Week 1:
His mother had told him to never play with his food. But what was the point of the hunt if you couldn’t have a little bit of fun?
She stood dripping in white and water. Jano would have passed her if it wasn’t for the dress. He had almost given up for the day, but it was so bright against the rotting ships, only Jesus could have missed it.
Dinner, thought Jano.
They were hungry. No one had appeared in weeks. All the small animals, bunnies or the like, were gone. Killed to extinction after Jano and his pack had made the same washed up appearance as the girl.
Is it a girl? Jano questioned. Tender, but not much there.
Her first cry was low. Jano had rounded a ship, ghosting across the gap to the next one. It was just enough. Let her know that she wasn’t alone. It sent her circling, whipping at the whistle of the wind between the wooden cracks.
The sun was setting, the world turning from brown to dead orange. If this took much longer Jano would never be able to get the food back. There were new terrors in the dark. Things that even he would never want to meet face to face. If only she had arrived earlier. The games he would have played.
Jano sighed. He came around the bow of another ship, there were plenty on the beach. The girl had stopped, staring out into the water to where Jano assumed was her loss of freedom. She had to know that she would die. But maybe the thought had never come to her before his fangs clamped on her throat.
Week 2:
Food. Once a day it falls, wafting down with the current, drifting slowly till it's snatched mid-drop by awaiting bodies. It's the only time no one hides behind their makeshift hideyholes and dugouts. When you're desperate enough, you'll go out. Starvation can make anyone forget about the Eye.
Except for Max. He waits patiently, sitting behind his brownstone wall, its sides covered in green growth from all the moisture. His stomach grumbles. It's been a few days and waiting any longer will slow him down. The growth tickles his side when he moves. Still, he waits. That's his plan. Waiting. Most go right away, hunger covering fear. Max waits for the last moment, right before everything hits the bottom and is lost.
But today the drop is late.
Why? thinks Max. Is there a motive behind the delay?
Then everything happens in an instant. Food falls down in loads. A frenzy of bodies attack, snatching and darting. They shove each other, desperation fully kicking in.
Max senses it first. The empty sky above. No watching Eye sits hovering, a pool of white and brown. No unseen voice counting out the droves that have appeared.
Now he must go.
The first few pellets are beginning to crash on the pebble floor. Max moves. One bite and then another. It tastes amazing. He can feel the movements from above. Every last one of them must be out, he thinks. But as it's said, nothing good can last forever.
Like a freight train, the presence slams into them all. They can feel it's glare. It hangs there, locking onto the mob assembling. Could they have been fooled? Lulled into comfort by the food? Max, halfway through his third pellet, drops it all and swims faster then he thought possible. He must make it to the brown wall. He has to make it. The Eye can't see him, know that he’s here. His only chance lies in the mass of bodies frantically trying to make their own escape.
Once all the fish vanish from sight, the little girl gives up her counting and goes back to playing with her toys.
Week 3:
Her hands groped across the brick, leaving her fingertips raw. They could track her with a single drop of blood, but she didn’t care. Nothing would matter if she could find it in time.
A scream cut her heart like a knife. They were getting closer. Was she even in the right place?
Growing up she had been told the stories over and over. Their last hope. Freedom only given when all was lost. A door to get them all out. And now the time had come. There was no more hope for her, she was marked. She couldn’t wait for the others. What if there weren’t even others?
The air stirred. She could now hear wings beating. She pushed harder. Brick sliced skin and then gave away. Just a sliver, filled with white glowing light. Digging in, she felt the edge of the crack and tugged; once, twice, three times. Thud. She was too late. One of them had arrived.
No, she thought. With a guttural scream, she pulled feeling the brick edge slice her hands to the bone. Finally, the sliver budged and white light spilled out. The creature shied from it giving her just the second she needed to dive in.
Not knowing what to expect on the other side, she braced for the landing. Soft ground dampened the jolt. She had made it to paradise.
Week 4:
Knock.
Go away.
“Ace are you in here? We need you for the final dress rehearsal.” Karry’s voice floods the small confines of my tour bus. She’s blocking the only way out. I wish there was a place to hide. The cabinets would never fit me and the bathroom is no refuge. Cramped. Smelly.
“Fine Karry.”
Why didn’t I leave for that pizza when I had the chance? And now I know. I squirm under the rigid gaze that has come up the steps to land on me, leather seat giving away my shift of unease.
“Two shows in and I’m already dealing with this?” This being me, something she confirms with a gesture to my slutched, trying to appear calm, body. “The owner wants full dress too. Wants to make sure he’s getting what he paid for.” Her words fall flat at the end, eyes glancing to the locked cabinet fastened where a set of bunk beds used to reside. I don’t follow the glance. I know what’s there, locked tightly. I haven’t determined yet if that’s for my protection or its.
Nothing more needs to be said. I will her to leave, and she does. No surprise. Karry never wants to be in here with it. I want to leave too, but for some reason I’m drawn, never leaving the bus unless the fine woven caplet is resting on my shoulders.
Time to begin the ritual. First stop, the mirror. I’m combed and clean, the usual average man. Not the appearance of the platinum selling, sold out stadium tour rock star that I am. Next is the voice. I always have to check. Just a few notes to know. As usual, they are short, raw and plain out screeching. The point has been made.
The key slides in. It turns like butter. No creaking, no catch, it’s all too easy getting past the confines that enclose the cape. It shimmers even without a drop of light to refract off, looking like a thousand pounds but weighing more like feathers. One, two, three. I’m ready.
This time the mirror tells a different story. I’m the one glowing, if from fame or magic I can never tell. I look like a million dollars, old street clothes replaced with black leather pants and a white t-shirt. It all blends nicely with the shimming gold cape. But now comes the real test. A cough and sputter, will it work again? Deep breath and I go.
