The Deluge

by Mark Morris

  The blue-black mass of alien flesh (if it was flesh) was sliding around the curve of the stairs. If she had descended three steps she could have reached out and touched it. She saw its filaments waving like wheat in the breeze, shedding their strange nonradiant light; she caught the merest glimpse of beaks or mandibles or thick scales rippling, moving in tandem, and somehow over one another. And then, as though the alien and her own senses were like repelling magnets, she felt her vision being deflected away. For a moment her head felt muzzy, and then she blinked and shuddered and turned, all in the same movement. Skipping past the sprawled body of the creature that had been mimicking Marcie, she ran after Libby and Portia.

  Abby heard it then-the sound she had been desperate to hear, the sound that meant there was hope, after all. It was the roar of the helicopter's engine, the whickering of its rotor blades. Despite the situation she felt a savage joy surge through her.

  But... hang on.. .wasn't the sound moving away? Fad-ing into the distance? "No!" she screamed, and though she wouldn't have thought it possible, she forced her legs to move faster. She shoved Portia in the back, and when the younger girl glanced back at her, fearful, even a little resentful, Abby screamed, `It's going away! Listen! Adam's going wit bout us!

  Both Portia and Libby got the message. The three of them pounded up the last dozen steps, the beans of their torches again jolting and swooping ahead of them. Abby knew they were nearing the top when the steps became slippery with water. She glanced up, saw the opening ahead, the rain, the blackness of the night sky.

  And then they were out on the flat roof of the tower.

  And the helicopter was gone.

  Abby could still hear it, though, somewhere above them. "There!" Libby shouted, and pointed over Abby's shoulder. Abby spun round, saw the helicopter maybe a couple of hundred feet in the air. It was a vague outline, a dazzle of rainblurred lights. It was circling the now-burning castle, its spotlight roaming over the stonework as though searching for survivors. She began to shout and wave her arms, to jump up and down, her rucksack-stuffed with her diary and whatever clothes she had been able to grabjouncing on her back. Libby too began to leap and shout. Her rucksack clinked with the petrol-filled bottles it contained. The beans of both girls' torches cleaved the night sky, darting like birds, sparkling with rain.

  Suddenly Portia screamed, and instantly Abby redirected her torch beam, following Portia's eye-line and illuminating a shadowy area on the far side of the tower's roof. Within a curtain of rain she saw yellow eyes flashing, saw the lean, muscled shapes of four... no, five black Dobermans creeping from the darkness which had concealed them. The Dobermans had their heads down, their hackles up, their jowls curled back to reveal long yellow teeth. They might have been snarling, but there was too much noisefrom the helicopter, the rain, the pursuing aliens (now rising from the opening of the stairwell)-for her to tell.

  As Portia cowered behind her, Abby pointed her gun and started firing. She hit one of the dogs with her first shot, which went down in a twitching, yelping heap. Her next two shots went wide, but by this time Libby was beside her and firing too. The dogs began to pick up speed, strings of drool trailing from their jaws. Libby hit one square on, and it gave a horribly human scream as it twisted in the air and crashed down on its back, limbs pedaling.

  Portia, who had been clutching Abby's rucksack as though it were a shield, suddenly broke away in panic. Abby screamed her name as the girl ran towards the low crenellated wall at the edge of the roof. Portia ignored her, and Abby thought fleetingly of animals so terrified by pursuing predators that they would leap to their deaths from cliffs or other high places to evade capture. She felt her stomach tightening in anticipation of Portia doing exactly that, even briefly considered putting a bullet in her friend's leg to bring her down-but then, six feet from the edge of the roof, Portia slipped, her feet skidding from under her on the wet stone.

  She went down face-first, though it was her hands, which she put out instinctively, which took the brunt of the impact. Abby imagined rather than heard the rough slap as they hit the ground-her ears were still full of the overhead roar of the helicopter, still ringing from the crashing din of gunfire. She saw one of the dogs veer towards Portia's prone body and raised her gun again. Knowing she had to make the bullet count, she took careful aim and fired. More by luck than judgment, she hit the dog broadside, just behind the shoulder. The impact, coupled with the animal's own momentum, took it right off the roof in a flailing mass of limbs.

  Abby neither saw nor heard it hit the ground below. She was already running across the wet roof towards Portia. The girl was sobbing, hands and knees scraped and bloody, clothes filthy and wet. Abby fell to her knees beside her, then turned, anticipating the next attack.

  It didn't come. The remaining two dogs had evidently decided to make Libby their primary target. Abby was just in time to see one of them leap through the air towards her. Before Libby could swing and fire her gun, the dog had closed its jaws on her arm, toppled her backwards with the weight of its body. Instantly both animals were upon her, snapping and biting, going for her face. Libby screamed and writhed, her arms windmilling as she fought them off. Just beyond her, almost looming over her, were the aliens, which had flowed out of the stairwell and now seemed to be spreading across the roof like a flickering, blue-black carpet of fuzzy static.

  Abby didn't have time to think. She jumped to her feet and, screaming incoherently, ran back towards Libby and the dogs and the aliens, her gun clenched in both hands. There had been seventeen rounds in her pistol, but she had no idea how many were left. She ran up to one of the dogs and kicked it as hard as she could in the ribs. It gave a surprised, almost indignant yelp and snarled at her. Abby saw it had blood on its teeth; then she raised her gun and blew its head off.

  The dog fell across Libby's body, spattering her with blood and brain tissue. The other dog continued to savage her for a second until Abby put her gun against its steaming flank and pulled the trigger. The dog's spine and most of its hindquarters ripped away, and seemed to become instantly absorbed by the wall of alien flesh behind it. The front of the dog looked almost surprised, its eyes widening and its tongue unrolling from its blood-smeared jaws, before its remaining legs gave way and it crumpled, shuddering, to the ground.

  Libby, her arms still over her face, was shaking and sobbing. She was covered in blood, but Abby couldn't tell how much was hers and how much had come from the dogs. She saw the sleeves of Libby's jacket were shredded and that there were bite marks on her hands. She didn't have time to examine her closely, however. The aliens were almost upon them. They sounded like a swarm of bees, hovering just behind Abby's left shoulder. She grabbed Libby's arms and attempted to pull them away from her face. Libby screamed and tried to fight her off.

  "It's okay, Libby. It's me. It's Abby. We need to get away."

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she felt an odd sensation ripple through her. Her back and shoulders felt suddenly cold, numb, and the world seemed to recede. For a second or two the feeling was almost pleasant, like drifting into sleep. But then she felt an uncomfortable dragging in her shoulders, a dragging that quickly became a painful tightening, as if her flesh were being forced into too small a space. It made her think of newspaper stories about people being dragged into industrial machinery. She felt herself panicking and tried to pull free, but her body was heavy, unresponsive. Although she was still holding her gun, Abby found she could no longer lift it. Indeed, her hand seemed far away, as if she were looking at it through the wrong end of a telescope. Her bones began to ache; she imagined them bending, straining. It would surely be only a matter of seconds before they cracked and splintered. She tried to scream, but she couldn't make any sound. Far away, at the end of a long tunnel, she saw another hand reach out and tug the gun from her unresisting grip.

  Then her head erupted with sound, a series of explosions that deafened her. For an instant the tension in her shoulders increased; she th
ought her spine would be ripped from her body. But immediately the feeling of pressure, of being dragged out of herself, lessened and she slumped forward. She felt faint and horribly sick. She lifted her head and vomited. She became aware that someone was tugging her arm, trying to drag her upright. She heard a voice, and though she knew the tone was urgent she couldn't make out the words. All she wanted was to sleep, to be left alone. But something-some nugget of self-preservation-made her force herself to her feet, stumble away on legs that felt boneless.

  If she hadn't had help, however, she might not have managed it. For the first dozen steps she was in a daze, oblivious to her surroundings. It was the rain splashing on her face that revived her. She looked around and saw Portia on her left wet and dirty, blood trickling from her grazed knees-and Libby on her right, sleeves in shreds, cuts on her face and hands, the front of her jacket covered in blood.

  "What happened?" Abby asked. "I felt so... weird."

  "It nearly got you," Portia said. "One of those things. It was pulling you in, but I shot it and it let go."

  Abby reached out and grabbed Portia, drew her into a hug. "Thanks," she said. "You saved me."

  "For now," Libby said, her voice strained and hollow. Abby turned. They had put maybe twenty yards between themselves and the aliens, but there wasn't much farther to go. It was another ten yards to the edge of the roof and then that was it. Abby glanced around, still a little disorientated. The fire Libby and Moira had started in the girls' dormitory was spreading, flames devouring the rear section of the castle. Abby could smell the smoke and feel the gusts of heat. As for the helicopter, it was circling again, tilting in an arc that would bring it back in their direction. She wasn't sure whether Adam and whoever else he might have with him had seen them. They could only hope.

  "We've got to hold them off as long as we can," she said, but Libby had already swung her rucksack off her back and was routing through it.

  "Some of the bottles broke when the dogs knocked me over," she said. "There are only three left."

  "One each then," said Abby, and thought, Come as you are. Bring a bottle.

  Libby lifted out one of the bottles, dripping with petrol, and handed it to Abby, who passed it to Portia. Abby herself took the next one and Libby kept the last for herself. As Abby placed her bottle on the ground and reached in her pocket for matches, she realized that her hands were empty. A quick glance revealed that Portia was still holding her gun after shooting at the aliens with it, but as for her torch, Abby guessed she must have dropped it when the alien had tried to absorb her.

  Praying that the matchbox wasn't too damp, she pulled it from her pocket and opened it. To her relief the match that she dragged down the side of the box flared immediately. Hand shaking, she used it to light the thick fuse of cloth protruding from the neck of Libby's bottle. Coated in petrol, the bottle became an instant fireball in Libby's hand.

  "Fuck!" Libby shouted and hurled the bottle at the approaching aliens. It fell short, but smashed on the ground in a gout of flame. Portia held out her own bottle, her jaw clenched tight. Abby saw the angry determination on her face, and touched the still-burning match she held to the dangling cloth taper. Again the petrol coating the bottle caught fire, but despite the fact that her hand was gloved in flames, Portia calmly drew back her arum and threw her bottle as hard as she could. Trailing fire like a comet, it landed close to Libby's and shattered, spilling fiery nuggets as though they were precious stones.

  Bracing herself, Abby picked up her own bottle and lit it with the guttering match. Once more the entire bottle became a sudden and silent ball of flame. Surprised and relieved that it wasn't as hot as she had anticipated, Abby threw the missile and scored a direct hit, fire spilling down the buzzing, flickering wave of alien flesh. The foremost alien (though she couldn't honestly tell if it was one of many or whether the army of creatures had now somehow coalesced to form a single vast entity) released a burbling electronic howl of pain and distress, and flinched back, like a slug jabbed with a stick.

  Abby knew the fire wouldn't burn for long, but at least it would buy them a few more seconds. The blatting beat of the helicopter blades was getting louder now. She saw the chopper swooping in low, and at such an angle that it now seemed its occupants must have seen them. Though she was exhausted, and though her shoulders were burning where the alien had latched onto her, she began to jump up and down again, waving her arms frantically.

  The spotlight of the helicopter swooped over her, blinding her for a moment. When the glare passed, she saw someone leaning out of the machine, which was now hovering less than forty feet above them. With a sudden rush of joy she realized it was Dylan. He was holding something in his hand, something that glittered. When the helicopter was directly above the aliens, he let the glittering object go. Abby recognized it as a petrol bomb a split second before it landed amongst the rippling blue-black mass and erupted into flame.

  Instantly the aliens began to writhe and judder. Even though they gave the impression of nothing so much as a flickering, shapeless expanse of dark matter, Abby couldn't help but think of a panicking crowd, targeted by gunmen or fleeing from the effects of tear gas.

  Dylan dropped another bottle, creating further agitation in the ranks. Though it hurt her eyes, Abby forced herself to focus on the creatures, and saw them begin to flow, like thick sludge down a drain, back into the staircase opening.

  "They're retreating!" she screamed, jumping up and down. "They're going away!"

  The helicopter drifted lower, almost but not quite landing on the tower roof. Dylan was leaning out the open door.

  "Come on!" he shouted. "Grab my hand!"

  The three girls ran towards the helicopter. Together Libby and Abby lifted up Portia, who was grabbed and pulled inside. Then Abby clutched Dylan's hand and he hauled her up and in too. Finally Libby, resembling an extra from Night of the Living Dead, was dragged aboard. Once all three were safely inside, Dylan pulled the door shut and the machine rose into the air.

  Lying in the cramped space of the helicopter cabin, Portia crushed up against her, Abby let her head fall back for a moment. She was lying on her rucksack, but stuffed only with clothes and her diary it was almost comfortable.

  "You okay?" Dylan said, leaning over her. His dark mop of hair hung over his face.

  Abby nodded and sat up with an effort. Looking around she said, "Where's everyone else?"

  Dylan shrugged. "We haven't seen anyone except you three. We've been flying around and around, but..."

  "So no sign of Dad?" Abby said anxiously.

  Dylan shook his head. "All we know is Andy Poole turned out to be a slug-he came for me in my room, but I scarpered and was making my own way up here until I met Adana-and we saw two bodies in the courtyard. One was Joe Poole, but the other was too badly burned to recognize."

  Abby clenched her fists as if that could contain her emotions. Dully she said, "Moira's dead too, and so are the two girls, Victoria and Marcie."

  Dylan blew out a long sigh. In the pilot's seat, Adam turned briefly and shouted above the whirring hack of the rotors. "I'll circle around the outside of the castle, see if we can spot anything. You never know, someone might have got out."

  The girls strapped themselves into the passenger seats, Portia sitting on Abby's knee. Dylan took the seat beside Adam. Abby leaned her head back and closed her eyes, and didn't open them again until Dylan shouted, "There, look!"

  At first Abby couldn't work out what she was seeing. In the darkness below was some sort of shimmering wave with a black hole in the center. It wasn't until they got closer that she saw intermittent flickers of fire around the edges of the hole. And it was only when Adam shone the searchlight directly into the center of the circle that she saw-and instantly recognized-the two figures.

  One was standing protectively over the prone (possibly dead) body of the other. The standing figure had its arms stretched out and was firing at what Abby now realized was a remorseless, shimmering wave of onco
ming aliens.

  "It's Dad!" she screamed.

  Dylan already had a rucksack clinking with petrol bombs in one hand and a box of matches in the other. He scrambled across the floor of the cabin towards the door, dragging the rucksack behind him. Tossing the matches to Libby, he shouted, "Can you light me up, Libby? It's quicker if someone else does it."

  Libby nodded and unstrapped herself from her seat.

  Adam took them in so low that Abby could see the jawclenched expression of determination on her dad's grimy face. For the moment he seemed unaware of the presence of the helicopter. He was swinging this way and that, letting off shot after shot, as the aliens closed the circle.

  Max, lying between his feet, was unmoving, oblivious. Abby could see there was something wrong with his leg, but before she got a chance to focus on it properly the helicopter tilted as Adam took them to within thirty feet of the ground.

  Dylan held out the petrol bomb and Libby lit it. As soon as the bottle had left his hand he was reaching into the rucksack for another. The two of them worked with grim efficiency. There was no whooping and hollering, no misplaced triumphalism. Whatever happened now, this would not be a victory. There were too many people dead for that.

  Doused by flames, the aliens screeched and scattered, falling into disarray. Like cockroaches emerging from a plughole, they spread outwards from the circle of dwindling flames that Steve had created, seeking security in the surrounding blackness.

  When the fire had started to fall from the sky, Steve had lowered his gun and was now standing, arms dangling at his sides, staring up into the bean of the spotlight. Perhaps, Abby mused, he thought this was the mother ship, come to abduct hinm. Or maybe he even thought he was already dead and this was the fabled tunnel of light, cone to carry him to the next world. If so, he was going to be sorely disappointed.