The kitchen was dim, the gray light of early morning seeping through the blinds in thin, dusty stripes. Kael sat cross-legged on the linoleum floor, the skillet resting against his knee.
A plate of cold meatloaf balanced in his lap; the edges congealed with fat that glistened faintly in the gloom. He scooped a chunk with his fork, chewed slowly, the taste bland but grounding; a leftover from Wednesday, when Marla had overcooked it and grumbled about the oven. That felt like a lifetime ago.
Marla stirred on the couch in the living room, just visible through the doorway. Her breathing had steadied, the flashlight beside her switched off to save the batteries; two AAs, already half-drained from last night.
She'd pulled the Afghan up to her chin, a faded green thing she'd knitted years back, its stitches loose and uneven. The house was quiet, save for the faint drip of the kitchen faucet, a steady plink-plink against the steel sink. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with dampness that clung to the walls.
Kael wiped his fork on his jeans, the denim stiff from yesterday's sweat, and reached for his delivery bag slumped by the fridge. The canvas was frayed, stained with coffee from a spill last month, but he unzipped it and dug inside; past a crumpled receipt, a half-empty pack of gum, until his fingers brushed the scratched plastic of his portable radio.
It was a cheap thing, bought for long shifts when the van's stereo cut out, its antenna bent from being shoved in too many gloveboxes. He pulled it out, set it on the floor, and fished two fresh AAs from the kitchen drawer, clicking them into place with a soft snap.
The dial rasped as he turned it, static hissing through the tiny speaker. He twisted slowly, ear cocked, until a voice broke through; male, clipped and tired, edged with a faint crackle. "This is the Australian Emergency Service. Rift events have been reported nationwide. Stay indoors. Do not approach rifts or hostile entities. Armed forces are responding. Updates to follow." It looped, mechanical and unbroken, each repetition sinking into the stillness. Kael adjusted the antenna, a thin whine fading as the signal steadied.
Marla's head lifted from the couch, the Afghan slipping to her shoulders. She rubbed her eyes, squinting toward the kitchen. "What's that?" Her voice was hoarse, thick with sleep, but she swung her legs down and shuffled over, barefoot on the cold floor. She sank into a chair at the table, elbows on the chipped wood, and leaned closer as the message repeated.
"Radio," Kael said, tapping it with his knuckle. "It's from the bag. I figured we'd hear something eventually." He pushed the plate toward her, the last chunk of meatloaf sliding slightly. She nodded, took the fork and speared it, chewing as the static flared again.
The voice shifted, a new loop cutting in mid-sentence. "—Defense Force units are engaging entities in Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane. Police and emergency services are establishing safe zones. Rural areas, remain indoors until further notice. Do not touch unidentified objects dropped by entities. Updates will be hourly." The words hung there, sharp and final, before the static swallowed them and the first loop resumed.
Marla swallowed, set the fork down with a soft clink. "Unidentified objects," she muttered, her brow creasing. "That thing in the yard?"
Kael's eyes flicked to the glass door still blocked by the fridge. Through the crack in the blinds, he could see it; the orange core, glowing faintly in the wet grass, pulsing. It hadn't moved since last night, since that hulking thing had staggered off and left it behind. His stomach tightened, a faint itch crawling up his arm, like the air itself was tugging at him. "Yeah," he said, voice low. "Maybe."
She frowned, rubbing her knuckles against the table. "They're saying don't touch it. Sounds like they've seen what happens." Her tone was practical, edged with the same wariness she'd used when he'd brought home a stray cat years back; check it for fleas first, Kael. He nodded, but his gaze lingered on the core, the itch growing sharper, then fading as he looked away.
A rumble rolled through the air; not thunder, but something heavier, distant, like a truck convoy or a far-off blast. It vibrated the floor faintly, rattling the empty water bottle on the counter. Marla tensed, her fingers curling, but it faded as quick as it came. "That's them, you think?" she asked. "The army?"
"Could be," Kael said, shifting to kneel by the window. He parted the blinds with two fingers, peering out. The street was still; wet asphalt, a tipped-over bin spilling trash across the neighbor's lawn. Then movement: a small shape, no bigger than a cat, limped from the bushes two houses down. Its skin was slick, black, one leg dragging, torn open like it'd caught a bullet or a blade. It stumbled, collapsed into the grass and didn't move again. No glow, no core; just a corpse.
"Something's fighting them," he said, letting the blinds snap shut. "That one's done."
Marla grunted, pushing the plate back to him. "Good. It means someone's out there with guns." She stood, joints creaking, and grabbed a notepad from the counter; a grocery list still scrawled on it, milk and eggs crossed out. She flipped to a blank page, scribbled board windows with a stubby pencil. "We should keep moving. Water's next; Let's fill up some pots while the tap's still running."
Kael nodded, splitting the last meatloaf scrap with his fork. He took a bite, handed her the rest, and set the radio's volume low, its static a steady hum beneath the drip of the faucet.
The broadcast looped again— "stay indoors, avoid objects"—and he chewed slowly, the taste fading as his eyes drifted back to the glass door. The core pulsed once, brighter, then dimmed, and he forced his gaze away, the itch settling into a dull ache in his bones.