Pilgrimage by Carl Purcell

movement at the door. He spun and levelled the rifle at the movement. The other home invader, Roland had heard his name as Larry or Garry, stopped in the doorway.
    “Who gave the tough guy a gun?” Larry asked.
    “I helped myself. You and your friends were just leaving. So fuck off.” Roland said.
    “Fuck that. I was hoping I'd get to tear you up.” Larry stepped into the room and rolled his shoulders. He turned his neck side to side. Roland heard the bones crack. Larry looked as if he was stretching out, preparing for a fight. Was he serious? Didn't he see the gun?
    Larry grinned and stood by the door. Roland waited for his sad attempt at a boxing stance – ass-holes like him always thought they were boxers.
    But Larry didn't move – instead, he started to change. Roland caught it in his peripheral vision. Larry's arm grew until it burst through his jacket sleeve. The skin turned grey, and thickened like an elephant’s hide. His fingers sprouted razor sharp bone claws. The change spread up to his shoulder and down his leg. Larry looked as if he was on the verge of laughing. His bones crunched and his skin stretched in ways that looked agonising. But Larry kept on smiling. Roland felt his dinner climbing into his throat.
    “Fuck this.” Roland fired. The bullet ripped through Larry's shoulder. Blood sprayed the wall behind him. Larry stopped smiling. Nobody spoke or moved. Except Roland. He yanked the bolt back and spun towards the other two. He fired the next shot blind. The bullet pierced the wall. This time panic set in.
    Larry screamed. His body stopped changing, leaving him lopsided and off balance. He stumbled, trying to keep on his feet. He gripped the bleeding wound with his massive, awkward claws. Roland chambered the next round. Larry threw himself down the corridor and stumbled in a mad dash for the back door. The last sorcerer in the room, still bleeding from the nose after Roland had hit him, grabbed Georgia and yanked her off the couch. He drew a knife from deep in some pocket and pressed it to her neck.
    “No!” Thomas roared and shot to his feet.
    “Back off!” The sorcerer shouted. Thomas stepped away. Roland could see fear in Georgia's eyes. He looked to Thomas and saw the same terror written all over him. This wasn't a normal day at the farm. After Larry's little exhibition, Roland could imagine how the emotions must be piling up for them. The sorcerer ducked low and closed his eyes. Roland saw his expression change to one of intense concentration. Roland aimed high and fired. The sorcerer recoiled. Roland readied the gun on him again. If the sorcerer had been casting a spell, the gunshot had successfully broken his focus.
    “Let her go and get out,” Roland said.
    “Put the gun down, first.”
    “Not happening.”
    “Then I'm keeping the bitch. She'll cheer Larry up, for sure.”
    “Damn it, let her go!” Thomas cried.
    “Make him put the gun down.”
    “Let her go, ass-hole!” Roland ordered, keeping the rifle level with him. The sorcerer stayed down behind Georgia and backed away, dragging her with him.
    “Don't worry. She'll only suffer for a few hours. After that, she's dog food.” The sorcerer waited until he was in the kitchen before he turned and ran for the door, dragging Georgia with him.
    Roland took off running after him.
    Griffith stood dumbly on the porch, scanning the field. The first two home-invaders had disappeared into the tree-line on the other side of the paddock. With that big thing creeping around, whatever it was, he had no desire to go after them.
    The last one came crashing out of the kitchen door and sprinted past him, dragging Thomas' wife with him. He ran straight into the cattle paddock, through the hole his friends had broken in the fence. Roland followed a second later, rifle in hand. Realising he'd been left in the dust, Griffith charged forward. He rushed through the fence and smacked into a cow. The creature gave him a displeased glare and pushed