Terror

Chapter Twelve

The news reports painted a picture of complete chaos. Outside the invisible barrier that had encased the town of Simcoe for nearly a year, the world reeled from the aftershocks of what the media had already called "The Grocery Grab." A seemingly ordinary, beautiful, teenage girl had snatched an entirely grocery story from the outside and somehow integrated it into the Simcoe bubble. The sudden gust of air created a shockwave of wind that sent bystanders tumbling.

Injuries ranged from minor scrapes and bruises to critical head trauma; deaths were confirmed. The audacity of the act, the sheer spectacle of it, even drew morbid praise from some people, with the hashtag #GroceryGrab trending.

Cassandra was trending across every social media platform imaginable. Twitter exploded with theories, each crazier than the next. Facebook groups dedicated to Simcoe's predicament filled with hubs of speculation. Was she a mutant? A government experiment gone wrong? An alien attack? Despite the online opinions, nobody came up with a solid answer. Although that had been the first time in ten months that people had seen the inside of Simcoe again.

Heather Harp seat glued to her phone, scrolling through endless images of the chaos. She hadn't been present during the event, but the graphic photos and shaky smartphone were glued im to her mind. The scene looked like a bomb had gone off.

Ironically, Jason and Greyson had both been present. They didn't stop the girl, but something about her seemed familiar. Examining one video from YouTube, she saw that the sour glare wasn't one of happiness. That girl knew what she was doing with those supernatural powers.

"People have speculated, but no one has come up with a solid answer," John Iverson said, sitting in a hospital bed.

John, her husband, lay propped up in a hospital bed, his arm in a sling and a bandage wrapped around his head. As a police officer, he had been one of the first responders to the scene after the earthquake. He reported three teenagers standing together.

Heather sat in a red plastic chair in the corner of the hospital room. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window. She glanced up from her phone, taking in the endless stream of news articles, blog posts, and Twitter threads flashing across its screen.

"It's not that; it's her looks and that power," Heather explained.

How was she having a normal conversation when she should have realized her twin boys knew each other? They might even know the truth, but Heather didn't.

There was a knock on the hospital door, and she saw Roger Bolton. He held up a document, its pages filled with information, as she left the room. They sat in two empty seats near the elevators, the hum of machinery a constant backdrop.

"Cassandra Russell-Newman, also known as Scarlett Russell and Greyson Newman's child, according to a girl named Mallory," Roger revealed. "Unfortunately, we can't meet with Cassandra, Jason, or Greyson due to them doing a suicide mission. According to one boy named James, Ashley is responsible for everything."

Heather felt her blood run cold, her limps growing heavy. The hospital atmosphere suddenly felt suffocating. Ashley? Responsible? It didn't make sense. How could her daughter create this occurrence?

"However, we're going to meet with my daughter. We'd have to go now if you want to understand their knowledge," Roger stated.

The two stood from the chairs and went into an elevator. The hospital, Collingwood General, buzzed with activity; nurses hurried past, their faces etched with concern, and anxious visitors whispered in hushed tones. People talked about the incident. Mostly about how they could see their children.

The two slipped into a black Lexus and drove down the busy streets. When they pulled into a guarded meeting spot near where the chaos had happened. Roger showed his ID, allowing them through. They parked in the empty lot of Foodland before seeing two girls standing nearby.