Invaders From Beyond

by Colin Sinclair

  I shake my head. Blurs of colour trail across my vision. “No time for that.”

  “‘Dear mother.’” Chas is staring at his phone, typing. “‘I... have been... consumed... by enemy al... i... ens. All the very best... Oscar.’”

  It breaks the tension a little.

  I try and come up with something to send to my parents. Everything sounds too much like an apology and I think I’ve moved on from that. Also my fingers feel numb, so it’s hard to hit the correct letters. I’m just staring at my phone screen. Listening to tap-tap-tap.

  “It’s annoying,” Kelvin says. “From what we know, it’s all adaptation of local technology level equipment, isn’t it?”

  “Annoying isn’t the word I’d use, more like—”

  “No spacecraft!” Over at station two Kelvin thumps the counter-top with a heavy weapon. “That’s what I’m saying. No ships, no cutting edge science, no endless wonder. Just. Just”—another thump on the counter—“flipping seeds from space!”

  Kelvin sets the weapon down. “Sorry.”

  Chas offers a suggestion. “Perhaps we can capture one and question it?”

  Kelvin brightens. “Oh, can we?”

  “No, we fucking can’t,” Chas replies. “Am I surrounded by bleedin’ numpties or what?”

  “Wait.” Francis, standing alongside Kelvin, rubs his chin. “Have we determined these entities came from space?”

  “They’re not local,” Etty says.

  “Aren’t they?” Francis asks. “They could be earlier inhabitants of this planet. They are talking about a new Eden, yeah, got it on their sign and all? Perhaps their existence is the source of that notion?”

  Kelvin sighs. “The evidence is in. It’s like Bodysnatchers. Interplanetary threads, pods, whatever. Maybe Puppetmasters?”

  “I’m not convinced,” Francis says. “It could be a ‘Puff-ball Menace’ scenario, couldn’t it? Those were genetically engineered by a foreign power. Have we seen anything to suggest extra-terrestrial origins?”

  “Nerdfight,” Chas says. “We should sell tickets and—”

  On the counter of station two, a telephone starts ringing.

  30

  “BRACKETT’S NURSERY & GARDENS, how may I help you—”

  Francis, telephone in hand, winces and mutters something about force-of-habit.

  He listens for a moment. “No. Yes.” Nodding. “I understand. Good luck. What? I don’t—”

  Sets the telephone back in its cradle.

  “Was that them?” I ask.

  He’s shaking his head, looking confused. “Internal call. Clone called to say his plants had betrayed him? I think he was crying.”

  Having seen what those pods can do once they get hold, a basement full of flora isn’t the best location in a situation like this. I should have thought of it earlier and warned him off. Too late now.

  Francis looks at the telephone as if further information will be found there.

  “He said he was taking care of things.”

  “Yes,” I say. “He knows what to do.”

  “Then he started doing dog impressions.”

  “What are you on about?” Chas asks.

  “You know,” Francis replies. “Dog impressions. Like: ‘Woof. Woof.’ That’s what he said.”

  I check around and make sure we have fire extinguishers close by; Clone’s domain is well back from the main building and buried deep, but we’re not having the best of luck, are we?

  “Heads up.” Kelvin bashes the counter again. “Movement on the perimeter.”

  She checks one of her monitor screens at station two. “Lots of movement. Slow. Couple of minutes out.”

  “Anyone got anything they want to say,” I tell them. “Now is the time.”

  Etty is beside me at customer services.

  “My name is Etcetarina,” she says.

  “Don’t you mean—”

  “Yes, yes,” she waves a hand. “A mother who wants to embrace her Bulgarian heritage, a drunken uncle who didn’t quite transcribe it correctly at the registry office, and lo, here we are.”

  “Cool name,” I tell her.

  She looks at me.

  “When I was young I wanted to be called Rupert.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re giving me?”

  “I had yellow check trousers and a scarf, if that helps?”

  “At this point death might be the better option,” she says. “Rather than trying to live down that fashion atrocity.”

  “Nobody dies in the green world,” I tell her. “Pleasance said we could all be part of the One.”

  “Not sure I’d take the word of a walking shrub on anything,” Etty says. “No offence to the plant-based community.”

  Fair point. “Anyone else got anything to say?”

  “Someone want to give me a hand-job before the Apocalypse?”

  “Stay classy, Chas.”

  “Until the end of the world.”

  “Two minutes,” Kelvin calls out. “Get ready, get set.”

  “Maybe we could meet up for coffee sometime?” Etty says. “If the world as we know it doesn’t end and we aren’t subsumed into the green-cosmic Oneness. Oneity. One-nation?”

  I want to say, Yes. Awesome. That’s a fantastic idea. Brilliant. Took the words right out of my mouth. I won’t let you down. Or crash your dad’s car into a—

  “Cool,” I say.

  “Okay, then.”

  Her fingertips brush the back of my injured hand. “If we don’t die.”

  I nod. Let’s not die. Or otherwise cease to exist.

  “I wonder if there’s love and sex in this brave new Eden we are promised,” Etty says. “A mass mind deal, perhaps. Or maybe they just clump together and undulate their fronds...”

  “You wish,” I say.

  And then the war starts.

  31

  THEY DON’T LOOK like an army.

  If not for the blank faces and the sprouting strands of vine and creeper, they’d look like a standard slice of the local populace; short, tall, white, black, broad, narrow, whatever.

  They’re not marching, as such, but there’s a definite moving-as-one vibe.

  They stroll in through the double doors at each end of the windowed shop-front area, then join up and advance in line.

  Chas sums it up. “Creepy, creepy shit.”

  “They’re not doing anything,” Kelvin shouts. “They’re just... walking at us.”

  It’s menacing enough, though.

  It’s tough to move beyond the notion that these are ordinary folks. They don’t have that bloody-lips-and-slavering-jaws thing going on like zombies would have; they’ve got vacant expressions and fresh-pressed Garden World uniforms. These people look dazed. Like they need help.

  They’re not people. Okay, some of them are people, maybe, but that knowledge doesn’t help right now, does it?

  No. No, it fucking well doesn’t.

  “Attack,” I say. “Go, go, go.”

  Everyone gets motivated and—like a switch being thrown—the plant-folks surge forwards.

  CHAS, OUT FRONT at station one, gets in the first hit, although things are a little untidy to begin with.

  It takes him three goes to start the petrol trimmer. A few tense seconds of panic as the leading edge of the Garden World crowd sweeps around to meet him. He could be bowled over before he even—

  Throaty roar and chug-chug-chug and Chas is up and sweeping the strimmer around him like a spear.

  I can hear him hooting as the whirling cutter slices through a face. No blood there, just more of the green mush and scattered gobs of plant matter.

  Another dodge and swing and another face is turned to ruin, its owner tumbling backwards; tripping up other attackers as it falls.

  Chug-chug-grkk.

  That’s the sound the strimmer makes as it jams.

  “Fuckity fuck,” says Chas.

  He’s left to wield the strimmer as a long and heavy club, batting away the o
utstretched hands of dead-eyed Garden World staff.

  It seems to be effective, for the moment.

  KELVIN AND FRANCIS are over to my right, covering the approaches on that flank.

  Garden World staffers have started splitting off from the main group, moving along the right wall of the store and then turning in to attack via long aisles of plant-pots, candle-holders and garden tools.

  It goes badly for the plant-folk.

  Kelvin is already bombarding them with water-balloons filled with weed-killer—it doesn’t have any stopping power as such, but it seems to reduce the plant-folks’ speed and coordination a tad—with Francis backing her up with sprayers and a heavy duty water pistol of monstrous size and garish colour.

  The first I know about their booby trap is when it goes off.

  An elaborate pulley system and several weights—wheelbarrows and compost bags, for starters—swings into action. Creaking and crashing and the sound of screaming metal on concrete and then—

  Four rows of shelving collapse together into a disordered pyramid of wreckage.

  I don’t know how many plant-folk are underneath, but they’re not going anywhere fast.

  “That’s a definite health and safety issue,” Etty points out, raising another balloon.

  Some left flankers have reached us at the customer service desk. It had to happen eventually.

  Etty’s putting them off with more of the weed-killer balloons, switching to the spray when any of them gets close enough. They stagger back clutching at their eyes and faces, and I do my bit by hitting them with a short-handled camping spade whilst they’re distracted.

  Things are going very well until one of the not-so-unfocused ones grabs me from behind and drags me backwards over the counter.

  32

  I’M SAVED FROM serious injury by slamming into my attacker rather than the concrete floor. On the other hand, I’m still in the grip of a writhing plant-man.

  Flailing to get a hit in with the camping spade, I’m struggling to get free as plant-man is endeavouring to throw me onto my back and pin me. There are tendrils of vine curling out from his torn clothing, searching for purchase on my limbs.

  I shift position, best I can, throw back an elbow that crunches against the creature’s nose. His grip loosens, I wrench free and punch him in his ruined face.

  I use my injured hand. This, I should stress, is a mistake. He seems surprised by the squealing noise I make as fresh, shiny pain lances up my arm and pummels my brain.

  Pretty sure I’m about to fall over.

  Plant-man is looming above me, a dark hollow in the centre of his face, an eye dangling free on a thin slimy stalk.

  I feel weight on my arms, pinning me flat. I can’t get my spade up for a strike.

  He leans closer, mouthful of broken teeth opened wide.

  Something is clambering out of his mouth—a slick-sided, bloated version of the pods that wriggled out of not-Brackett—using its spindly feelers for traction. Looking for an opening to climb into.

  In my head I’m screaming, but I’m keeping my mouth closed.

  “Fuck away off!” Etty’s shouting.

  The plant-man’s head explodes and he lurches sideways off my chest.

  Etty’s heavy booted feet go clump-clump-clump on more of the squirming pods.

  I’m clambering up and trying to say thanks, but Chas is getting surrounded and hasn’t noticed. I shout a warning.

  He spins around, gauges the situation, chucks the bent, twisted strimmer at one of the approaching plant-folk and dodges a lurching swing by another.

  He snatches up a pair of garden shears and slams them deep into his attacker’s chest, then twists them free and batters the first attacker with the green-smeared blades. Finishes him off with a heavy plant pot.

  He’s smiling now and shouting. “Is that it? Is this all you have?”

  That’s when the second wave hits.

  CHAS IS ENGULFED by grabbing hands and whipping vines.

  Kelvin shouts, clambers over the top of station two and goes to help him.

  The glass on the right side doors cracks under the pressure of the weight outside, as more of the plant-folk start to force their way into the store. They’re pushing the hasty barricade aside and streaming in, heading for Kelvin.

  Francis is beside her in an instant, wading in with a spray-bottle and a trowel.

  It’s no use. They’re getting swamped by silent rows of plant-folk.

  They’re still up and fighting though, so that’s good.

  I grab a weapon and head for Chas, because I figure he’s more in need of the help.

  It’s close-up, brutal work. I’m just battering anything I see that isn’t Chas. Digging through a mass of plant growth and bodies.

  I find a clutching hand and drag him from the scrum, helping him stand as even more plant-folk arrive on the shop floor.

  “I’ve had worse nights out,” Chas says breathlessly.

  I hear a shout from Etty and spin around.

  Plant-folk have surrounded her at customer service, grabbing her arms and legs, holding her fast as she struggles to get loose.

  Smoke billows from under the doors that lead to the staff areas and Clone’s basement.

  I dive towards Etty and hit a wall of bodies, a vast, endless press of relentless force. Can’t move. I can barely breathe.

  All around me, my friends are in the same situation.

  I do my best to shout.

  “Stop!”

  33

  IN A PERFECT society of Oneness I’d have thought there’d be less gloating.

  Pleasance is there to disabuse me of that notion. His suit is still battle-damaged—tattered, smeared with blood and dirt, end of one arm missing—but he’s regrown the limb and patched up the damage. The flesh of his new arm is shiny, pink and smooth.

  They’ve dragged us all across the road to Garden World; each of us in a close walking phalanx of plant-folk, marching in lockstep, preventing any chance of escape.

  They’ve even brought Jost’s body with them.

  Pleasance gets us lined up in the storage room, a hop-skip-jump away from the big vat where I spotted the floating arm. There are some workers fishing sodden clothes and the odd watch from the vat. It’s all very much as expected. Good to be proven right, I guess?

  They check us for electronics. Phones, watches, that sort of thing.

  Pile it all on a little trolley table nearby.

  Our troop of silent bodyguards steps back a little.

  Gives Pleasance some clear space to walk along and smirk some more.

  Three of the Garden World staff—some of them look like they got messed up in the fighting—are carrying Jost’s body closer to the vat.

  Francis looks a little queasy as the body is carried past. Kelvin’s just looking daggers at Pleasance.

  As the procession passes by I dash forward, dodge past Jost, hearing shouts of alarm.

  Ignoring all that, I’m heading for the trolley and grabbing for the phone Jost gave me.

  A hand on my shoulder.

  Quick jab with my elbow, thud of impact and a pleasing crunch.

  Whoever it is fades back.

  I have the phone in my injured hand. The pain is crazy but I’m not giving a shit right now.

  On-switch. Older phone, with buttons instead of a flashy smart screen.

  It lights up.

  The three carrying Jost seem to be frozen in place, but the others aren’t quite so reluctant. Blank Garden World faces are pointed my way.

  Chas and Etty are doing their best to cause a diversion, but they’ve no clue what I’m up to, and they’re outnumbered.

  I need to be closer.

  “This is unnecessary.” Pleasance at his soothing best. “Your transmissions have been blocked.”

  I step towards Jost, pressing the sequence of buttons he’d showed me. There’s a dull vibration from the phone. I think that means it worked.

  I grab Jost’s hand—it’s c
old and dead and encrusted with dried blood—and don’t resist as the plant-folk drag me back into line.

  The scuffling from Chas and Etty stops.

  Pleasance looks... disappointed.

  The phone is taken and handed over to Pleasance. He looks even less impressed than before.

  “The obsessive connectivity of the modern world,” he says. “You do leave yourselves open to subversion, don’t you?” He holds up the phone. “Like an arrow pointed at your head. A target at your back. Entire lives laid bare. My god, you’re just asking for it, aren’t you—”

  “You believe in God?”

  “A figure of speech. Can’t live amongst you without picking up some of the lingo.”

  I get the impression it’s more than that. He’s wearing the best suit. Giving it airs and graces. Acting the leader.

  He’s got the phone in his hand. He might notice that something is up.

  “Can I have that back?” I say. “It’s got some important numbers on—”

  Pleasance stamps the phone to pieces on the cold cement floor.

  “We’re already replenishing our forces.” Pleasance gestures to the towering shelves of silver steel cylinders. “The remaining question at this point,” he says, “is do you want to join us willingly?”

  We’re defeated, trapped, being held by enemy aliens. It doesn’t seem voluntary at this point.

  They still haven’t put Jost in the vat. So much for Garden World efficiency.

  “I have a different question,” I say to Pleasance. “I think I understand the vague outlines of how you operate. Plants and agriculture are kind of my field, though, so—if it’s not too much trouble—I was wondering if you could provide a little more background?”

  Pleasance flashes that super-fake Hollywood smile.

  “This is your lucky day,” he tells me.

  Bruised, battered, bleeding and bereaved; I have to say I’m not feeling it.

  I try and look happy.