Vaporized

by Simon Rosser

  As she continued towards the small supermarket, she discovered the source of the noise. One of the vehicles in the middle of the road up ahead, either the white Audi, - or the blue Vauxhall Insignia, still had its engine running.

  As she stepped out onto the road to take a look, the clanking got louder, then, with a final escalating metallic grating sound, the noise stopped, and a puff of steam vented from the Vauxhall’s engine. She headed over to it. The vehicle had been driven into the rear of the Audi, but there was no serious visible damage caused to either vehicle. A foot or so of ash had drifted up against the sides of both cars, and Amber waded through it, to take a look into the driver’s side window of the Vauxhall.

  She could see the ignition was still on; dim lights still illuminating the dashboard. A pile of grey ash and bone fragments lay in a neat pile on the driver’s-side black leather seat. The seatbelt was still attached to the anchor point, and a belt buckle sat on the pile of ash. Amber looked into the rear of the car and immediately wished she hadn’t. On the back seats, under the seatbelt straps, two, much smaller piles of ash were present. Jesus, there were two children in there, she realised.

  Amber hurried away from the vehicle and stepped back onto the pavement, where she stood with her back against a brick wall, breathing heavily. Every single vehicle that littered the roads once contained a person, or persons, and now all that was left of them was a pile of dust and bone fragments. A chill ran down her spine as she was reminded of how utterly alone she might be.

  She moved off, walking slowly towards the shop just a short distance along the street. The far bank of the Thames, obscured by the odd fog the evening before, was now visible but the level of the river, from what she could see, seemed to have dropped considerably.

  Amber crossed over a side street, and as she did, a scraping sound to her right caused her to jump. She looked in the direction of the noise, to see an empty plastic milk carton, being blown along the pavement by the light wind. Amber drew in a deep breath to steady her beating heart, and continued across the side street to the next block, where the shop was located.

  She reached the door of ‘Singh’s Mini-mart,’ and peered in through the store’s glass windows. Everything appeared as it had done on any other day she'd visited, except there was no staff, or customers, inside. She waded through a bank of ash that had drifted up against the side of the building, and pushed open the entrance door. As she did, a jingle above her head made her jump for the second time, as the door chime mechanism sounded to signal that a customer had just entered the store. She somehow doubted that Mr Singh would be around to greet her.

  The shop was fairly small, with just four aisles filled with the usual groceries, tinned goods, jars, sauces and breakfast cereals. At the rear of the store was the chilled and frozen food section, but Amber could see that none of the chillers or freezers appeared to be functioning. There were no lights on either, indicating the power had clearly failed. The store also smelled musty, no doubt from the produce that has started to thaw, but there wasn’t any evidence of pooling water that would normally be present if the freezers had failed.

  Amber cautiously headed over to the freezer section at the rear of the shop, noting that there was still plenty of food on all the shelving. Clearly, there had not been time for any panic buying at Singh’s store.

  Towards the end of the aisle there were three tins of tomato soup lying on the floor. Alongside the tins was a small pile of the now familiar grey ash; all that was left of one of Mr Singh’s customers, she assumed.

  Amber reached the fridge/freezer area and could see that all the packages of frozen goods had thawed, and the boxes they had been in had crumpled, but were not actually damp. There was no sign of any water, it had simply vanished, or evaporated. All the bottles of mineral water were also empty, a phenomena that Amber was now familiar with.

  Water appeared to be the key to this whole thing.

  She moved along the chiller section towards the counter. The cash till was open and was still full of a number of notes, in various denominations, together with loose change. Amber walked around the counter and saw a pile of ash on the chair where Mr Singh usually sat. There was no doubting that it had once been him, the white turban that he always wore was lying, unravelled, on the floor next to the chair.

  Amber turned away, the musky smell, lurking in the back of her throat, suddenly making her want to vomit. Just get the packs of flour and leave, she told herself.

  She turned and headed for the middle of the first aisle where the flour was kept, knelt down and opened her backpack. She grabbed two packs of Homepride Flour from the shelf, and placed them into her backpack, pushing them down as far as they’d go. She managed to force another four packs inside without splitting them. This gave her eight packs altogether, including the two she’d taken from the apartment. It would have to do for now.

  She hauled the backpack onto her back and turned to leave the store. As she did, a scraping noise from the counter area startled her.

  Amber spun around, her pulse racing. A sweeping brush that had been leaning up against the counter had fallen to the floor.

  “Jesus!” she said, standing motionless for a few seconds, half-expecting to see a gravity-defying liquid tendril thrash out from behind the counter area and attack her.

  She realised she must have just dislodged the brush when she walked past it. It didn’t stop the odd feeling she had that someone, or something, was watching her, however. She slowly backed out of the store, careful not to let the bell above the door chime, and headed back out onto the street.

  Amber looked around her. The area was deserted, apart from the stationary vehicles dotted around the roads, and the banks of grey ash that lined the pavements and piled up against the sides of the buildings. The gentle breeze was creating small swirling eddies of the stuff, on the road and pavement, which were spinning around like fallen autumn leaves.

  Amber reached the end of Battersea Bridge Road. The Battersea Bridge spanned the Thames in front of her. What was left of the normally large body of water, moved slowly past. It was difficult to believe that the filthy looking river had actually provided two-thirds of London’s drinking water only days ago.

  The sides of the riverbanks were now exposed, revealing all manner of debris not seen for a long time. Tree branches, shopping trollies, waste metal and other, unpleasant, looking items protruded from the exposed muddy banks. The road over the bridge was pretty much choked with stationary vehicles.

  A low rumble, a short distance away, suddenly caught Amber’s attention. It appeared to be coming from one of the Route Master Buses that had collided with the bridge’s thick metal railings, which lined the pedestrian walkway, after it had veered across the carriageway.

  At least she didn't need to cross the river to get to her intended destination. She exhaled heavily and breathed in, noticing the air now smelled of smoke. There was no sign of a fire, or indeed any smoke, but she guessed the smell was coming from the explosions she’d been hearing, which had now finally appeared to have stopped.

  As she looked out over the river, she thought about the trek she needed to make over to The Shard, and had an idea. Would it be safer to travel along the Thames?

  The level of the river was considerable lower than usual and it was moving slowly, but still, the river flowed from west to east, towards the Thames Estuary, which was the direction she needed to go.

  Amber checked the way was clear and proceeded down a set of concrete steps, which led to the walkway along the river embankment. A short distance ahead, her uncle’s apartment building loomed up above the river embankment, a mixture of curved beige-coloured panelling, glass and steel.

  She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, as she looked up at the curved glass windows and balconies, knowing that the alien thing, whatever it was, was lurking somewhere inside.

  Just beyond the apartment building was a small wooden jetty, where a handful of old boats and barges were u
sually moored. If she could get there, she might find something that would take her along the river to The Shard, some four to five miles downriver.

  She set off nervously along the embankment walkway, towards the building she’d exited a short while ago, each step she took made her feel like she was heading back into more danger.

  She reached the edge of the apartment block, set back from the river and embankment, thirty feet or so to her right. The semi-circular balconies of each individual apartment towered above her, but nothing looked out of place.

  Amber continued cautiously along the embankment, towards the wooden pontoon forty feet, or so, ahead. She could see two old barges moored up, now resting on the muddy embankment. Beyond them another small boat was visible, still floating on the river and being dragged by the current, but still tied to the pontoon, its mooring rope pulled taut.

  Amber continued on, checking the dark recesses of the apartment block to her right as she went. Finally, she reached the pontoon and she took the concrete steps down from the embankment towards it. Hidden from view, from her approach to the pontoon, was the small wooden boat she’d seen earlier, with an outboard motor on the back. It was tied to the wooden jetty and was still buoyant in the river but, if the water fell any lower, it would soon be stuck on the muddy bank, like the old barges.

  She headed along the wooden jetty and found a rusty steel ladder which led down to the muddy river bank, and the small boat below. She descended the ladder, reaching the last rung, and, aiming carefully, she threw her backpack into the boat. She then prepared herself to jump the short distance into the wooden craft. As she did, she heard an unusual gurgling sound, like a large drain suddenly becoming unblocked.

  She turned to the embankment, looking under the jetty, in the direction of the sound. A large transparent tube, of what appeared to be water, was rising up from the Thames, up the muddy bank under the jetty, and onto the embankment walkway. She’d not seen it on the walkway, as she’d descended the steps, moments earlier.

  She tried to follow the column of liquid to its source, or possibly its destination. Her line of vision was restricted by the jetty, but she was able to see to the third floor balcony of her uncle’s apartment block, and the left side of one of the two apartment buildings. As she focused on the building itself, she was amazed to see the column of liquid rise up the side of the building, like a huge Perspex drainpipe. At each balcony level, multiple tendrils branched off from the main column and appeared to extend towards each of the apartments. She could only assume that the apparatus was being used to either drain the entire block of its water supply, or to suck the water from the Thames. Whatever the case, the image was surreal; like a weird Salvador Dali painting.

  She turned back to jump the short distance into the boat in order to commence her short journey along the river, and, as she let go of the ladder, a liquid tendril shot out from under the jetty and attached itself to her left wrist.

  CHAPTER 13

  AMBER SCREAMED AT the top of her lungs, when she felt the tendril latch on, and just managed to reach out for the side of the ladder with her right hand to prevent herself from falling into the mud below. The tendril was waving about as if it was celebrating its catch, but it wasn’t strong enough to pull her off the ladder. She tried to pull the thing away from her wrist but she couldn’t, it was somehow stuck on with a strong suction force.

  Amber desperately searched under the pontoon to see where the tendril was coming from and her eyes widened in fear as she saw another, much thicker, version branch off from the main column, rising from the river. It was moving towards her from under the jetty.

  “Oh, my God, please help me!” Amber screamed, trying to wrench her hand free. As she struggled she dislodged a chain, which was dangling down into the mud, alongside the ladder. She grabbed it and pulled on it. It was loose and it came up without much effort. She made a small loop from it, and wrapped it around the thin tendril stuck to the back of her left hand, and yanked it.

  The chain did the trick and pulled the tendril free, leaving a behind a nasty red welt on the back of her hand and wrist. Before the thing could grip her again, Amber leapt onto the boat, just as a tree-branch sized tendril emerged from under the jetty, and wrapped itself around the rusty ladder, pulling it from its mountings.

  In the boat, Amber immediately started untying the frayed rope tethering the boat to the pontoon. It undid easily and Amber used the single oar inside the wooden boat to push away from the muddy bank. The boat drifted a short distance away from the jetty, but the large tendril was able to sense, or could somehow see what she was doing, and it arched up like a cobra, preparing to strike.

  Shaking, Amber reached over to the small outboard engine, fixed to the stern of the boat, and pushed the propeller down so it was in the water. She’d never started an outboard motor before, but had seen it done enough times in the movies. She located the small black handle belonging to the starter cable, and pulled it towards her.

  The engine spluttered, but failed to start.

  The tendril struck and hit the side of the boat, just to the left of where she was sitting. Small splinters of wood exploded around her, but the boat held together.

  Amber pulled the starter cable again; again, nothing happened, except the engine emitted a little more spluttering than the first time. Amber then spotted a small rubber circular button on the side of the engine, and pressed it a few times. Could it be the choke or something?

  The tendril arched up again and started whipping around above her head. Amber gave the starter cable one last powerful pull towards her. This time the motor spluttered into life and the small boat surged forwards, just as the tendril struck, splashing into the water, where the boat had been positioned.

  The tendril rose back out of the water moving left and right, like a transparent elephant’s trunk, searching for her. It hovered above the water for a short while, before slowly retracting back under the jetty.

  Amber, fighting back tears of fright, steadied her shaking arm, as she headed the boat out into the centre of the Thames, before turning east, downstream, towards London Bridge and The Shard.

  The river was a cloudy grey colour and looked filthy, but calm. Despite its small engine, the boat moved at a fair pace along the Thames, helped a little by the current. Up ahead, Amber could see the span of the Albert Bridge coming into view, and within five minutes she was passing under one of its wide arches. As the boat passed underneath, she looked up and saw another one of the large tendrils traversing the underside of the bridge. Moving through it appeared to be the dirty grey water from the Thames. It was if the tendril was acting like a giant organic pump. She passed under the bridge without incident. The small boat, she guessed, was propelling her downriver at around 10 mph.

  On the river bank to her left, she could see more of the tendrils reaching down into the Thames and disappearing up and onto the Chelsea Embankment. She shuddered at the thought of the remains of millions of Londoners being pumped through the tendrils, if that was indeed what she was witnessing. It was entirely possible, she considered, as around sixty per cent of the human body was comprised of water. The ash that littered the streets could be the remaining forty per cent, of what was left of the population of London, she realised.

  She continued on, conscious of the silence beyond the low-pitched burbling given off by the small outboard motor. Suddenly, the engine started to splutter and Amber panicked. She held on to the sides of the boat and kicked the engine casing with the heel of her foot, in an effort to keep it going.

  The engine then cut out completely but roared into life a few seconds later; as if a fuel line had been temporarily blocked. Amber breathed in a sigh of relief. The thought of having to get out and swim to the muddy river bank was even less appealing than walking along the ash-filled streets.

  Off to her right were Battersea Park and the Children’s Zoo. She counted at least fifteen tendrils dropping into the river from the park’s direction. She shuddered a
t the thought of the liquid constituents of the people, and animals, which inhabited this part of London being pumped into the tendrils, at the start of a journey that she hoped she would never have to make.

  She passed under the Chelsea Bridge Road, and the same scene greeted her. A number of vehicles and two buses were visible on the bridge. One bus looking like it had been heading towards the Chelsea Embankment, had skidded and collided with the bridge’s safety railings. Its front wheels were now hanging over the edge, the entire bus looking like it might drop into the river at any moment. Amber steered away from the potential danger and continued under the bridge. There was no evidence of any tendrils on the underside of the bridge, but a number of smaller, translucent, water-filled tendrils had wrapped themselves around two of the bridge's large concrete support structures. A shiver ran down Amber's spine, as she negotiated the boat safely under the bridge.

  The four chimney stacks of the massive red brick Battersea Power Station, now the Tate Modern Gallery, loomed up on the right side of the river. Just before it, also on the right, was a large modern apartment building, which was now covered with the tendrils. It looked just like an old stone cottage covered in ivy. It was as if the city was being engulfed by transparent vines, which were sucking every last drop of water from it.

  A short distance back, she'd seen a large tendril draining water into the Thames. It looked like the end of a melting cylinder of water; solid and flexible as it rose up the muddy bank of the river, but ending in a gushing torrent of water, as if the terminus of the tendril was melting. The tendrils appeared to be a means of transporting and controlling water, for whatever intelligence lay behind this cataclysmic event.

  Amber continued along the river, which now curved around to the left. Above her, the dark grey storm clouds were an almost perfect reflection of what was left of the cold grey Thames she was travelling along. Bad weather in August certainly wasn't unique, almost par for the course for the UK, but the clouds above looked like nothing she'd ever seen before. She needed to find somewhere to shelter, and quickly.