Raggy Maggie

The old television set gave a faint clunk as I switched it on. In a few seconds, an all-too-familiar scene appeared.

Hundreds of the creatures. Cars and buildings ablaze. People screaming. People running. People dying.

Hell on Earth.

‘That’s New York,’ she said.

Click. Another channel, but the footage was almost identical.

‘London.’

Click.

‘I’m…I’m not sure. Somewhere in Japan. Tokyo, maybe?’

It could have been Tokyo, but then again it could have been anywhere. I clicked through half a dozen more channels, but the images were always the same.

‘It happened,’ I gasped. ‘It actually happened.’

I turned back to the window and gazed out. The clouds above the next town were tinged with orange and red. It was already burning. They were destroying everything, just like he’d told me they would.

This was it.

The world was ending.

Armageddon.

And it was all my fault.

TWENTY-THREE DAYS EARLIER… (#ulink_5c7eb066-0f2e-5996-8eac-fc8c91f9a00d)

Chapter One I DON’T LIKE MONDAYS (#ulink_edcfbc55-1b98-52f6-aa2d-be5a32dfe6ad)

Iawoke with a start, clutching at my covers, my skin slippery with sweat. It was the dream again. The long, dimly lit corridor. The locked door. The clop-ssshk of strange, unknown footsteps chasing me, then the soft giggle as I was dragged down into the darkness. The same story, night after night after night.

As always, the details of the dream quickly began to fade. I usually remembered the bigger things – the lights in the corridor going off; the grey, shapeless figure battering against the windows; even the voices on the other side of the locked door. It was the little details that got lost. I always remembered the voices whispering to me, but I could never recall a single word of what they actually said. Hopefully it wasn’t anything important.

I lay there for several minutes, slowly letting myself come round. There’d be no getting back to sleep, but lazing in bed for a few hours would be better than nothing.

Assuming I had a few hours. I had no idea what time it was. It was dark outside, but that didn’t help at all. It was early January, and dark until almost half past eight these days.

From the corner of my eye I could make out the red glow of my radio alarm clock. I couldn’t bring myself to turn and look at it. If I did then I might discover I had to get out of bed, and that was something I wasn’t ready to do. Not yet.

There were noises downstairs. That had to be bad news. The rattling of plates meant Mum was up, and the burning smell meant she was making breakfast. It would soon be time.

I shuddered at the thought of what awaited me today, and snuggled down into my covers. Despite the dream, right at that moment I felt completely safe and secure – something I hadn’t felt in a fortnight now. I pulled the duvet up to my chin, wanting to prolong the sense of security for as long as I could.

It had been less than two weeks since Christmas Day. Less than two weeks since “The Incident”. Since then, I’d been constantly on edge, always expecting something to come jumping out of the shadows, or crashing through my bedroom window.

But there had been nothing. No monsters. No journeys to other worlds. No cryptic messages from long-lost relatives. Nothing.

As the days passed, the sense of dread faded a little, only to be replaced by a new creeping terror. Another nightmare had been drawing steadily closer, and now it loomed on the horizon. Something that promised to be almost as bad as Christmas Day had been. Something horrible.

‘Kyle,’ Mum shouted from the bottom of the stairs. ‘It’s time to get up.’

I groaned into my pillow, knowing there was no way of escaping my fate. Knowing without doubt that the time had finally come.

Raising my head, I looked in the direction of my bedroom door. Through the gloom I could make out a grey shape hanging there, its long, thin arms flapping loosely down by its sides.

My shirt. Mum had ironed it. That confirmed things. The holidays were officially over.

It was time to go back to school.

Mum was scraping the black bits off a slice of toast when I shuffled into the kitchen, tucking my shirt into the itchy grey trousers of my uniform. She had quite a fight on her hands – the toast seemed to be nothing but black bits.

‘I made you toast,’ she said, ‘but it might be a bit…crispy.’

I caught sight of another few slices of burned bread and headed for the food cupboard. ‘I’ll just have cornflakes.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Mum shrugged, but I could tell she was secretly relieved. She let the toast drop into the bin, then turned to face me. I could feel her watching my every move as I poured myself the final dregs from the cornflakes box and sloshed them with the last of the milk.

She waited until I had crammed the first spoonful into my mouth before she started to speak.

‘Excited about going back?’

I couldn’t reply, so I just shrugged.

‘It’ll be fun,’ she smiled. ‘It’ll do you good to get out of the house and mixing again. You’ve hardly set foot outside the door since…’ The sentence was left hanging there. ‘It’ll be fun,’ she repeated, at last.

Mum didn’t like talking about what had happened. I’d tried to bring it up in the days after Christmas, but she’d always changed the subject. Now I didn’t even bother to mention it, because I couldn’t stand the awkward silences it created.

‘We’ve got a visitor this afternoon,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘Little Lilly from down the road. I’m babysitting.’

‘Little Lilly who?’ I asked, through a mouthful of cereal.

‘Lilly Gibb. She’s three. Angela’s little one.’

That didn’t help. I didn’t even know who Angela was. ‘What does she look like?’ I asked.

‘You’ve seen her before. Little girl. Blonde hair,’ Mum said. ‘Isn’t her brother in your class? Billy, I think.’

‘Billy Gibb’s sister’s called Lilly?’ I snorted. ‘Billy and Lilly. Very imaginative.’

Mum’s smile was thin-lipped. ‘Not everyone has your imagination.’

She wasn’t wrong there. I doubted anyone had an imagination quite like mine. Lucky for them.

‘She won’t be here for long, will she?’ I asked. I couldn’t be bothered with a little kid running around the house.