Fear

• Zoe Westbrook, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2015

From where we stood, arrested in awe of the cathedral steps, it looked as if the whole city had caught on fire. The sky was a panorama of orange flame, bright enough to pierce the hearts of the fallen. The square where we had played as children was now a smoking hole in the cobblestones. As the sirens droned on, a soprano counterpoint to the bombs endless bass, so human, almost as if the whole of London had taken to their rooftops to cry out in despair.
I knew not, or cared where we went, so long as we were away from the sickening feeling, which was getting stronger at each passing moment.
Alice and I zigzagged through the streets, hoping that it would make us harder to track.
Still I could feel them coming. They were out in the open now, out of the cathedral, lurching after us, invisible to everyone, but we could sense them. I wondered if I would be able to see them here, in the dark; shadow creatures in a shadow city.
Alice jogged beside me, her powdered hair flowing behind her. “Everyone’s knackered,” she said, “we can’t keep going on like this!”
She was right, even the fittest of us were flagging now, and soon the shadows would catch up to us and we would have to face them. We had to find cover.
I steered us towards a row of houses. The shadows were likely to attack the cheerfully lit shelters, so we ran towards a street that was blacked out.
As the last of the children came inside I ran to the bathroom and grabbed a wash cloth, then back to what must have been the living room, and tended to some of the children that were coughing up soot.
“Everyone down in the basement, now, Alice called. The thundering sound of grenades grew louder.
As we plummeted down the old wooden staircase, dust arising around us, a young girl stood, holding a musty broom, almost as dusty as her. “You can’t be here.”
I knew we couldn’t go out to the other houses. I pleaded, “can we please stay, we have no place to go, just till the bombs stop,” she stared then nodded her head.
“Ok… as long as you don’t tell anyone that we’re in here.”
From behind the older girl, stood a little girl only about five. She moved forward so that we could step into a trap door under the ground and pushed ourselves into the dimly lit cabin.
“Thank you,” I said, as I grabbed a ration bar from the supply bag.
She looked at the little girl, “Our Parents have died and I have the responsibility of looking after her, and if that means staying down here for weeks, then I’m up to it.”
Suddenly a huge crash came from above us, the single light bulb flickering and then turning off abruptly. Fear escaped through the quickening breathes as the younger children whimpered. Silence.