Worlds Explode. Shane Hegarty
Desiccator pressed into his armoured shoulder, ready to protect him against whatever he might find. Whenever he found it. Whatever it was he was looking for.
He backed along a wall, the armour of his clattering fighting suit screeching across the stone. Keeping out of sight, he took a hard right into another alleyway of high glass and nail-rimmed walls in a town built for defence. Gouges and missing chunks in the brickwork were a reminder of the invasion only two weeks before, of the chaos and near catastrophe wrought by multiple Manticores, a Minotaur and those trying to hunt them down.
He scuttled down the laneway where Mr Glad’s burnt-out shop stood behind a criss-cross of police tape warning trespassers to keep out, a blackened reminder of the traitor who had opened a hole in Darkmouth through which Finn’s father and mother had gone and only one had come back.
Where the lane bisected another, Finn stuck his head round the corner. From a parallel alley, the barrel of a weapon emerged, followed by a helmet and a flurry of exaggerated hand signals.
Palm out flat. Knuckles curled. A swirling motion.
Finn flipped open his visor, squinting against the sun as he tried to properly convey his bemusement. “What?” he mouthed.
Steve pushed his visor open and repeated the gestures, this time adding some kind of pumping fist motion.
“Lie down?” asked Finn. “Hop?”
Steve gritted his teeth with obvious frustration. From behind his back, another head appeared.
Emmie, her helmet propped on her head, tight red hair avalanching from it, waved at Finn. He waved back.
Her father gently but firmly pushed her behind him and then, pressed against the wall, crab-walked towards Finn. Emmie followed, no Desiccator in her hand. She wasn’t allowed one. Her sole weapon was an eagerness that almost burst from her.
The three crouched at the wall. Finn’s fighting suit was pushed up uncomfortably at his neck; his kneepads dug into the top of his shins. He shifted awkwardly and loudly as Steve spoke.
“We’re to follow that lane north for another forty metres,” said Emmie’s father, pointing ahead, “then west for twenty metres. That’s where we’ll find our target.”
Finn narrowed his eyes to see. “But that’s the wrong way,” he said.
“No, it’s the right way.”
“It’s not,” Finn insisted, pointing instead at the sliver of alleyway directly ahead of them. “I’m sure that’s what the map tells us.”
An old man cycled towards them, whistling a tune that he left hanging in the air as he saw them, crouched, in armour, and wielding their fat silver Desiccators. He stopped, turned his bike clumsily in the narrow alley, climbed back on to the saddle and cycled away in the direction he’d come from, mumbling curses as he went.
They watched him go, then resumed their planning. “It’s the correct way, Finn. It’s the only possibility.”
“I know these streets. My dad made me memorise them.”
“Look, Finn, I am in charge here. Those are the orders, so that’s just the way it is, whether we like it or not.”
Steve didn’t just like it, he loved it. That was obvious. Since the Council of Twelve had ordered him to stay on in Darkmouth and act as temporary Legend Hunter, he’d been practically giddy with authority, and even more disappointed than Finn that a gateway hadn’t opened since.
“Finn does know them, Dad,” said Emmie, pushing open her visor to reveal her face. “Trust me.”
“Do you want to go back to the car?” Steve asked her.
“No,” she answered.
“Then let me deal with this. We almost got killed in this town because of invading Legends. This is serious stuff.”
“But you said I could do a bit more, Dad.”
“Yes, you can observe more.”
“Come on, Dad. I just want to help.”
Steve rooted through a pocket of his fighting suit, pulled out a set of car keys and held them out to her.
Emmie let out a deep sigh.
Content he’d made his point, Steve pushed the keys back into his pocket and again turned his attention to Finn, who had already stood up to cross the road in the direction he knew they needed to go. Steve pulled him back down by the shoulder and eyeballed him. A shudder went through Finn’s fighting suit. It was tough to exude ferocity when sounding like a wind chime.
“This is the right alley,” insisted Steve, rising to move forward. “So, follow me and let’s see what’s down here.”
It was the wrong alley.
A dead end.
“They must have put this in after making the map,” said Steve, coughing to hide his embarrassment. Finn and Emmie’s silent response said it all. Steve eventually cracked.
“OK, let’s go the way Finn thinks we should,” said Emmie’s dad and the three of them moved back towards the other laneway. “And let’s hope he’s not wrong.”
Finn felt his frustration rise sharply, but kept it to himself.
They moved through the jagged shadows of the laneway’s cobbled defences, past houses of chipped paint and gouged windowsills. They ducked past old, dirtied walls dotted with fresh brick, like fillings in a tooth.
It eventually led them to a wooden door, the entrance to a backyard. As was standard in Darkmouth, its wall was ringed by broken glass, nails, tacks, sharp stones, anything that might keep a Legend out. Softened by decades of rain, though, the splintered door pushed open easily, revealing a yard half filled with blue plastic barrels and large bins.
Finn felt a jolt of uncertainty: this wasn’t right at all.
Before he could speak, Steve held up his hand and began counting down with his fingers. Finn drew his Desiccator to his shoulder and followed him. Emmie stood behind them and tried to look as tough as she could before remembering to snap shut her helmet’s visor.
They edged forward, between bins and barrels and the occasional waft of something rotting, until they reached the back door.
Steve placed his hand on the handle.
“This is ridiculous,” Finn’s mother, Clara, said from the yard behind them, causing each of them to almost jump clean out of their fighting suits. They spun round. “What do you think you’re going to find here?” she asked.
“We were just about to discover that before you interrupted,” answered Steve, deeply frustrated by this disturbance.
“Give me the map,” demanded Clara, hand out.
“Keep your voice down,” Steve hissed.
Finn snatched the map from where it was tucked into the utility belt on Steve’s fighting suit and, despite the man’s protests, handed it quickly to his mother.
Clara held it up. “Do you really think it would be on a beer mat? You don’t think that just maybe Hugo would have told Finn to ‘look for the map on the beer mat’ if he wanted you to find it on an actual beer mat?”
She turned it over in her fingers. On one side was an image of a full and frothy glass (Widow Maker – as refreshing as a kick from an eight-hooved Sleipnir). On the other, the print had been picked clean off and on the soft white cardboard a pen had been used to scribble what seemed to be a criss-cross of laneways, with an X at one corner.
“It’s the best map we’ve come up with,” said Steve, his Desiccator wilting somewhat.
“Better than when you thought you’d found the right one, but ended up bursting into Mrs Kelly’s crèche at nap time?”
“The