The Foster

Wait!

Please wait!

Her legs ached from the effort of the chase. She dragged air through her nose, her throat burning from the icy cold. She pumped her arms harder, trying to keep up, but it was no use.

She was too small.

A football field ahead, she saw The Mother push her children down through the hatch, clambering after them and pulling the heavy iron lid closed.

The Foster reached the hatch moments later, pounding her small fists against its metal barrier.

They wouldn’t help her anymore.

Her heart thudded. Eyes darting, she searched for a hiding place.

Too late. She heard his heavy footsteps behind her. His ragged breathing.

It would be over soon.

The Foster lurched towards a rusted metal rod that lay beside the hatch and swung it around to face him.

His rough hands reached for her as she thrust the rod forward.

The Foster heard a squelching sound as a look of surprise softened his dirty, brutal face and liquid warmth flowed over her tiny hands.

She looked down at the deep crimson blood flowing from his impaled stomach and stepped backwards, releasing the rod. The Man fell to his knees, his breathing laboured. Faint.

The Foster lifted her gaze. She thought it strange that there were no clouds today. On her last day.

A rumbling sound grew in her consciousness. She looked back to the rise and she saw them. Hundreds.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes.

They were coming.