Trust

by David Moody

  Tom had been behind the bar several times before, always at John’s invitation. He’d once helped him carry an awkward wardrobe upstairs, and had unloaded deliveries with him on a couple of occasions when he’d been short-staffed. Today, however, he felt like an intruder. He stood at the bottom of the long, straight staircase and called up.

  ‘John? John… are you there? Betty?’

  There was no answer. He knew he was wasting time, that he should leave now and keep going, but he couldn’t go without checking. He crept upstairs, cringing at the disproportionate noise his heavy footsteps made on the creaking boards, then waited at the top of the landing and called out again. Still nothing. He walked further into John’s home and found Betty sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, staring into space.

  ‘Betty?’

  She didn’t move when he approached. He waved his hand in front of her face, but there was nothing. Betty’s condition unnerved him more than most others he’d seen this morning. He’d never known this woman quiet before.

  Tom found John in the bedroom next-door, slumped against the foot of his bed, as unresponsive as everyone else. He looked the same as always: a saggy, hand-knitted Aran sweater, and with his glasses still perched on the bridge of his nose. There was a cricket bat beside him, like he’d been ready for his last stand, but had then given up. He shook John’s shoulder, virtually begged with him to wake up, but he knew he was wasting precious time. He was lost like all the others.

  Tom paused in the doorway and looked back at his friend. As the initial disappointment faded, his sadness turned to terror. If John eventually succumbed, he thought, will I go the same way? What about Clare? The thought of losing control and being reduced to this was unbearable.

  Tom was about to leave the building when the light in the upstairs rooms changed. He looked out of the nearest window and saw that the alien ship he’d come into the pub to escape had altered its position again. Ominously, it was directly over the centre of the village now. The size of the thing was impossible to gauge: he couldn’t tell whether it was a mile above him or ten. As he watched, a single wide opening appeared in the base of the rounded front-end of the vessel and a long, stem-like object was lowered down. He dived for cover, terrified at what might be about to happen next. Like a frightened kid he scrambled under the bed, tripping over John Tipper’s unresponsive legs as he did so. Tom buried his face in the carpet, covered his head, and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  He held his position for a while longer, still too scared to move, convinced that the second he looked up would be the moment the aliens unleashed whatever hell they had ready over Thatcham, wiping out its population, regardless of whether or not they had submitted to their programming.

  Still nothing. The pub shook as the enormous craft held its position overhead. Ornaments and books fell off shelves. He heard glasses smashing downstairs. It felt like an endless earthquake.

  I’m dead anyway, Tom thought, sick of hiding, and he crawled back out into the open and returned to the window. The glass rattled and shook in its frame. The alien ship was still there, but it was climbing vertically now, drifting up into the sky and rotating slightly as it did so. Tom remained there for a moment longer, pulse racing, holding onto the windowsill for support. Pull yourself together, he told himself. Get out of here.

  He was about to move when he heard someone else moving in the building with him. An alien? He looked around for a weapon but could find only the bottled drink he’d brought up from the bar. He emptied the last dregs out onto the carpet then held the neck of the bottle and smashed the end of it against the wall. He crept around the edge of the room and was about to step out onto the landing when Betty Tipper strode past the doorway.

  ‘Betty?’

  He immediately regretted calling out, but she didn’t react. She marched past him, her face emotionless. She’d have collided with him if he hadn’t moved out of her way. He pressed himself up against the wall to avoid her touch, then leant over the banister and watched as she went downstairs. He spun around when he heard more footsteps behind him. He tripped over his own feet and ended up on his backside, looking up in disbelief as John Tipper marched towards him, his face vacant, terrifyingly expressionless. Tom scrambled back up and tried to grab hold of John but the older man was unnaturally strong and walked on regardless, following his wife down into the pub.

  Tom crept down after the Tippers, maintaining a cautious distance. He watched them both walk through their pub, following the exact same route step for step, then heard them go out through the door. By the time he’d reached the exit, he could see through the glass that the street outside was rapidly filling with people. He stood on a bench and watched through a window as people emerged from virtually every building. The noise of hundreds of footsteps filled the air, the sound made all the more uncomfortable by the total absence of anything else. No speech. No coughs, splutters or sneezes. No cries, no one begging for mercy. Not a single damn word.

  Hiding behind the edge of the curtain, Tom watched as the people formed themselves into a single line along the exact centre of the road. All facing the same way. All perfectly equidistant from the person in front and the person behind. Once they’d taken up position, they each became still again, and the lack of visible animation was as unsettling as anything else Tom had so far seen today. The people were like waxwork dummies, completely unaware of what was happening around them, and yet each of them was perfectly in tune with everyone else. It all seemed effortlessly choreographed, the movements of the people executed with military precision as if they’d practiced these manoeuvres all day, every day for months. He shifted his position slightly, standing on a chair now to get a better view without being seen, and saw that people were continuing to pour out of the side streets and join the queue which now stretched as far as he could see in either direction along the main road. There was little doubt in his mind that if this wasn’t the entire population of Thatcham, it soon would be.

  What about Siobhan?

  Suddenly forgetting about his own safety, Tom left the pub and approached the nearest section of the queue. None of the people reacted to his presence in the slightest. He began to look at each of their faces in the vain hope he’d see Rob or Siobhan, but he couldn’t immediately find either. Now completely exposed but no longer giving a damn, he walked further down the line.

  He found James.

  His friend was alone, the rest of his family nowhere to be seen at first. Then he found Stephanie a short distance back, and their son Mark a little further still. Where were the others? What had happened to Bethany and the baby? He hoped they were still together, but he knew there was nothing he could do to help them now.

  And then Tom found his brother.

  ‘Rob,’ he whispered, pushing his way into the queue and standing directly in front of him. ‘Rob, can you hear me?’

  Rob remained motionless and impassive, eyes wide and unblinking, gazing into the distance at some undefined point. He tried to pull him away from the line but he wouldn’t move. It was as if his feet had been nailed to the ground.

  A new sound alerted Tom. The eerie silence was shattered by a loud noise coming from somewhere near the front end of this vast line of people. He took a few steps back to try and get a better view, but the beginning of the queue was too far ahead for him to be able to see anything. And then, without warning, the people began to move. Tom ducked out of sight into the driveway which ran down the side of the supermarket, his heart pounding. The ripple of movement quickly worked its way down to where he was, each person starting to walk as soon as the person immediately in front had shifted. The movement of the masses was bizarre, like production line robots. They were all still in perfect time, precisely synchronised in spite of their wildly differing size, age and physical condition. Every footstep matched. Each person lifted their feet at the exact same moment, then took a step of the exact same length as everyone else before putting their feet down in unison.
The stomping noise which accompanied the march increased in volume with every additional person who moved. It was a wholly unnatural sound: stomp – silence – stomp – silence – stomp – silence…

  Rob.

  Tom’s terrified malaise lasted a couple of seconds longer before he broke cover and sprinted further down the line until he found his brother again, then he grabbed his hand and tried to pull him out of formation. He managed to drag him a couple of metres away but couldn’t match the force which was controlling Rob’s movements, and their hands separated. All he could do was watch as his brother was re-absorbed into the vast column, those ahead and behind adjusting their speed and position enough to allow him back into the fold without missing a step.

  Desperate now, Tom grabbed at the line again, this time catching hold of an elderly man so frail he looked barely able to support his own weight. Realising the futility of his actions almost immediately, Tom straightaway let the old man’s hand drop and watched as he too melted back into the faultlessly formed line, matching the relentless pace of everyone else with ease, a pace he himself knew he’d struggle to match.

  Tom staggered back, sobbing. He looked up again, hoping to catch one final glimpse of his brother, knowing with almost complete certainty that this would be the very last time. The pain was unbearable. Worse still, he knew now that there would be no point trying to reach Siobhan because she was inevitably lost too. She was probably already here… Was there any point doing anything now, or should he just stay and wait for the end to wash over him as the alien had suggested?

  But he knew he couldn’t just give up. What about Clare? He had to get back to her and hope she remained as lucid as when he’d foolishly left her earlier.

  It was a safe assumption that this silent, snaking line of people were inevitably being marched to their deaths. He needed to find a different route to get back to Clare’s, maybe avoid the roads altogether. Sensing that the next ship which appeared might be the one which carried some foul weapon of mass destruction to start the cull, he cut through the queue and then slipped down a side road towards Thatcham’s small train station.

  Like everywhere else, the quaint little building was completely silent and empty. His lonely footsteps echoed as he walked through the ticket office and waiting area. The platform was deserted, and he clambered down onto the tracks. The line ran close to the back of Clare’s house and, as he hadn’t seen any vehicles capable of movement since yesterday, following the track seemed a relatively safe and direct way of getting back to her.

  He paused and looked in either direction. From down here the world appeared strangely uniform and simple – the repeating pattern of the sleepers and the rails stretching away into the distance for as far as he could see. He set off towards Clare’s at a jog, deliberately pacing himself like before, not wanting to use all his remaining energy at once. He wanted to keep something in reserve, though he didn’t know what for.

  The track climbed a steady incline away from Thatcham for a short distance before dropping back down and levelling out again. At the highest point on the rise, Tom scrambled up the embankment to look down over the world below him. He could see for miles. The skies were teeming. Several vast lines of people were visible now, all moving in the same general direction. Others remained stationary as if waiting for orders. The ease with which thousands of people were being manipulated was terrifying.

  All that mattered now was getting back to Clare. Tom didn’t want to die alone.

  CHAPTER 38

  The railway track was deceptive. Following the long, artificial scar through the frequently obscured landscape, Tom managed to convince himself on more than one occasion that he was either going the wrong way or following the wrong line altogether. It was just nerves. He needed to get a grip and stay calm. When the track crossed a tall stone bridge over a narrow road, he knew beyond doubt he was going the right way. Just a little further now…

  The line carved a dark groove between fields on either side, and Tom knew he was close. He recognised this place. He left the track and jogged across the grass until he saw Clare’s cottage in the near distance, nestled amongst a row of similar-looking homes. His nervousness increased again as he approached. Was this a mistake? Were the aliens following him and was he about to lead them straight back to Penny and Clare? He knew that was bullshit, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay focused and think straight. Is this confusion how it begins? The thought that he might be starting to lose control made him run even faster.

  Soaked with dew and sweat and splattered with mud and sheep shit from the fields, he drew level with the fence which ran along the back of the houses. He climbed into Clare’s small garden, allowing himself to slow down now he’d finally made it back.

  ‘Clare!’ he shouted. He tried to open the back door. It wasn’t locked but it had been blocked with a table. A couple of rough shoulder barges and he’d managed to force enough of a gap to be able to squeeze through and get inside. Once in the middle of the kitchen he shouted again. ‘Clare!’

  The house was as desolate as everywhere else he’d been today. Tom checked the downstairs rooms, his mind filling with nightmare thoughts of John Tipper, and how he’d succumbed to the aliens. No sign of either Clare or Penny. He ran upstairs, pausing when he reached the landing. He continued through into Penny’s brightly painted room and looked for the little girl in the corner, but there was no one there.

  ‘She’s gone.’

  He spun around and saw Clare sitting in the diagonally opposite corner of the room, wedged into a narrow gap between Penny’s desk and her wardrobe, wrapped in the duvet they’d used to try and keep Penny warm last night. She was staring into space, her face framed by the bedding. She looked beaten, empty.

  ‘When?’

  ‘About an hour ago,’ she replied, still not moving. Her voice sounded detached and unemotional. ‘I don’t know where she went. I tried to stop her, but she was too strong. They’ve all gone, Tom. All the people in these houses… it was like someone flicked a switch.’ She let the duvet fall away and she stood up. Tom reached out for her but she didn’t want to be held and she pushed him away. ‘I was shouting at her to stop, begging her not to go, but she was stronger than me. She was too strong for me. She unlocked the door. She’s never been able to unlock the door before. She’s nine years old. How could that be?’

  ‘I saw it too. It’s happening everywhere, Clare.’

  ‘You should have seen them,’ she continued, not listening. ‘They were in perfect fucking formation.’

  ‘Penny’s gone,’ Tom said, and for the first time Clare looked directly at him. ‘Rob, Siobhan, James and his family… they’re all the same. I watched my brother walk away like you watched Penny.’

  ‘Did you find Siobhan?’

  He shook his head and tried to answer but couldn’t. The pain was unbearable. He managed to compose himself enough to speak. ‘I only saw one other person like us in all the time I was out there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A girl. She was hiding.’

  ‘And you just left her?’

  ‘She wouldn’t leave.’

  ‘She was the only one? You haven’t seen anyone else?’

  ‘Back at the house… Jall was there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The alien that Rob knows… knew.’

  ‘There to gloat, was he?’

  ‘He told me he was hiding. Tried to make out it had nothing to do with him, said he’d been sent here as punishment for standing up against his people. He told me what they’re here for, Clare. They’re taking the planet.’

  ‘I’d worked that much out for myself. Where is he now?’

  ‘Dead. I killed him.’

  She remained standing opposite Tom, and he could see her trying to make sense of the little he’d told her. It felt like minutes had passed when she next spoke, though it could only have been seconds.

  ‘I’m going. I can’t stay here with Penny out there on her own. I
should have gone already but I stayed here for you.’

  She left the room and ran downstairs. Tom chased after her. ‘Don’t go. There’s no point.’

  Clare wasn’t listening. She was sitting on the bottom step, pulling on a pair of boots. ‘There’s every point. My little girl is out there. She might be surrounded by hundreds of other people but she’s still on her own. She needs me…’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do for her. They’re gone, Clare. They’re all gone.’

  ‘I have to try,’ she said, grabbing her coat from a peg. ‘I should have followed her. Shouldn’t have waited for you. I’m the only one who looks out for her. It’s only ever been me and I’m not going to stop now.’

  ‘It’s too late…’

  Tom positioned himself between her and the door. She tried to push past him but he wouldn’t move. She screamed at him with frustration as he stood his ground. ‘Get out of the bloody way!’ She shoved him again, and this time he caught hold of her arms and refused to let go. She fought for a few seconds longer, yelling and trying to beat him off, before giving up. Tom held her tight as she broke down.

  CHAPTER 39

  Clare sat bolt upright. She and Tom were sitting in Penny’s room together. Neither of them had moved for more than an hour. There hadn’t seemed any point. They’d both been sitting against the wall, watching through the window opposite as countless alien ships silently criss-crossed the skies.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘What?’ Tom asked, immediately concerned.

  ‘I heard something outside, I’m sure I did.’

  She got up and ran through to her bedroom at the front of the house. Tom followed. They stood either side of the wide window, peering around the net curtains. There was someone out there, trying to get into the house next door. He looked like he was in his mid-twenties. Well built, like a rugby player.