For an uncountable number of seconds the witch’s scream holds, mingling with ours. Then it stops. All the screaming stops in the space of a second or two. Eerie, unnatural silence.
I don’t want to take my arm away, but I must. I have to look. Others are peeping too, although most are still covering their eyes or looking away from where the witch was standing.
Mrs Egin is gone. Nothing of her remains, except a circle of blood and grisly carnage, covering the grass, Logan and many of the children. And at the centre of the circle — a panel of greyness.
The large grey patch of light hangs motionless a foot or two above the ground. It’s three or four feet wide, maybe six or seven high. Jagged round the edges.
I’m not the only one who can see this light. Others are pointing at it, gasping, murmuring, “What the hell is that?” This is a different type of light from the ones I usually see.
Logan rises, rubbing his head. Stares in disbelief at the gory mess, then at the grey wall of light. He’s an educated, experienced man. But he’s seen nothing like this before.
“She exploded!” a boy yells, excited. “Did you see her? It was amazing!”
“Is she dead?” a girl asks, voice trembling.
“What’s that light?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Yeah.”
Logan walks round the panel of light. I can only see his feet when he’s behind it. Then he comes back into view. He’s more bewildered than afraid, like most of the kids around me. The light has made more of an impression than Mrs Egin exploding! Perhaps they’re in shock, not ready to deal with the explosion – and her death – yet.
“We have to get away from here.”
I hadn’t meant to speak, but now that the words have popped out, I know I’m right. Everybody gawps at me. “This is bad!” I shout. “That light’s dangerous. We have to run.”
“It’s OK, Kernel,” Logan says. “This is mind-blowing, but we’re in the midst of something wondrous. I’m not sure what’s going on, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to experience the miraculous. Mrs Egin… this light… it’s incredible!” He beams with delight.
Some kids get to their feet and drift towards Logan and the panel of grey light. They’re not afraid now that Logan isn’t. They trust him. They think he knows best.
“This is wrong!” I yell. “It’s evil! Can’t you feel it?”
“You shouldn’t be so suspicious, Kernel,” Logan laughs uneasily.
“You’re covered in blood!” I roar angrily, unable to believe that someone so smart can be this stupid. “Mrs Egin’s dead! You’re walking through her guts!”
Logan blinks. Looks down at his blood-soaked shirt and trousers. His red hands. The mess around him. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Oh my–”
Something bursts out of the grey light. It has two long legs, a stumpy, leathery body, four arms which end in thick, hairy fingers. A dark green head, a cross between a human’s and a dog’s. No mouth. Long draping ears. Wide, white, evil eyes.
The thing grabs Logan. It somehow makes a hissing, whistling noise. Logan stares at it in shock. Two of its hands lock on his head. The others clasp his shoulders. The hairs on its fingers extend, growing at an unnatural speed, digging into the flesh of Logan’s face. One hair darts into his right eye, puncturing it. Logan shrieks with pain.
Then the thing’s upper arms jerk apart quickly — ripping Logan’s head off his neck! The monster tosses it to the ground. Stamps down hard with its right foot. And Logan’s severed head pops like a melon dropped from a great height.
The thing looks at the rest of us. Spreads its arms and hisses. And thirty-four kids scream as one and crap their pants.
KIDNAP
→ Chaos. Everyone’s running, crashing into each other, falling, screaming. I’m part of the madness. Clutching Art in my arms. Fleeing blindly. Away from the grey light and the four-armed monster. Trying to stay on my feet. Weeping, partly because Logan has been killed, mostly because I’m terrified.
A girl smashes into me and knocks me to the ground. I manage to fall with Art on top of me, so he isn’t injured. He’s laughing — he thinks this is a game. I start to yell at the girl, but then I see blood gushing from her throat, her arms thrashing. She topples over. Flops about, then goes very still.
I look away before I can focus on her face. I don’t want to know who she is. Right now I want to concentrate on the one thing that matters more than anything else — getting out of here before the monster kills me.
I push myself to my feet, chest heaving. Look for the best way out. It’s hard to tell. I’m surrounded on all sides by panic. I count two, three, four dead children — then stop. I don’t want to know the numbers.
The monster’s on top of a boy — Dave English, who was so afraid of death. The beast’s fingers are buried in Dave’s stomach. It’s gazing around, white eyes darting from one child to another. Like it’s choosing its next victim. Or looking for someone in particular.
I’m getting ready to run again when I spot movement in the panel of grey light. A man steps through. Behind him is a blonde woman. Another woman after her, Indian, wearing a sari. Then a second dark-skinned man.
The Indian woman curses when she sees the corpses. Starts after the monster, her hands coming up, murder in her eyes.
“Sharmila! No!” barks the first man. He’s old. He has a short beard and messy dark hair. A shabby suit.
“We must stop this!” the Indian woman shouts.
“No,” the man repeats, and I can tell by his tone that he’s accustomed to being obeyed.
“Master…” the second man says uncertainly. He has the darkest skin I’ve ever seen, as if his mother was the night.
“I know, Raz,” the first man snaps. “But we mustn’t kill him.”
“The children,” the Indian woman snarls. “I will not stand by and let that demon murder all these children. That would be monstrous.”
“She is right, master,” the black man says.
“Oh, very well,” the man in the shabby suit grumbles. “We’ll save as many of the young as we can. We don’t want to be considered barbarians.” He laughs then signals for the others to spread out. “Work Cadaver back to the window and force him through. We’ll track him down again later.”
This sudden appearance and surreal conversation has astonished me so much, I’m standing still instead of fleeing for safety. The monster – a demon, the woman said – has moved on from Dave English and is lolloping after a girl. She’s racing from it like an Olympic sprinter, but the monster’s legs are longer and it catches up with her in a couple of seconds. Reaches out with its long, hairy fingers… then recoils when the ground at its feet explodes upwards.
The demon makes a high whistling sound, its head snapping round. It spots the four humans who came through the panel (or window, as the man called it). It glares at them, white eyes filled with fury and hate. They’re closing in on it from both sides, leaving a path to the window free. Pale blue light crackles from the black man’s fingertips — I guess he made the ground explode, distracting the monster and saving the girl.
Art bites my right arm, hard. It’s the first time he’s ever bitten me. I get such a shock, I drop him and collapse on my bum. He lands with a heavy thud, rolls over, then crawls towards the demon, gurgling happily. He must think it’s some giant toy. He’s so anxious to play with it, he bit me so I’d release him.