Mortal Skies: A Post Apocalyptic Sci Fi Horror Novel

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Colonel Littleton mutes the already low volume, to a quick but collective sigh. He considers himself a veteran in the field, but what they have witnessed isn’t the relatively organised violence of a campaign, of soldier firing against soldier, this is the bone-meltingly horrific carnage that comes from rage, of one human being driven to obliterate another human being with their bare hands, or any flesh-splitting, bone-breaking object they can find. It is a sight that turns his stomach, and sickens his soul. Human nature at its worst, raw, unfiltered, and truly, horrifically, grotesque.

  Major Drayton is the first to speak. “What in God’s name is causing that level of violence?”

  “We can’t be sure. As you know, the attempt to take soil samples from one of the impact sites in London was not successful.”

  Brampton shifts in his seat. “The team sent in were … attacked. I’ve watched Sergeant Lister’s bodycam feed … they were ambushed and overwhelmed.”

  “They weren’t armed?”

  “They were.”

  “Hell!”

  “However, we do now have this evidence.” Littleton motions towards the screen. “Proof that once the meteor hits, the populace in the immediate vicinity become … infected, and begin to display extreme aggression and violence.”

  “Infected, Colonel?”

  “We should be careful how we choose our words. Infection implies something living, a virus, or bacteria.”

  “Affected then.”

  “It could be a virus.”

  Brampton shakes his head. “The most likely explanation for this is a chemical attack.”

  “Nothing I’m aware of causes this kind of reaction.”

  “It could be something new, a recent development.”

  “The Iranians-“

  “Interesting as this discussion is, our first job is to contain the problem. The situation in London is … dire. A quarantine has been put in place around the city, although reports have come in this morning that surrounding towns have also witnessed an increase in violence.”

  “Are you suggesting that it is contagious.”

  “Perhaps airborne?”

  “At this point, we can’t confirm that.” Littleton glances back to the screen, quickly averts his gaze; the sight of men attacking women, women attacking children, children attacking men, and tearing, gouging, kicking, stabbing, wounding, mutilating, and ultimately killing, is unbearable.

  “We must focus on containing this … situation. Let’s stay on task.” Nods of agreement, all eyes on him. “I want to avoid a repeat of London here. If we act quickly, we can save lives. Carter, an update on progress please.”

  “The major roads in and out of the city have been blocked. Barriers are being erected at the minor roads. Within the next few hours no one will be able to leave. A forty-eight-hour curfew is being put in place along with a moratorium on updates to the public.”

  “A media blackout?”

  “Yes, D-notices have been issued to the major and minor outlets and social media channels have received notice to co-operate.”

  “Will they?”

  “Do bears shit in the woods?”

  “We also have the authority to instigate Protocol Four.”

  “Are we going to instigate Protocol Four?”

  “Yes, we are. I believe it’s the only way we can save lives.”

  “By killing people?”

  “It’s clearance of those civilians showing signs of extreme aggression.”

  “You’re talking about extermination.”

  “Not extermination.”

  “That’s the next phase though, right? Protocol Five?”

  “Protocol Five has been authorised for London.”

  Major Drayton sits straighter in her chair. Brampton grits his teeth.

  “It has to be chemical. How the hell can vast numbers of people suddenly become violent? An infection, surely, would take longer to take effect. You saw it Colonel, there were kids at that tower block—kids trying to kill adults.”

  “As I said, our first job is containment of the situation. A scientific team,” he nods towards Dr. Connaught, “has been appointed to study the problem.”

  Dr. Rob Connaught raises a hand.

  Carter frowns. “Study? You’re just going to sit back and ‘study the problem’?”

  “Until we discover exactly what is causing this reaction, and how we can effectively neutralize it, yes, we’re going to study the problem, but I assure you, we will be doing everything we can to discover the source of the outbreak and then take the appropriate action to stop it in its tracks. In the meantime, it has been agreed that Protocol Four is the most effective way to deal with the violence.” Littleton locks on Carter. “It’s the best option we have. If we can get in quick enough, then perhaps we can prevent a second London. Think of it as a cull—thousands may die, but many more will be saved.”

  “And Protocol 5.”

  Littleton takes a deep breath. “It is … an option we must consider, if we fail.”

  Dr. Rob Connaught remains seated as the soldiers and most of the other personnel leave. Su-Li at his side, he waits for Littleton to return. The man’s face is ashen, and despite his self-assurance, his hand trembles as he pulls a chair out to sit opposite.

  “Well, Doctor Connaught. How do you suggest we proceed?”

  “We have to get samples from the landing site; soil and the gas that seems to be hanging around the crater. From what I gather, your last attempt wasn’t exactly successful.”

  Littleton looks beyond Connaught for a second. “I’ll send you in with an armed team. They will be fully briefed on the previous effort. We won’t fail this time.”

  “Breathing apparatus is essential,” Su-Li adds. “We have no idea how toxic that gas is.”

  “Or infectious.”

  Su-Li raises her eyebrows. Connaught hopes she’ll keep her mouth shut. She doesn’t. “You believe the infection came with the meteorite then?”

  “It’s an avenue we can’t discount. NASA confirmed that the meteorite shower originated from an extragalactic sector.”

  “Beyond our own solar system!” Connaught’s brow furrows. “So, you’ve ruled out biological warfare?”

  “No.”

  “But, if it’s extra-terrestrial?”

  “It’s very possible that the enemy is extra-terrestrial.”

  Su-Li snorts.

  “No idea, no matter how bizarre, is without merit, Doctor Van Der Paull.”

  “I’m sorry, Colonel Littleton, I didn’t mean to offend, but you must realise how … crazy that sounds.”

  “I do, indeed, Doctor, but the hypothesis of the infection-”

  “We don’t yet know if it is an infection.”

  “Of the … stimulant, then, being extra-terrestrial, is a hypothesis that has been put forward.”

  “Still, a pre-meditated attack, an alien species waging war on the world, seems too outlandish to take seriously.”

  “I haven’t suggested that it is an attack, Dr Van Der Paull.”

  “You said, and I quote, ‘It’s very possible that the enemy is extra-terrestrial’.”

  “Yes, but enemy in the loose term.”

  “Ah, a loose term.”

  “Yes, the infection, or whatever you want to call it, is the enemy. Its effects are catastrophic, but I’m not suggesting that the attacks were pre-meditated by an intelligent extra-terrestrial lifeform, although it is something that we should not rule out.”

  “So, you do want us to consider this as an alien attack?”

  “Consider, yes, but science is a matter of fact, not belief, is it not? The meteorite showers, and the resulting outbreaks of violence, are unprecedented in earth’s history, and the Dominion Observatory has reported the detection of several more meteor clusters, all from the same extra-galactic sector of deep space, all headed towards Europe with the exception of one heading towards the Arabian Gulf and another for the southern states of America.” He takes a breath. “Are yo
u aware of CHIME, doctors?”

  Connaught nods.

  Su-Li raises a scornful brow. “Obviously, major. CHIME is the Canadian Hydrogen Intensity Mapping Experiment, it’s a collaborative research project that studies signals from deep space.”

  “Indeed, and they’ve been working on identifying FRBs, that’s Fast-”

  “Radio Signals. Yes, we’re aware of them.”

  Littleton nods, his lips a touch pursed, then continues. “Of interest to the Ministry, in particular, have been those signals that repeat – bursts of radio waves signalling across billions of light years.”

  Connaught indulges the colonel’s explanation, as Su-Li condescends to listen.

  “I’m sure you’re aware then, that the first FRB was recorded in 2012 and found to have been repeated in 2015. The second repeating FRB was recorded in 2018. It repeated a number of times during a three-week period. We can perhaps put the increase in frequency of the repeating signals down to the advances in radio telescope technology, CHIME was in the pre-commissioning phase during the three weeks the second repeating signal was recorded.”

  “We are aware of that, Major.”

  “Are you aware then, that at the beginning of the year, a member of the CHIME team contacted NASA with concerns about a cluster of FRBs he had identified?”

  “No, not aware of that.”

  “He reported that several repeating FRBs had been detected, but this time they were repeating on a daily basis, and…” he pauses for effect, “they were much closer to earth than the last FRB detected. Very soon afterwards he detected another two FRBs repeating hourly, both of which have been identified as coming from the same sector as the meteorites.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Well, it’s a trifle more than ‘interesting’, Doctor Connaught.”

  “What exactly are you saying?” Su-Li challenges. “That there’s something ‘out there’?”

  “That is very possible, Doctor Van Der Paull.”

  Connaught ignores Su-Li’s widening eyes, the look of disbelieving incredulity. Su-Li was definitely in the ‘we are alone in this universe’ camp.

  “Are you aware of the ‘Carancas Impact Event’, Colonel Littleton?” Su-Li counters. The colonel shakes his head, and Su-Li continues. “A chondritic meteorite fell near the village of Carancas in Peru in September 2007. It created a crater and scorched earth, not dissimilar to the one outside your tower blocks. Gases were reported spewing out of the crater and the villagers who went to the impact site became sick.”

  “Well-”

  “Further research showed that the local area was known to contain arsenic compounds, and the illness is thought to have been caused by arsenic poisoning – the residents inhaled the vapour of the boiling arsenic-contaminated water.’

  “You may very well be correct, Doctor Van Der Paull, and I’m hoping that your research proves exactly that. However, arsenic compounds in the soil wouldn’t cause an outbreak of the extreme aggression that we are witnessing. And I’m assuming that those meteorites, as is the case with all other known landings, were from within our own solar system.”

  Connaught brings the conversation back to focus on their immediate needs. “Major, time is of the essence if we are to get samples of the gas and the soil-”

  “Correct. Which is why we’re ready to support you in any way that we can.”

  Connaught stands. “I can leave now.”

  Nine

  Barbara had caught sight of the boy as she’d twisted the neck of Jim Croxley, his hands clawing at her face. His life had snapped to dead as they’d stood in the hole, their shoes thick with mud, and Mildred‘s ashes. The ecstasy she’d felt as the smoke had enveloped her, and its particles slipped into her bloodstream, had waned, receding like backwash into her bowels, but killing Jim had made it powerful again, the ecstasy flooding her as his life-flow had fizzled. Odd how the essence of Jim had sparked, lit inside her, then exploded as a wave of euphoria. They hadn’t told her death … murder … scratching, kicking, gouging, hacking at bodies … could be so … so fucking delicious. She sniggers at the memory of Jim’s hate-filled eyes as they’d fought, but it was she – yes, she – who had won, not Perfect Peter with his immaculate lawn and his wife’s ashes buried beneath the tree. Stupid man! Why bury your wife where a dog would cock its leg and piss, or even shit? A whirling hate fills her belly and the urge to grasp flesh, squeeze it with her fingers, press it flat, stop the rasping breaths, make it bleed, feel the heart’s pulse slow then die, fills her. She aches for that flood of ecstasy, licks her lips, and follows the boy.

  The boy peddles hard, but Barbara, fat jiggling on arms, back, and belly, is keeping him in sight. Her legs feel no discomfort as they pound, her breath is steady. She feels alive. More than alive; full of lives. A laugh erupts from her throat but only a shriek fills the air, her lips pulled back as a snarl against yellowing teeth. The boy snaps his head to look behind, stares in her direction, then twists forward, torso bent over handle bars, and increases his furious peddling. Babs swings her arms faster, powers her legs and pounds after his disappearing, frantic, figure. A car’s headlights shine in the distance, grow larger, then pass. The passenger stares out and locks eyes with Barbara as the car speeds past. Immaculate, even at this hour, the woman stares with what Barbara takes to be disbelief, and a gaping mouth. For a second, she considers chasing the car – there are two lives to be taken in there – then focuses back on the boy, feet pounding harder along the pavement.

  He rides away from the tower blocks and the pulsing blue lights, past the dark shopfronts, and near-empty carparks, and then to an area of streets and terraced housing. At the end of the road he takes a right, checking for her once more. She darts into the shadows. She knows the area well; knows if she runs through the playing field at the back of the next row of houses, she can intercept him. She takes a right as he disappears around the corner at the end of the road. Brick walls at her side, she runs to the end of the terrace’s garden, jumps the low barrier that divides the pavement from the grassed area set with swings, a roundabout, seesaw, and slide, and moves between the equipment, its painted tubular steel grey in the moonlight. She bats at the swing as she passes. Chain links clink as the rubber seat swings then bangs against the frame. She jumps the low barrier on the other side, and sprints to the narrow walkway that leads to the road where the boy will be.

  The walkway stinks of dog piss and, as she runs, her foot kicks at a turd, it rolls and lands among a cluster of underfed dandelions, knocking seeds from stubby stems that rise as wisps in the pungent air. As the pathway joins the kerb, the boy is only feet away. Barbara takes an enormous leap towards him, arms outstretched, unable to restrain a cackle that reaches the air as a shriek. The bike wavers as the boy twists to look. Greedy eyes stare back at him, and a squeal of terror joins her own distorted laugh. He pedals harder. She pushes at her thighs, powering herself even faster. As his legs pump with furious effort, she gains on him, hears his panting breath. She reaches for the wheel, clamps her fingers around its rubber tyre. The bike swerves. The boy screams. Her grasp slips, and she staggers, then stumbles, falling to the road with a thud, her side scraping against gravel. The bike and its boy disappear into the distance as Barbara drags herself to a stand and resumes her relentless pursuit.

  Bright lights flood the road as a car pulls up behind Barbara then passes and pulls into a parking spot. As she runs past, the door swings open and a man steps out. The boy swerves, mounts the pavement, then throws the bike over a low garden wall; it slams against the front of the house.

  “Hey!”

  The boy grabs the door’s handle.

  “Hey! Leave the kid alone.”

  The boy disappears inside the house and its door slams.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, chasing after a kid?”

  Turning to the man, particles of his sweat and breath rise between them, seeping into her nose. The ache, the need to gouge his eyes, snap his neck, fe
el his lifeforce enter her innards, brightens and grows intense. She smiles, shrieks, then lunges.

  Ten

  As the music’s jumping pulse, a seventies disco number, throbs through Nate’s chest, he surveys the gathered crowd. Konstantin glares momentarily as their eyes meet, and Nate, not for the first time tonight, wishes he could stand up to the man and tell him to stick his contract where the sun doesn’t shine. Instead, he gives him a respectful nod, and continues to survey the crowd. No one insults Konstantin, at least no one who values breathing; the thug had more than one man’s blood on his hands.

  Konstantin moves through the men and women gathered around him and makes his way to Nate’s side. “I hope your men are fully aware of the potential dangers tonight.” Nate nods. “I’m not taking any chances after Mahgreb’s party was crashed by those … monsters.”

  Nate is painfully aware of the incident at Mahgreb’s New Year’s Eve party, six months on, its mention still lands as a punch in his belly. His jaw clenches as he remembers scrolling through his mobile feed to see a photo of his friend accompanied by the headline, ‘New Year’s Horror’, and read, with growing anger, the story of how the party had been stormed by a gang of jihadis hell-bent on exterminating the partygoers. Ivan, working on the door as a security guard, had ‘put up a fight’, the piece stated, shown heroism trying to protect the guests, but the multiple stab wounds he’d suffered had been fatal, and he’d died before the ambulance arrived. The killer was known to the police, on the extremist watch-list, a father already inside for carrying out terror attacks. The senseless loss of life, his friend’s life, had infuriated Nate, and he’d sworn to take his revenge—when the time was right.

  “No religious nutjob is going to stop me entertaining my friends.” Konstantin continues as Nate scans the room. Friendship was stretching it; at £1750 per ticket for a night of drug-intensified debauchery they were paying clients.