On reflection, teaching her how to pick locks had been a bad idea. She had always loved to hide and jump out on him, and for years after she’d gone he would find himself checking every room of the house for her when he came home, in case she’d broken in while he was out and was waiting behind something to surprise him. If he heard a bump in the night and went to investigate, it wasn’t burglars he expected to find. Of course, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that no matter how many times he looked, she was never there.

A voice rose out of the darkness; a voice like stone and metal. Peter couldn’t be sure whether he heard it through his ears or through his skin.

You are that which crawls upon the Earth. You congratulate each other on how far you have risen from the dirt, but this is only because you have the energy to spare in times of plenty. The society you wear is a threadbare cloak, to be discarded when times are lean. Underneath it you are all tooth and claw and bone. A winter comes, and no hive hast thou of hoarded sweets.

“I know what I am,” said Peter. “What are you?”

I am that which preys upon that which crawls upon the Earth.

The ladder ended eventually at a hatch – small, round, and secured tightly with a rusted iron wheel. Alice strained with the wheel for a moment, before shouldering the hatch open and disappearing through. As Peter followed he had the impression of a dark curtain falling around him, and it took him a moment to adjust.

It was the junkyard again. Piles of car husks, umbrella spines, filing cabinet shells, and coat-hanger claws towered on all sides.
“We’re here,” said Alice.
“We were headed here?” Peter asked.
“I guess so.”
There was a momentarily deafening roar, the ground shook, and a bloom of fierce orange spread briefly across the sky.
“Hang on,” said Peter, “I just remembered. Last night, when you fell, what happened?”
Alice’s brow creased. “Nothing. I woke up before I hit the ground, I think.”

The roar began again, then cut off abruptly as Peter jumped and found himself in darkness. His first thought was that he had woken and he was in his bed in the small hours of the morning, but he knew that was wishful thinking. He was still standing, the ground was hard and uneven underfoot, and Alice was gone, but there was something else in the darkness with him.

A West End man yesterday died of natural causes in his home at the age of 184. Doctors initially listed the cause of death as heart disease, however an autopsy later showed that although there was considerable cholesterol build-up it was within safe limits. This is the first death of natural causes to be recorded on British soil in over 40 years and, although it does not earn the deceased the record for the oldest ever human being, scientists are claiming that it provides great insight into the increased life expectancy the medical advances of the last century have afforded the developed world.

“A wise man once said to me: ´Some people don´t know what´s good for them. Sometimes the few can govern the needs of the many better than the many can themselves.´

I´m not sure if he was right. I don´t know whether it´s true that some people inherently need governing. But I challenge any of you to convince me that the people who rule over our lives today ‘know better’. Governments and corporations have had too much power over the people for too long, and they wield that power to their own ends. I looked at the world around me, and I saw war and I saw death and I saw greed and I came to the decision that it’s time I had power. Not over other men’s destinies, but over my own. And so I have worked long and hard, and finally I have that power.

I am offering you the chance to have that power yourselves, and what I ask in return is that you help me offer that power to everyone. I want to build an empire: beyond borders, beyond sex and beyond race. One that does not seek to govern or replace governments, but seeks instead to empower the people.

This is not hyperbole. This may be the most important endeavour mankind has ever undertaken. Imagine Romulus and Remus stood before you, asking that you help them to build Rome.”

The neighbourhood she grew up in was a harsh place, but she barely noticed. Maybe she was just lucky; maybe even the drug dealers and petty thugs recognised something of the magic in her and left her alone; maybe it was out of awe or respect for her sheer audacity or fearlessness that they let her walk down the street untouched, or dance across their front lawns in the rain. Hers was a charmed life. Not charmed like a princess in a storybook with a gilded cover, but charmed nonetheless. She had her share of troubles. More than her share; a fact so often missed by those whose own troubles she was wont to go to such lengths to lessen. Still, a stubbed toe was like as not to lead to the discovery of a shiny penny.

The world outside her back door was a magical place: the path down the back garden was a yellow brick road, the crawling space under the hedge led to the old forest, and it was a simple matter of pushing aside the loose palings in the back fence to find the great wide world – Oz, Neverland, Middle Earth, Camelot. The slow moving decay of suburban America. White paling fences, paint peeling in the relentless sun that beats down uniformly from a blue sky, featureless but for the power lines that sway in the breeze that teases the air above but does not reach the streets below; turf, once well kept, now ragged at the edges and patchy with brown spots and poorly tended weeds; cracked pavement lining cracked asphalt, and the faded yellow lines that reach to the horizon.

Clara came slowly to consciousness from what felt like a long way away. As her vision cleared and she found herself standing over the bed with bloodied hands still clasping the shard of mirror, her first instinct was to check the clock. Ten minutes had passed, which left her at least ten more before Dale might come knocking. Perhaps more. She looked back to the bed. The scene was horrific, that much was clear, but she did not feel horrified. She did not feel much of anything. The hard core of her being that had seen her through the worst of the last six years had been washed away. No, not washed. Burned. Incinerated by a fire that still burned within and left her feeling gutted, not warmed.

She could not think about the reason for that fire. Not now. If she stopped to think about it now she would fall to her knees and may never find the strength to stand again. Right now she had to decide what to do about the mess in the ten minutes she had left. The body she could probably dispose of. It was still mostly in one piece and could be tumbled out the window and dealt with when the night was deeper. Likely she could convince Dale that the man had left through the side door while he was busy at the bar. The blood was a problem. It had soaked the sheets and mattress, and was pooling on the floor.

There was nothing for it, really. She couldn’t stay here; didn’t want to, either. Luckily not all the clothes in the dresser were for the titillation of the clientele, and she was quickly dressed in trousers, a blouse and sturdy boots. She tore a strip from the one clean corner of the sheets to wrap the end of the shard of mirror that had until now been slicing into her fingers and the fleshy pad of her palm. and tucked it into her belt. The man’s wallet was in his pants on top of the dresser and she pocketed that too, before striding to the window and lowering herself into the night.

He understood about security blankets, and had never been surprised that they weren’t called security trucks or security dolls. He had a small stuffed toy with a ribbon around its neck that, for all intents and purposes, went everywhere he did. This is not to say that he took it with him when going to work or nipping down to the shops or heading out on the town; nor is it to say that the stuffed toy ever went anywhere outside the house. Still, whenever he slept in a bed that was not his own, the ribbon went with him.

“The base is under attack! Send the new recruits to the gate!”
“Sir?”
“There’s a spy in the outer compound. Some of the guard dogs have been found dead.”
“Just one spy, sir?”
“Yes, Colonel. Is that a problem?”
“No, sir, only… are we the bad guys, sir?”
“What insubordination is this?”
“No insubordination, sir. I’ll send the recruits as you’ve asked.”
“Good man. Get the rank and file on double patrols inside the base, post the elite guard around the lab, and then take up your position in the observation room. I’ll be in the lab itself.”
“Should we perhaps not post the elite guard on the gate? If the spy can kill them we’re all pretty screwed, and I’d rather not lose all our men to find that out.”
“Don’t be absurd, Colonel! Next you’ll be suggesting we all attack at once rather than hold back and take turns.”

Falling Blossom left the fluorescent strobe of U-Eat #2016 half an hour later. She had delivered the message. It had been an unpleasant task, but necessary. Who knew, maybe it would even be heeded. It was out of her hands, now.

The blue glow from the towering sign poured down over her as she climbed astride her bike: a sleek black thing, low to the ground. There was no seat as such; her weight rested mostly on her abdomen, the thrum of the engine echoing through her as she thumbed the ignition and pulled out of the lot. Soon she was headed west, towards the ocean and home, the freeway a blur scant inches below her knees and thrum of the engine risen to a steady whine.