"The siren sounded - a dying animal crawling home to its cave.

 The Purge had begun."

 ---------

The night swallowed me.  I had the impression of being enveloped in a dusky shroud protecting me from any beasts which might prowl the darkness.  The lights along this road weren’t working.  After so long there were still some utilities which needed repair and street lighting was low on the list of necessities.  After all, you were now safe walking the streets, weren’t you?  The only light came from the houses which watched me pass.  I could feel their eyes on me as I walked.  Scrutinising.  Judging.  The residents were watching TV behind closed curtains or making love or arguing.

Or plotting what they were going to do the day after tomorrow.

Judge me, then.  I was doing what must be done.  I was avenging in a world were vengeance had taken a holiday, being pushed into the plane trip and ocean view hotel room by the dawning light of a safer, happier new era.  Vengeance had been purged.

Well.  Almost.

As the adrenaline from my escape faded, seeping from my fingertips like stardust from a meteor which had hurtled through the sky, only to burn up with the Earth just within its grasp, a pain in my right shoulder increased.  I tried to ignore it at first, thinking I’d probably banged myself during my flight, but it quickly intensified until it felt like my entire upper right side was aflame.

I began to limp, not because there was any similar pain in my legs, but because the fire in my shoulder was burning down my side.  Finally, I stopped.  I put my hand to my shoulder and felt a wetness.  Pulling my hand away, I could see a dark stain on my palm.  I moved closer into the light from the nearest house.

Blood.

The gun hadn’t missed.  Not entirely.  Whilst the wall had taken the brunt of the shot, some of the pellets must have hit me.

I’d been shot.  Me.  Without trying to, Mr. Composure had managed to do the same to me as he’d done to my parents.  Again, almost.  I was still alive – though for how long I didn’t know.

 No.  If I was going to die, I wouldn’t have been able to run as I had.  I wouldn’t be still walking, though I felt I might faint at any moment.  I’d been wounded.  Nothing more.  I blinked back tears and breathed in a long breath of resolve.  Turn it around.  Use it against him.  Beat it.  Beat him.

I walked, as best I could, back to the corner.  I put my hand back to my shoulder, digging my finger into a hole which, only a few moments before, hadn’t been there.  I clenched my teeth to stop my whimper becoming anything more, then fell to my knees, planting my hand firmly against the pathway.  It was a sign.

This way.

I turned and started my way home – the home I’d made next door to Frank and Wendy.  I stopped every few yards and left another mark.  Sometimes a footprint, smearing the blood on my sole.  Sometimes a few drips.  I couldn’t remember how much blood was in the human body.  I hoped there’d be enough to both get me home and to leave a trail of breadcrumbs much like those I’d seen at a house I’d visited once.

The journey home was long.  Much longer than it would have been any other time.  Many times I had to stop, panting and unsteady.  At least twice I found myself face down in the street.  But I managed it.  As the sun rose and the birds greeted me back – with a song I finally appreciated – I staggered through my front door.

I’d let the flow of blood slow as I neared my house, using what coated my hands to paint the trail.  Once inside, I did the best I could to dress the wound as I’d read in my books, took more painkillers than I should have and collapsed, exhausted, on the living room sofa.

When I awoke again it was late afternoon.  I could hear activity from outside and crawled to the window.  People, neighbours I knew but didn’t really, were readying their homes for the Purge.  They were excited, a nervous anticipation.  I saw them chatting whilst loading guns and pulling down barriers.  I saw them being friendly with the very people they could be planning to kill or thinking they might need to protect themselves against.

My eyes closed again and didn’t open until it was, once more, dark.  I was horrified.  I’d slept the day away!  I had things I needed to do.  Arrangements to make.  I looked at the clock and saw it was only an hour until the Purge was due to start.  Outside, the street was quiet, residents waiting until the witching hour.  I wanted to check in on Frank and Wendy, but didn’t have time.  If they were fine last year, I hoped they would be this year too.

My shoulder ached and a sharp needle of pain lanced through when I moved it.  First things first.  I changed my dressing and swallowed more painkillers.  It was all I could do.  The bleeding had stopped and I needed to move.  I was expecting a guest.  It would be rude to be unprepared.

 Preparations took less time than I anticipated.  I’d made most of the modifications to the house throughout the year so now, I just needed the final touches.  These shouldn’t have taken long, but I’d seen how Time liked to play her silly games with my life and I fully expected that last hour to be snatched away like pocket money from the school geek by the playground bully.

Candy from a baby.

I made a couple of sandwiches and took a bite, leaving the rest on the plate at the kitchen table.  I didn’t touch the drink I’d poured, instead taking a few quick gulps from the tap at the sink.  I pressed the button – the big red ‘Activate’ button by the front door – and heard the shutters shift into place. While most had upgraded to the newer, better, more secure systems, I’d stuck with the good ol’ easy to break into model.

The siren sounded - a dying animal crawling home to its cave.

The Purge had begun.

I waited, not wanting to turn on the television and witness the carnage I knew would ensue.  I didn’t need to see it.  I could hear it.  Screams.  Gunshots.  Shouting and laughter and explosions and crashing cars.  A couple of times there were bangs on the shutters but whoever it was moved on.

He would be here soon.  He would find me.

He had to.

Yes, I could have gone after him.  I knew where he lived so could happily have shot him in the head or the stomach.  But no.  He needed to come to me.

Once, someone attempted to bypass the security.  At first I thought it was Mr. Composure, but the hand pushing around the door belonged to a much bigger man.  The fingers were thick sausages with dirty, bitten nails.  Each was adorned with a garish gold ring.  It wasn’t Tom.

I took the knife I’d spent a long time sharpening and pressed it, hard, to the tip of the index finger, just above what remained of the nail.  There was a squeal and a lot of swearing, but the hand was quickly removed. I picked up the amputated tip and threw it in the kitchen bin.  If I’d still had a dog…

I began to yawn as the hours passed.  Even with the cacophony from outside, tiredness soaked into my pores as if I were a sponge with fatigue being the ocean.  I needed distraction.  With a sigh, I switched on the television.  I kept the sound muted, but watched the news.  It was a similar picture to the previous year.  Dread and disorder, fires and fear.  All in the name of a progressive society.

Next to my TV was a laptop.  I’d hooked it up to CCTV cameras.  It was the done thing, though I only needed them for one thing.  To let me know my visitor had arrived.  The screen had gone to sleep, something I envied, so I tapped on the touchpad and the screen lit up.  The monitor showed a miniature version of the events on its larger cousin.  A microcosm of mayhem.  It seemed the whole street was aflame.  Across the road, Mr. Edwards was chasing a group of teenagers with a gun.  I saw him trip and fall.  So did the teenagers.  The picture flipped to another camera’s feed just as they raised their hands and brought their crowbars and hammers down.

At a steady pace, the images cycled around my house, seeking any intruders.  For the longest time, there were none.

Then, he was there.  I expected him to slip around the back, much as I’d done to him.  He didn’t.  No, he was Mr. Composure.  He didn’t need to sneak.  With his shotgun – dad’s shotgun – over his shoulder, he walked up to the front door and knocked.

I had a sudden urge to let him in.

“Hey, Tom, how you doing?  Thanks for dropping by.”

“Hey yourself.  I’m good thanks.  Thought I’d come and beat you up a little.  Maybe make you swallow the barrel of my gun?  You feeling peckish?”

“I’ve just eaten, thanks, but I wouldn’t mind dessert.”

I watched him.  He looked at the camera and smiled.

Moving the mouse, I clicked to stop the picture changing to another point of view and to switch on the camera’s microphone.  Needless to say, after my first impulse, I didn’t answer the door.  He knocked again.

“I know you’re there,” he said, calmly, naturally.  “Let’s get this over with.”

I continued to watch, switching off the television so the laptop was my entire world.

“I went to your old house first,” he said.  “Thought you’d still be there.  I remembered you well.  You weren’t, of course.  Killed the couple who were.  May as well.  They didn’t put up much of a fight.  Shame that.  No fun.”

He remembered me?  How?  He hadn’t even seen me!  I’d kept out of the way.  In the shadows.  Up the stairs.

He knocked again, casually.  He wasn’t waiting, or expecting, for the door to be opened.  He was simply letting me know he’d come.  I knew.

“Then I saw your trail of blood.  I knew you’d been shot.  That would have been a laugh, shooting yourself with your own gun.  Genius.  Saved me the trouble, not that it is a trouble.  My pleasure in fact.”

He banged the shutter covering the door with his fist, signalling the end of the one-sided conversation, then turned away.

Here we go.

I closed the laptop’s lid, took a focussing breath with my eyes closed, then turned away myself.

The only other easy way in would be the back door, a natural second entry point.  The door led directly onto the kitchen and I heard him fumbling with the shutter and then the door lock.  I’d deliberately not pulled the shutter down properly.  I didn’t want to make it too difficult for him.  I waited for the lock to give, as I knew it would, and stepped just out of sight in the hallway which joined the front door to the kitchen.

There were two other doors off the hall.  One was to the lounge and the other was to the dining room, which had a set of large, glazed French doors allowing a second entrance into the kitchen.  The stairs went from the lounge doorway up to a small landing with the three bedrooms and a bathroom opening off it.

Tom walked in, closing the door behind him.  Conscientious of him.  He saw the food I’d left on the table and picked up the sandwich I hadn’t started.  He sniffed it.  Ham and cheese.  He smiled and took a bite.  It took a moment for him to realise the tiny glass shards I’d scattered between the cheese and ham were digging into his tongue and mouth.

I was fresh out of pickle.

He spat and quickly grabbed the glass next to the plate, taking a large gulp.  I don’t know if he knew what urine tasted like, but he clearly didn’t appreciate my culinary efforts.  He spat again, blood, glass and piss spraying the table and floor.  I guessed he wouldn’t be leaving a tip.

I’d left the ‘food’ in such a place he’d have to have his back to me, so I stepped from my hiding place. He looked up as he saw movement and, faster than I could have predicted, shot at me.

The long mirror I’d placed opposite the door I was standing at splintered, throwing fragments across the room.  A few hit Tom and some landed at my feet.

I laughed as evenly as I could.  By the time he’d turned around, I’d gone, disappearing into the cupboard under the stairs.  The cupboard was little more than an enclosed space which had once been open but now had been boarded to create somewhere to hang coats and throw old, worn shoes.  I’d cleared it out months before, making some modifications to the staircase structure.  It was now empty, devoid of castaway footwear and jackets.

I listened intently for signs of his movement.  The spitting had stopped.  He was poised once more.  I quietly opened the panel I’d cut and crawled through into the lounge.  I’d positioned the sofa to conceal the opening, giving me just enough space to cover my movements.  The panel fitted silently back into place behind me.

Tom was in the hallway.  I heard him open the dining room door.  He was humming softly to himself, occasionally stopping to spit what I presumed was blood.  He’d be making a mess of my carpets.

I stood and quickly climbed over the sofa.  My painkillers must have been wearing off as, when I put pressure on my arm to support me as I swung my leg over, pain jabbed into my shoulder.  My arm went, the elbow giving way.  I fell forwards onto the floor, landing in a heap as Tom walked in.

“Ah,” he said, smiling.  “Here you are.  Nasty trick you played there.  Wasn’t nice at all.”

He touched his hand to his mouth and showed me the blood which coated his fingertips.

“How am I going to eat a Big Mac now?”

He raised his gun, stock down, and went to smash it into my face.  I kicked out, ignoring my shoulder, my foot connecting sharply with his knee.  He yelled and fell back, dropping the gun.  I lunged for it, but he was faster and pulled it from my grip.  It spun in his hand and I was suddenly looking down both barrels of my father’s shotgun.

“Now, now,” he said.  I thought his tone would be mocking, but it wasn’t.  It was as if he was just chatting with me.  Passing the time.  “Why be like this?  Why cause so much hassle?  You’ll end up getting yourself hurt.”

I remained silent.  I had nothing to say to this man.  I only wanted him to suffer.

“You’re a right one,” he said, standing.  He limped as he moved.  I smiled.  “You like that, do you?  Causing me pain?  Say, why not just join me, hmmm?  Why not come with me and let’s make this Purge our own?  What do you say?  You, and me and Clara?”

Clara?  She suited Rose more.

“Granted,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact I wasn’t speaking, “she’s not going to be much help with the broken arm I had to give her.  She did leave the gate open, you see.”

I shook my head.  “You can’t help yourself,” I said.  “You just have a need to hurt people.”

He looked hurt, a false offence only employed to ridicule me.

“Not at all!  They gave us this Purge.  It’s only fair we take advantage of it.  Make use of it.  You and me!”

“No,” I said quietly.

He laughed his casual laugh.  I punched as hard as I could, moving past the barrel of the gun before he could react, my hand hitting him in the face.  I felt his nose break and he fell back again.  He made a grab for my foot as I ran out of the room.  I left my shoe in his grip as I sprinted up the stairs, two at a time.

He followed me and stood swaying at the bottom step.

“You little shit,” he hissed.  He wasn’t composed anymore.  He was angry.  “You’re mine now!  I thought we could be friends, partners, with you killing your own parents and all!  You can ram it now!”

He moved up to the next step and stared at me.  My expression must have spoken louder than any warning siren.

Kill my parents?  Why would he say I’d killed my own parents?  It was him!  I’d seen him do it!  I saw him pull the trigger!

“Why’re you looking so shocked?  Didn’t you know I’d seen you?  Was going to do it myself, but you beat me to it.  Never seen a kid do that before.  You shouldn’t have run off.  You could have come with us and had some more fun.”

“You!” I yelled.  “You did it!  I saw you!”

 He laughed again, the anger fading quickly to be replaced by amusement.

“Me?  Oh no.  Not I, said the fly.  It was all you.  We broke in, your dad looked at us and you grabbed his gun.  Don’t know why you didn’t use the one you already had, but hey ho, daddyo.  Big hole or small, all the same in the end.”

I was stunned.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t think.  I couldn’t…

Then he moved.  He pounced, leaping up the stairs towards me.  I recoiled and instinctively yanked on the cord in my hand.

There was a loud creak and the entire staircase gave way, the bolts holding the struts beneath pulling free causing it to collapse in on itself.  I saw, and heard, one of Tom’s legs rip off at the knee and then heard the crunch, so loud above the splintering wood, as a step slammed into his face.

He didn’t make the ‘urgh’ sound my father had.  He didn’t laugh.  He didn’t make any sound.

After a few, settling moments, I slid down the still intact banister.  I hadn’t done that for years.  It clung to its place, seemingly oblivious to the absence of its counterparts.

A second klaxon announced the end of the Purge.  I pressed the red button, waited for the shutters to lift and stepped out, blinking, into the morning sun and the welcoming birdsong.

Frank was walking towards me.

“You ok?” he asked, concerned.

“I’m fine,” I answered.  “Real good, actually.”

“You sure?  You look a bit… battered.  What happened in there?”

“Nothing,” I said.  “But do you mind if I move back in with you guys?”

“Fine by me,” he said smiling.

He put his arm around my shoulder.  I winced.

“Come on.  Wendy’s made cake.”

“Cake?”

“Yes, lad.  It’s your birthday tomorrow, remember?  We thought we’d give it to you today, though, what with the Purge and everything.”

My birthday.

Oh, yes.

I’ll be ten.