Cradleworth wallowed in ecstasy, licking out his tongue as if to taste the impending death on the air.
Kaleb looked to Josie once more, seeing the movement of her shallow breaths. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but something struck him like a bolt of lightning to his very essence. The Sentinal spoke to him, its voice as clear as the spoken word. Kaleb now knew what it all meant. He knew what the others did not. The Sentinal made a request to his faithful servant – one last task that he must perform, a final act of kindness.
Kaleb looked to the ground and the faintest of smiles curled his lips. ‘Your shoes,’ he croaked. ‘I never noticed before.’
To Cradleworth’s surprise, Kaleb stepped forward, pushing his body further onto the blade. The honed edges of the steel ran against the splintered bone, squealing horribly. More blood spilled from the opening wound and Kaleb’s mouth, but he didn’t care. His purpose was singular. He reached forward and grasped his attacker’s head with both hands. Cradleworth couldn’t prevent it or pull away. Paralysed, he shook, as if electrified. Kaleb turned grey, his life pouring out of him and into his patient.
Cradleworth was visibly withering but he managed to muster one last show of strength, forcing himself backwards to break the unwanted connection.
Kaleb released his grip on Cradleworth’s head, staggering back to the door. The table cut short Cradleworth’s retreat. The impact made Josie stir but not wake. Kaleb was oblivious to everything around him. He had slipped inside of himself. His sensations had deserted him. He felt nothing and could hear only his own heartbeat as it slowed to its end. Blood pumped furiously from the slit in his torso, conjugating with the thick layers of dust on the floor. Dying was not how he’d imagined it to be, consumed by absence instead of union. He dropped to his knees and a dust cloud rose up around his waist. The tiny particles seemed to hang in the air, and a single sensation returned to his body, an acute burning from the centre of his palms. He gazed down upon them to see a circular-shaped orifice forming on each hand. His flesh folded back, right to the very edges of his palms, and inside, Kaleb could see the same blackness that existed behind Cradleworth’s stare. It was the blackness of space, the depth of the void. For a moment, the vision was still, but then shapes began to appear, cruel, rectangular craft falling at speed, increasing in size and menace as they hurtled closer.
Kaleb felt the fiery pain all the way through his arms and up to his shoulders. A tremendous pressure built as something huge attempted to force its way out of him. The skin on his forearms started to stretch. His arms swelled until they no longer resembled limbs at all. The pressure could not possibly build any more. His bones started to snap under the strain. His body was at the point of bursting when two huge beams of light exploded from the chasms in his hands, shooting straight up, taking the roof of the house clean off, scattering its remains across the dead village and beyond.
Cradleworth lifted his head, following the channels of light into the burning clouds above. The blast sent a shockwave through the sky that changed the flickering fires into one raging inferno, brighter and more threatening than anything that had come before.
Kaleb could only watch as a power more ancient than the furthest star continued to surge around his expiring body.
Flawless Heart
1
Briaridge Orchard, Bedfordshire
Kaleb’s fate did not go undetected by the other first-born, far from it. Those in the manor fell to the floor, incapacitated, clutching at their chests.
Ashley was the only one unaffected. She walked with Barnes down the final staircase to the ground floor when the dog suddenly went limp, losing his footing. She reached out instinctively, catching hold of his collar, and using all of her strength, managed to haul him onto her lap, cradling him as he whimpered for his fallen comrade.
Jerrico too was on his knees. He felt as if Cradleworth had reached inside him to rip something out.
Even Vladimir was afflicted, as he struggled to crawl out of the meat freezer. He struck the frozen floor with his fists, agony transmitted from Kaleb superseding the gunshot wound in his leg.
In the depths of space, there was no escape or dilution. Martha knew what the pain was, where it came from. It was metaphysical, endless. She saw the portal of white light expand, and watched as thousands of jagged craft moved through it in unison. Each craft turned white, irradiated by the light that enveloped it. Martha felt the anguish of a thousand screams starting to depart. She was slipping back. The reverse happened so quickly, she didn’t even see the galaxies she’d witnessed on the way in. Within an instant, she was back on earth, inside the room of a house. Two bodies lay on the floor and one on a table. She recognised her friends. Josie remained unconscious. Kaleb gazed up to the stars, hands stretched out at his sides, blood oozing from the wound in his chest.
She tried to reach out to help him, but she had nothing to reach with. Then, she saw the white mass beginning to form from within the clouds, and Cradleworth’s grinning, expectant face looking upwards. He seemed incapacitated and oblivious to her presence. The black pits of his eyes swirled, hypnotised by the catastrophic change unfolding in the sky.
Martha shifted once again. This time she found herself back at the manor, her body drenched head to toe in a cold sweat. Heven stood over the bed shaking her awake. He looked grim and pale, drained of energy.
‘You need to wake up. Something’s happened,’ he said.
Martha sat up, moving the duvet from her legs. ‘There isn’t much time,’ she replied.
2
Kempston, Bedfordshire
Several armed officers charged from their vehicles towards the entrance of Bedford police station. They hesitated, aiming their weapons at the doors when they saw the dismembered remains of their peers strewn across the car park. The unarmed men hung back on the fringes to create a line, blocking off a collection of bystanders. A crowd began to form, drawn in by the commotion and the ominous signs of violence.
Morrow jumped out from the car and surveyed the surrounding devastation. As far as he was concerned, the bloodied remnants of body parts could not be described as mutilated. The slicing was too clean and precise, as if carried out with a surgical tool or a laser.
Graystock stood with his mouth open, wondering what had become of his station, his comfortable little world. Morrow sighed. Graystock represented so many other men he had encountered in his time – full of shit, all mouth and no action. Morrow pulled a pair of crime scene gloves from his inside jacket pocket and snapped them on, fully aware that Graystock was not about to follow him.
A few feet above the station’s entrance, Morrow saw two long sets of what seemed like claw marks etched into the brickwork. He lifted his head to examine the markings closer as he walked into the building.
He could hardly see the front desk through the dust from the broken plasterboard. He noticed one of the large florescent strip-lights hanging down, inches from the floor. The thick air hit the back of his throat and dried his saliva. He heard the shouts from the armed response teams ahead as they moved from room to room in an attempt to secure the building. Morrow stepped around a jagged lump of plaster and peered up through the gaping hole in the ceiling. Something had forced its way through, something heavy.
Another shout from one of the officers broke his concentration. It came from the records room. Morrow hurried towards the commotion with two other men. The team had discovered Desk Sergeant Ludlow and Officer Feeder. The former lay face down against the sliced door, missing the top of his head, and the latter sported two bullet wounds just beneath his shoulder blades.
Morrow paid the gruesome corpses little attention, stooping down to examine the perfect line through the sliced door. He ran his finger along its edge. It was so clean that even the wood was razor sharp. He glanced above him and saw a huge hole in the ceiling, stretching up two floors.
‘Detective.’ The tactical sergeant beckoned Morrow down the corridor. Unlike his men, the sergeant remai
ned calm, hands resting on the rifle that hung from his neck. ‘We found something in the holding cells.’
‘What is it?’ Morrow said.
‘I wouldn’t like to speculate on that, sir. Best if you see for yourself.’
The sergeant led him further down the corridor heading towards the heavy door of the cellblock. He stepped aside, making it clear to Morrow that he did not wish to take a second viewing. Morrow entered alone.
Two ungodly sights, no more than a few feet apart, hit him immediately – one, a skinned corpse of a grown man. Its slimy muscle and sinew glistened under the florescent lights. The body was still warm, and a faint layer of steam rose from its surface. Morrow recoiled with a nose full of its stench, turning to the second discovery. A pile of folded skin lay in front of him, almost floating in a pool of black syrup. Reluctantly, Morrow reached down and pinched the ends of the skin with each hand, lifting it out of its thick puddle. He held it up to the light, trying not to heave from the smell. The pile of skin had a face, and when he pieced it together, he realised it was a face he recognised. He also noticed Ridley’s hospital identification card touching the toes of his shoe and the torn remains of a dark blue suit.
‘What the hell did this, sir?’ The sergeant asked in an undertone.
Morrow couldn’t bear to look at the empty skin any longer. He threw it down and it slapped on the floor like a handful of soaking wet clothes. Turning first to the sergeant, he gazed back at the decorticated body, struck with pangs of guilt. He’d had a feeling that something would go horribly wrong in his absence, yet he insisted Reeves stay behind. He’d harboured ill feeling towards him, knowing most of it was born out of jealousy of his youth. Nevertheless, he had been his partner. He was gone, left him just like Duncan Fisher.
‘Sir?’ the sergeant said.
Morrow was oblivious to the sergeant’s concern. He recalled his interview with Cedric Atterby in the disturbed boy’s home, the crime scenes, the train wreck, the creature that flew over Walton and the words from Kate Meadow’s mouth in the room down the hallway. With a shaky hand, Morrow reached for his mobile phone, struggling to remember the number he was supposed to dial.
‘Hello, who is this?’ Morrow didn’t recognise the voice that replied on the other end. ‘I need to speak with Colonel Forest.’ Morrow wasn’t really listening to the young officer explaining the whereabouts of his superior. ‘Look, there’s no time. I need you to get him on this line right now. My name is Detective Inspector Morrow. Tell him to get word to Downing Street. There isn’t going to be any environmental disaster or killer virus. We are about to be attacked by a foreign force – a global invasion of alien origin.’
The young officer fell silent, and Morrow took the phone from his ear for a moment, conscious of how ridiculous he must sound. ‘Just tell him.’ As he ended the call, each fragment of the complex puzzle forming in his mind suddenly clicked into place.
A rumble grew in the distance outside. At first, it sounded like a thunderclap. As it drew closer, it sent a mini tremor through the station. Morrow left the holding cell, pushing his way past the sergeant who had not moved, frozen rigid by the noise shaking through the brickwork. When he reached the corridor that led to the front desk, he joined the stampede of officers rushing outside to see what was happening.
Graystock still hovered around the car, in two-minds whether to get back inside it, cowering and staring up at the red heavens. Out in the open, the thunderous sound was deafening and would not abate. With each crack, bystanders gasped, ducked and dodged, expecting something to fall out of the sky and land on top of them.
Morrow cupped his ears but it didn’t help to drowned much of it out. Reaching its pinnacle, the thunder shook the ground violently. The tremor ended with a low grumble that echoed long into the distance.
The rain followed a short breath of silence. Morrow wondered why lightening had not also flashed through the sky. A couple of raindrops collected in the palms of his hands. They were not clear like they should have been. They were dirty – red. A greater wave of rain came down, saturating everyone outside the station. It didn’t take long for people to realise something other than rain fell upon them. Morrow watched them all staring at each other, terrified and bemused. The concrete of the car park, every car on it, the station itself, all ran with cascades of blood as it continued to hammer down from the clouds. Morrow did not take shelter. He allowed the red rain to drip down his face into his eyes and mouth. He tasted its bitterness. Graystock had locked himself inside his car and peered out, eyes wide with panic. Morrow saw him mouth the words, ‘My God.’ Then, the flesh of Graystock’s cheeks went into spasm and his eyes flickered, as if he’d reflected on his statement for a moment. The God he’d referred to could not possibly exist anymore.
3
Kaleb could only manage the odd short breath. He could not feel the blood falling from the sky and through the gaping hole in the roof. The force flowing through him had ceased. He averted his eyes from the clouds to look at Josie – unconscious, ignorant of his impending fate. Her fair hair had turned black with blood. The first soft kiss she had planted on his lips flashed through his mind, his hands on hers as they glided over the sculptures in his studio, cradling her trembling body on Vauxhall Bridge in the rain. The memories seemed plucked from another time, another life.
A pool of white light shone from the bloodied rain. It grew at a rapid rate, cutting through the clouds until its mass stretched out for miles overhead, and then it shrunk back again, as objects began to emerge from the red mist, filling the sky for as far as Kaleb could see. They fell with velocity. Their true size only became clear when closer to the earth – thousands of craft, glinting yellow lights positioned around their edges. The plague of metal locusts had arrived. They came to feed on the newly appointed dammed. Kaleb had failed. Cradleworth and his slaves would wipe the human race from the history of existence. But he remembered something then, something the Sentinal had told him that had given him comfort. Mud still sullied Cradleworth’s shoes, dirt he could never wipe clean. It was the last thought Kaleb experienced. He tipped from his knees and crashed face-first into a sea of blood.
Cradleworth propped himself up against the table, grinning at Kaleb’s broken body. He gazed up through the hole in the roof again to watch his beautiful armada sliding into battle formation before their assault. He laughed aloud, beckoning them forth, allowing the blood of innocence to rain down his throat. He laughed so hard it made him grimace with pain. Kaleb had set a terrible wound upon him. Worse still, Cradleworth didn’t know in what way he’d been afflicted.
On the table, Josie started to come to. At first she assumed the whisper in her head was Celeste, but as feeling returned to her muscles, she realised that the voice was male. ‘Kaleb?’ she croaked. The glass of the brass-framed mirror, which stood a couple of feet away, began to buckle and then liquefy.
Reach out. Take my hand, the voice said. She did what the voice asked, putting all of her strength into reaching out with her left hand. An arm broke through the barrier of liquid and grabbed her around the wrist. Josie gasped and felt something pull her from the cold surface she laid upon, into the thick soup collected behind the mirror’s frame. Just when she thought she couldn’t possibly hold her breath any longer, she found herself free from the substance, free to take in a huge gulp of air. She landed on all fours panting.
‘Josie, it’s alright now. You’re here.’ The voice belonged to Heven. He knelt by her side, rubbing her back. She had returned to one of the bedrooms at the manor, surrounded by the other first-born. All but Heven stood with their hands joined to form a circle. As soon as Heven gave them the nod to say he and Josie were safe, they broke free.
Stuart turned his focus to a silver perfume box sitting on the dresser and propelled it across the room with his mind. The box struck the face of the now solidified mirror at speed, shattering the glass to block the path of anything else trying to follow.
Josie knew where she wa
s. There was no need for her to ask what had happened to Kaleb. She’d seen for herself. He was gone. He belonged to Cradleworth.
The others knelt down to console her. They mourned Kaleb’s loss as much as she did. She cried out for him, her heart as shattered as the glass around her feet.
4
It had taken Vladimir a while to drag himself outside. He sat up against the wall next to the car he’d stolen. He tore off a section of his shirt and tied it around the top of his thigh as a tourniquet. The blood rained down on the farm too, and he could see the ships descending in their thousands. He reached into his jacket for his lighter and his final cigarette, coughing on the first intake of smoke, laughing along with his usual brand of irony. If he was to die on this deserted farm, he at least wanted to finish his cigarette first. It tasted good, better than any he’d had before.
As the hell from the outer reaches of space descended, he realised that time was up for the wretched creature that he was. Everything would be dust. Everything would be dust.
Boadicea
1
Briaridge Orchard, Bedfordshire
The first-born managed to recover enough to make their way to the grounds at the front of the manor, even Josie. She found it hard to struggle through her grief, but Evelyn held her steady.
Evelyn had already told the others what she’d learned from the spirit of her husband, so they watched as the earth’s doom fell from the skies towards them. In the distance, they could hear artillery fire, presumably coming from the army’s ground defences. It was clear to anyone that the invasion would overwhelm any retaliation. If the clouds covered the whole world then it was a fair bet the approaching armada did too.
Infanticide (Fallen Gods Saga Book 2) Page 21
