Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Magic particles cling to my eyelashes, making them feel weighed down.
My trainers pound against the tarmac as I run down the middle of the street.
The damage cast off from the blown-up buildings makes every step uneven, and it’s hard to see with the smoke.
I jump over some undefinable rubble, and the balls of my feet sting.
Perhaps I should have stayed with Rich and attempted to do this when visibility improved. But if I can’t see the baddies, I’m betting my life on their inability to see me.
I’ve always watched apocalyptic or action films with a kind of smug demeanour, thinking if I were ever in that position, there’d be no way, no way in hell I’d run towards danger.
Safe on my sofa, tutting at the plot and people doing stupid things.
I was the first to shout at the screen for the characters to run and hide.
I’d hide out, I told myself, avoid groups, and get enough food and water to survive. Wait it out. Yet here I am, running across town to my family like a proper numpty.
Out in the open where the baddies prowl.
As I continually scan the ground for hazards, it’s hard to tell if I’m getting used to the smoke or if it’s slowly dissipating. Paranoia and fear sing a twisted song in my mind.
I’m so bloody scared.
The kill squad murdered that woman and attacked everyone in the supermarket. No, get it right, Kricket, they killed them. Why would they kill them? Surely they’d wait for the spell to work unless… unless anyone caught in it is dead anyway.
I don’t understand what the heck is going on. But why would I? This is above any frame of reference. People do bad things, and trying to understand their motives without all the facts will drive you mad.
When they killed everyone, I deviated from the plan to go straight to my family. Instead, I need to detour to my place to arm myself with spells. I mentally go over my charms. I haven’t got enough—I didn’t plan for a fucking invasion.
The council wants us to be passive little dragon bloods. Having magic of any kind other than their crappy spells is illegal, and if caught with unsanctioned spells, the repercussions wouldn’t be pleasant.
Producing any magic can lead to a death sentence.
That’s why I have everything stashed at my bedsit. If I do something stupid and get caught, I don’t want to implicate my mum or dad. Plus, if my brothers get hold of my charms, there’s no end to the pranks and mischief they’d get up to.
I sidestep a smouldering car. The magic I create is a passion project. It includes silly items like a carrot-shaped charm that allows you to see in the dark—an excellent idea for sneaking into the kitchen to grab a snack without turning on the light.
My wards are a little different; they are serious spells. If I can make powerful wards, perhaps I can make more hazardous magic. What’s that proverb? Necessity is the mother of invention. I’m pissed enough to invent some dangerous spells.
I hate it in this stupid glass prison of a place, but I don’t hate the people, and these invaders who have come here and are killing us have messed with the wrong bloody town.
Despite the bulky hood of my coat restricting my vision, my heart jumps as I glimpse something white out of the corner of my eye. Don’t look. I fix my gaze on the road. I don’t want to see the doors to the houses lining the streets eerily wide-open.
I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the Pied Piper spell is intricate, produced by a talented witch, and strong enough that the people caught in its grip can open doors. I don’t want to see the bodies of the spelled move within the smoke. As they trudge to fate knows where.
My hood does an excellent job of blocking out the stumbling masses. I can’t hear them, and… I’m in a real-life alien invasion and cannot help anyone. No matter how often I tell myself there is nothing I can do without the right magical tools, the light inside me dies, and guilt chips away at me.
Another part of me wants to think fuck it and follow, find out where the spell is leading them, and save the day.
Blow the baddie’s shit to kingdom come and rescue everyone.
It’s a ridiculous thought. I’m ridiculous.
What am I going to do against professional killers?
Unknown creatures that are armed to the teeth and can explode lightning from their palms?
Nothing, that’s what. I can’t do shit. My ego isn’t so big that I’ll fool myself into thinking I can deal with them.
A big piece of smouldering metal is stabbed into the tarmac like a freaky art installation. I slow and move onto the pavement to get around and squeal in fright as a woman slithers over a gate.
The tops of her bare feet drag against the pavement as she rocks onto her hands and knees and then stumbles to her feet. Her blonde hair covers her face as if she’s auditioning for The Ring.
Dressed in cartoon duck pyjamas and taking odd lurching steps, she heads down the road. Underneath the swirls of smoke, I can see bloody footprints. She’s hurt herself in her desperate attempt to get out of her house and over the padlocked gate—that damn spell.
Now she’s moving, her hair falls back, and I see her face.
“Chloe?” Oh no, I’m going to be sick. I swallow the bitter stomach acid back down my throat and hurry to catch up.
I block her path, and her sightless eyes stare through me and into the smoke.
“Chloe? Hey, Chloe, it’s me, Kricket. Kricket, from school.
” I wave my hand in front of her face, and when that doesn’t work, I reach out, gently grab her wrist, and give the limb a little shake.
She twitches, jerks her arm, slips out of my grip and takes determined, shuddering steps past me.
I run to get in front of her again. What the heck am I doing? You’re wasting time. Desperate, I reach for one of the saltwater bottles, spin off the cap, and pour the liquid over her head.
I wait.
The water drips from her nose, and her wet pyjama top sticks to her chest. She does not respond; her shuffling steps do not pause. Of course not. I can’t salt-dip her brain. She keeps on walking.
I hurry to catch her and grab her again.
I hold her more firmly this time, and she reacts more strongly to being restrained.
Her other arm sweeps out, cracking me across the face and into the neighbouring hedge.
The prickly bush digs into my back, and I must let her go to prevent the headphones from falling, but I’m not quick enough to stop the tea towel from dislodging and sliding down my face.
It splats onto the ground. I pull down my hood and secure it back around my face, all the while holding my breath.
When I glance back, Chloe has gone.
My heart sinks. “I’m sorry, Chloe.” I’m so bloody sorry. I sniff and turn back. I refuse to wipe my weepy eyes. I need to keep going. With hunched shoulders, I drift back into the road and jog again.
My face is now sore beneath the wet tea towel. As I move, the rough saltwater fabric, now peppered with dirt from the pavement, rubs my cheekbones. It feels like it’s digging a hole in my face, and my eye where she caught it is throbbing.
Woman up, Kricket. Think of Chloe and her bloody footprints. At least I’m able to feel pain, able to feel my face.
I narrow my eyes. That’s strange. The smoke ahead is oddly moving, parting like a wave. My eyes widen, and with a horrified gasp, I react in an instant, dropping to my knees.
Oh no.
A kill team is coming around the corner.
If I hadn’t noticed the change in the smoke… or spent the time trying to save Chloe, I might have met them further up the street, head on.
Fate has a funny way of keeping you safe.
I frantically hunt around for a place to hide. By luck, the vehicle I’m crouching next to has high ground clearance, and there’s enough room to get underneath.
In my head, I roll under like they do in films. Instead, I flop onto my back and use my legs to push, shunting myself under the car while one hand holds the bulky headphones and tea towel in place. My puffy coat makes the entire move an ordeal.
I cringe. I’m making way too much noise.
When I’m finally under the vehicle, I reluctantly turn my head and see shuffling, zombie-style feet. The spelled are giving me cover.
A stone or piece of rubbish digs into my shoulder as the kill team’s boots prowl closer. They’re on the other side of the rear tyre, close to my head. Then two pairs of feet from the group separate. I close my eyes. I brace myself to be dragged out.
Any second now...
My heart is beating so fast it’s going to burst from my chest and splat against the car’s undercarriage. A spicy wave of magic gives me goosebumps and tingles my nose. I grit my teeth and…
And I’m not dead.
Reluctantly, I peek. Their boots are facing away from me. Thank fate; they must not have seen me. With my limited vision and hearing, I try to make sense of what they are doing, and I think they’ve forced their way into someone’s home.
Why did they choose that house? Why not any of the others on the street? The answer burns into my brain, and my fingers twitch. I want to grab my phone and send a warning text, but my coat has shifted, and the handset is trapped under my lower back.
The front door was closed.
They’re clearing the closed-door houses; either the people inside are trapped—I swallow and instantly become sweaty and hot with the direction my thoughts are heading—or people are hiding. The space around me narrows, and the car’s non-existent weight crushes my chest.
People hiding like my family.