Slinging their rucksacks over their shoulders, the trio of dancers exited the rehearsal studios, making their way down the dark stairway to the streets, still laughing from the exertion and fun they'd had playing out scenes from CATS.
"What are we goin' to do tomorrow?" Jenna asked, as she unlocked her car, letting her friends slide into the back seats, tossing their bags carelessly into the boot. "Same thing? Or do we want to do Saturday Night Fever."
"I wonder what your preference is." Tatiana grinned, winking at the shy teenager next to her.
"Did I detect a note of sarcasm there?" Jenna narrowed her eyes in feigned hostility, as she pulled out of the parking space and steering towards the main street, the darkness barely cut by the dim swathes of light from the lampposts.
Kristov chuckled at the looks the women exchanged. "She would never be sarcastic, Jenna." He put in, his face a mask of innocence.
"Oh, great." The Australian muttered in disgust. "And they say sarcasm isn't contagious. You've been spending too much time with that boy, Tat."
"You just watch the road." Tatiana grinned smugly, her heavy, braided hair falling around her dark face as she laughed merrily at Jenna's apparent annoyance, mischief sparkling in her deep brown eyes.
Pushing a cassette into the stereo, she glared at them both, then settled her eyes on the dark road, wondering for hundredth time why the small Russian streets never had sufficient lighting in weather like this.
Snow was piled by the sides of the dirt-strewn streets that were barely illuminated by the clouded face of the full-moon. Driving out of the town, she turned off into the hill road that led back to the small village she and her friends were staying in.
Half-listening to the conversation between her two friends, she turned briefly to give an answer only to turn back in time to see what looked like a gleaming surface of a puddle on the road moments before the tyres hit it and the car skidded out of control.
"Hold on!" She managed to spit out between gritted teeth, her hands frantically twisting the steering wheel, the brakes screeching and hissing under the pressure, as the car careened towards the roadside.
Pressing her palms against the roof, Tatiana braced her knees against the back of the passenger seat and managed to whisper with a trace of her biting humour. "If we survive this, I'm going to kill you."
"I know." Jenna hissed back, raising her arms over her head as they smashed through the crash barrier and plummeted over the edge of the cliff top road, the small car tossing and rolling, the metal tearing and ripping on the rocks.
Erupting into a blossoming fireball of gold as the car hit the rocky surface of the valley floor, then blue flames, the full tank of petrol ignited, lighting up the night sky in a rainbow of multicoloured blazes.
Lightening danced mockingly across the dark sky, flickering down the bleak shadows of the gully, where the destructive flames burned on long into the night.
The bodies of the trio were never found.
*
Sliding his arms around his wife's waist, Jordan buried his face in the rich mass of her dark red hair, his head pillowed on his arm, as she reached over and flicked the light off, curling snugly against him.
After spending half an hour online, they had taken notice of the storm warnings and had decided against using the computer in case anything happened.
Outside of their window, the street lamp flickered, guttering in the night, the rumble of thunder crashing across the sky making them both jump and instinctively cling to one another more.
"I hate storms." Maria mumbled sleepily, tracing her fingers across the back of his hands gently. "Specially when I wanna sleep."
"You want me to complain to the weather man?" Jordan teased gently.
With a vigorous nod, she muttered. "Yuh-huh. Tain't right. My wanna sleep…stoopid thunder…makin' big noise…"
"That's what it does, love." Her husband smiled slightly, leaning over to gently kiss her. "In case you hadn't noticed." Brushing his cheek along hers, he chuckled. "And it does it all to annoy you."
"I know." Yawning, she pulled his arms around her like a blanket, frowning as they were suddenly plunged into darkness, the row of street lamps outside their window all darkening simultaneously. "Jord?"
"It's just the storm." He tried to sound reassuring, feeling her roll and bury her face against his chest as a crash of thunder shook the house to the foundations, the sky illuminated by a sheet of lightening. "Just the storm."
Clinging to him, she knew instinctively that his eyes were pressed as tightly shut as her own and when the next roll of thunder and blazing flame of lightening seemed to descend from on high to engulf the house, her arms tightened around him and she whispered. "Liar!"
*
Connected to the chatroom from four corners of the earth, several people chatted animatedly about how their day had been going, about the insanity of the online world and about the storms that rumbled on outside.
In Rainham, near London, Timothy glared defiantly at the storm, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he argued about whether or not bapping someone with a herring could be counted as an offense in the Jellicle realm.
The hyperactive retort from Ireland was a decidedly happy. "No!"
"Don't be silly!" Was quickly sent in response, from California. "It only ever works if you use a mackerel and it has to be a week old and freshly stinky!"
In Texas, a woman under the pseudonym Glory smiled indulgently, intervening in as un-maternal a way as possible, trying to fight down the memories of her own lost children, as she joined in the conversation.
"Why do I keep on coming here? Am I insane or something?" A cheerful Norwegian asked, eliciting the usual responses.
"Ask a stupid question." Reajin, also known as Timothy Henlan, typed quickly, a wide grin on his dark face.
Another name glinted up on the list of chat members.
"Hey Jinx!" The responses to Hiroko's arrival flitted up before she even had a chance to finish typing her opening greeting, swiftly followed by a query from Mercedes. "Jinx, do you think mackerel or herring?"
"Uh…herring." The Japanese woman grinned, typing swiftly. "Nice to see its just your average sane night in the chatroom."
The responses and chat flowed swiftly between the group, until there was a chat-wide frown and verbal exclamation of "What the…?"
"What is it?" Tadashi looked over from the computer he was still working on.
Hiroko frowned again, drawing back from the screen to let him see. "I don't know. The screen – it's flickering…glowing…" It almost seemed as if the computers had come to life in some crazy way.
Simultaneously five pairs of hands unnervingly reached for the power button of the computers, but not swiftly enough, as lightening surged through the screens and engulfed each hand then the body attached to it and anyone who happened to be nearby.
And on opposite sides of the world, five computers powered themselves down, the seats in front of them empty, deserted.
*
Running off the court, Mickey grabbed an ice-cold bottle of water, downing several chilling mouthfuls rapidly, the sweat streaming off his body, a wide grin on his face as he glanced back at his team-mates, his substitute making easy work of their opponents.
Outside of the sports hall, the unseasonable rain pelted against the windows, the sky black as the thunder that rumbled through it, slashes of brilliant lightening lighting the darkness in a spectacular natural light show.
"Hey, Mick!" The ball sailed over his head, distracting him from the storm outside, rolling under the crowded seating. "Get the ball, will ya, buddy?"
"Why not?" Tossing his empty bottle in an easy slamdunk into the bin, he ran swiftly along the courtside, ducking under the creaky stands, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, as the game continued with one of the extra balls. Spotting the ball, he edged under, getting down on hands and knees to stretch under and reach for it.
On the court, one of his team-mates made a run for the net, leaping high and slamming the ball easily through the hoop.
Immediately, the audience leapt to their feet, swelling up with a cheer, the stands creaking and squeaking ominously.
With the ball under his arm, Mickey started back towards the opening that had crawled through, looking up as there was a pop, a screw bursting out of its holding, the entire stand squeaking and shifting under the weight of the standing fans.
One of the supports buckled above the teenager's head, shards of metal and wood raining down on him as he frantically crawled towards the opening, a trickle of blood running down his cheek from a gash on his forehead.
Above him, he heard another ominous cracking and wasted precious seconds to look up in time to see a main strut falling towards him, as the stand collapsed, the screams of the people on top reaching his ears then everything went dark.
*
Leaning against the railing, Marco sighed, the ache in his knee spreading through his body, a bitter tear trickling down his cheek, mingling with the steady flow of the rain.
All his life, he had wanted to be in the Olympics and he had trained day in and day out to make that dream a reality, but the one time it had looked like it might actually come true, he had injured his leg so badly, there was no chance.
He was simply too old. The only real skill he had was worthless to him now and that hurt him more than anything.
Leaning over the barrier, he looked into the roaring, speeding traffic pensively, waiting for his lover to bring the car around. Sitting up on the fence, he raised his head, letting the raindrops bombard him, as he waited.
Lightening flickered across the sky, seeming to edge closer and closer to him: An unnerving feeling. The thunder was soft, no more than a low growl from the sky, but the lightening – it lit up as far as the eye could see.
Further down the road, he heard the blare of a diesel horn and turned to say a Heavy Goods vehicle roaring down the narrow road, apparently out of control, swerving this way and that.
Before the young gymnast had a chance to jump backwards, off the fence and to safety, the massive lorry whirled into a spin, the tyres sending a spray in the air, speeding towards the terrified young man.
On impact, everything went softly dark, unconsciousness claiming him swiftly and silently, but when the police and ambulance finally arrived, there was no sign of his body, despite all of the witnesses.
Marco Santorelli was never seen again.
*
The first thing that Sylvia was aware of was the darkness, closely followed by the scent of fear and other bodies present, close by as well.
"Where…where are we?" A quavering young girl's voice spoke.
A dim light beyond them allowed them to see the crouched bodies of a dozen figures piled into the room, some moving, others still, all of them alive and terrified.
Crawling towards the faint light source, the oldest of their number, Sylvia, tentatively pushed aside the brush and tangle of leaves and bushed that obscured the outside, the scent of nature assailing her senses as a wave of light poured in through the cave entrance.
"What the hell…?" Her gaze shifted from the bright blue skies outside, to the golden leaves and bushes surrounding the rocky entrance of the cave, then on to her own outstretched hands, a tremor of fear running through her body.
Behind her, she heard a rustle and turned to come face to face with a pair of golden eyes, set in a jet-black-furred visage, the gleaming whiskers twitching fearfully, tufted ears flattening back against her skull.
"What are we?" The soft voice came from the black-faced creature's lips, black, paw-like hands being raised and nervously looked at.
Sylvia trembled, reaching out to touch the black fur of the other woman's face, her golden fur rippling in the soft light. "We're cats." She whispered in disbelief. "Cats."
