Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  They’d developed their own procedure for securing towns and villages by now. The policemen used loudspeakers to summon all of the townsfolk out of their homes and ordered them to wait on the green while the aliens searched the village. Looking at their big hulking forms, Alex felt a chill running down her spine. She would have sooner believed in a rogue military officer launching a coup than in aliens, even though she’d seen their aircraft. The clattering of the helicopters grew louder as one skimmed over her position, so low that Alex was convinced, just for a few moments, that she’d been spotted. There was no way to know what the townspeople were telling the policemen down below.

  She shuddered. The aliens had made their instructions quite clear; everyone in the country was to be registered, fingerprinted and given an ID card – no exceptions. And the internet had made it clear that the moment they discovered that she was a RAF pilot, they would take her away and no one would know what had happened to her. So she’d taken the risk of hiding, along with a handful of young men who were willing to resist the aliens. Alex hoped that it wasn't all just mindless bravado. There was no way to know what someone was made of until the shit hit the fan, by which time it might be too late. It was one of the reasons why military training was so intensive, in the hopes of weeding out the unsuitable before it was too late.

  And if her little band was caught...? There was no way to know. The aliens might simply execute them on the spot, or take them to one of their detention camps or...she shook her head, concentrating on the scene before her. One by one, the townspeople were being processed and registered. Smith and his wife had remained on their farm. They probably wouldn't be processed until later – she hoped. And they'd been warned not to breathe a word about her...

  One hand touched the pistol at her belt as the hours wore on. Watching made it seem almost surreal, with the aliens watching over their collaborators – their unarmed collaborators. Alex found that a warming sight; it was clear that the aliens didn’t trust the policemen with live weapons. Perhaps the police hadn't been so badly subverted after all. But she couldn't count on anything...

  Down below, a scuffle had broken out. She peered, wishing she’d dared bring a pair of binoculars, trying to make out what was going on. The policemen had pulled a man out of the crowd, a middle-aged gentleman she didn't know. Why...she realised why a moment later, just as she saw his crying wife and older children. He’d been in the army and returned to life as a civilian. It hadn't been enough to save him, or his son. The young man had lunged at a policeman, only to be knocked down and arrested by another. God alone knew what would happen to them.

  She gritted her teeth again, forcing herself to watch. Whatever else happened, she would not forget. And those who had been killed would be avenged.

  ***

  Night was falling as she approached the disused barn, one that had once belonged to a farmer who had sold out and left the country. It had fallen into a dilapidated state, but her small team had done wonders to ensure that no light could be seen coming from the barn in the darkness. The aliens didn't seem to patrol the country very effectively, yet there was no point in taking chances. They were taking quite enough with the elderly explosives as it was.

  “They used to put this stuff in flour,” Archer was saying to his small group of students. “The Chinese would use it to smuggle gunk past the Japanese – it could actually be baked and eaten without poisoning the poor bastard who actually ate it. We may have to use it the same way.”

  Alex frowned. The collection of weapons and explosives from World War Two had been looked after carefully, but an alarming number had decayed badly. Some of the detonator pens – designed for early IEDs – were unreliable. They’d been state of the art in 1940, Archer had assured her, but now...they would have to be careful. There were some nasty tricks that could be played with even disused explosives, yet...she had nightmares where one of the students accidentally blew up the barn or the weapons store. At least they’d managed to scatter smaller dumps around the area. Losing one wouldn't cost them everything.

  “I think it’s time for a break,” Archer said, as he spied her. The young men stood up and scattered. They’d been warned to be very careful – and avoid the aliens at all costs. “Did you find out what you wanted to know?”

  Alex nodded, but waited for the barn to empty before she spoke. “They’re parked in a camping field, some miles away,” she said, flatly. “I think they’ll have to leave the way they came, unless they intend to go cross-country.”

  Archer nodded. “I have the surprise all ready for them,” he said. “I’m coming with you...”

  “No, you’re not,” Alex said, flatly. “You know much more about these weapons than I do. We can't afford to lose you – at least not yet.”

  Archer didn't look pleased, but he accepted her comment. “Make sure you place it properly,” he said, firmly. “I spent too much trouble making it to have you fail to blow up the right people.”

  Twenty minutes later, Alex and two of the lads headed out over the countryside, heading for where the collaborators were parked. She was mildly surprised that the aliens had chosen to stay with them, but it worked in her favour. Assuming that the aliens were jumpy and had night-vision gear, she kept her small force from going any closer than the grit bin she’d noticed by the side of the road. It took longer than she’d feared to empty the grit into the road and pack the bomb into the bin, but they made it. Her first IED didn't look very professional, yet it should do the trick. Or so she told herself.

  Sending the two boys back to their homes, she found a hiding place and settled down to wait. There was no way of knowing just when the collaborators would start to move, but the aliens – according to the internet – were hard taskmasters. They might well decide to start when dawn rose above the horizon, whatever their human subordinates thought. Besides, it was almost traditional to attack at dawn. Any human force would be awake and on guard at that point, at least if it was on deployment.

  She was yawning when she heard two helicopters high overhead, followed by the sound of vehicle engines rumbling into life. It wasn't quite dawn yet – perhaps the aliens were harder taskmasters than she had assumed. Or perhaps they were just bastards. It hardly mattered. A moment later, she saw lights in the distance, suggesting that the aliens were on their way. She’d been worried about accidentally blowing up civilians, but most civilian vehicles had run out of petrol in the last few days. The remaining supplies were being carefully hoarded.

  The lead alien vehicle came around the bend and accelerated down the road. Alex was mildly impressed by how it seemed to glide above the ground – it was almost silent compared to the trucks carrying policemen – but there was no time to stare. She reached for the detonator and held it in her hand, cradling it while running her finger over the button. There were no safety features, Archer had told her, with a thin leer. They’d been less careful in those days. Of course, the planned resistance cells in Britain had also had more training than Alex had ever received. If there was ever a day when the RAF returned to service, she made a mental note to insist that ground combat skills were included in what they taught their pilots.

  Just before the alien vehicle reached the grit bin, she pushed down on the button. There was a heart-stopping pause – and then there was a thunderous explosion. The alien vehicle was picked up and flung right into the following truck, crushing a number of policemen under its weight. An engine caught fire and another truck went up in flames, just before two more trucks collided with the vehicles ahead of them. The second alien vehicle was untouched, but the alien infantry dismounted anyway. They moved with eerie grace as they surrounded the scene, clearly expecting another attack at any moment. Alex silently cursed her own oversight. She could have had several men with hunting rifles in position to pick off most of the aliens – but then, they would have had to risk remaining at the scene long enough for reinforcements to arrive.

  She’d had time to plan her own exit and so she ran, keep
ing her head down and praying that she wouldn't be noticed. The alien helicopters had returned to the convoy to hover menacingly over the ruined vehicles, no doubt looking for enemy insurgents to target and kill. She almost fainted as she heard the sound of gunfire, before realising that the aliens were shooting at rabbits. The noise had flushed a number of the little beasts out of hiding and the aliens had thought that they were humans! She was still grinning at the thought when she headed further into the countryside, back to her hiding place. They’d never find her.

  ***

  “You hit the bastards,” Smith said, three hours later. The aliens had visited their farm yesterday and given the farmer and his wife their ID cards. Alex had examined them and concluded that the aliens had actually encoded information into the cards – hardly an unfamiliar form of technology, but one with ominous implications for population control. “What do you think they’ll do in response?”

  Alex shrugged. There was no way to know. She’d actually offered to leave, knowing that her presence would bring danger to their house, but they’d refused to hear of it. Besides, as Smith had assured her, they needed help on the farm. The aliens had stated that they would be expected to start expanding their yield and Alex suspected that failing to produce food for the aliens would result in losing the farm. Their children were still lost somewhere in Britain, unable to return to their home.

  She looked down at Smith’s ID card. The policemen had been very clear on what the farmer could and could not do. Leaving the county without permission would result in arrest. Failing to produce the card when requested would result in arrest. Their grown children and their families, if they ever arrived, would be expected to report to the aliens through the local police station – or they would be arrested. It seemed that putting even a single foot wrong would result in arrest. Alex could almost understand why they were issuing such edicts; it was as demoralising as hell and it certainly kept humanity under foot. Given enough time, the aliens could start organising the country to suit themselves.

  The sound of helicopters – they had to be alien – nearby sent another chill down her spine. How much could they mobilise to hunt her and her little band down? An entire army, a small force of soldiers...or would they bombard the nearest town purely for the hell of it? There was no way to know, but she would have to find out – somehow. She rubbed her face, fought down a yawn, and headed outside. There was work to be done on the farm.

  ***

  “But the last time I fought was in Malaya!”

  Major Terrence Smyth scowled at the aliens, who seemed unresponsive. For all he knew, they couldn’t speak English. It wouldn't be the first time that some conquering bastard had thought that keeping his soldiers from speaking the native tongue would stop them from developing any attachments to the locals. Of course, humans had always been able to communicate, even if by gestures alone. And they’d always wanted the same things – women, money, a chance to go home without having certain vital parts separated from their bodies. The thought of the aliens paying attention to human women was sickening.

  The policemen at least looked ashamed, when they bothered to meet his eyes. They’d taken his son away somewhere, purely for the crime of trying to defend his old man. Terrence had fought in Malaya before leaving the British Army, decades ago. It seemed that the aliens didn't give a damn about how long ago a person’s military service was – if a person had military experience, he or she was to be arrested and taken away.

  He stared around the small holding pen. It was a simple fence of wire, holding seventeen men and one woman, surrounded by the aliens. Escape seemed impossible; even if they’d been able to cut or climb the wires, the aliens would shoot them down before they managed to run away from their base. Hell, he didn't even know what they’d done to the area – they’d set up a handful of oversized buildings surrounding the holding pen. And he wasn't entirely sure of where he was.

  Must be getting old, he thought, bitterly. And to think that he’d been planning a comfortable retirement. He was in his seventies, after all, but still as active as ever...well, maybe not as active as he’d been when he’d been a young soldier in the trenches. His wife wanted to travel the world and he’d been happy to oblige her. But now...

  He looked up as a heavy lorry roared its way into the camp. The driver was a human, probably yet another of the damned civil servants who’d managed to find a soft landing in the arms of the aliens. Terrence glowered at him, before deciding that he was being unfair. The arsehole might have joined up to feed his family. Not everyone in Britain lived on a farm.

  The policemen opened the gates and waved the prisoners forward. They didn't bother to shackle them, but what would be the point? Inside the lorry, they’d be prisoners just as much as they were prisoners inside the holding pen. He shuffled as slowly as he dared until it was his turn to climb into the vehicle, and then he pretended that his leg had failed, staggering down and collapsing on the ground. A moment later, a policeman helped him into the lorry.

  He found a place to sit as the doors were closed and the big vehicle made its way out of the camp. There were no windows to allow him to see where they were going. A quick check revealed that they couldn't force open the rear doors to escape. The sound of engines grew louder, suggesting that they had joined a small convoy. Or maybe it was a very large convoy. He found himself praying that resistance fighters – or the remains of his old service – were still out there, ready to attack the convoy, but nothing happened. The hours wore onwards as the truck took them further and further away from the land he’d known.

  It almost made him want to cry. His wife, his children...would he ever see them again? Or would the grandchildren grow up without knowing their granddad? He told himself that they wouldn't keep him prisoner forever, but there was no way to know. For all he knew, he might be going to his own execution. But they could have killed him easily without bothering to transport him halfway across the country. Maybe they wanted slave labour, or maybe they just had a holding camp for former military personnel somewhere isolated from the general population. They’d grow old and die there while the aliens took control of the rest of the country they’d sworn to defend. His grandchildren would grow up in a world where the aliens were a fact of life.

  Shaking his head, he remembered the hills he’d once climbed as a younger man...and wondered, bitterly, if he would ever see them again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 15

  “They’re doing it on purpose,” Aashif proclaimed, loudly. The small gathering of young men around him murmured in agreement. “They are showing no respect for our religion at all!”

  Seated halfway across the room, with the women and young children, Fatima could still hear him voicing his anger. Aashif was twenty-one years old, born to a family and community that was largely excluded from the mainstream population. A stronger person might have broken down the barriers or carved out a career for themselves, but Aashif – like so many others – had chosen to fall back into his community and wrap himself in a tissue of imaginary grievances. She’d heard it all before; the world was against him, no one liked or trusted him because of his religion, and he had rights. It never seemed to have occurred to him that his failures were a result of his personality, or that he could have made something of himself if he tried. He found it so much easier to blame others for his failings.

  She rolled her eyes. Men like Aashif were a persistent pain in the posterior. Deprived of the sort of wealth and power they thought the world owed them by rights, they turned upon the women in their lives. Aashif’s sister was terrified to talk to strangers for fear that her brother would hear of it and beat her; his mother was a pale shadow of a woman, scared of the boy she’d brought into the world. Only his grandfather had ever been able to exercise any kind of restraint on the young man, and he’d passed away two years ago. She listened to his bragging and shuddered, inwardly. There was a new conviction in his voice that had been
missing several months ago.

  Not that she could really blame him. The aliens had taken over every building large enough to hold their oversized forms – and that included a number of London’s mosques. Even the police had been reluctant to just barge into the mosques, fearing the effect such provocative acts would have on the Muslim community. But the aliens had just taken the buildings and evicted everyone who complained. They’d done the same to a number of churches, yet they seemed to have targeted mosques deliberately. Given the rumours coming from the Middle East – and spread over the internet, along with far too much outright nonsense – it seemed as though they were attacking Islam directly. From what she’d seen herself, Fatima suspected that the aliens simply didn't care. Humans were their property now – and property didn't get a vote, or the right to complain.

  “We’re going to do something about it,” Aashif continued. Bragging about his connections to the underground Jihad movement wasn't new either, but she’d always known that he was just a poser, someone who would probably faint dead away at the thought of being asked to blow himself and a great many innocent civilians up. There were too many girls out there who were prepared to allow such claims to overpower their common sense. “I’m going to see to it personally.”