a splash as the asphalt swallowed him.
Pen stared. They all stared. For silent moments there was nothing, and then …
There!
He erupted from the surface of the road in a fit of coughing and flailing. He was only a few feet from his stricken vehicle, as far as his leap had taken him, but no further. He windmilled his arms raggedly, trying to drag his body into a front crawl, but he just splashed. He didn’t advance a single inch.
A weight settled in Pen’s stomach as she watched.
‘Why isn’t he swimming?’ a thickset man in a turban demanded.
‘The liquid’s not dense enough,’ Pen answered, trying to keep her voice from shaking. ‘There’s no resistance, nothing for him to push against.’
He was sinking. The road was already up to his chin and the tide was pushing it into his mouth. He spat and gasped. His mates were hollering at him to swim, holding out their rifles for him to grab hold of, but they were just out of reach. They swore and revved their vehicles, but though their wheels spun and churned up the road, they went nowhere. There was a commotion in the foreground of the picture: more armed figures, sprinting up the road, but as soon as they reached the line where the streetlights cut out they reeled back. They milled about, toeing the edge of the shadow: the liquid street, lapping up onto dry land.
The soldier wasn’t even splashing now. His arms were fully submerged. His head tilted back, desperate for breath.
And then, like sudden thunder came the sound of helicopter blades.
A dark shape swooped into the picture: the chopper, black and angular as an insect, a light flashing on its nose. Pen saw the ripples its rotors threw up in the centre of the road; she watched the soldiers raise their arms in greeting as it came to hover over them, but the
whup whup whup
of its blades drowned out their cheers. It drowned out another sound too, Pen was sure of it. One she’d forgotten and remembered only as it disappeared: the static hiss she’d heard earlier from the TV.
A man emerged from the chopper, his silhouette bulked out by a life jacket. He bobbed on a cable like a cat’s toy as he descended towards the sinking soldier.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ someone exhaled.
Pen stirred uneasily and looked at Beth, who shook her head. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t quite—
‘The hissing!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘Why would static from the TV set get drowned out by a sound
inside
the broadcast?’
It was only then she realised the windows of every house on the street were open.
With a bang like a thunderclap, fire erupted over the road. A pair of dragons, their outlines drawn in blue flame, beat their wings and shot towards the helicopter. Inside Beth’s hood, Oscar crooned.
The soldiers babbled in panic and struggled to bring their rifles to bear. The air filled with the rattle-roar of machine-gun fire, but the Sewermanders didn’t even flinch. They lifted their talons and bowed their backs like hunting falcons as they crashed one after the other into the side of the helicopter.
Orange flared into blue as their claws found the fuel tank, then, shrouded in filthy smoke, the chopper plummeted towards the ground. The liquid street swallowed it with barely a splash, though the hiss of the extinguished fire carried clearly to the news team’s microphones.
The Sewermanders bent their necks as though calling, but they made no sound Pen could hear. They twisted in the air and began to circle the sinking men.
Two more gunshots sounded, then nothing. The soldiers stared upwards, their faces lit blue by the fire.
Pen waited. They all waited. She imagined the gas-drakes swooping down, incinerating their prey with flaming jaws, but they didn’t. They just beat the air, riding their own thermals, waiting.
Beth forgot herself and put a street-laced hand over her mouth, but it was the man in the turban who spoke.
‘My God. They’re just leaving them.’
The soldiers splashed and
Pen stared. They all stared. For silent moments there was nothing, and then …
There!
He erupted from the surface of the road in a fit of coughing and flailing. He was only a few feet from his stricken vehicle, as far as his leap had taken him, but no further. He windmilled his arms raggedly, trying to drag his body into a front crawl, but he just splashed. He didn’t advance a single inch.
A weight settled in Pen’s stomach as she watched.
‘Why isn’t he swimming?’ a thickset man in a turban demanded.
‘The liquid’s not dense enough,’ Pen answered, trying to keep her voice from shaking. ‘There’s no resistance, nothing for him to push against.’
He was sinking. The road was already up to his chin and the tide was pushing it into his mouth. He spat and gasped. His mates were hollering at him to swim, holding out their rifles for him to grab hold of, but they were just out of reach. They swore and revved their vehicles, but though their wheels spun and churned up the road, they went nowhere. There was a commotion in the foreground of the picture: more armed figures, sprinting up the road, but as soon as they reached the line where the streetlights cut out they reeled back. They milled about, toeing the edge of the shadow: the liquid street, lapping up onto dry land.
The soldier wasn’t even splashing now. His arms were fully submerged. His head tilted back, desperate for breath.
And then, like sudden thunder came the sound of helicopter blades.
A dark shape swooped into the picture: the chopper, black and angular as an insect, a light flashing on its nose. Pen saw the ripples its rotors threw up in the centre of the road; she watched the soldiers raise their arms in greeting as it came to hover over them, but the
whup whup whup
of its blades drowned out their cheers. It drowned out another sound too, Pen was sure of it. One she’d forgotten and remembered only as it disappeared: the static hiss she’d heard earlier from the TV.
A man emerged from the chopper, his silhouette bulked out by a life jacket. He bobbed on a cable like a cat’s toy as he descended towards the sinking soldier.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ someone exhaled.
Pen stirred uneasily and looked at Beth, who shook her head. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t quite—
‘The hissing!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘Why would static from the TV set get drowned out by a sound
inside
the broadcast?’
It was only then she realised the windows of every house on the street were open.
With a bang like a thunderclap, fire erupted over the road. A pair of dragons, their outlines drawn in blue flame, beat their wings and shot towards the helicopter. Inside Beth’s hood, Oscar crooned.
The soldiers babbled in panic and struggled to bring their rifles to bear. The air filled with the rattle-roar of machine-gun fire, but the Sewermanders didn’t even flinch. They lifted their talons and bowed their backs like hunting falcons as they crashed one after the other into the side of the helicopter.
Orange flared into blue as their claws found the fuel tank, then, shrouded in filthy smoke, the chopper plummeted towards the ground. The liquid street swallowed it with barely a splash, though the hiss of the extinguished fire carried clearly to the news team’s microphones.
The Sewermanders bent their necks as though calling, but they made no sound Pen could hear. They twisted in the air and began to circle the sinking men.
Two more gunshots sounded, then nothing. The soldiers stared upwards, their faces lit blue by the fire.
Pen waited. They all waited. She imagined the gas-drakes swooping down, incinerating their prey with flaming jaws, but they didn’t. They just beat the air, riding their own thermals, waiting.
Beth forgot herself and put a street-laced hand over her mouth, but it was the man in the turban who spoke.
‘My God. They’re just leaving them.’
The soldiers splashed and
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