A final line of psychotic kids is all that’s left between me and freedom. There are ten of them covering the space where Kmart dissolves into the mall, spaced each a metre apart, arranged like cookie-cutter cut-outs. They aim their weapons: pool cues, darts, blades, sticks, bats, and shanks.
‘Stop, Eden.’
‘f**k you. Where’s my daughter?’
‘In here. With us.’ Astrid pouts at me. ‘You really should stay.’
I’m wobbling. Finally, my body tips me back, away from the dash to freedom. I’ve faced down big kids, big grown-ups, unkillable machines, but these kids seriously scare me.
I look around for an escape. My fingers scrape the checkouts with their rubber conveyor belts and shelves with a few impulse items dangling off hooks, almost everything cleared out of the checkout shelves except Fish
