Their Darkest Hour

by Christopher Nuttall

  She rapidly found herself assigned to triage. It wasn't something they’d practiced before, outside of a pair of paranoid exercises they’d done before the invasion. She glanced at the first casualty, swiftly assessed his condition, and marked him down as category two. He had a broken leg and was probably in shock, but he’d survive without immediate medical treatment. It broke her heart to leave him without help, yet there was no choice. The next person, a young girl barely out of her teens, was too badly wounded to live without immediate hospital treatment. Fatima marked her down, knowing that she would probably never be taken to hospital and receive the treatment she needed. At least she was too badly injured to be aware of her surroundings. If God was kind, she would pass away without ever waking up.

  The hours seemed like days as they tried to clear up the mess. Over two thousand humans had been in the building when the bomb exploded, along with a number of aliens. Most of them were dead, or so badly wounded that the only thing the doctors could do was inject them with painkillers and watch them slip away. One of the bodies, plonked down in front of her, was clearly inhuman. She forgot her fear and helpless anguish as she stared down at the alien body. The inner bone structure was very different from a human skeleton, as far as she could tell; despite their great size, they seemed almost weaker than the average human. But the internet insisted that the aliens had an advantage in hand-to-hand combat...their leathery skin, far tougher than human skin, might help hold them together. Perhaps they were less used to trauma than humans.

  A leathery hand pulled her away from the body. She jumped...and found herself staring up into an alien face. The alien pushed her aside with casual ease, allowing two of his – she assumed that it was a male, although there was no way to tell – comrades to pick up the body and cart it away to one of their floating trucks. They weren't bothering to tend to any of the human wounded, or even help moving away the dead. As far as she could tell, they only cared about themselves.

  “Don’t get angry at them,” a soft voice said. She looked up to see a policeman, staring down at her. There was something damned and suffering in his eyes. “Just be grateful they’re letting us handle this.”

  Fatima opened her mouth to deliver an angry retort about collaborators – and then she swallowed it, knowing that it would do no good. What choice did they have? And what choice did she have? She had opened herself to charges of collaboration by coming to help the wounded, even though most of the wounded were humans. And to think she’d wondered why Iraqis had had so much trouble deciding which side to support during the war...

  She pushed the thought aside and returned to work. There was an unending stream of casualties to tend to, and hopefully save. And then perhaps she might find something else to do with her time.

  ***

  From his vantage point, Alan Beresford watched as the plume of smoke slowly faded away. It had been nearly four hours since the blast and the emergency services had worked like demons to cope with the damage. There was no threat to any other building, at least as far as they could tell, and they had a preliminary list of the dead. And as far as they were concerned, Alan knew, they’d done an excellent job. It was a pity that there was nothing left of the bomber, but the blast had been powerful enough to bring down a fairly large building. The bomber himself would have been reduced to atoms.

  But that wasn't the important point, Alan knew. The aliens didn't share details about their security – or their long-term objectives – with him, but he did know that they had taken a handful of losses recently. Small, compared to the casualties they’d suffered during the invasion itself, but irritating. And all the more irritating because they’d trusted Alan to provide security for their people. They’d given him power and responsibility and all they’d asked was that he kept his word. What would happen to him, Alan asked himself, if they decided that they no longer wanted him to control the country for them? Somehow, he had no doubt that the aliens would simply kill him and put an end to it.

  The thought was intolerable. He’d risen high in pursuit of power – he wasn't going to let it end without a fight. And if the aliens decided that he was expendable...no, it was unthinkable. He wasn't going to look as ineffective as the British Government had looked against the IRA, or the more recent threat from Muslim fundamentalists. He’d show them that Alan Beresford was still a good investment. And if a few innocents got mashed in the gears, well...one couldn't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

  He turned and faced his small Cabinet. And small it was. Many of the ministers who’d served Prime Minister Gabriel Burley – wherever the hell he was – were dead, or in hiding. It seemed unlikely that they would be able to remain undiscovered forever, but that was small comfort. He’d had to promote a handful of his cronies, a number of men who owed him favours, and the senior surviving police officer in London. Some of them followed him because they believed in him, others followed because of the dirt he had on them...and at least two were there because they had nowhere else to go. But that could change, Alan reminded himself, savagely. How long would it be before one of them realised that they could make their own deals with the aliens? And then how long would Alan last?

  “We have a problem,” he said, addressing his Media Officer. Catherine Stewart knew where the bodies were buried, sometimes literally. Alan had once heard a joke about how many people would attend the funeral of a world-famous columnist, just to make sure that the old bat with the poison pen was finally dead. It applied just as much to Catherine, whose blonde good looks concealed a razor-sharp mind and a complete absence of scruples. “The scrum who did this killed innocent Londoners. They have to be found. I want you to make sure that that party line gets out there right away, without any dissent. Try and prevent the internet from taking any other line.”

  Catherine nodded. It hadn't taken her more than a week to start building her own empire – but then, she was the only source of employment for countless spin doctors and muckrakers who no longer had anywhere else to go. They’d make damn sure that the media toed the line, or he’d have some of them shot to encourage the others. And he wasn’t joking either. Given enough time, he was sure that they could shut down most of the internet in Britain, but it seemed different to do without taking down what remained of the government communications network. The aliens had refused to allow them to use the alien network.

  “Of course, sir,” she said. “How do you wish us to proceed?”

  Alan’s temper boiled over. “I expect your fucking subordinates to do their jobs,” he snapped. “I want pictures of the dead and wounded – the younger and sexier the better. I want sob stories on who died and how much promise they had in front of them before they were assassinated by the wretched terrorists. I want total media coverage – interviews with the survivors and relatives, talking heads on how some people just cannot forget the past, and tearful interviews demanding that the legitimate government do something about them. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Catherine said. She lowered her eyes, but Alan wasn't fooled. There was nothing submissive in her nature. “I shall see to it personally.”

  “Now go do your damned job,” Alan snapped, and waited for her to leave the room. She was too smart for her own good, at least in a world he controlled – as long as he pleased the aliens, of course. Given time, he was sure that she would be the one to challenge him. The woman was just too ambitious for her own good. “Chief Constable – give me some good news, please.”

  Chief Constable Gerald Rivers hadn't been Chief Constable for very long. His predecessor and his deputy had been killed when the aliens took out Scotland Yard and Rivers’ only real qualification for the job was that he’d been the senior police officer to agree to serve the aliens and keep the peace. He was a short man, inclining towards stoutness, but there was a hard edge underneath him that Alan had no difficulty recognising. It was a shame that he genuinely believed that the only way to protect the public was to work with the aliens, rather than allowin
g ambition to drive him forward...Alan shrugged. One couldn't have everything and Rivers wasn't likely to try to unseat him.

  “We did manage to repair most of the CCTV network nodes over the last few days,” Rivers said. London had had the greatest number of CCTV cameras per person in the world – until the aliens had arrived and wrecked a few hundred when they’d taken out Central London. “I’ve had crews working on the footage – we did manage to trace the van back to its base. And we got some good pictures of the bomber himself, but we think he had at least one accomplice. The explosives used in the blast were military-grade.”

  Alan scowled. The Household Division had put up a vicious little fight in Central London – and the aliens had been certain that they hadn't rounded up all of the surviving soldiers. Some of them had been killed trying to get out of London, but others had clearly stayed inside the city – and had been planning to carry on the war against the aliens. He cursed them under his breath, even as he tossed a few ideas around in his head. Perhaps there was a way to escape blame for the disaster...no, the aliens wouldn't be interested in excuses. From what he’d heard, they were only interested in results.

  “I assume the bomber blew himself to fuck,” he said, flatly. The swearword felt good on his lips, even though he had been careful not to swear in public before allying himself with the aliens. The Leathernecks, as some were calling them. “What about his accomplice?”

  “I’m afraid his ally was too careful,” Rivers admitted. “Our CCTV coverage near Regents Park has never been what it should be – and whoever was behind the blast knew to stay out of the camera’s field of vision. The chances are good that we have some footage of the bomb-maker, but we don't know it. At least, not yet.”

  He shrugged. “The bomber himself, we believe, was Aashif Shahid,” he continued. “He does have a file – he came to our attention after a number of outspoken comments in the mosque about the need to wage war on the Great Satan – but MI5 took a look at him and decided that he was nothing more than a loudmouth. No real contacts with the radicals who could provide explosives or weapons – and no sign that he was trying to build his own. And as for why he decided to attack the aliens...?”

  Alan shrugged. “Get a team out to the garage and see if you can pick up any clues that might lead to the bomb-maker,” he ordered. “And then draw up a list of his friends and family. I want them arrested and charged with harbouring a known terrorist...”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Rivers pointed out, “there is no evidence that anyone else knew about his plans...”

  “Do it anyway,” Alan ordered, sharply. He glanced over at the alien communicator on the table. God alone knew how it worked, but it was quite possible that the aliens were watching him at all times. Fear leaked into his voice as he spoke. “Do you want them to do it?”

  Rivers met his eyes in shared understanding, if for different reasons. The aliens could do it, all right, or they might bring in the heavy weapons. It was easy to imagine them calling down strikes on London, blasting entire buildings to rubble just to teach the imprudent humans a lesson. And then they’d be looking at thousands dead and God alone knew how many wounded. And it wouldn't give them a chance to track down the remainder of the resistance cell. And...

  “See to it,” Alan ordered, quietly. “We can't risk losing control now, or we might lose everything.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  London

  United Kingdom, Day 15

  From a distance, the old garage looked harmless. Just another old business, struggling to stay afloat in the depression – and perhaps making questionable deals with criminals or terrorists to keep the money rolling in. But Sergeant Terry Graves knew better than to relax. CO19 – the Central Operations Specialist Firearms Command – had broken into terrorist bases before and, no matter how innocent they looked, they often had unpleasant surprises waiting for unwary armed police officers. The irony didn't amuse him as he beckoned the rest of the team forward, leaving two men behind to watch from a safe distance. They’d been sent into battle unarmed, at least without firearms. The alien ban on human firearms was still firmly in place.

  Terry cursed silently under his breath as they crept closer. In an ideal world, he and his team would be fighting the aliens – and they’d had time to conceal a small number of firearms around London in places they could reach them if the shit hit the fan. But for the moment, they had no choice, apart from collaboration. And if they failed to catch the insurgents who had struck out at the aliens, the aliens would take steps of their own. Given their willingness to use indiscriminate weapons fire in the midst of the civilian population, he had no doubt just how bloody and violent their steps would be.

  He held up a hand as he inspected the garage’s door. It was quite possible, judging by the blast that had levelled an entire technical college, that they weren't dealing with would-be terrorists at all. The moron who’d driven the truck could have been told that he would have time to make his escape, or maybe he’d known that he was going to die. And the person behind him, far from being an international terrorist, might be someone trained and armed by the British Army. Terry had seen enough SAS troopers during their cross-training sessions to dread the possibility that one of them might have gone rogue.

  The thought made him snort. From what they’d been able to pick up from the internet, the remains of the British military had been ordered to carry on the fight for as long as possible. They weren't chasing a rogue, but someone intent on carrying out his orders and hurting the aliens until he was finally hunted down and killed. There might be an entire team of Regiment soldiers waiting for them, or perhaps they had already vanished, leaving no traces behind. Terry envied them their freedom of action. His own family had been moved to a place where they were being held – for their own good, of course. And if he turned against the aliens, they would kill his entire family.

  They seem to be getting an idea of what makes us tick, he thought, sourly. God knows how long they were watching us from space. They don’t seem to be particularly subtle at all – do as we want or we will kill you. And if you vanish, we will kill your family...

  The garage seemed deserted, but he clutched his baton tightly as he pushed at the door. There was a single click and then the door swung open, revealing a deserted interior. It looked as if someone had been busy – there were tools scattered everywhere – but they had clearly abandoned the building. Judging from the skill shown by the bomb-maker, he’d probably assumed that the suicide bomber would have been caught on camera and traced back to his base. Someone from the Regiment would have known just how the Met used the CCTV network to look backwards in time and try to localise a terrorist base. Or catch bad parkers, for that matter.

  He beckoned two other officers inside and they spread out, checking for traps while carefully not touching anything that might carry fingerprints or DNA evidence. The pit below where the van had rested was deeper than he expected, suggesting that the original owner of the garage must have been a very tall man. Or perhaps he’d just been an expert at scrambling out of pits. There was no sign of a ladder or any other way back to the ground floor.

  “In here,” one of the officers muttered. “I found papers.”

  Terry followed his gaze. The back of the garage was a small office, stinking of half-eaten kebabs and burgers. Judging from the smell, the food had to have been decomposing for several days, perhaps a week. London’s endless series of kebab houses had been shutting down as supplies from outside the city tapered off, leaving the population dependent upon the tasteless alien muck. It struck him as odd that an SAS soldier would leave contaminated food behind, but maybe it was intended to deter intruders. He certainly wouldn't have wanted to go into the office without a gas mask and perhaps a flamethrower. The forensic team were going to have to wear full NBC suits if they wanted to pull anything useful out of the room.

  “Maybe they left something behind to tell us where they were going,” the officer said. Terry doubted
it. It was rather more likely that the garage’s owner had left the papers behind, wherever he was now. Teams of researchers were already looking through the records to see what had happened to him – maybe he’d registered with the aliens – but Terry wasn't too hopeful that they would lead the Met to the bomb-maker. It was far more likely that it would be nothing more than a wild goose chase. “Or perhaps...”

  He opened one of the drawers, a second before Terry could shout out a warning. There was a second click, followed by a wave of fire that blasted out and into the garage. Terry yelled in pain as his skin burned, even as he stumbled backwards trying to find the way out. The flames were spreading with terrifying speed, suggesting that the entire garage had been rigged to catch fire quickly and efficiently. He felt as if he’d caught fire himself...somehow, gasping for breath, he managed to find his way out without falling into the repair pit. Another officer wasn't so lucky; Terry watched in horror as he fell, just before the flames roared into the pit. They seemed to be almost crawling across the ground towards the policemen. He heard a scream that cut off seconds later.