Jumper: Griffin's Story Read Free Page A

Dad saying, "Put the knife down. We're not armed. What do you want?"
    There was a crash from my parents' room, at the other end of the hall.
    Back at the door a man's voice, a Brit from
Bristol
by the accent, said, "Where's your kiddie?"
    Dad shouted, "Griff–" There was a thud and his voice cut off. Mum screamed and I jumped –
    – into the living room, magazine pages flying through the air, books falling off the bookshelf.
    Dad was on his knees, one hand to his head. There were two strange men and the woman in the living room and they all twisted as I appeared, much faster than Dad ever managed, odd–shaped guns coming to bear. I flinched away, into the kitchen, plates and cups shattering against the wall and sink, and heard the guns fire, muffled, not unlike the paint gun, but there was an odd whipping noise, and they were turning again, right to me by the refrigerator. Mum screamed "Go!" and shoved one of the men into the other but the woman still fired and it burned my neck and I was standing by the boulder, the moonlit, paint–splattered boulder two hundred miles away.
    I jumped back, but not to the kitchen. I appeared in the dark garage below and scrambled up onto the workbench, to reach the shelf above, where Dad kept the paint gun. Steps pounded down the outside stairs and then someone kicked the door, to force it open, but there was a drop bar–it was that kind of neighborhood.
    I put a C02 cartridge in the gun. The top of the door splintered but held. I fumbled a tubular magazine of paintballs into the gun as a chunk of door fell into the room. The fat barrel of one of the weird guns appeared in the gap and I jumped, this time to my room.
    Steps pounded down the hall and I jumped again, back to the living room. A man held a knife to Mum's throat and Dad lay on the ground, still.
    I shot the man in the eyes, point–blank.
    He screamed and fell backward, clawing at his eyes. A gun went off and something tore at my hip and I jumped sideways again, shooting the man who was coming up the hallway in the forehead. One hand went to his face but he fired his weapon and multiple projectiles with wires between them tore through the air over my head. I jumped behind him and he whirled and I shot him in the bollocks, twice.
    He doubled over and as he did, I saw Mum.
    She was lying on the floor, slumped to one side, and the blood was everywhere.
    Plaster exploded next to my head as a trio of projectiles thudded into the wall, wire trailing, lashing at the paint. I dropped to my knees, half flinching, half numb.
    Dad's puddle of blood was even bigger and there was a knife sticking out of his lower back.
    The man I'd shot in the bollocks was twisting around, bringing his gun up. I shot him in the face again, hitting his cheekbone. He fired his gun but the cables flew down the hallway, over my head, tearing pictures off both walls. I hit him with the paintball gun barrel, hit him hard, and again, and again. He dropped his gun and his eyes rolled back.
    I turned back to Mum and Dad and the door. I could hear footsteps on the stair. I lifted the paintball gun but there was a flash from the door and a projectile caught the gun, slammed it up into my forehead.
    I fell back, my vision dimming, dropping into some dark and formless place, but instead of hitting the wall, I fell all the way back onto sand and gravel.
    The
Empty Quarter
. Mum. Dad. Empty.
    I tried to lift my head and the moon dimmed and blinked out.
    Empty.

Chapter Two Lost (and Found)
    Someone was trickling water into my mouth and, startled, I inhaled it. Wracking coughs produced a stabbing pain in my head and side, but I couldn't stop. The sun was high and blinding. I squeezed my eyes shut, still coughing. There was something wrong with my forehead and the side of my neck and my right hip.
    Hands lifted me, helping me to sit. I managed a wheezing breath without coughing and opened my eyes. Sand. Gravel.
    The
Empty Quarter
. I touched my forehead–there was a