JEM RAISED HIS HEAD over the sofa back.

The explosion had rocked the universe. The room tilted. Jem's ears were ringing. Ashley still screaming, a muted backdrop.

In front of the kitchen door, a man in a black cloak picked himself off the floor and scrabbled for a strange metal object in front of him. His fingers were blue like rotted flesh.

Just before his fingers closed over it, the metal object spun across the floor like it'd been kicked.

The cloaked figure raised an arm in defense, which instantly crumpled to his body from an invisible blow. He teetered sideways, then rose several inches off the floor and slammed back down. Never cried out, never made a sound.

A leg shot out from under the cloak and something heavy hit the floor, making a beige-shaded table lamp skitter on the polished oak surface of the end table. The lamp's bulb began to pulse, as if a breaker was about to blow.

The cloaked figure rolled, grabbed the gleaming metal object on the floor, and blindly fired out a sizzling blast before coming up into a crouch.

Jem couldn't see the bolt flying from the rifle, just the blinding blue flash as it discharged. But he saw it stop, as if it had run into an invisible wall right in the middle of the room. An ethereal cry of pain came from nowhere. Something shimmered, right between the armchair and the end table holding the beige lamp. In the shimmer, Jem caught a glimpse of an outline. Off-balance. Flailing arm. The strobing lamp flew off the table and hit the floor with a dent in its shade. The end table rocked, but valiantly held its legs.

Rrap. Another blast. The cloaked man was approaching in a crouch, rifle at the ready. Under his hood, Jem saw only dark shadows.

Ashley's screams had turned to whimpers. Rachel moaned, the upper half of her body perched awkwardly on the sofa, lower half splayed across the carpet. Something red in the fabric. Blood. Distantly, car alarms wailed their indignation from neighboring driveways.

Rrap. The invisible shape cried out again.

Jem's mind was a fog. Everything was happening too fast. He was still kneeling beside his sister, the tips of his eyes watching the scene unfold over the overstuffed sofa back. The ringing in his ears had intensified, and as a result every other sound had a dampened, underwater quality.

In front of him, something scurried across the carpet. It was more of a sense of motion than anything he could see. A ghostly handprint pushed down into the carpet fibers. Black cloak swept the rifle right and left, head cocked, listening.

Rrap. With a flash of blue, a dinner-plate-sized portion of carpet smoldered.

Jem ducked back behind the sofa and crawled to the edge in the extreme angle formed by the sofa-back and the wall to peek out the crack there. He caught the trailing edge of shimmering black fabric from an ant's-eye view.

His head was clearing. He had to get Ashley, get his mom, get out of here. The man in the cloak was obviously lethal. Jem didn't know what the cloaked man was shooting at, but it seemed to be fighting back. Or it had. Right now they were in a stalemate. Cat and mouse. And that didn't offer a whole lot of distractions for Jem to get his family out of the house.

Decision: Get them to fight again.

Question: How?

Question: Who would be more of a threat when the fighting was over?

Jem quickly made a choice: Black cloak had walked straight into their house and shot at his mom. Sorry, buddy. That was a mistake.

Jem skittered on hands and knees to the open edge of the couch and spied the lamp on the floor, shade askew. About four feet away. Its bulb was slowly blinking like a firefly. The overhead lights had begun to do the same, pulsing on the same slow frequency as the lamp. The flat-screen television hanging on the wall over the fireplace blared to life, blasting an old Western at full volume.

Rrap. Unseen. Blue highlights danced across the carpet. Another cry of pain. The cat had found the mouse. Without looking in their direction, Jem lunged for the lamp, ripped the cord from its socket, and belly crawled backward behind the couch again.

Deep breath.

Exhale.

With a roar, Jem lept to his feet and hurled the lamp at the black cloak. It whirled and knocked the flying lamp away with its rifle. Reflex shot. Jem inhaled ozone as something crackled inches from his ear. The acrid scent of burning hair and plastic. Behind him, the TV exploded in a shower of sparks as the bolt punched a hole through its screen. Somehow, it continued to play behind the mosaic of cracks.

Jem barely even noticed. What happened next was something out of a movie.

In the moment that the cloak turned in his direction, Jem saw a ghost leave the afterlife. First the air shivered, cracked out of the way, and then a tucked body was hurtling through the air toward the cloaked figure. It slammed into it in a ball of elbows and knees, connecting bodily right above the cloaked man's hip.

The two tumbled to the ground and Jem seized his chance. He leaped over the couch to lift his mom's arm over his shoulder. He didn't have long. With a heave, he had her, and the two staggered around the couch. With his left hand, Jem pulled Ashley's crying body off the floor and threw her over his shoulder.

The floor shook with the blows of the two men grappling in the corner. Jem stumbled, but held his feet. The door to the hallway, just a few feet away. Almost there. At seventeen, Jem weighed a hundred and forty pounds with a backpack full of textbooks. On a good day. His knees were buckling under the weight of the two limp bodies. He stumbled, caught his balance. Another step. His mother was moaning; her legs were spaghetti. Ashley was gripping his neck in a choke hold. Bawling into his ear.

Behind him, an extra loud thump reverberated under the carpet and a crunch that sounded like breaking bone shot across the room.

All was still.

Jem didn't look back. One more step. One more foot. In the hall beyond, the lights were going haywire, casting frantic shadows across the walls as they flickered. Jem's head cleared the door frame. He could double through the laundry room to the kitchen and get them out the back door. Around the footpath to the garage's side door. His mom's SUV. Get to the cops. He could call. Should have already. Where was his phone? A crystal-clear image shooting through the fog. He'd set it on the sofa cushion beside him when he got up to look out the window at Ashley's beat up serial killer car. Stupid. Too late to go back. If he dropped his mom and Ash now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to pick them back up. He kept moving.

Another step. Through the doorway.

Silence in the living room.

Who'd won? Did it matter? His shirt was wet, sticking to his ribs on the side where his mom draped against him. He didn't look. Didn't want to know what it was.

Insanely irrelevent: Why hadn't Jayne texted?

The opening to the laundry room yawned to his left. It was really just a glorified hallway with unhung doorways at each end. Although the light was off in apparent defiance of whatever was wreaking havoc on the rest of the lights in the house, the kitchen beyond shone through the subsequent opening. Through that opening, Jem could see the wooden door that led to the back porch. The porch that led to the walkway. It seemed a million miles away.

Another step. Stumble. Ashley slipping, neck-grip tightened.

"Ash," Jem whispered. "Ash! Let go of my neck."

A whimpered response.

"Ash!"

The grip loosened. A hand shifted to his shoulder.

Jem took a deep breath. That was better. His head was beginning to clear, although the ringing in his ears continued unabated. He wasn't sure if the house was silent or if he just couldn't hear any footsteps. Maybe they were coming up behind him. He couldn't risk a look. If he lost his balance, the whole pyramid would come tumbling down. He waited for a shot to hit him in the back, for a strong hand to clamp down on his shoulder.

While he waited, he shuffled forward again. Nothing would happen. It couldn't. His sister and his mother had to get to safety. Nothing could hurt him until that happened. Maybe they'd killed each other, Black Cloak and The Invisible Man.

The kitchen light was pulling him forward into its flickering grasp. Halfway across the laundry room now. The kitchen door was freedom. Salvation. His breath was growing ragged. So was his mom's. She was breathing hot in his ear. Something rattling in her throat. Ashley's whimpers were calming. She was coming around. That was good. That would help.

One more step toward the light.

The light dimmed as a dark shape stepped across it.

Something blue shimmered.

Thanks for reading my story! Please VOTE and let me know what you think of it so far, then check out Chapter 9!