A Bucket Helmet and the Paper Gun War

PROLOGUE:

Instead, his lungs burned near bursting. He had lost his slippers somewhere back in the dark, and with every stride, sharp gravel bit into his bare soles. He knew he’d cut one or both of them, but the pain meant nothing. His legs were his only defense now, and they weren’t fast enough.

It had started like a standard weekend run. With the town’s rationed electricity cut at midnight, the bright moon was his only savior, and he had hoped to sell out before sunrise. Gas lamps flickered behind curtained windows, a quiet reminder that the neighborhood was still asleep. He knew these streets well enough to realize he’d set out too early—it wasn’t even four in the morning. Ridiculously early, even for a Saturday.

He moved through the quiet, calling out the name of the paper to the empty streets. At an intersection, he paused, debating whether to turn down a side alley. He never had much luck there, but he needed a breather. Taking a slow breath, his gaze drifted toward a single-story schoolhouse enveloped in the heavy shadow of a cluster of tall trees.

Something moved in the gloom. It was clever, using the dark to stay hidden, but he was inexplicably drawn to the spot. A sudden chill nailed him in place.

The figure stepped out into the moonlight. At first, he tried to blame the hour, telling himself his mind was playing tricks. But the dark shape didn’t just step off the flat roof of the schoolhouse—it floated. It was far too massive to be a bird, and birds didn’t hover.

He dropped his bundle of newspapers. The moment it hit the dust, a frantic wail broke from his throat. He took two tentative steps back, spun on his heel, and ran like mad.

A bitter wave of regret washed over him as he fled. He’d spent the start of his shift arguing with the other paperboys, haggling and pleading for the best routes. In the end, he had tricked his main rival, securing a half-hour head start on these quiet streets. Now, paying the price for his mischief, he was completely alone.

The creature had risen higher into the air just meters from where he had frozen. He had screamed, but no one opened a door. The whole town seemed to conspire against him, playing deaf to his terror while the cool dawn air hung menacingly still. Was it even chasing him? Why else reveal itself if not to hunt? He wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

The only response to his plight came from the dogs behind the property fences. They didn’t bark; they howled—a long, mournful sound that confirmed every old superstition he had ever brushed off.

It was no trick of the light. The creature was real. It was towering, it hovered, and it had wings.

And as he ran into the dark, he wished with everything he had that he had wings, too.