It was hard to ignore the noise of so many wheels crushing the blacktop. The lights streaming through the darkened windows, screaming reds and purples and blues, an epileptic’s worst nightmare.
We huddled close together, barely daring to breathe. We knew who they were, of course, had always known, but none of us kids had ever seen them. The Sops were a myth to us, the dark forces our parents and grandparents had fought and won against. Yet, here they were.
My stomach rumbled and Mother tightened her grip around me. I caught Brent smirking at me in the flash of red, his face looking monstrous, distorted, as if his teeth were bleeding.
“Just a little bit longer, Ash,” Mother whispered close to me. “They’ll move on, and we’ll eat then.” She was rubbing small circles on my shoulder–a comfort, a silencing when the first bullet pierced the glass.
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