Free Pilgrimage by Carl Purcell Page A

more daring.
    Griffith opened the door just enough to squeeze into the shed. Unidentifiable black shapes dotted the floor and lined the walls. Griffith groped at something rifle-like and pulled it to his face, only to find himself in kissing distance of an old shovel. He put it down gently and stepped further into the shed. Surrounded by tools and machinery hidden in long, deep shadows, Griffith searched mostly by hand for the gun. He pulled a crow bar, a mallet and spirit level to his eyes in slow succession but still no sign of the weapon.
    Desperate, Griffith knelt down and scooped up a handful of loose dirt. He held it tight and focused on it, calming his mind and body and channelling his will, through his hand and into the dirt. In one sweeping gesture, Griffith scattered the dirt around the shed. The tiny grains of earth lit up in a soft blue glow, lighting the shed like a Christmas tree. With the contents of the shed visible, Griffith picked over everything with his eyes. His gaze fell, almost immediately, on Thomas' spare rifle. The gun leaned against the wall in the corner of the shed; a box of bullets sat on the shelf above it.
    Griffith scooped up the rifle and looked it over. He had no clue how it worked, but, as he stared at the weapon, the pieces of his hastily put together plan fell into place.
    Clunk . The sound of something heavy pressing on the iron doors tore Griffith from his thoughts. Gathering his focus as quick as he could, he shot his will at the shining dust. The lights died all at once. Griffith slunk back towards the corner of the shed. Something black, the size of watermelon but the shape of a hand pulled at the shed door. Griffith watched it, fighting to stay silent as his fear mounted as a whimper in his throat. The metal groaned, the door swung away. All Griffith saw was its silhouette, outlined by the warm, golden glow of light from the front windows of the house. The thing hunched forward to peer into the shed. One limb still held the door and the other steadied its massive form on the door frame. Griffith pressed further back into the corner. If he could have, he would have pushed himself straight through to the other side and started running. Whatever it was, it couldn't get through the door but one of its massive arms could probably still reach him from outside. Griffith watched it, searching the black mass for eyes or a face. He stifled each breath, exhaling and inhaling slow and quiet. The creature lingered at the door. Was it staring at him? Griffith couldn't tell.
    Whatever it was grunted and shifted, standing up straight. Standing upright, the creature completely blocked the door. It lingered for a few seconds, then turned, and stomped away. Griffith crept to the door, holding the rifle tight to his chest. He poked his head out and scanned the yard. Empty. He couldn't hear anything but the movement and voices in the house. Keeping to the soft grass, Griffith crept to the side of the house and peered down the side. He caught another glimpse of the enormous creature as it stepped over the paddock fence and waded through the cattle. A little quick thinking and a lot of luck had saved Griffith, but he didn't know for sure if, or when, it would come back. And the problem of Thomas and Georgia's home invaders hadn't gone anywhere, either.
    Feeling slightly more confident, Griffith returned to the front yard and stood on the driveway. He gave the rifle another once over and gripped it like he'd seen in the movies. Right or wrong, it didn't matter; the gun was empty. Maybe. Probably. Griffith hoped it was empty. He shoved the stock against his shoulder and aimed at the living room window, sighting along the barrel. Now all he needed was the right spell. That required more effort.
    Griffith needed a distraction. He needed to get the attention on him long enough to give Roland an opportunity to put the invaders on the defensive. If he could convince them they were under fire, that would do it.