Crash.
The sound comes from inside. I scramble up the short service ladder, my hand on the handle, when the door suddenly swings outward.
I slam into a solid, leather-clad form.
“AHHH!” I shriek, stumbling back on the small landing.
“Fucking hell!” Monica Vance hisses, her purple-streaked hair a wild mess in the dark. She’s clutching a heavy flashlight like a club. “Wylie? You’re going to get us both killed! Shut up!”
“Monica?” I gasp, my adrenaline spiking. “What are you doing? Did you knock over the boxes? Are you trying to steal the cavies?”
“Steal your rats? Are you delusional?” She grabs my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “I was in the basement A space when I heard them. You need to—”
SMASH.
The sound of shattering glass echoes from the front of the room. A heavy, rhythmic thrumming begins to vibrate through the floorboards.
Vroom. Vroom-vroom.
Monica pales, pulling me toward the interior window that looks out toward the street side. “Look!”
My blood turns to ice.
Four motorcycles are idling on the grass, their headlights cutting through the darkness like predatory eyes. Figures in dark helmets are swinging baseball bats. One of them throws a heavy brick through the main window of the rescue center.
“The animals!” I scream, lunging toward the cages.
“Val, no! They’re coming in!” Monica yells, but she doesn’t run. She curses loudly and follows me as I dive toward the rabbit enclosure.
The room is filling with the smell of gasoline. I grab Clover, the pregnant rabbit, shoving her into a soft carrier. I scoop up the two hamsters, stuffing them into my hoodie pockets.
“Get the birds!” I shout at Monica.
“I hate birds!” she grumbles, but she’s already ripping the covers off the cages, her movements frantic. She grabs the small travel bins, shoved-in parakeets chirping in terror.
I spin around, my eyes searching the floor. “Gerald? Gerald!”
The red-eared slider’s tank is cracked, water leaking onto the floor. But the tank is empty.
“He’s gone! Gerald’s gone!”
“Val, we have to go!” Monica screams. She’s standing by the back door, three cages balanced in her arms.
A flickering orange light catches my eye. Smoke. A Molotov cocktail must have landed near the hay storage. The dry bedding ignites instantly, a wall of flame leaping toward the ceiling.
“The tortoise, Monica! I can’t leave him!”
“He’s a tank, Val! He’ll be fine! We won’t be if we stay here!”
The sound of boots hitting the floor comes from the front entrance. The bikers are inside. I hear the sound of a metal bat racking across a filing cabinet.
“Where is the little vet?” a distorted voice calls out.
Panic paralyzes me. Monica looks at the back door—we can hear the bikers laughing on the other side of it. We’re trapped.
“The window!” Monica shouts. She looks at the giant, man-sized pane of glass at the side of the room, the only one not yet broken.
She doesn’t wait. She grabs a heavy metal stool and flings it with a strength born of pure terror. The glass explodes outward.
