and to wedge them in place.
Now I can’t hear, and the hood has reduced my visibility, but it can’t be helped. I can’t be caught in that spell.
I mime keys. Rich pats his pocket and gives a jerky nod.
I take his damp hand and pull him across the stock room and through the rear fire door.
Rich is gangly and easy enough to tow behind me.
He’s talking, mumbling to himself. Before we hit the smoke, I read his lips.
“They killed them. They killed them all.”
My stomach sinks. I squeeze his hand, the only comfort I can give him.
I know where he lives. It’s a mid-terrace house directly across the street. Thank fate, it’s not opposite the front of the store, where the kill team went.
Rich’s house is so close, but entering the thick magic smoke is disorienting. The smoke burns my eyes. Rich covers his mouth with his arm the best he can, and his shoulders shake. He’s coughing. I have to fight down the urge to join him.
I should have wet the bottom of his polo with the saltwater solution so he could have held the fabric up to cover his face. It’s too late now, and it’s best to keep moving.
The trip across the road feels like miles. I make sure to keep us straight as best I can. Stumbling on the kerb, I almost go down but retain my balance with a weird shuffle hop. I begin to doubt my navigational skills, and then suddenly Rich’s peeling blue front door is there.
We made it.
It takes Rich a few tries to insert the key into the lock. His hands shake so much that I’m about to help him when the door swings open.
“Come inside,” he mouths.
I shake my head, pat him on the arm, and step back, disappearing into the smoke.