Invaders From Beyond

by Colin Sinclair

  “No—!”

  I’m shouting and swinging.

  Jost manages to get a good blow in with his blade, but then it slips from his hand and he’s down.

  I hit Pleasance with the flat of the shovel, then try to grab the shaft with my injured hand, get a better swing. Pleasance isn’t pressing the attack.

  I check on Jost. He’s on the ground, but struggling to rise.

  “Get—Get the bastard.” He’s reaching for his machete.

  Trembling fingers, blanched face, blood oozing madly where he’s holding his other hand against the wound.

  “We need to—”

  “Go kill him or I will,” he says. Tries to stand and fails.

  I look for Pleasance.

  Maybe see a shape in the darkness between the oasis that is Brackett’s and the brighter glow of Garden World across the grey expanse of roadway.

  I take a few steps forward, further into the night.

  I don’t see anything.

  When I get back to Jost he’s wrapping tape around his belly.

  “That’ll hold for now,” he tells me. “Did you get him?”

  I shake my head guiltily.

  “Should have made sure. Should have settled his bullshit—”

  Jost doubles up. Takes some long, slow breaths through clenched teeth. Straightens again.

  “Now I have to do it myself.”

  “In a minute,” I tell him, sliding my bad arm under his and hoisting him to his feet best I can. “Pleasance can wait for a minute.”

  “MEDIC,” IS WHAT I think I’m shouting. Could be anything at this point.

  Back through the doors of Brackett’s and I hear yelling, running—no more karaoke though, so there’s a blessing—people gathering.

  Chas is there again, checking for damage.

  Jost is pushing him away. “I know the score,” he says. His face is almost bloodless white. “Triage.”

  “I’ll be the judge,” Chas tells him. Pulls open Jost’s ripped and ragged jacket. “Fuck,” he says. Closes the jacket again. “Is that duct tape?”

  “Thousand and one uses.” Jost coughs. There’s spots of blood everywhere.

  He grabs my arm. “I’ve knocked them on their heels. Made them think again. When they come back it’ll be harder. You need to get ready. Fight.”

  Chas leads Jost away to one side. Sits him down and gets to work with his medical kit.

  “We have to get some things together.” I’m looking at the aisles, trying to remember where everything is kept.

  “We don’t have any weapons,” Someone says. Maybe Kelvin.

  “Are you kidding?” I tell them. “We’ve got two aisles packed with bladed implements and enough systemic herbicides to destroy the Lost Gardens of Heligan.”

  “Not to mention all of the banned-by-the-Geneva-Conventions shit that Brackett’s been storing out the back,” Etty adds.

  “Exactly,” I say to Etty. “We’re sorted. We just need to get organised. I’ve a few ideas for—”

  A sharp laugh from across the room and Brackett stalks forward, sneering.

  “Too late,” he announces. “Too far gone late.”

  Brackett’s standing awkwardly, like his limbs aren’t at their best. I know the feeling, to be honest.

  “Your resistance delays the inevitable,” he says. “Surrender to the green world. Join us in the One-ness.”

  “I don’t fancy it,” Etty says. “Anyone else?”

  “You hold him here,” I say. “I’ll go find out if Chas needs—”

  “Your warrior is down,” Brackett says. “You have no chance without him.”

  His mouth has a strange, distended look to it. A drool of green slides down his chin. “The mighty Jost will be but the first to yield, you will all join—”

  A wet slap as Kelvin hits him with a shovel. His skull collapses inwards on one side like a papier-mâché model of a head. His mouth, still moving, opens wide in a high, shrill cry—

  Francis pushes past me and slams a heavy garden fork into Brackett’s chest, surging forward and knocking Brackett to the floor.

  There’s howling and screaming. Brackett’s head bursts open against the hard floor, spilling out green mush and sick-yellow lumps.

  He’s not moving any more.

  Kelvin and Francis are staring at their handiwork, appalled and fascinated in equal measure.

  “At least he’s not singing now,” Chas says.

  I get close. “How’s Jost?”

  Chas shakes his head. Jost is still sitting on the floor, propped up against some boxes.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I hear Etty saying, somewhere behind me.

  “It’s that shit wine Brackett was serving, I told you not to drink that pish,” Chas tells her. To me, “You need to take this.” He hands me a fat tablet and a bottle of water. “It should hold you until you can see your GP. You might need a tetanus shot as well. I doubt those thorns are the cleanest.”

  I take the tablet. A sip of water.

  “Be careful with that injured hand. Avoid anything strenuous and you’ll be back to your old self in no time,” he says. “Which, let’s face it, is pretty shit, but I work with what I have, yeah?”

  Good old Chas. “Thanks.”

  “I’ll invoice you later.” A pause. “Now,” he says. “You were going to tell us about dealing with invasive species?”

  28

  “YOU’RE SURE YOU don’t need a flipchart?”

  I look at the team, gathered around me at station one.

  “No. That’s fine. We don’t have the time. This is just a quick rundown of the highlights.”

  Plant killing 101:

  “The science of plant destruction is pretty straightforward,” I tell them. “We’ll concentrate on the faster acting options like poisons, heat, burning,” I say. “I mean, there’s also removal of external growth factors—like smothering them with newspapers—”

  A cough from Chas.

  “Okay. Right. For a start, heat. Boiling water won’t do them much good, but whether it’ll stop them short is another matter. Fire’s a better bet—we have those weed-burning units over on aisle three. Gas bottles in the cage over there. That’s pretty-close up stuff, but it’s what we have.”

  Nods and mutters.

  “Poisons. We’ve got stockpiles of serious chemicals close to hand, never mind the under-the-counter well-off-the-books stuff hidden in dusty corners. And it’s not just the weed-killer classics; you can also use conservatory cleaner, stuff for polishing glass, tarting up tiles. All of that is much the same. Not good for living things.”

  “Us included?” Etty asks.

  “Well, yeah,” I concede. “Be careful out there, is all I can say.”

  “Blades for doing serious trauma,” Chas says. “Can’t forget that.”

  “Very true. And also be aware that vinegar and salt are also an option.”

  “Oh, yeah: ‘Just hold it right there, plant-man, whilst I empty twenty sachets of salt in your face.’ Dream on.” Chas shakes his head. “I’m away to check on Jost.”

  “Any questions?” I say.

  Francis raises a hand. “Isn’t Brackett supposed to be dead?”

  The body is moving.

  We go for a closer look.

  Not up and walking about—Brackett’s still sprawled on the floor where Francis and Kelvin put him—but a definite shuffle of fingers and twitch of limbs.

  “You saw what happened. His head’s full of green mush. There’s no brain there. He’s not—you know. A person.”

  I’m not sure who Francis is trying to convince.

  “Looks a bit deflated, sure,” I say. Whatever was holding Brackett upright, keeping him body shaped and mobile, seems to have left the building. There’s nothing there but plant matter and—

  “What the fuck are those?”

  That’s Etty. She’s pointing at thumb-sized grey-green pods—four or five of them—crawling out from under Brackett’s body, sk
ittering about on the floor. As I watch, thin fibrous strands emerge from the sides and sweep back and forth.

  “We can smash these, right?” says Francis.

  Kelvin holds up a hand. “Wait. Let me try something.”

  She runs off. We watch the pod-things twist about. Keeping well back.

  Kelvin comes back with her phone. Starts pressing buttons.

  Francis winces, says, “Do you have to—”

  “Look!”

  Most of the pods stop, turn, head for Kelvin. The last one has already latched itself onto a trailing strand of asparagus fern overflowing a pot nearby. Not really a fern, this plant, more of a—

  “They’re attracted to the teen frightener?” Francis is saying.

  They’re definitely gathering around Kelvin. Fits in with what Jost and I saw out the back of Garden World earlier on.

  Whatever they’re doing over there, they’re using sound to attract the pods.

  “And they latch on to humans,” I suggest, “and drive those fakes?”

  “What happens to the real folks?” Francis asks.

  “I think—”

  “Guys,” Etty says. “You need to—”

  The fern is moving, growing fast, its leaf parts waving despite the lack of breeze. White buds are bursting on its surface.

  “Forced growth,” I say.

  It’s incredible.

  “We can smash these, right?” Francis says again.

  “Yes,” I say, “yes, we can.”

  I’m about to join in when Chas appears. He looks a lot more sombre than usual.

  “Jost wants a word,” is all he says to me. He says the same to Kelvin and walks away.

  I follow Chas.

  It’s a couple of aisles away but it felt longer.

  Jost is still alive; not kicking maybe, but still here with us.

  “I want you to do something for me,” Jost is saying. His voice is getting lower. “It’s messy and awkward.”

  “Anything,” I tell him.

  “First I’ll have a word with Laura. Just a minute, then I’ll tell you what I need.”

  I back away and Kelvin leans in close beside him. I don’t hear what they’re saying. I give them that privacy.

  There might be tears. I know I’m crying.

  I’m staring into the middle distance and blinking when Kelvin says:

  “He wants to see you now.”

  She looks calm. Resolute.

  I go and talk to Jost.

  29

  I THINK I’M kneeling in a pool of blood.

  I’m not sure how much of the stuff Jost can have left, because it seems to be all over the floor.

  “Tell my daughter, my wife... tell them...”

  He drags in a soft, raggedy breath and shakes his head.

  “Tell them nowt. Okay?”

  I don’t understand, say as much.

  “They lost me a long time ago. Don’t want all of that shit bringing up. No need.”

  Fair enough. I think they would be proud of him though, proud of the sacrifice.

  Or maybe they’d just want back the husband and father they’d been denied.

  “I’m heading off, soon, now,” Jost says. “Here goes: last request, messy business.”

  I lean in close and Jost, breathing his last breaths, tells me what he expects.

  HE’S HEAVIER THAN he looks.

  Maybe the dead have a certain gravity all of their own?

  I get my arms under his body and drag him backwards. I figure the security office will be the best place for him.

  “Did he say anything?” Etty’s asking. “Before he...”

  “Last thoughts of his wife and kid.”

  Mostly true.

  She doesn’t need to know the rest. None of them do.

  “Do you need a hand with his... with him?”

  “You all have stuff to do.”

  Kelvin and Francis are pouring packets of weed-killer into spray-bottles of water. Chas is gathering rakes and hoes and all sorts of other things with hooks and blades and whatnot.

  “I can help you get him on a cart.” Etty takes hold of Jost’s feet. “Easier to get him out of the way.”

  I nod, and we work together to shift him onto one of the flat trolleys we use for moving sacks of peat and such.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  Etty shakes her head. “You?”

  “Ask me later.”

  I give her my best bleak smile. She heads back to work and I get the trolley moving.

  I stop off at the last aisle but one to collect some garden shears, a pair of gloves, more heavy tape and a mask. I also have to dig around in Jost’s blood-soaked pocket for the keys to his locker.

  His keyring has a lucky rabbit’s foot on the end.

  Guess that worked out, then.

  THE WHOLE THING doesn’t take so long.

  By the time I’m back in the store, what’s left of the night shift is well prepared.

  They’ve barricaded the side doors, left me a couple of trolleys laden with heavy bags to jam against the door to the back office area. There was no point securing the front entrance at this point, not with the massive hole where the main window used to be.

  The team is taking it all in stride. I am too, I guess, but at this point I’m buzzing with adrenaline and fizzing with drugs, so at least I’ve got an excuse.

  Maybe they’re in shock? Mass hysteria? I read about that once; people wrapped up in the same violent delusion.

  Not that this is a delusion. I mean, I saw those things. We all—

  Wait.

  That doesn’t make sense, does it?

  “You’ll need these,” Etty is saying. She’s holding up a pair of thick gardening gloves.

  “I don’t think that’ll fit on...” I hold up my bandaged hand.

  She shrugs, starts shoving a glove onto my healthy hand. She pauses for a breath or two when she sees the blood. Then finishes the job.

  “Here’s a little something for later,” she says, and sticks a sample-packet of extra-scary weed-eradicator in the pocket of my jacket.

  Snarl of ripping tape. And there’s Chas kneeling down to tape up the bottoms of my trouser legs. He’s wearing some kind of bulky plastic armour and padding.

  “What’s that?” I ask him.

  “You’ll not want those buggers crawling up your legs,” he says. “God knows where they’d be sticking those pokey needle points.”

  Taping finished, Chas stands up. “Oh, you mean this.” Thumps on his plastic chest plate. “This is my ice-hockey gear. I plan to be out front with—”

  He holds up a petrol-driven hedge trimmer. He’s taken the safety guards off the business end. It does look brutal.

  “I’m keen to see what it does,” he says.

  I look around—spray bottles, water balloons, spades, trowels, long-handled pruning blades—the team all resolute and hard-eyed. I look at Etty, get a slight smile in return.

  “I can’t believe everyone is taking this so well.”

  “Nature of modern society,” Chas says.

  I look confused. Not a first.

  “Aspirational, isn’t it?” he goes on. “Everyone dreams, makes plans. What to do with their lottery win. How to cope with, I dunno, the fucking Rapture. What to do in the event of a zombie attack. Geeks have a lot to answer for.”

  “Not just geeks,” Francis is quick to point out. “There are all those prepper types as well. Getting ready for some inevitable breakdown of society, buying dried food and wholesale nails.”

  “Isn’t that hoarders?”

  “Well, no,” Francis answers. “I think there might be a bit of crossover, but—”

  “And then if they die,” Chas says, “all their crap ends up on Storage Wars.”

  That gets a laugh or two.

  When that fades, I’m still standing on the raised platform that is the customer services desk, with everyone else semi-circled around me. Waiting.

  Okay, deep cleansing brea
th. “We’re cut off—phone’s dead, mobiles out of action, no vehicles—and they want to keep it that way—”

  “Is this meant to be a pep talk? Because it’s shit so far.”

  Before I can answer Chas, Francis says, “I have a vehicle. Well, a bicycle. They didn’t bother with that?”

  Chas snorts. “I’m betting it’s a hipster bullshit fixie model with a stupid tin bell on the handlebars.”

  Francis doesn’t deny it. “I’m just saying. Faster than running or walking.”

  “No one is leaving,” Etty says. Resolute. “It’s not safe outside.”

  It’s not wild safe in here, for that matter. This isn’t the last stand I’d have picked. You work with what you have, though, don’t you?

  “In the morning we’ll have better options,” I explain. “We can see where we’re going. See them coming. More chance of help, yeah? We just have to hold them off here for as long as we can.”

  Not the most convincing speech, I admit.

  “Behind us is the offices and we all know it’s a maze back there,” Kelvin says. “Left and right flanks have double doors—left flank leads to the covered plant displays outside, right flank is the childrens’ play zone and the secondary car park—front of the building is formed from late additions in wood and glass.”

  We’re all listening at this point.

  “The building proper is post-war vintage, part of a chain of storage units—solid floor, thick reinforced concrete walls, with the single-skin brick facings and some external steel cladding, the whole thing topped with corrugated metal roofing—and it’s built to last. This is the best place to hold out.”

  Kelvin looks around, suddenly self-conscious. Shrugs. “What? I notice things.”

  Everyone has gone a bit quiet and sombre. If I don’t say something soon I feel some measure of nerve and verve will be lost. I try and think of something witty, apt, uplifting...

  “Text messages,” Kelvin says.

  Nothing but blank looks.

  “I’m thinking,” she says, gloved hand on her brow. Moments tick by.

  “Yes.” Snapping her fingers doesn’t work through the gloves. “The black hats are jamming the mobile phone signal. But I think if you key in your messages, they’ll transfer out once the signal stops. If the signal stops. Or we could triangulate the jammer source and try and knock it out.”