Chum

My hands shove my bedroom door open and I go flying down the stairs, vaulting over the railing and skidding down each step without taking the time to actually perform the action of stepping. My heels thump along each carpeted stair in a way that I know another person would get achey, awful bruises at, but I'm tougher than that. Jordan's footsteps behind me are slow and ungainly in comparison. I hear the repeated thumping of the basset-crows against the upstairs window as they try to track us.

I slam against the wall, sending dust everywhere and I'm sure doing something nasty to my shoulder. My face burns with a noxious mixture of emotions - shame, fear, anger. Part of me thinks the obvious, How dare they attack me at my own home?, but then the other part calls that part stupid. These people are hardened criminals. Of course they'd attack me at my own home.

I explode into the living room, barely registering the startled faces of my mom and dad. Mom's clutching a broom like she's about to ride it out of the house like a witch in reverse, the broom-end facing forward, swatting at the ground. Something with splotched brown-and-brown fur jumps back and forth, deftly avoiding each swipe, the unmistakable flicking tail of a copperhead snake attached to the body of a writhing opossum baring venomous fangs. And, of course, wrapped with a collar. This animal is owned - an attack dog.

Attack possum, I guess.

"Sam! Get away!" Dad shouts, his finger jammed on his phone. His face has blanched of all color and he's speed-dialing 911. Jordan comes stumbling down the stairs behind me, but I stick an arm out to prevent them from similarly slamming into the wall as I had.

"Whaaaat the fuck," Jordan squeaks.

The opossum-copperhead, as wrong as it sounds and is, lunges at Mom, who lets out a shriek that shakes me to my core. Jordan yanks space sideways, fixing the ground beneath my mom's feet so that her wild, unpracticed baseball swing lands true, sending the opossum-snake sailing into the television with enough force to put a hairline crack into it.

I snarl, feeling the tension in my jaw like an electric pulse.

"Jordan, cover my mom!" I shout.

Jordan reacts instantly, creating a shrinking pocket of space around Mom, who lets out a little yelp of surprise as she finds herself momentarily squeezed by the walls of her own home. The space soon expands, pushing the hybrid away from her, extending our living room several dozen meters instantly. My parents eyes both go wide as saucers. "This is gonna last until someone opens a door or window. So don't do that."

"I thought you just needed two walls, a floor, and a ceiling?" I ask, skidding over to my dad and snatching the phone out of his hand. He sputters incoherently.

"Do you really want an excuse to open the front door?" Jordan asks, as a BANG rattles more dust loose from the ceiling, the wooden door that's so stalwartly guarded our home for my entire life shoving inwards. All the locks and keypads hold fast.

"Point," I say, while my parents take a moment to look at each other incredulously. "Hi, 911, I took the phone. This is bloodsign callhound. Er, callsign Bloodhound. Please send police or the DVD immediately to this address. Did my - did the previous male tell you the address?"

There's silence on the other end of the line for a moment, presumably the 911 dispatcher taking in everything I just told them. "Uh, Bloodhound, did you say? Confirming the callsign, Bloodhound. Please standby."

Dad's eyes go wide. "Bloodhound?"

"Not the time, Dad," I snap, my gaze locked onto the hideous hybrid, who's now recoiling and assessing its new target: me.

The dispatcher's voice comes on. "Confirmed, Bloodhound. Address already provided by the previous caller. Units are being dispatched, and the Delaware Valley Defenders have been alerted. Any immediate threats or specifics we need to be aware of?"

"We're under attack by Mrs. - by Dr. Xenograft. There are several animal hybrids actively attempting to break in. Two civvies. Possible additional assailants. If you can scramble an ambulance with copperhead antivenom, we don't need it yet but we might," I speak in practiced code, having called 911 for civilians about two dozen times already. It's become almost second nature - it's something we drill with the Young Defenders.

"Copy that. Help is on the way, please stay on the line."

There's rattling behind us. On impulse, Jordan stretches out the hallway, giving us one couch and the stairs upstairs as our island of safety.

"Sam, you are going to have to explain how you are not surprised that Jordan also has superpowers. Later," my mom says, drawing a sharp glare from my dad.

"Priorities, Rachel. Do you know where my gun safe is?" Dad rebukes, his eyes glancing around as two raccoon-spiders begin skittering along the endless hallway from the kitchen towards the living room.

"It hasn't moved since last time we needed it!" Mom squeaks, shrill and breathy.

I raise an eyebrow. "You have a gun safe? You have guns?"

"Yes," my dad answers, grabbing his phone when I offer it back to him. "I live in Philadelphia."

"He's got a point," Jordan says, visibly straining at having to maintain two zones of expansion at once. Beads of sweat form and drop down their forehead in real time. "Fuck,"

"What? Can you hold it?" I ask, glancing around, my entire body running cold and hot at the same time. My mom brandishes her broom like a hammer. "Stay down here, Mom, I'm going up with Dad to get the gun."

"What?" She squeaks. "Okay."

"Of course I can hold it, stupid! I'm just mad. They probably scented us from my… gadget. Fuck," Jordan groans. I realize with a sudden shock of misery that they're right - Jordan's prop gun, our discarded clothes, anything could've been used to get a scent trail. And with bassets that can fly, it would only take a small handful of them to crisscross the city until they found where Jordan and I frequent. Until they caught a hold of our trail.

Fuck. "Just keep my mom from getting bitten, please," I plead, following my dad up the steps.

The raccoon-spiders, or raccoon-tarantulas, or whatever, are swarming. I didn't even know Philly had this many raccoons. My dad swats them aside, but they cling to his clothes, chittering, grabbing. Not biting. Not threatening. But definitely creepy as shit. "Were you going to tell us ever that you and Jordan do superheroing together?"

I feel a neet to clarify the nature of our activities, but then bite it down. "No. You didn't need to know for exactly this reason. Please don't hurt the raccoons."

One of them grabs hold of my ankle, and I shake it off. It comes loose, skitters around, and then tries to jump at me. On impulse, I grab its arms and throw it into the open door of my bedroom, where it lands with a soft thump while my dad finagles with the doorknob to the parental bedroom. My dad's body heaves with breaths as he tries to keep his composure, stumbling into his bedroom and disappearing past the wall. I creep past just enough to keep an eye on things, to make sure there's nothing venomous lurking in the dark, with the lights off.

I don't watch to see where his gun's hidden. The noise of chittering animals overwhelms any other sensory detail, and about twenty seconds later, he returns, visibly out of breath, with a small, snub-nosed pistol in hand. His finger rests along the barrel, not touching the trigger. I glance the words 'Smith & Wesson' emblazoned on the barrel, but can't see anything more than that. Dad lets out a frustrated yell and rips his button-down off, complete with several clinging raccoon-spiders, and hurls it into his bedroom before slamming the door shut.

I bend down towards the one left in the hallway and bare my teeth. It scatters, climbing up the wall and back into one of the now-open air vents. "I didn't know you had a gun," I repeat, somewhat dumbly.

"Wasn't relevant until now. Come on," he replies, skidding his way down the stairs. I follow close behind, this time not flinging myself into drywall, and tag Jordan on the back, their entire body tensed up and slick with sweat, hair a mess.

"Cool. I can't exactly move, so you're going to have to shoot that fucking thing yourself, Mr. Small," Jordan half-whimpers, half-grunts, my mom clinging to the segment of wall that separates the inter-kitchen hallway from the stairs. I've never seen either of my parents look so frightened, so horrified before.

I don't like it. I don't like knowing that they experience human emotions the way I do, instead of being perfect figurines of parental seriousness.

Before my dad has an opportunity to shoot the shrieking opossum-copperhead, the front door buckles entirely, ripped off its hinges. A rottweiler-deer, with long, powerful limbs, patchy dark fur, and two impressively sized antlers, stares ahead at us, while something small hangs off the door handle, having drilled and bit through the doorknob. And, apparently, the locking mechanism. Some kind of horseshoe crab? Or maybe a turtle. Actually, probably both. Snapping-turtle-crab.

Jesus, this lady has dedicated critters for biting through locks?

"Oh, that's my favorite type of dog--" Dad says, as the rottweiler-deer begins charging. It bares its teeth, a craggly mixture of herbivore and carnivore, and lets out a disgusted howl, head lowered, charging across the expanse far faster than the opossum-copperhead. I hear a sickening crunch underhoof as aforementioned opossum-thing fails to get out of the way in time.

Now I feel bad. My mom, still clutching the phone with 911 on the line like a Torah to her chest, shouts. "BEN, SHOOT IT!"

My dad takes steady aim with both hands. I don't look.

It takes six shots, apparently, and the sound is deafening, echoing off the expanded space we're contained within. The rottweiler-deer skids to an uncomfortable halt on the floor, leaving a smear of blood, no longer mobile. I look past it, and towards the door that feels so far away, in the distance. Crowhounds flood the doorway, taking their opportunity. My dad pants with exertion. Our ears all ring, like someone struck a gong in them, or at least I assume everyone's ears are ringing.

"We're fine! We're fine. We just had to shoot a… monster. Please, if you have an ETA - what do you fucking mean, fifteen fucking minutes? Our lives are in danger now, ma'am. Ma'am. I," Mom shouts into the phone, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry. I'm extremely stressed out. Please tell them to drive faster."

"We don't have fifteen minutes," I say, grimly. I crack my knuckles. I know what to do. "Mom, dad, you two need to get into the car and get out of here. Go visit Pop-Pop Moe. It's Jordan and I they're after. I'm not going to let them hurt you."

My mom looks at me, her eyes watery, face red. My dad looks at me, brow furrowed. "We're not leaving you--" is all he gets out.

I bare my teeth. "Go. Please. Trust me. Don't put yourself in danger for my sake. Don't be… Don't be a fucking hero, dad, that's my job. I don't want to be mean but you're just going to get in my way and distract me."

He sighs. "When you're right, you're right."

"Ben--" My mom tries to object, but my dad turns to her and the look on his face immediately interrupts.

"Sam clearly knows who this is - this "Dr. Xenograft". She has a rogue's gallery already. We're civilians. They're two… heroes. We'd get in the way, Rachel," he tries to explain, grabbing her by the wrist and removing the unused ammunition from his gun, in the big rectangular bullet container whose name escapes me, putting it in his pocket. He pulls something on the gun back several times and lets it go, the gun clicking in response, I guess to make sure there's no stray bullet inside of it.

"Not to be snippy, Smalls, but any time you want to get this moving would be ideal," Jordan cuts in, their fingers splayed out, visibly twitching. I look back towards the kitchen - which is now not even visible past the hallway, a tiny speck. "I really, really cannot sustain this much expansion for long. Especially in two places at once."

There are birds, bird-dogs, actively flying towards us, with Jordan repeatedly expanding and shrinking the living room to keep them confused. My parents look at each other, and then at me.

"You better do your homework while we're gone. Sam," my mom says, clearly trying to joke. Her face twitches, and then bursts into tears as she wraps me up in her arms and squeezes me. I squeak quietly while she squeezes harder. "You've gotten so… Muscular," she quietly muses, patting my upper arms as she pulls away.

My dad isn't one for hugs. He looks at me and throws a respectful salute. I salute him back.

"Don't worry. Jordan and I'll be fine. We've been in worse situations," I say, trying to reassure them.

"If that's supposed to be reassuring, it's doing the opposite," my mom muses, while my dad slips his shoes on. A crowhound dives at us, padded claws outstretched, and I grab my mom's broom out from her hands and whack it into the wall in one smooth motion before tossing the broom aside to Jordan.

"Drop it, Jordan."

I almost trip on the carpet as space snaps back, returning our rowhouse to its original configuration. Jordan grabs the broom in their hands and continues to swat at crowhounds, warding them away with their wingspan, so to speak, while I get out in front of my parents. A raccoon-tarantula jumps out of the living room vent, and on impulse, I whack it out the front door, immediately feeling a pang of guilt. I…

I… try not to think about the body of the rottdeer that's currently bleeding out onto our carpet.

I step aside around it and make a mental note to give it a proper burial when this is all said and done.

The smell of blood is rich and sharp. I feel it ebbing out of the mutant chimera's body. Thankfully, its death was nearly instant, on the second bullet - the first one opened up its vascular system to me, and the second one made me aware of its heart quickly ticking to a stop as its brain was shredded. Everything after that was just my dad making sure. Its tail is long, fluffy. I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I jerk my gaze away and step out the front door.

My parents and Jordan follow closely behind. I sweep my neck around, taking in the surroundings outside. That's when I see him. Mr. T-Rex is standing across the street, with a woman I've never seen before beside him. He's pointing at me. Next to him, the woman in the orange blouse and black tailcoat scans the area, her eyes locking onto me momentarily before settling on my parents. She appears unimpressed but in control, hands in the pockets of her leather pants.

"Ah, you brought the parents. Shame," Mr. T-Rex calls out, not even trying to keep his voice down. "You should get them out of here, kid. They're just going to get in the way."

My blood boils. The audacity of these people to just stand there and issue commands - it makes me furious. My hands clench into fists. "I'm giving you one chance to leave. One."

The woman snorts, leaning over to Mr. T-Rex. "You didn't tell me she had spunk, too."

Before I can even form a reply, Mr. T-Rex - or maybe Mrs. Xenograft, hidden somewhere nearby - gives some sort of invisible signal, and like clockwork, the hybrid animals that have been tormenting us start to scatter. The crowhounds veer off, no longer interested in us, the raccoon-spiders scattering into the night, followed by a couple other animals I barely even noticed. Another oppossum-snake, with different fur patterns, bolts between my legs. Something that must've been a cat at some point scrabbles up a nearby car and scrams.

Jordan clenches the broom's handle, watching the spectacle unfold with visible disbelief. "What just happened?" they mutter.

Mr. T-Rex chuckles. "Time's ticking, kid. Your folks should leave. We're not here for them."

Mom steps forward, eyes still wet but filled with defiance. "Who the hell do you think you are, telling us to leave our own daughter?"

Dad places a hand on her shoulder, halting her. "Rachel, let's not escalate this." He glances at me, then at Jordan, as if silently asking if we got this. My dad's grip tightens around the unloaded gun, clearly still on edge. "You know these people?" he asks, eyes darting between me and Mr. T-Rex.

"It's complicated," I say, my voice betraying a mix of apprehension and resolve.

Mom looks at the woman next to Mr. T-Rex, then back at me. "Is she one of them? One of the bad guys?"

I meet the woman's eyes, trying to glean some insight, but her expression remains unreadable. "I don't know her," I say cautiously, "but probably."

My mom hesitates, torn between maternal instincts and the dread reality unfolding before her. Finally, she nods, turning to my dad. "Ben, let's go. She's right; we'd only get in the way."

"I don't know who you are," I growl at the woman, "but you've made a big mistake coming here."

"Is that so?" She raises an eyebrow. "Well, let's find out, shall we?"

My mom and dad seem like they want to say something more, but the looks on our faces—mine, Jordan's, even Mr. T-Rex's and the mysterious woman's—tell them this isn't a debate. It's a standoff.

"Go. Please," I urge, my voice softer. "Trust me. Get to Pop-Pop Moe's. We'll handle this."

Mom looks like she's about to protest, but dad interrupts her, shaking his head subtly. "She's right, Rachel. Let's go."

Dad unlocks the car with a beep, and they both get in. As the engine roars to life, my mom rolls down the window. "We love you, Sam. You too, Jordan. Be careful."

"We will be," I say, waving as they drive off. "We love you too."

The car turns the corner, and just like that, they're out of sight. I turn back to face Mr. T-Rex and the woman. "You two have made a very bad decision."

Mr. T-Rex smirks. "Well, we're full of those."

Jordan shifts their broom to a ready stance. "Yeah, well, so are we."

"Then let's not keep each other waiting," the woman says, taking a step forward.

As I prepare for what comes next, the adrenaline in my veins is overpowered only by the sense of purpose in my heart. They want a fight? They'll get one. And I have every intention of making them regret ever setting foot on this street.