Anjjelz

Every time Janyka looks over his shoulder, David turns away and curls his free hand like a protecting shell around his drawing.  He spends some time on the details, on the delicate marks, the free-flowing outline, the careful shading and the naming of it underneath.

Janyka turns away, visually assessing the half-underground hovel that's been sanctuary for the last two nights: its plasterwork crumbling, the ceiling caved just above them, the raw sewage bubbling up in one corner.  'That's not how you spell Angels.'

'It's how I spell Anjels.'  He peers this way and that at his writing, a spidery scrawl next to the fine accomplishment of his drawing before forcing in another j:  Anjjels.

'What are those marks?' says Janyka, trying to sound as uninterested as she possibly can.

'Those are scales.  Those are the anjjels' scales.'  Janyka nods and sighs.  She should have known better than to ask.  A beetle walks across David's scrap of paper.  He watches it intently, his eyes occasionally darting in his sister's direction.  As he watches the insect, Janyka watches him.  'Do you have more paper?' he asks.  Its a diversionary tactic and she knows it.  For as Janyka picks up her bag, he quickly snatches the licorice-black creature and throws it into his mouth.  One crunch and its swallowed.  Janyka drops the paper back in her bag, closes her eyes in desperation and runs her fingers through her hair.

'We have to get out of here, David.'

There is a rumble and the wall behind Janyka vibrates so powerfully in unison with the noise that it shocks her into jumping to her feet.  It's the sound of machinery.  A drilling, grinding sound.  One she has heard before.  The unmistakable approach of a marauder.