Whimsy

‘Which direction Brontë?’

It was three thirty am and very dark outside, as the three clones pulled the front door softly shut behind them. Hugo had a small plastic bag containing their provisions. He had wanted to apologise to Bella for taking things, but could not think how to do so without talking to her face to face. They really needed to learn how to write, when they had a quiet moment. When he had learned about archaic mark-making practised by people, he had thought it a whimsical thing, but clearly, it did have a use after all.

Brontë indicated down the street and they set off, keeping away from the pools of light cast by the occasional street lamps.

‘Why do you suppose this area is lit when no-one is moving about?’ said Alain. ‘It seems like a waste of resources.’

‘Without light humans can’t see anything at all.  As they can’t generate it themselves, a modicum is presumably necessary at all times, in case of emergencies,’ said Hugo.

‘I remember reading that their evolution is speeding up but it will be some considerable time before they can-’

‘Turn here, quickly.’ Brontë pulled at Hugo’s sleeve. ‘There’s a vehicle of some sort approaching. Did you hear-’

They slipped into an alleyway between two old houses, barely wide enough to accommodate them.

‘Keep very still, they might have motion sensors,’ said Alain.

Powerful headlights lit up the road and two black panel vans drove slowly along. The clones instinctively turned their heads away to prevent their pale faces reflecting the light and giving them away.