Little Spark

1 - Glow Girl

I have to beat them.

My lungs burn, my muscles ache, and my heart's about to beat out of my chest, but I know I have to keep going because if I don't, the couple in the blue house will wind up dead just like Mom. I couldn't save her, but I can save the couple if I can beat the others.

As the bridge comes into view, my arms and legs feel heavier. It's like I'm trying to run through the red Jell-O Mom forced down her throat every day during her last two weeks because it was the only thing she could keep down. A sob builds in my chest, but I gulp it down because now isn't the time to cry. I can hear the crunch of dead leaves not too far behind me, and I know the others are gaining on me. I hate that I'm so sluggish; they're able to walk almost as fast as I'm "running". It's almost as unfair as losing a mother to stupid lymphoma.

"We're almost there." The man's scratchy voice ricochets off the trees, and pain explodes in my head and shoots down my arms and legs. I feel unnaturally large beads of sweat exit the pores at my hairline, and the thump of my hair against my back as I run. The scent of hickory and damp earth are carried on the cold wind that freezes the tip of my nose, and the river roars in my ears like white noise as my feet pound across the planks of the old bridge.

"This is it," the woman says, her voice slicing through the air like a swing of the Grim Reaper's scythe. "Everything we've worked for. It all pays off tonight."

As I step off of the bridge, I glance back over my shoulder and trip over a fallen branch, tumbling into the trunk of an oak tree. Pain shoots through my left hip as I roll onto my back, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to stop the sky from spinning.

"Hold on, I have to rest for a second," the woman says. I turn my head and watch her lean against the bridge railing, and as I lay there with my hip throbbing, I wonder if she's having second thoughts. She tilts her head back and lets the breeze rush over her face, which is ghostly white against the black of her hood. The man, who is dressed identically, adjusts the hood of his own black sweatshirt then sticks his gloved hands into the pockets of his black pants.

I scramble to my feet, determined to keep going despite the angry stab that zips from my hip to my ankle each time my foot hits the ground. The clearing comes into view in the near distance, and I push into a staggered sprint.

When my bum leg hits the concrete after running on dirt for so long, brain-numbing pain wracks my whole body; I have to clench my teeth to keep from puking. As my vision clears, I see the ocean blue house, two stories high with a wraparound porch and a naked but dignified magnolia tree in the front yard. I want to scream out, to warn the people inside that the others are coming, but I'm too out of breath. I rush across the street, through the gate of the picket fence, past the scarily lifelike hawk statue standing guard in front of the newel post, and up the five stairs to the porch.

Panting, I reach for the doorknob, but just before my hand connects with the metal, a glacial blast hits me from behind and seeps inside my body. My blood turns to icy shards in my veins, and the pain makes me want to claw my eyes out, but my vocal chords have locked up so I can't even scream.

As the cold feeling drains from my front like it's being sucked out with a vacuum, the hooded woman materializes in front of me. She silently turns the knob, and eases the door open. I step forward and reach for her jacket to stop her from going inside, but then the hooded man hits me from behind and passes through me like the woman did. I tumble forward as he slips into the house behind her, and my fingertips graze the knob of the closing door on my way to the ground. The porch floor rushes up to meet my face, and the metallic tang of blood fills my mouth the moment my chin hits. I push up to my hands and knees, but the moment I stop seeing double, I hear the deadbolt slide into place.