Mace and Reed

“You woke up to the sound of sirens. Not the usual, fading-in-the-distance kind. These were sharp, urgent, weaving in and out of one another as if in some frantic race. They echoed through the empty streets outside, bouncing off the rows of dark houses. You sat up on the couch, rubbing your eyes. The TV was still on, its bluish glow spilling across the living room. A mug of cold tea sat abandoned on the coffee table beside you. The sirens were getting louder. You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself and went to the window, peering between the curtains. The neighborhood was quiet, almost too quiet, except for the flashing lights drawing closer. A cruiser turned the corner fast, its tires squealing. That’s when you saw them. Two figures appeared from the shadows at the far end of the street. They were running — not the casual jog of someone avoiding the cold, but the desperate sprint of people who knew they were being hunted. The taller one clutched something under his jacket, glancing back every few steps. The shorter one muttered something you couldn’t hear, his voice sharp, tense. You stepped back from the window. The sirens roared closer still. Then — the sound you’d never forget — a frantic, uneven pounding on your back door. Three knocks, then two more, then a jangle of the doorknob. Your heart stuttered. “Come on, come on—” a voice hissed outside, low but urgent. “Get it open!” The back door shuddered once, twice, then gave way with a splinter of wood. They were inside. And you were between them and the front door.”