Mortal Skies Omnibus

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “We can’t afford to be soft-hearted, Smaller!”

  “Soft-hearted! How about humane?” Gareth stands to face the colonel. “He’s my friend. I was best man at his wedding. I went to his son’s christening, for God’s sake!”

  Littleton stiffens. “God won’t help the thousands his son could infect. Save your bleeding heart for them. We have to be harsh sometimes ... for the greater good.”

  “The greater good!”

  “Gentlemen.” Su-Li’s voice intervenes and she steps beside them. “My expertise is in a different area, but surely, if they’re immune they’re exactly what we need?”

  Both men break their locked gaze and turn to Su-Li.

  “Need?”

  “Yes, they’re immune. Isn’t that how we create vaccines?” She lets her sentence hang between them. A quiet buzz of chatter breaks out among the personnel.

  “She’s correct, Colonel. These people could be of immense value to us. In fact, to the human race. If we can create a vaccine, then we can perhaps save millions of lives.”

  Littleton swallows. “Bring them in.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  With burning cheeks, and the woman’s irritating voice ringing in her ears, Sally steps away from Crabbie Carol. “If you’re late again, Sally,” she says with an exaggerated, and long-suffering I’m-putting-up-with-you-because-your-mum’s-a-friend voice, “I’ll have to report you to management.”

  Oh, shut up, you stuck up old bag! “Yes, Carol,” she smiles. “Sorry, Carol. I’ll be in on time tomorrow.”

  As she steps out from the kitchen into the packed dining room, a female guest quickly looks away, obviously having heard the reprimand. The atmosphere in the room is tense as she picks up an order pad.

  Carol’s heels clack rapidly from the kitchen. “Sally, you’re on cleaning duty.”

  Irked, Sally drops the notepad and picks up the bottle of disinfectant and a cloth from below the counter, then walks to the table a family have just vacated. Another family sits down before Sally has time to reach the table and the large television screen mounted onto the wall captures her attention. A scene of urban devastation, possibly a warzone, cuts back to the studio where a dour, sour-faced presenter mouths silent words from the muted screen. Badly-spelled sub-titles flick from phrase to phrase at its bottom. The scene changes to a queue of traffic from a bird’s eye view. She recognises the vast warehouse complex sited off the nearby motorway. Lottie, the other waitress on duty today, steps by her side and her fat arm brushes up against Sally’s own. “That’s just down the road.”

  “Miss!” A hand tugs at Lottie’s elbow as she stares at the television.

  “Are you ready to order?” Lottie replies leaving Sally to continue watching.

  Obviously submitted by an amateur, the unsteady camera-work scans the city streets. It pans to a car door sitting open across the sidewalk. Collapsed and sprawling from the interior a woman lies dead. A child lies hugged to her shoulder, also obviously dead. It is as though they had dropped dead in an instant. Further along the street a man lies curled on the path with his dog on its lead beside him. Both also dead. Wherever the reporter’s camera turns bodies lie stretched out, or crumpled, on the road, the kerb, or grass. In one doorway a huddle of people is slumped, one body hanging over the others, all obviously dead. At the bottom of the screen is the name of a small city about one hundred miles to the south of the service station. The hand holding the camera wavers as though the owner is coughing then blackens. The feed cuts and returns to the studio. Face pale, the bags beneath her eyes undisguised by thick makeup, the presenter mouths more silent words.

  “Miss!” The customer tugs Sally’s elbow. “We’ve ordered. Can you clear the plates, please?”

  Sally nods, mumbles ‘yes’ and continues to watch the screen, spraying at the table without looking.

  “Hey!”

  Droplets of multi-surface anti-bacterial spray dot the plates and leftover food. A woman leans back from the table, a look of irritated annoyance etched between her brows. “I’m so, sorry!” Sally slips the spray and cloth into the front pocket of her apron, and stacks plates on top of forks on top of bacon rind, tomato seeds, and bread crusts, with a clat, disposes of them in the kitchen, then turns back to the screen. Another video clip begins, this one taken from an upstairs window. It shows a tank and several armoured vehicles rolling through a city street. As three people run out from a shop, soldiers take aim and fire. With the volume turned to mute, the presenter continues to mouth silently, though her professional face of indifference has been replaced by anger.

  The chatter in the room continues, the guests oblivious to the screen. Sally stands transfixed as more amateur footage is played. The screen goes black then returns to the startled face of a weatherman. It goes black again and returns to the studio and a guest seated opposite the reporter. The guest looks ashen. The presenter’s face is dour. The presenter begins to speak and the subtitles begin to translate: ‘Doctor Bartlett. How can people protect themselves against this ... outbreak.’

  The guest shifts. ‘The government have advised that everyone is to stay inside their homes until further notice. Vulnerable cities will be evacuated.’

  ‘But here at the BBC we’ve had reports that the government has sprayed a number of cities with a chemical that has killed the residents. Is it true Doctor Bartlett, that the government has sprayed its own people with chemicals meant for use in warfare? A reliable source has informed us that London was sprayed with Novichok.’

  The guest looks beyond the camera, a frown creasing his brow. ‘I was asked to come here to advise the public on how to stay safe during the outbreak.’

  ‘And how do you suggest they stay safe when their own government is carrying out mass killings?’

  The guest’s mouth drops open, he appears to be searching for words. Finally, he returns with, ‘There is no evidence of that Miss Kraus.’

  ‘We have video evidence.’

  The camera zooms into the face of the guest; it hardens though droplets of sweat have appeared at his brow. ‘Until an enquiry has been carried out, there is no evidence to suggest that the government has acted in any way unlawfully.’ The camera pans back out. The presenter’s brow furrows. She shakes her head, as though responding to a hidden voice, her mouth moving in silent chatter.

  The autotype reads, ‘I’ve had enough of this shit!’

  Sally sniggers and continues to read the subtitles.

  ‘Since this outbreak, we’ve received no less than three D-Notices to gag us. Last night four more meteors hit Britain, there’s an epidemic of violence, and the government is annihilating its own people, but we’re not allowed to mention it! It stinks.’

  The guest stands, rips his microphone off and disappears from the screen. The camera follows him for a second but then turns back to the presenter. She speaks rapidly and the autotype struggles to keep up. Sally reads as it flashes across the screen, ‘I’m not listening Bob. This is bullshit. We’re being attacked, people are becoming monsters, thousands are dead, and no one is telling us how to protect ourselves. You’ve seen the footage. The people should see the footage! The government are covering up mass murder of its own people.’ She mouths to someone beyond the camera, ‘Callie – show the bloody footage. People need to know.’ The footage shows a group of people, lips black, skin the colour of urine first thing in the morning, running as a horde, chasing a young woman. The screen cuts to black and then returns to the overloaded motorway. It cuts again and is replaced by the harried-looking weatherman, pushing fingers through his hair, a fixed grin on his face. He steps up to the blue screen behind him. In the next second, he’s replaced by a commercial for Eastenders. Sally looks around; none of the diners seems to have noticed the car-crash television she’s just witnessed.

  FINGERING THE LAMINATED menu, and for the first time since the meteors landed in his hometown, Nate feels a surge of hope; Gareth is coming to rescue them! It is a bloody miracle. For a second
, he almost says a prayer of thanks, but the bitterness chewing inside him holds it back; if there is a god, he’s vindictive and hates his own creation. Perhaps that was it! Perhaps God was finally sick of the debauchery, the hate and the violence, that man perpetrated upon man and, in a final sick irony, was supercharging Man’s innately violent and destructive nature to implode and destroy humanity. Perhaps this was the Apocalypse – the real Apocalypse, the one to presage a new beginning.

  ‘Here you go, Nate, my offering to you; a plague, a pestilence, to destroy humanity.’

  ‘Much obliged. Cheers very much!’

  This was Noah’s flood and when it was all over, the survivors would begin again, but if that was the case, then what was the point? Has God, if there was one, learnt nothing? The flood didn’t stop the violence or curb Man’s hate. Since the last levelling, Man had only increased earth’s population until it was at breaking point, and developed and refined his ideologies of hate to perpetrate and justify even more hate and violence.

  If he’s honest, in his darker moments, watching the rise and fall of Josh’s breath, and the seeping of the fog into his boy, out of his boy, Nate had decided that the plague, or whatever it was that was destroying them all, should just be allowed to run its course. Pandemics were needed, he’d heard argued, and plagues were necessary to reduce the population. And it was true. The population of the world stood at over 7 billion, projected to be over 8 billion by 2030, and more than 11 billion by 2100. Where would everyone park? Down his street it was almost impossible already! He chuckles at his own facetiousness. But really, when you thought about it, they were all doomed, and perhaps whatever had sent the meteors was doing the earth a favour? It was a rebalancing, another levelling, and Nate would be cheering Team Thanos. He scans down the menu, the items unseen. Sure, Nate, but are you going to sacrifice yourself and your son for the good of humanity? His eyes hover over an image of a plate full of chips, eggs, and bacon. Not a chance! If only two people survived today, it would be him and Josh. He glances at Ellie and the kids, and quickly looks away. Sure, them as well, but Josh comes first.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After watching the dreary soap-drama play out, Sally returns to finish cleaning the table. Finishing as Lottie returns with their breakfast, a full-English that makes Sally’s pregnancy nausea return, she turns to the room, begins to clear another table, then recognises the odd couple from yesterday with the suspicious request for a twin room and a wheelchair. The man has a perpetual crease between his brows, stubbly growth on his chin at least a couple of days old, and sits in silence with the red-haired woman. She’s pretty despite the tight bob and even tighter lips. A dark-skinned boy and a blonde girl sit with them. None look as though they should be together. Perhaps both the kids were adopted, though the man didn’t seem at ease with the woman either. Aware that she’s still holding the stack of dirty plates, Sally dumps them in the kitchen. Lottie stands with the hot water spray, working her way through the stacks of dirty plates.

  “We’ve used every damned plate in the place, this morning. And there’s no bacon or eggs left. Or bread.”

  “Do you remember that bloke yesterday with the wheelchair?”

  “Yep. Did you find out what he’s up to?”

  “No, but he’s out there.”

  “And?”

  “Shall we go and have a nosey in his room?”

  Water sprays back up at Lottie as she turns to Sally. Her eyes twinkle. “Well, if he’s snuck someone else in, perhaps we should.”

  Five minutes later, Sally tiptoes down the corridor, restraining a giggle and a faint smell of poo clings to the air as they approach Room 17. Sally giggles, and holds a hand over her mouth.

  “Oh, grow up!”

  “Sorry! Nervous reaction.”

  Lottie holds out the universal card to open the hotel room’s door.

  “Listen first!”

  “Shh!” Lottie leans into the door. “I can’t hear anything.”

  Sally leans into the door. Nothing sounds behind it. “Me neither. Maybe it was his wife.”

  “I don’t think she’s his wife. Anyway, she was in the dining room with him—no wheelchair in sight so she must have made a remarkable recovery.”

  “Something fishy is going on,” Lottie agrees as she holds the card above the reader to unlock the door.

  “Something shitty!” Sally laughs. “Go on then!”

  “Alright!” Lottie slides the card down and a green light flashes on the display. Sally pulls the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign off.

  “Maid service!” Lottie calls with a gentle knock. No one responds and she pushes the door open. The stench of faeces intensifies. The room is a replica of the majority in the motel; a short corridor is flanked on one side by an open bathroom door, and on the other by the built-in wardrobe leading to a small square room. A long dressing table sits beneath the television hanging on the wall positioned for guests to watch from the comfort of their beds. A pair of cups sit beside a kettle, surrounded by a litter of used sachets and plastic milk cartons. On the far wall is a window with the curtains drawn back. Mid-morning light shines through the lace curtains obscuring the glass and the car park beyond. From the doorway, the foot of the bed is visible. On it lay a large pair of feet in grubby sports socks. The remainder of the body is hidden by the bathroom wall.

  Lottie prods Sally. “Go on in! ... Maid service,” she repeats.

  Three steps take Sally into the room. A boy, who Sally estimates must be about sixteen or so given his build and height, lays perfectly still on the bed. His mouth is slightly open as he sleeps, a glob of saliva glistens at the corner. He snorts, but doesn’t wake. Startled by the noise, Sally takes a step back.

  “I told you that bloke was up to no good!”

  “He looks sick.”

  “It smells in here. Maybe we should open the window—let some fresh air in?” Sally takes a step towards the window.

  “Sally!”

  “What?”

  “Look at the ceiling.”

  Sally takes a step back from the bed. On the ceiling is a hanging cloud of mist. She frowns. “How has a cloud got inside the room?”

  “It can’t be a cloud, you moron!”

  “Maybe that bloke was vaping? Those things make great big clouds of smoke. Some of them smell really nice.”

  Lottie huffs. “Smells like shit in here and I don’t think it’s a vape cloud. That bloke’s been in the dining room for the last twenty minutes and this boy is asleep.”

  “Maybe he’s just faking it?” Sally takes a tentative step towards the boy whilst glancing up at the hanging fog. The boy is comatose, she would think he were dead if it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest and the rasp of his breath. His chest rattles.

  “Sounds like he’s a smoker; listen to that chest.”

  “Maybe he’s got an illness. People with cerebral palsy have bad chests.”

  Lottie snorts. “You mean cystic fibrosis.”

  “Whatever!” Sally smarts at Lottie’s derision; the woman is no different to Marlon.

  The mist undulates and seems to shiver.

  “It moved!”

  Sally takes another step back. Lottie takes a step forward and reaches a hand to poke at the fog.

  “Don’t touch it!”

  “It’s just ...” A tendril of fog twists from the cloud.

  “Get back, Lottie, it’s moving towards you!”

  Lottie continues to stare at the mist as it wraps around her finger. “It’s amazing. Look! It’s covering my hand.” The mist loops around her outstretched fingers, then tendrils creep along her forearm. Particles shine and vibrate as it moves. “It’s beautiful.” Within the next second, the tendril of mist shoots along her arm and spreads across her face. Before she has time to react, the fingers of smoke disappear into her mouth and up her nostrils. Other tendrils have followed and sink into her clothes.

  The boy takes an enormous gulp of air as his eyes flash open. Lottie’s
entire body shakes. A low and erotic groan erupts from her throat, and Sally watches mesmerised as Lottie stiffens, her eyes staring, hands flexed. Movement on the bed catches her attention as the boy’s head moves from left to right, his eyes staring. Lottie moans then sinks to the floor and begins to writhe.

  The fog envelops Sally, and a buzz fills her head as lightness seems to lift her. She coughs as the smoke enters her nose, sneezing as it passes over the hairs and through the membranes of her nostrils. She feels no sudden urge to moan, or buck, or writhe like Lottie, and the wisps of smoke reappear and slide back to the ceiling, tickling as they pass back through her nasal cavity and over her lips. She feels nothing other than the tickle and an odd buzzing lightness that quickly disappears. Lottie is on all fours, pushing herself up from the floor. The mist has regrouped on the ceiling. Whatever the stuff is, it’s not a vape cloud.

  In the next second, the mist descends to the boy’s face and disappears into his nose. He doesn’t writhe like Lottie, but his chest heaves as though he can’t get enough air into his lungs.

  The day has become a bad dream, a nightmare of confusion that Sally can’t make sense of. “It must be some drug.” She bends down to Lottie, holding out a tentative hand, still reeling from the shock of seeing her buck and thrust like some demented and horny dog ramming at a cushion.

  Lottie lifts her head and stares. Sally steps back in shock. The woman’s face has transformed, her lips, usually an insipid pink against doughy skin, are dark with a rim of black. Her teeth, which could do with better brushing, shine an off-white between lips that are pulling back into an insane-looking grin. Her eyes are the worst though. They seem suddenly faded, a blotch of red at the centre. The skin on Sally’s scalp creeps and her sphincter loosens, urine dribbles into her knickers and she’s filled with the urge to run. Eyes locked onto Lottie’s red pupils, Sally twists as the instinct to run kicks in. The woman pounces. Hard fingers dig into Sally’s calf and she tumbles, kicks, scrabbling at the carpet for purchase.