The Forbidden City. John McNally
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the station and flew to the top of a road sign where he tried to take in the scene. Dozens of images, sounds, sensations hit him. It was busy. The traffic was busy, the people were busy, the buildings were busy … even the air was busy, infused with aromas of Asian food, exhaust fumes and the sea. Then, penetrating the cacophony around him, Finn heard a tinny, high-pitched, stop-start buzzing.
DZZTZT-ZZZTZTZT-ZTZTZ-TZZZ-ZZZSZ-TSTS-TZZZTZTZ …
He looked up.
Incoming. His least favourite insect: stooped in profile, lazy in flight and responsible for the annual death of half a million people from malaria. A mosquito.
It swung down towards him, body swollen to the size of a Labrador, its wingspan the same as Finn’s height, arrow-thin proboscis pointing at the open side of the Bug, ready to run straight through him … DZZT! DZZZT!
Finn snatched up the pin he’d taken from Grandma’s bag and, using it as a sword, he parried the incoming stinger with a healthy smack, before thrusting forward to nick the mosquito’s swollen abdomen. BOOOSPLOOSSHHH! Its guts – full with blood harvested that morning – burst spectacularly.
Not since Finn had totalled the pinata at Max Campbell’s ninth birthday party had he seen such a multi-coloured explosion. Yuk, he thought, drenched in blood and guts.
But there was no time to recover, straight away …
DZZTZT-ZZZTZTZT-ZTZTZ-TZZZ-ZZZSZ-TSTS-TZZZTZTZ …
A dozen or so more mosquitoes appeared, from all directions, alerted by the smell. Finn aimed and fired the Minimi machine gun – DRRRRTT
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