SWNOVELS Chapter Chapter Three
When Joe skidded onto South Street there was no sign of Graffo and the others. He was safe for now but Graffo would remember. Joe cursed. He shouldn’t have stood up to them. It wasn’t smart and he would pay for it later. Still, it felt ... good? No, not good, it felt right.
The street was deserted. Halfway down he saw his Uncle’s house; 62 South Street. It had the same blue door and the same satellite dish. The same green and black bins stood on the path and warm, yellow light spilled from the front room window. His Uncle would be on the couch watching breakfast TV and his Aunt would be making breakfast. He shook his head. He had almost believed the madman in the alley. He was convinced something terrible was waiting for Joe at home. But there it was, same as always.
He freewheeled along the pavement and was a few houses away when a sharp pain flared in his chest. The closer he got to home the worse it became until it burned like fire under his skin. He yelled out, grabbing his chest with one hand, and lost control of the bike. The front wheel jumped, flipping sideways and he tumbled over the handlebars into the snow. His bike clattered into a parked car and the alarm blared.
The pain in his chest throbbed and he rolled over onto his back. What was happening? Was he having a heart attack? Could he even have a heart attack at ten? He sat up, breathing heavily, and tried to stand.
A pair of dirty hands grabbed his collar and dragged him behind a wall. His feet left long grooves in the snow.
“Wytches!” hissed Shambling Sam. Joe was about to shout out for help when a piercing scream cracked the air like a thunderbolt. It was coming from everywhere and wasn’t like any scream Joe had heard before. A second horrible scream rattled the windows of nearby houses and a few people stepped out to see what all the noise was. Joe pulled against Sam’s hold, but his grip was like iron.
“Let me go!” he shouted. Sam’s eyes bulged.
“Oh quiet! Please! Please!” he begged. Behind them a man came out of the front door,
“What’s going on?” he asked. He was holding a golf club. “Is that you Joe?” Before Joe could answer another deafening scream rang out, louder this time and much closer. Shambling Sam turned Joe’s head back to his house,
“Look! See! See!” Behind the house the trees of Cardenfield Beat shook. A few startled birds lifted into the sky and sheets of snow slid from trembling branches. Sam shuddered and sank lower to the ground, dragging Joe with him. At the wood’s edge two trees buckled and splintered and a monstrous shape pushed through.
“Wytches!” Sam whispered again. Joe’s eyes widened.
The first Wytch lurched from the wood with a scream, a twisted mass of yellowing bones. It towered over the houses, with too many joints, as if its legs and arms were snapping as it moved. Loose skin flapped from its limbs and thick thorny hairs sprouted in clumps from its knees and elbows. It was dressed in filthy rags and its hair was black and crawling with bugs.
It squatted over Joe’s house like a spider and prized back the roof with its claws. Peering inside, it sniffed, as if it were looking for something and shoved in a hand to rummage around. Confused, it pulled back its gnarled hand and let the roof crash down again. It sniffed the air, once, twice, and slowly turned its head to where Joe and Sam were hidden. It screamed, drool flying from its lips.
Suddenly the front door opened underneath the creature and to Joe’s amazement his Uncle and Aunt burst into the garden. His aunt was wearing her pink dressing gown and still had curlers in her hair. His Uncle was wearing his usual yellow corduroys and a stripy tank top. For years they had proudly displayed a samurai sword and a crossbow over the fireplace; Just ornaments his Uncle told anyone who asked. Now they were brandishing them like experts and charging the Wytch attacking their home.
As Joe watched, mouth hanging open, his overweight Uncle flipped over the side fence, rolled between the Wytch’s legs and slashed out with the sword. His aunt raced across the garden and leapt over the fence after her husband. She landed on next door’s trampoline, sprang into the air and fired the crossbow. The bolt buried itself in the Wytch’s head and it roared.
“They’re ninjas!” Joe spluttered. From the trees a second Wytch appeared. Uncle Marty saw it too late and its bony arm lashed out sending him crashing into the side of the house. He fell to the floor winded and the wailing creature grabbed for him with a clawed hand. Just in time he rolled, the wall behind him exploding in bricks and dust, and lashed out with the sword, shattering one of its fingers in a cloud of bone.
Joe struggled harder, slipping free of his coat, and broke from his hiding place.
“I have to help them,” he shouted back, ignoring Sam’s wail of horror. Along the street car alarms still screeched, though most people had rushed back into their houses at the first sight of the Wytches. Others stood on their doorsteps, mouths open and eyes wide and unblinking. Joe sprinted across the road with no idea what he was going to do when he reached the fight, but certain he had to do something. Before he got there a white blur cannoned into him and sent him sprawling into the snow. A familiar face looked down at him.
“Flake?” The dog’s ears were flattened and she bared her teeth angrily, glancing back to the house. Uncle Marty was limping but still on the move and his aunt was firing wildly with the crossbow. A third Wytch was now pushing free of the woods and soon they would be overpowered. Flake turned her attention back to Joe.
“Get to the school!” she said. Joe blinked.
“Did you just speak? You ... Flake you just spoke!” The dog bared it’s teeth,
“Don’t call me that. It’s annoying. My name is Vyxen.”
A Wytch screamed, joined by the second, and then the third, until the din was so fierce, windows and windscreens cracked and shattered. They seemed to have forgotten all about Joe’s Uncle and Aunt. What were they doing? Then came another sound, a loud beating of air, and Flake turned back to Joe, growling deeply,
“Go now!” she barked, though Joe could barely hear her over the din, “... will protect you.”
Sam appeared, dragging Joe’s bike. He helped Joe up and pointed feverishly along the street. Joe followed his finger and his stomach lurched. Rising behind the crumbling remains of his home was a dragon. It roared and climbed higher, dark wings beating hard and swirling the snow into a flurry of flakes. A fierce fireball burst from its jaws and smashed into his uncle’s house, sending tiles flying.
“Not good. Dragon bad. We go now,” Sam said pulling Joe onto the crossbar. Before he could protest the muttering madman wheeled the bike round and set off to the school as fast as he could.