I smiled, looking into the bright red reflection of my face. I was almost finished; all I needed to do now was the windshield. It was a fine, sunny day, families were walking down to the park at the other end of the street, an elderly couple were trimming the hedge in their front lawn, so I decided to let the car dry in the sun. I picked up my bucket of soapy water and yellow rectangular sponge, and walked over to the windshield.
Something hit the back of my head with such force that I fell face first to the ground, and the bucket flew out of my hand and rolled wearily down the street. I gathered myself, and then looked behind me; lying on the floor was a small butter knife with a cream handle. I picked it up and searched the neighbourhood for someone to look accusatively at. It turned out to be implausible that any of the people around could have intentionally thrown the butter knife at me with the level of accuracy required, so I looked up to the sky. The clouds were beginning to turn grey, but that wasn't out of the ordinary.
Then, something shimmered, just for a second, against the dark grey background of a storm-cloud. This was followed by a crash of sound, the scraping of metal. I looked to the left, sticking out of my car was what appeared to be a machete. It glinted as it wobbled slightly. Another sound, this time blunter, followed by a scream. Down the road, the old woman opposite was contorted in fear and pain.
"Madeline!" her husband yelled, as his eyes met the polished black handle of the lobster knife sticking out of her slipper.
I looked up again, and the whole sky was shimmering as if it had been powdered with glitter, or as if the stars had come out early to desecrate the day with the dark secrets of night. The first downpour came hurtling into view, and I ran to the front door, momentarily fumbling with my keys and then slamming the door behind me. I stumbled into the living room just as it began to rain. Bread knives, table knives, oyster knives, daggers, meat cleavers, rapiers, katanas; every kind of knife, sword, or blade imaginable rained down on the street, stabbing into the pavement or adjacent front gardens.
The old woman on the other side of the street was pinned to the floor by the lobster knife. She opened her mouth, but her screams were drowned out by the piercing sound of a thousand blades hitting concrete, and metal, and flesh. Within moments she had been disassembled. The families that had made their way to the park were now running back to their houses, and didn't even consider knocking on a neighbour's door for sanctuary, so insular was the community.
From what I could see, all the knives landed blade down, no matter how heavy the handle was, which was strange. A blue Mazda swerved and skidded down the road, long-swords and scimitars sticking out of the roof, making it look like a demented metal porcupine. In a matter of minutes, most of the people on the street had been chopped to pieces, save for a few. Some, a middle aged woman, a toddler in dungarees, the husband of the woman opposite, were unscathed, and so stood dead still, hoping, like me, that the rain would stop before they were torn apart.
I closed the curtains, and listened to the knives hitting the roof of my house, wondering how long it would take for the roof to collapse.