Mortal Skies: A Post Apocalyptic Sci Fi Horror Novel

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Pull the hatch!”

  “Close it! Close it!”

  Josh grunts as he pulls the cord, forcing the door flush with the ceiling. Below, a grunt becomes a squeal, followed by thudding as the creature tumbles down the stairs.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  The space becomes silent as they all quiet and listen to the jumbled thudding, chuntering, and smashing from below. Black turns to grey, the loft lit by slithers of light breaking through the roofing felt.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that there were ladders up here?”

  “I didn’t know! I’ve never been up here.”

  “So, the magazines weren’t yours then?”

  Josh snorts.

  Katy’s voice is affronted. “Of course not!”

  Justin giggles.

  Fumbling, then torchlight brightens the space as Katy whispers a triumphant. ‘Hah! I told you I needed to pack.’

  Nate can’t resist a tweak. “So, you could read your magazines?”

  The torchlight flashes into his face as he allows himself a small chuckle. “No, Mr Penrose,” she replies with exaggerated offence. “That is not why I packed!”

  Beneath them, the thudding continues. “How long before they figure out how to get up here?”

  “We’re not going to stick around to find out.”

  “What do you suggest? Break out through the roof?”

  “Have you got a better idea, Miss Lester?”

  “Indeed, I do, Mr Penrose.” She shines the torch to the wall adjoining the neighbouring property. “These houses are old, and my neighbours have lived in them for donkey’s years.”

  “And?”

  “And,” she replies concentrating the light on a short brick wall. “This row, for the next four houses, is without fire walls.” The torch shines light over the wall into the neighbour’s loft. “This loft extends all the way to the end of the terrace.”

  “So, you have been up here before.”

  “No, but Dave has. He told me.”

  The penny drops and Katy’s ex drops further in Nate’s estimation. “They were his magazines then.”

  The thud and scurry of feet along the rafters disappears as Barbara jumps for the ring pull in the trapdoor. Each time she jumps, a cackle breaks from her throat, she flails her arm against the low ceiling and licks her lips. His smell lingers; the sweet smell of his blood, and his bones. Her fingers itch to break his neck, take his sweet life into her bowels, and drag his carcass to the dark thing. She licks her lips and waits.

  Twenty-Two

  The loft is filthy; spider webs, old, broken, and thick with dust, cling to the roof’s A-frame and catch in Josh’s hair. Justin coughs as blackened dust sprinkles from above, dislodged by Katy’s hand as she steadies herself on the overhead struts. Mrs Winderby, the owner of the house they’re invading, had rushed into the hallway as his dad had jumped down onto the landing, screamed then shouted that she was calling the police until Katy slipped out from the ceiling and calmed her. Now she stares up through the hatch, encouraging Justin to drop down.

  Ten minutes later they’re drinking cups of tea and eating biscuits in her small back kitchen. Josh takes a bite of a Jammie Dodger, the real ones, not the own-brand ones his dad buys. Ellie glances nervously at the kitchen window that looks out over the back yard. Justin hitches his chair close to hers and reaches for a biscuit. His dad has claimed the comfortable chair – typical! - next to the unlit fire. Mrs Winderby smiles, biscuit tin in hand, and catches Ellie’s nervous glance at the window.

  “Those druggies won’t get in through those windows, love. They’re tough, not easy to break.” She offers Ellie the tin. Ellie declines. “Sturdy frames. My son had them put in. Must have been … about fifteen years ago, a few years after my Charlie, died. That’s him, on the mantlepiece. I never could part with him.”

  Josh shudders as he follows her gaze to the fireplace; a tall urn sits beside a grainy photograph of a rotund man with a pipe stuck in his mouth, in the very chair in which his dad is now sitting.

  “He died. Heart attack. He was only in his fifties. Not much older than you,” she gestures towards his dad, “I’d say.”

  Josh sniggers as his dad looks at the woman with a start, and follows her gaze to the photograph. The snigger nearly turns to a snort of laughter as Katy writes ‘50’ at his dad in the air with her finger, her fear lifted for a moment.

  “Are you fifty, Uncle Nate?”

  “No, Justin. I’m not.”

  Sense of humour fail! “No.” Josh can’t help a poke. “He just looks it.”

  Katy lifts her mug to hide her laugh as his dad frowns, sits straighter in the chair, and pushes fingers through his hair. Mrs Winderby continues her story oblivious to their leg-pulling.

  “Not that it was my fault, him dying like that. He liked his pint and his fags, and who can refuse a man his steak pie and chips after a long day at work, or fried eggs, bacon, black pudding, and sausages of a Sunday morning? If I’d known the fat would clog his arteries like a fatberg in the sewer, I would have grilled his full English, but Charlie liked it all done in lard, along with a fried slice.”

  Everything is surreal; monsters are chasing him and he’s here listening to an old biddy bang on about killing her husband with fried breakfasts, and his dad is having a mid-life crisis. The world seems entirely wrong today. He chomps down on another biscuit, desperate to keep the laughter bubbling within him, inside. Last night, the horrors he’d seen, and the sickness that had followed, had made him feel uneasy within himself, as though he could tip over into abject terror or fall into an abyss of hysteria.

  A door slams outside. All chatter stops as his dad jumps up and strides to the window, pushes the lace curtain aside, and peers into the back yard.

  “It’ll just be a neighbour; we’ve got shared access.”

  The curtain drops back. “I think you’re right, Mrs Winderby.”

  “There you go, those people will have gone by now. It’s shocking that someone would break into your house in broad daylight though. The police are losing control around here. All you need do is walk in the park to see that; syringes everywhere and little kiddies playing among it.”

  Katy visibly sags, and takes another sip of tea.

  “I did hear a lot of shouting this morning. If I’d known it was you in trouble, Katy, then I’d have called the police myself.” Mrs Winderby continues. “But when I looked out of the window – I didn’t dare go to the door – there weren’t nothing outside.”

  “Don’t go outside, Mrs Winderby!” Justin grabs another biscuit and crams it into his mouth.

  “I won’t be doing, love, not until they’ve caught those druggies.” She looks nervously at the window this time. “Broke in through the back door, you say?”

  Katy’s turn to be reassuring. “Yes, but mine was old, Beryl. Yours look very strong. Is it new?”

  “Last year.” The old woman seems to relax again, then frowns. “You don’t think they’d follow you through the roof, do you?”

  His dad assures her they won’t.

  “I’ll try the police again in a minute. I can’t understand not being able to get through on a 999 call though.” Katy and his dad exchange a glance. “Not that I’ve had much occasion to call, apart from when my Charlie collapsed.” She looks with a wistful smile at the photograph on the mantle above the fireplace. “There was nothing they could do. He’d passed before they got here. Dropped down dead right there, he did.” She points to a space on the floor between the table and the hearth. “Heart attack. One minute he’s tapping his pipe into the fireplace and the next …” She trails to silence, lost in her thoughts.

  The conversation turns to leaving. His father decides they should all go back to theirs. Katy agrees. Justin complains he doesn’t have his Nintendo. The tremble returns to Josh’s hand. He picks another biscuit from the tin.

  “Someone’s got an appetite!”

  “Perhaps you’ve had enough, Josh?”

>   “No, it’s all right. My lad would get like that after playing football—all shaky and ravenous.”

  “A thank you would be nice.”

  “Thank you!” Crumbs drop from Josh’s lips.

  “My pleasure, lad. It’s not often I get visitors. Another cup of tea?” She turns to the kettle, eyebrows raised in question.

  “No, thank you, Mrs Winderby.”

  “Beryl.”

  “Beryl. We’ve taken up enough of your time. We really should go.”

  As Josh pushes back his chair, and Katy thanks Mrs Winderby for her hospitality, a flicker of movement at the window catches his eye.

  “It’ll just be a neighbour, again; there’s always someone passing.”

  He pulls the lace curtain to one side, peering to the left as the blue jeans and black jacket of a young girl disappears around the corner. Phone to her ear, vibrant pink lipstick clashes with a too orange face, and a dark line sits at her jaw where pale skin meets the ill-applied foundation. His tension eases. She isn’t a crazed and violent monster, just a girl like the hundred others at his school. Apart from Tina. He lets the curtain drop, thoughts of Tina suddenly foremost in his mind. Tina wouldn’t wear makeup like that.

  “Time to go, Josh.”

  He reaches for his phone.

  “Josh!”

  He’ll call her, make sure she’s safe, tell her to stay inside.

  “Josh! Are you ready?”

  The voice breaks into his thoughts. “Yeah.”

  “Come on, Josh.” Katy makes her gentle, indulgent laugh. Its kindness wraps around him like a caress and he steps into the hallway, phone in hand, and joins the others. The phone rings, the screen reads ‘Connecting’, then goes to voice mail. He ends the call; he’ll try again later.

  At the doorway his father is tense, leaning into the plastic panels of the front door. “I can’t hear anything.”

  “You won’t love, it’s one of them pdf doors. They’re insulated.”

  His dad’s quick uncomprehending frown disappears as they exchange a knowing, barely noticeable look; they’re uPVC doors, bidder! uPVC.

  Katy disappears into the living room.

  “Can you see anything?”

  “Nope,” she calls back then reappears, a frown still etched between her brows.

  For the first time, Josh notices the crow’s feet at her eyes, the slight bag beneath her lids. Old! She is getting old. The cool, fun aunty he’d always been drawn to, is old, just like his mum and dad. He drags his gaze from her face as she notices his stare. The door opens, the light bringing with it a cool air and the noise of sirens.

  “Them sirens are still going! I always hate to hear them; it means people are in trouble.”

  “Dad!” Josh’s voice is little more than a whisper. What if they’re still out there? “Why can’t we stay here?”

  “They’ve gone, Josh. We’ll go home. It’ll be safer there.”

  But what if they can hear the door opening? His footsteps on the flagstones? Katy’s voice? Justin’s breathing?

  “Come on.” His dad’s voice is low and insistent. “The car’s just down the road.”

  The rest of the journey seems surreal. Nate had expected to walk out of the house and be bombarded with zombie-like monsters wanting to rip at their flesh. Instead, apart from a crashed car, and the continual wail of sirens, the day seems relatively normal. The sun is shining through the trees, neighbourhood cats jump to the curb as they pass, and dogs bark with paws resting on garden walls. The people they do see don’t have red eyes, or black lips, and, apart from the one guy who’d bumped into the car at a junction, walked normally. Justin had made comment about him being a zombie, and Josh had added that he was probably stoned. Nate had reared, his already frayed nerves snapping at the cocky tone in his son’s voice. “What do you know about that, Josh?”

  “Nothing. Just some of the kids at school-”

  “Some of the kids! Don’t you go touching that stuff. You know what it does to your head, right?”

  “Yeah!” Josh snaps back. “But it’s legal in Canada now, so-”

  Nate grips the steering wheel a little tighter. “I don’t give a flying … I don’t care what’s legal in Canada, Mauritius, or Outer Mongolia. You don’t touch that stuff. Got it?” He eyes Josh with his best ‘I am the authority around here’ glare through the rearview mirror. The boy nods, Nate relaxes his grip, focussing on the road ahead.

  “Where’s Outer Monglia?”

  “It’s Mon-golia, Justin,” Katy explains elongating the vowels. “It’s about … I have no idea. Mongolia is in China somewhere.”

  “There’s no such place.”

  “What? As China?”

  “No, as Outer Mongolia. There’s only North or South Mongolia.”

  “Nope. Inner Mongolia is part of China. Outer is out of China.”

  “Maybe, but there’s only North and South.”

  “Smart arse!”

  “Whatever.” Josh groans. “I really don’t care.”

  Katy chuckles. “Quit it you two.”

  “Were they arguing?”

  “Nope, just … a difference of opinion, Justy.”

  “Don’t call me that, Aunty Katy. But if they aren’t arguing, why did Uncle Nate call Josh a ‘smart arse’.”

  “Does anyone else find it odd,” Katy asks. “That everything seems so normal?”

  Nate grunts as he manoeuvres past a car parked too far away from the kerb, but knows she’s right; the utter horror they’d endured earlier, compared to the quiet normality of now, is surreal. He mutters as he slows the car, blocked by the traffic ahead. Checking the rearview mirror, he bites back an expletive as a figure runs from behind one of the tall elms that line the street. He can’t be certain, but it looks like a lumpy, overweight woman in soiled grey sweatpants. He checks the road—completely blocked.

  “We’ll have to pull over.”

  “We’re really close to the shopping centre.”

  “You want to go shopping?”

  “I was thinking about … perhaps … something to help us, maybe something to protect us.”

  “They don’t sell guns there, Aunty Katy.”

  “I know, but I’ve seen crossbows near the camping stuff.”

  “You can be like Lara Croft, Aunty Katy! And shoot those zombies dead.”

  “When did you get so bloodthirsty, Justin?”

  “Lara Croft doesn’t kill zombies.” Josh sighs with teenage superiority.

  “She could! If she wanted to. Couldn’t she, Aunty Katy?” Justin retaliates.

  “I guess she could.”

  “Can we get cake? My mum always lets me have cake when we go shopping.”

  Nate checks the rearview; the figure has disappeared. Ahead, the cars haven’t moved. He pulls the car to the side, the length of three cars thankfully available, their owners probably stuck in the traffic.

  “Sure,” Nate replies. “Cake. Come on then.” He twists to the back seat, glancing out of the rear window; still no sign of the woman—perhaps he’d imagined her, the stress getting to him? “We’ll go to the shopping centre and have cake.” The last thing Nate wants is cake, but Katy is right, they should check out possible weapons, crossbows and hunting knives in the outdoors and sports shop, other implements would be available in the cookery department, plus, there is safety in numbers, and they could disappear among the crowd if she is following them.

  The hunger in her belly gnaws her innards, and the need to feel his life sap as she snaps his neck scratches deep down in her flesh. The car sits pulled to the side and, as they get out, his smell trails on the wind. Barbara takes a draught of air through her nose and her fingers itch, hands clench and unclench, and the need to dig nails into flesh consumes her. She follows on the opposite path, sucking in the smell of his sweat, his body, his blood. The wretch calls, its need riding through her veins. His death will be sweet, fill her, stop the ache, satisfy the dark thing and the pain it brings.

 
Twenty-Three

  Rob Connaught moves the screen to allow Colonel Littleton a better view and clicks the link sent ten minutes ago from Su-Li. He points to the results of the soil analysis in the top righthand corner, the markers shown in green, yellow, and red.

  “Doctor Van Der Paull has found evidence of a typical chondrite type meteor in the soil sample. There could have been larger pieces in the crater or the strewn field, but given the length of time I had for collection, it wasn’t possible to retrieve any.” He points to another portion of the screen. “We also have evidence of organic matter, some amino acids and pre-solar grains; very primitive material according to Su-Li.”

  “And the gas?”

  Connaught’s heart skips a beat. “Yes, the gas! Now that is something else. Absolutely unique. A living thing.”

  “How can a gas be a living thing?”

  “I think that perhaps it is. Watch.” Connaught stands with an excitement he hasn’t felt since he’d read Coffey’s 2017 paper detailing the scientist’s discovery of the seventy-ninth organ in the body. Connaught’s research will be just as ground breaking; could be the breakthrough he needs. He beckons for Littleton to follow him.

  On the other side of the laboratory is a long counter, at its centre is a glass case with wires and tubing attached. As they approach the half-way point, Connaught raises his arm as a barrier. “Stop here, Major.”

  Littleton stops with an abrupt halt. The gas sits inside, heavy and dense. There is no sign of movement.

  “It looks dead to me, Connaught.”

  “At the crash site, the mist was moving. At one point it curled around my hand, it also seeped into the helicopter.”

  “The mist was inside the helicopter? You brought it back to base?”

  “No. Once we realised it was inside, we were able to create enough of a draft to blow it out.”