The sky is dark purple.
Rain taps the tin roof of Kael's weatherboard house.
It keeps dripping and pooling in the cracked gutters.
Kael sits at the kitchen table with a cold mug of tea in one hand. He parts the faded floral curtains with the other to see the yard.
The orange core glows faintly in the wet grass. It pulses steadily.
He's been watching it since morning. A strange warmth flickers in his bones every time he looks at it.
Marla, his mum, shuffles through the pantry in the corner. Her worn slippers scuff the lino floor. She picks up a dented tin of baked beans, a jar of Vegemite with a crusted lid, and a stale half-loaf of bread in a tea towel.
The radio crackles on the bench. Its battery is fading.
It repeats the same warning: "Avoid rift objects. Mutations reported. Stay indoors."
Kael shifts in his chair and the wooden legs creak on the lino. He doesn't know what he's waiting for, maybe another skitterer from the rift across the road, maybe the patrol's headlights in the gloom or maybe just a reason to grab that core.
The street is quiet except for the rain and the rift's low hum.
The sound has settled into his head over the past two days. He drops the curtain and turns back to the table and he rubs his knuckles.
Marla looks up and brushes a greying strand of hair from her face. "You're fidgeting again," she says. Her voice is firm and worried. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know," Kael says. He sets the mug down and it makes a dull clink. "It just feels wrong."
She huffs and stacks the beans beside the bread and the tin thuds. "Wrong is putting it lightly. We have food for a week, maybe ten days if we skip breakfasts. Water is still running, and I'm not counting on it lasting."
Kael nods. His mind stays on the core outside. Its glow creeps into his thoughts.
He starts to speak when a faint knock resounds. Two soft taps hit the front door and they sound hesitant. Marla grabs the bread knife on the counter with her eyes narrowing.
Kael takes the skillet from beside the stove. It's cast iron and heavy.
He steps to the door.
Through the peephole, he sees Mrs. Ellis, the widow next door.
Her white hair is moist under her hood. She clutches her cardigan tight against the chill.
He opens the door a bit. "Mrs. Ellis? You okay?"
"Evening, Kael," she says. Her voice is thin but warm and it shakes slightly. "Sorry to come this late. Some of us are meeting on my porch, we're just talking to sort this out and I thought you and your mum might want to join."
Kael looks back at Marla and she shakes her head. Her lips form a hard line. "We're fine here," she calls in a sharp voice.
"It's just a few people," Mrs. Ellis says and she steps closer.
Her eyes plead. "Tom is there, Jake too, and Sarah from down the road and Mark. We're all in this together. We could use your sense, Marla."
Kael waits. His Mum wants to stay low and safe, but Mrs. Ellis's voice has a desperate edge.
He wonders if someone knows more than the radio says, then he looks at Marla.
She sighs heavily and sets the knife down and it clatters. "Alright," she grumbles. "But we're not staying long."
They put on their coats.
Kael's is a patched flannel and it smells of old sweat and woodsmoke.
Marla's is a denim jacket with a frayed collar.
They step into the drizzle, and the air is cold for April.
Mrs. Ellis's porch sags, lit by a flickering bulb that buzzes.
Five people stand there: Tom with his leg wrapped in dirty bandages and leaning on a crutch, his face pale; Jake the mechanic with hands in his pockets and grease on his knuckles; Sarah the ex-nurse with arms crossed and blonde hair under a beanie, her breath visible in the cold; Mark, the ex-army man with a neat buzzcut and his eyes scanning the area; and Mrs. Ellis holding a thermos with steam rising from it.
"You made it," Mrs. Ellis says. She pours tea into a chipped mug with faded blue flowers and hands it to Marla.
Marla takes it with a brief nod, her fingers holding onto the warmth.
Kael stands behind her with the skillet still tucked under his arm. He feels out of place.
Tom clears his throat. His voice is rough. "Does anyone know what's happening? The radio is useless, it just says stay inside and don't touch anything."
Sarah shakes her head. "I've listened all day. They only talk about mutations from the rift things, they don't say much else."
Jake moves. His boots scuff the boards. "I touched one," he says quietly.
Everyone looks at him. "Yesterday on Elm, i pulled it from the rift and It felt good for a bit. I lifted my ute's trailer easily. But now…" He pulls his hand from his pocket and Kael sees faint orange veins under the skin and they pulse dimly. "Now it buzzes like pins all the time."
Tom leans forward, his crutch wobbling as he shifts, and his face twists with anger. "Hell, Jake. You're lucky that's all. A skitterer got my leg, damn thing nearly ripped it off, and the patrol took it away. I'm not trying my luck again."
Mark grunts, voice low. "The patrol's stretched thin. Last time, they took an hour to show. If those things come back, we're on our own."
Sarah rubs her arms against the cold. "The radio said they lock up anyone who touches the cores. They call it research."
Jake goes pale. His hand drops. "They're rounding us up?"
"Looks like it," Mark says. "But if the cores make us stronger, it might be worth it. The monsters aren't stopping. We need something to fight with."
Marla scoffs and sips her tea. Steam drifts around her face. "Fight with? You mean turning into freaks? No thanks."
Mark stares at her, eyes narrowing. "You think hiding will save you when those things swarm? I've seen them tear through steel sheds. We need strength. If the cores give it—"
"They give mutations," Sarah snaps. "We don't know what else. The government isn't taking people for nothing."
Jake rubs his hand. The veins flash, then fade. "It's not so bad," he mutters. "Weird, yeah. But I felt unstoppable for a moment."
Kael's stomach turns. The warmth in his bones burns hotter. He pictures lifting the tractor or smashing a skitterer's leg.
But those glowing veins and that buzzing hold him back.
He says nothing.
His hand grips the skillet tight and his knuckles ache.
Tom shifts his crutch. His leg moves, and he winces. "I'm not risking it. My leg's bad enough without scales growing on it."
Mrs. Ellis twists her hands. Her knuckles go white. "Maybe we wait it out. The radio said help's coming in 48 hours. They'll fix this."
Mark laughs. It's short and sharp. "Forty-eight hours? The skitterers will eat us before then. We have to be ready now."
Rain falls harder and the silence grows.
Kael glances at Marla. Her jaw is tight and eyes on her mug.
He knows she thinks fear is clouding their judgment. But Mark's words echo. We need strength. He thinks of the core in their yard. Its steady glow keeps calling to him.
Mrs. Ellis offers a weak smile. Her lips tremble. "Let's sleep on it. Maybe it'll be clearer tomorrow."
The group nods quietly. One by one, they leave into the night.
Kael and Marla walk home. Behind them, the porch light dies.
Inside, Marla locks the door. The bolt clangs. "Bunch of fools," she mutters, tossing her jacket on the couch. "Looking for trouble."
Kael nods distracted.
He places the skillet on the table and it lands with a soft thud.
His eyes settle on the curtains. The glow from the yard shines through the gaps. Strength, Mark had said. Kael shakes his head, trying to push it away. But the thought clings.
Marla yawns and stretches. Her shoulders pop. "I'm tired. You going to bed?"
"In a bit," he replies, voice distant.
She pauses and looks over her glasses. "Don't do anything stupid, Kael."
He gives her a weak smile. "Never, Mum."
She snorts and walks off.
The house goes quiet. Only rain and the rift's hum remain.
Kael picks up the skillet again. It feels lighter than before.
The glow presses through the curtains.
The heat in his bones grows stronger.
He sets the skillet down. This time, it lands with a loud thud.
He walks to the window. The street outside is empty.
One by one, neighbor lights go dark.
He exhales, fogging the glass. Then he turns away, thinking Mum's right. They're scared, not thinking.
But Mark's voice won't leave. Neither will the heat.
He heads to bed and the core's pulse follows.