The Awful Truth
As they turned the corner and came into view, Hamish fell completely still.
Not because he was trying to blend in with the others.
But because what he saw made his blood run cold.
These things, these shapes, they were everywhere.
Starkley was overrun.
Some came on horses . . . but wait, no – not horses. These horses had scales. They were black as the night, black as coal and the breath that shot from their nose was black too.
Others just ran, their barbed feet clickety-clacketing on concrete and their bony fingers constantly wiggling, like skittery spiders’ legs.
The awful figures wore hoods and cloaks and, when Hamish saw what was underneath, his tummy flipped and turned . . .
Pale white faces, bug eyes, two tiny pinpricks for a nose . . .
Some had monstrous tusks and smaller, round black eyes and mouths that seemed to open half their head . . .
And the teeth! Hamish had never seen so many fearsome teeth.
He moved a fraction backwards as he realised they were coming his way – they were coming every way!
Stop! Hamish thought. I can’t move a muscle! I mustn’t! Or else they’ll grab me! Or eat me! Or do who knows what to me!
He fixed himself in position next to Grenville and the girl. He felt the urge to chalk round his feet, but there wasn’t the time!
The things came closer . . . What were they? They prodded and poked the poor people of Starkley who were stuck in the Pause. The creatures slithered about, the hum getting louder . . . They ruffled hair and slid their long, wet fingers into pockets, pulling out wallets and tissues and coins . . .
Some of them cackled as they clambered around, climbing up buildings or overturning flowerboxes . . . cracking the odd window with their sharp yellow nails as they sniffed out what was inside . . . while their scaled horses, with giant red lizard tongues, thundered noisily around.
This was chaos. Starkley was absolute chaos.
FVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!
The noise again. Louder this time and even more painful. Hamish winced until it stopped, his eyes growing wider as he saw . . .
. . . the tallest, most grotesquest thing he had ever seen.
It must have been twelve feet tall with a top hat that made it taller still. Was it in charge? It was like an ogre! Or a warlock! A cross between a circus ringmaster and a witch! It made string-bean Mr Ramsface look like a toddler!
The smaller things skittered away as this giant strode into view, like fish fleeing a shark. They cowered around it. It was huge with enormous feet, the size of dogs. Wooden shoes that splintered and creaked. Knees like footballs, thighs like logs, two huge grey arms and that black top hat . . .
And there – look at that! A roll of low black fog crept into town with it, like a carpet beneath its feet . . .
Hamish totally wanted to vomit. I’m serious. This kid wanted to bend and send. He wanted to set his lunch free. He was all about fertilising the pavement.
And that was before the smell hit him.
This smell was the opposite of anything you’ve ever wanted to smell, ever. Like the weird noise, it felt to Hamish like you could touch it – that was how thick and rich and bitter it was. It was like vinegar and fish. It was like sulphur and eggs. You could almost see it as it hung in the air. It made your nose rise and your eyebrows fall. It was powerful. So powerful it could turn a white cat brown.
In its hand, the gigantic beast held some kind of crooked and shell-like bugle, which seemed to move and grow . . . Hamish almost thought it could be alive . . .
Once more it blew it -
FVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!
The things became quiet.
The beast stared at them.
‘BEGIN!’ it suddenly roared, looking at the town clock, while the trees began to sway from the power of his words.
Hamish found himself covered in thick raindrops of spittle that emerged from the giant thing’s mouth and splatted loudly on the concrete. It was like having a shower in cabbage and pickle juice. It almost made him miss Mr Longblather.
World! Please start again! thought Hamish. Please, world, start again!
Next was a rising howl of joy from the things that made Hamish shake.
Stop shaking! he thought. Don’t move!
He wanted to close his eyes, but they were welling up from the stench of that pickle juice and he was worried that if he closed his eyes a tear might fall. Then it would be Game Over.
The things were taking over Starkley, bursting through doors and slinking down sewers . . .
Hamish’s eyes followed them from the edge of the square. He couldn’t turn and run, because then they’d know. They’d grab him! And eat him! All he could do was watch in sheer horror as these vast things leapt from rooftops, landing on people’s shoulders, getting inside their clothes, sniffing their armpits . . .
There were two of them pulling at Mr Slackjaw’s jacket!
Another two were pushing a frozen Astrid Carruthers around like a ball!
Which is when Hamish noticed something . . .
The girl opposite – she was looking at him. She hadn’t moved an inch, but her eyes were on him. She hadn’t been looking at him before – how was she looking at him now?
‘FIND ONE!’ came the roar again, and Hamish noticed the beast had a moustache so huge it could easily have been a damp black squirrel. Its fingers were like greasy, bloated sausages, dripping fat.
What did that mean, find one? Find one what?
Then . . .
Sniff sniff.
Sniff sniff sniff.
Oh, no.
A thing was near.
It was slinking up to Hamish and his group. He could see its terrible mouth and pale, awful face, getting closer and closer.
Instinctively, Hamish glanced at the girl again. But she wasn’t looking at him any more.
The thing was joined by two more, who snuffled and grunted at Hamish’s feet, their tusks scraping the concrete below. Slowly, they unfolded their legs like crickets and rose up until they towered far above him.
Hamish stood in their shadow and fought the urge to whimper. He tried to control his breathing. He took a quiet breath through his nose and held it.
The things didn’t seem to talk. They stalked around the kids, every once in a while lurching forward to stare into an eye or study an ear.
Ewww! Their breath smelled of old beef! It was hot and sour, as they snorted and gruntled . . .
A moment later . . . THWACK!
One of the things delivered a mighty slap to Grenville’s thigh.
They all laughed and pointed as it wobbled.
Grenville remained perfectly still.
Another thing wanted a turn.
THWACK!
Woah! That was a really big one! They all laughed again.
EEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEE!
Then they all pointed at Grenville’s wrestling mask and laughed at that too.
Now another one got in close to Roger’s face.
It noticed the trails of snot dripping from Roger’s nostrils, like a couple of bright green waterfalls.
It made a noise of appreciation.
And then, from somewhere in that dreadful head, the biggest, wartiest tongue you could ever imagine flapped its way out . . .
No! thought Hamish. Anything but that!
And he watched in horror as the thing slowly licked its way up that grotty boy’s snotty face.
Hamish was horrified. At everything about that. He didn’t want to be either of them. He could see that bristly, hairy, scratchy tongue make its way to the top of Roger’s head, where it wet his hair and made the front spike up.
FVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!
The beast began to stomp away with its bugle in its hand and a second later the things began to bound away . . . Was it over? More of them slunk out of doorways and garages, or slid down buildings. Those closest to Hamish backed away too, pausing only to pick up a frozen cat and lick it as they left.
The sky lifted, the world brightened . . .
And there was a small, but significant . . .
‘Thank goodness!’ said Hamish, loudly. ‘Oh, thank goodness!’
Grenville stared at him, his fist still in a ball.
‘Well, I must say, Hamish,’ he said. ‘That’s a very strange reaction to being told you’re going to get thwunked on the nose!’
‘Hahaha!’ said Hamish, laughing in sheer relief. ‘Hahahahaha!’
Grenville shrugged then thwunked him.
As he stood up again, still smiling, Hamish watched the boys walk away. Grenville was limping, but obviously didn’t know why. He kept pointing at his thigh and shaking his head.
How long had that Pause been?
Then it hit Hamish. The Explorer. Grenville still had Hamish’s Explorer.
Over their shoulders, already some way away, was the girl with the blue streak in her hair. She must have set off the moment the Pause ended, and was putting something into her bag as she walked quickly away.
Hamish looked down at where she’d been standing.
There was a chalk outline of two little feet. Her feet.
He had seen her looking at him!
Hamish suddenly knew he was not alone. The girl could move in the Pause too.
He also knew he had bigger problems than Grenville Bile.
And they had tusks.