Читать книгу The Trap - Michael Grant - Страница 11

kirrrrrriiiiiittt!” Mack yelled.

He jerked away from the food, away from the Skirrit in the trench coat. But another was right behind him and wrapped its insect stick arms around him. The first pulled a bladed weapon like a short, curved sword from beneath its coat and pointed it at Mack’s chest.

A ripple went through the crowd of tourists as more and more realised that a couple of very big grasshoppers – grasshoppers not unlike the ones some of them were eating – were kidnapping a kid.

People ran. The vendors and cooks working the food stands ran. It took about four seconds for everyone to go from normal to complete panic, and then it was screaming and running and knocking over hot woks, and awning poles broken and ice bins spilled all over the sidewalk, and everywhere food: food flying and food dropping and food slithering because it was still alive.

A giant glass aquarium full of octopi shattered, and hundreds of confused octopi attached their suckers to legs and sandalled feet and bicycle tyres.

That last part was actually kind of funny. If you ever get the chance, attach an octopus to a bicycle tyre and ride around. You’ll see.

Then the first flames appeared as hot wok met spilled oil.

“Back off, bugs!” Stefan roared.

He threw himself, fists pummelling, at the Skirrit that held Mack tight.

“He’s got a…” Mack had wanted to yell, He’s got a knife; but it wasn’t exactly a knife and Mack didn’t know quite what it was, so he ended up just yelling, “He’s got a” followed by an ellipsis.

But Stefan had seen the blade. With sheer, brute force he lifted the Skirrit and Mack together in one armload, spun around, and slammed the first Skirrit straight into the outthrust blade of the second.

“Ayahgaaah!” the stabbed Skirrit cried.

His grip on Mack loosened. And loosened still more when Jarrah snatched up one of the confused octopi and hurled it into the Skirrit’s face.

“Thanks,” Mack gasped.

But thanks were premature. There was still one Skirrit left.

He advanced on Mack with his nameless blade out and ready. “You die,” the Skirrit said. With blinding speed he switched the blade from one hand to the other and lunged. The blade hit – shunk! – a plastic tray held up as a shield by Stefan.

The blade went right through the plastic tray but stuck. Stefan twisted the tray, trying to yank the blade from the bug’s hand.

And… yeah, that didn’t work.

Instead the Skirrit pulled the blade free, took a step back to steady himself, stepped on the ice that had been spilled, did a comic little cartoon wobble, and landed on his face, hard.

Stefan was on him fast. He stomped on the bug’s blade and with his other foot crushed the exoskeletal arm.

“Ayahgaaaaaahh!” the Skirrit cried.

Apparently that is the Skirrit cry of pain.

Stefan picked up the blade, smiled, and began to admire the weapon. Jarrah looked on, admiring both Stefan and the blade.

There came the sound of sirens approaching. At least one of the food stands was burning. Its red-and-white-striped awning sent flames shooting high into the night sky.

The crowd had backed away to a distance and were each and every one fumbling with cell phones to take pictures and video.

“I don’t want to be a YouTube sensation twice in one day,” Mack said. “Let’s get out of here.”

They turned their backs on the chaotic, burning, but still somehow cheerful market, and plunged through the crowds that were now rushing to see what all the yelling was about.

They practically stumbled into a mass of people on bicycles.

Short people on bicycles.

So short, especially in their stumpy legs, that they’d each strapped wooden blocks to their feet so they could reach the pedals.

Mack was just noticing this odd fact when he was smacked on the side of the head by a club shaped a bit like a bowling pin.

Tong Elves, he thought dreamily as his legs turned to jelly and he circled the drain of consciousness.

That’s right: circled the drain of consciousness. You have a problem with that?

Mack barely avoided being completely flushed out of consciousness. He sank to his knees, and Jarrah hauled him back up.

The mob of Tong Elves on bikes shot past, braked, turned clumsily back, and came in a rush for a second pass.

“You got a magic spell for this?” Stefan asked.

“I miss Toaster Strudel,” Mack said.

Stefan and Jarrah correctly interpreted this remark as evidence that the blow to Mack’s head might have scattered his wits a bit.

“Run!” Stefan said to Jarrah.

“Got that right!” Jarrah agreed.

They each grabbed one of Mack’s arms and took off, half guiding, half dragging Mack, who was explaining why strawberry Toaster Strudel was the best, but sometimes he liked the apple.

“I had a s’mores flavour Toaster Strudel once but…” Mack announced before losing his train of thought.

The Tong Elves were just a few feet away. But they were awkward on their bikes. Stefan led Mack and Jarrah straight across their path, rushed into traffic, and dodged across the street through buses and taxis.

The Tong Elves veered to follow.

Wham! A bus reduced their number by two. The unlucky pair went flying through the air and landed in front of a taxi, which hit them again – wham! – and flipped them bike-over-heels into a light pole.

“I like foosball,” Mack said. “But I’m not good at it.”

“This way! We can’t outrun them on foot!” Stefan yelled, and he and Jarrah dragged Mack bouncing and scuffling down the sidewalk and into a rack of parked bicycles. The bikes were locked, but Stefan still had the Skirrit blade.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

And there were three unlocked bikes.

“Can you ride a bike?” Jarrah asked Mack.

Mack drew himself up with offended dignity and said, “I could be a Jonas brother.”

“I think that’s a no,” Jarrah said.

Stefan lifted Mack up and settled him on the handle-bars of a bike. With fluid strength Stefan swung a leg over, mounted the bike, held a drifting, ranting Mack in place with one hand, grabbed the handlebar with the other, and stomped on the pedal.

Down the street, past the now partly flame-engulfed market they rode, with a mob of Tong Elves on bikes behind them.

But then, just ahead, a pedicab.

Small digression: a pedicab is defined on wordia.com as “noun, a pedal-operated tricycle, available for hire, with an attached seat for one or two passengers.”

This particular pedicab had a wiry guy pedalling. And on the back it had a sort of cabin, bright turquoise with a red fringe and gold tassels.

The pedicab was speeding right towards Mack and Stefan. As fast as the guy could pedal.

And leaning out of the side of the cabin, with the naked blade of his cane-sword pointed forward like a knight with a jousting lance, was Paddy “Nine Iron” Trout.