The kitchen smelled of tuna and rust, the faint tang of opened cans mingling with the damp air seeping through the walls.
Kael stood at the counter, a half-empty water bottle in one hand while the other wiping fish oil from his fingers onto his jeans. The fridge still blocked the glass door, its white bulk scratched from last night's shove, and a smear of mud drying on the handle.
Through the blinds, the yard was still; wet grass and the orange core pulsing faintly where it lay untouched. Mid-morning light filtered in, a dull gray that made the room feel smaller and tighter.
Marla was in the living room, crouched by the coffee table, stacking cans from the pantry with quiet focus. Six of tuna, three of baked beans and a dented tin of corn; her hands moved slow and deliberate, sorting them into neat rows as if she was laying out a game of solitaire.
The Afghan lay crumpled on the couch, the radio beside it humming low, its static a soft undertone to the broadcast's loop: "Stay indoors. Do not approach rifts or hostile entities." Kael had turned it down after the third repeat, the words already etched into his mind.
He took a sip from the bottle where the water is tepid and metallic, then set it down as a low rumble broke the stillness; not the distant thunder of last night, but something closer and mechanical. Engines.
He stepped to the front window, parting the blinds with a careful finger. The street stretched out, slick with last night's rain, a tipped bin still spilling trash across the neighbor's lawn.
Then they came into view: two police SUVs, matte gray, rolling slow, lights off. A third vehicle trailed; a military jeep, dark green, its tires chewing the asphalt, a long-barreled rifle mounted on top.
Kael held his breath. The SUVs stopped three houses down, doors cracking open. Two officers stepped out, vests bulky over their uniforms, shotguns gripped tight; barrels stained with streaks of black, wet-looking, like they'd been used and not cleaned.
The jeep's driver leaned out, megaphone in hand, his voice sharp through the quiet: "Stay inside. Report rifts to emergency channels when restored." It wasn't a plea; more a command, clipped and tired, like he'd said it a dozen times already.
Marla straightened, abandoning the cans, and joined Kael at the window, her shoulder brushing his. "Cops?" she whispered, peering through the gap he'd made.
"And army," he said, nodding at the jeep. The gunner swiveled the rifle scanning the yards, his face shadowed under a helmet.
Then a flicker of movement; across the street, a rift shimmered in the driveway of number twelve, a faint hum rising from it.
Something skittered out, small and black, legs twitching fast; cat-sized darting toward the patrol, maybe forty miles an hour.
One officer raised his shotgun, the crack loud enough to rattle the glass. The thing jerked, tumbled, a spray of dark ichor splattering the pavement.
Two shots; 600 psi each, Kael figured, remembering the hunting shows Dad used to watch; and it was down with limbs splayed, a faint green glow pulsing beside it. A core, smaller than the orange one, dimmer, but there all the same.
The gunner glanced at it, hesitated, then waved the convoy on. The SUVs rolled forward, the jeep following, their engines fading around the corner.
Kael let the blinds snap shut; the green core's faint glow still seared into his vision. "They took it down," he said, turning to Marla, his voice low but steady. "Didn't even flinch; two shots and it's done."
She nodded, her lips a thin line. "I saw the blood on those guns. They've been busy." She stepped back to the table, picking up a can of beans, rolling it in her hands. "That glow though, is it the same as the one out?"
"Yeah," Kael said, his voice low. He crossed to the counter, leaning against it, the water bottle sweating under his palm. "Smaller, maybe. And it's green instead of orange." His fingers twitched, that itch flaring again; not just from the orange core now, but something deeper.
He shook it off, grabbed the bottle, and took another sip, the taste bitter on his tongue.
Marla set the can down, hard enough to dent the edge. "The broadcast said don't touch them. I'm guessing they've seen why." She moved to the sink, turned the tap which is still running, a thin stream splashing into a pot she'd pulled from the cupboard. "We've got water for now. Let's fill what we can; buckets, jugs, whatever's clean."
Kael nodded, setting the bottle aside. He opened a cabinet, pulled out a chipped ceramic jug; Marla's old lemonade pitcher, faded flowers painted on the side, and slid it under the tap.
The water gurgled in, slow and steady, as a single gunshot echoed from somewhere down the block; sharp, distant and then it's gone.
He froze, listening, but the quiet settled back, broken only by the hum of the rift across the street, louder now, a low buzz that prickled his skin.
Marla kept filling the pot, her back to him, but her shoulders tensed. "They're out there fighting," she said, almost to herself. "Good for them. Doesn't mean they're coming here anytime soon." She turned off the tap, the pot sloshing as she set it on the counter, and grabbed another. "We're on our own until then."
Kael finished filling the jug, the weight tugging at his arms; maybe twenty pounds, nothing his 150-pound limit couldn't handle.
He set it beside the pot, glancing at the glass door again.
The orange core pulsed once, a silent dare, and he felt that itch crawl up his spine, sharper now, like it knew he'd seen the green one too.
He turned away, joining Marla at the table, and picked up a can of tuna, the metal cool against his palm. The radio droned on, static and warnings, as the hum outside grew just loud enough to notice.