Pulse

Chapter 5 - Living On Borrowed Time

"Flatten the cat!
Don't say that!
Maybe a rat?
I'll get the bat!"

Kirsten couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her tiny eyes struggled to focus as she peered through a gap in the rusty old container. Her nine-year old frame could barely take another second balancing on her straining bare toes, but she was mesmerised by the view. Another child was tugging on her oversized dungarees, but she payed no atttention. She could see all the way down to where the front gate used to be, and even at that distance, the monster appeared to be larger than life.

Instead of being fearful like the other children, Kirsten was in awe of the creature. She had never seen anything so beautiful. Even the holoboard projections advertising their flashy mechs and vehicles high up in the SCELEC sky couldn't compare to a real-life, angelic class, alpha-mech turning up on her front door.

The sound of children trying to stifle their breath after running hard permeated the whole stack of containers. Kirsten was wheezing too, but continued to whisper her little hunger poem to herself convinced that it was not a coincidence, that the synchronicity was a sign that her prayers had finally been answered.

The grubby-faced, five-year-old girl sporting short-cropped, blonde curls tugging at Kirsten's clothes whined, "It's my turn. Let me see."

Valerie quickly snapped her up in her arms and moved the little girl to the back of the container away from the doors. "You don't need to see what's happening out there Danika. We'll be able to go outside again when it's safe."

A boy sitting on the floor of the container spoke without lifting his head, "Don't flatten the cat," said Omar as if he was in a trance.

An older boy looked over at Omar and said, "Who asked you anything Omar?" Dmitri couldn't hide his jealousy towards Omar's exclusive connection with the Voice. He was always trying to put him down any way he could.

"That's enough," said Valerie, "What were you trying to say Omar? Something about the cat."

"The Voice... it says... don't flatten the cat." Omar had to overcome his usual shyness. He felt it was an important moment. A time to speak up. Like when Grace asked him if the Voice has spoken to him that day. He was only seven and had never known his parents. Freemechs had taken care of him, moving from camp to camp until he ended up here under Valerie's wing. That's when he'd started to notice the Voice rising softly in his mindspace, as if it was waking up. At first, he thought he was going mad, like others that had contracted the sickness. It was only when Valerie had persuaded Omar to open up about why he was being quieter than usual that he'd broken down in tears and poured everything out. Valerie had hugged him telling him not to worry and that Grace would know what to do, but Grace had had to overcome her initial skepticism before she could accept that Omar wasn't making things up. She had seen other children in her care go through this period too, a time when imaginary friends, ghosts, angels and aliens would become part of daily conversation until parents had had their fill of playing along.

Kirsten finally dropped her stance and sat next to Omar. She held his hand and said, "Don't worry. We're not going to flatten the cat. He's a friend. And he's here to help us. I just know it."

Omar began to tremble as tears welled up in his eyes. "That's what the Voice said."

"Shhh. Quieten down now children. I'm sure Captain Rose has everything under control." Valerie held little Danika in her lap and fixed her unblinking gaze on the container doors wondering if today would be her last day on Earth.

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Kalen stood in front of the beast making sure to stay beyond the range of its impressively long tail as it swished back and forth menacingly. A stubby, Krill-class combat rifle aimed directly at the beast's head filled his hands. Two Magma bolt pistols hung from holsters that were loosely slung around his hips. Over his shoulder, a bandolier stuffed with rolling EMP grenades made him look like an old-world Pistolero in a Mexican standoff.