Mortal Skies: A Post Apocalyptic Sci Fi Horror Novel

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “Is it dead, Fitz?”

  “I think it might be.”

  “Yes!” A timid fist-pump from Todd in the footwell.

  “Keep still.”

  “Sorry.”

  Mimi rises from her crouch to peer over Ellie’s shoulder. “He’s not moving, Fitz. He must be sick.”

  Todd peers above the dashboard. “The woman was sick too.”

  Todd is right; the woman had looked as though she were dying.

  “Maybe she’ll peg it too?”

  “The boy was alive though. I know it. I saw him move.”

  Yes, but not for long. Ellie remembers the fire engine driving across to the building. When the creature had followed him inside, she was sure that the boy would be caught, but he’d survived through the night, and he’d done it to save the girl. He was a hero, and she, Ellie, is just a coward hiding inside an ambulance. The sight of the girl on the road, easy prey, makes her skin crawl, her disgust inward. She moves to the back of the ambulance and crouches, her fingers digging at the flooring.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Looking for …” She lifts the rubber mat from the floor to reveal a large panel with a ring-pull. “This.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tools. I hope.” She lifts the panel to expose the recess.

  “What do you need tools for?”

  “I’m going to help the girl, and then get the boy.”

  “What?”

  “No!”

  “You saw those ‘things’, I think they’re weak. Maybe weak enough for me to beat them.” She reaches inside the recess. “With this!” She holds up a tyre iron.

  “What if they’re not?”

  “You can’t go!”

  “I have to try.”

  Searching through the other cupboards, she takes a jacket for extra protection and slips the torch into its pocket.

  Getting the girl into the ambulance was easy; only one creature had lurched from between the tower blocks and disappeared before Ellie had determined that the space was clear. Running to the girl, heart pounding, she’d imagined her to be resistant, frozen by fear and refusing to move, but as Ellie had placed a hand on her slender arm, and told her to come, the girl had jumped up and run back to the ambulance, throwing herself through its doors.

  Inside, her tears and words flow. Mimi and Todd stare at the newcomer as she sobs that the ‘monster got Josh’, and Ellie unclips the restraints of a wheelchair strapped to the inside of the ambulance, slips out of the back doors, waits until the area outside is once again empty, then follows the trail of blood and scuffed earth to an open door at the back of the tower blocks. Concrete steps lead down into a dark hole. She parks the wheelchair to one side, flicks on the torch, takes the tyre iron from her pocket, and steps down.

  Josh wakes to pain, a pain that fills every cell of his body. No sound, or feeling, reaches him other than the pain throbbing in his head. He remains quiet, suppressing a groan, keeping it tight in his chest, his instincts screaming at him to stay quiet. Boking, sloshing, rasping, groaning; the sounds sit at the periphery of his consciousness. The tips of his fingers are icy. Along his side, cold seeps through to his skin. One arm is raised above his head, scratches at something harsh. In the following minutes, he becomes more aware. His head is pointed downwards, his arms askew, his legs somewhere above him. Pain, intense and deep, rides his skull. The noises become more intense, filling his senses until he opens his eyes to black. He closes them again. Fingers above his head slide in liquid, greasy, thick, and lumpy. Beneath the liquid is something hard—a rough floor? His other hand lies near his side; cloth, a button, smooth, cold skin. He shudders. A memory. Her! The woman—her faded red eyes staring into his before she hit him. In the room something moves. He forces his eyes open, stares upwards until black becomes grey. Something bokes. Something slithers.

  Beneath him, a groan. The pile shifts. He dips beneath consciousness.

  Particles of stench cling, thick and greasy, to the skin and hairs inside Ellie’s nose. She stifles a gag as the reek of rotting flesh and blood intensifies in the airless space. The steps had led to a narrow corridor, and then an open door, at which point Ellie had become aware of the slithering, and – she’d gagged at the noise - sucking.

  Hand trembling, she points the torch into the basement. Dark stains, black in the torchlight, spread out over the concrete. Liquid gleams in thick patches, dried and smeared in others. Although the basement is large, perhaps stretching across the entire footprint of the tower block, only a portion of the floor remains uncovered. Across the rest, bodies are piled and, in places, the mound of broken limbs, cracked and disfigured faces, is as high as her shoulders. A wave of nausea rises, and she rocks, head suddenly light, as her knees weaken. Hold it together, Ellie. Check for the boy!

  She swings the torch across the closest bodies – His face! Oh, Jesus, his face! - and bites into her top lip, forcing the screaming panic back into her throat; the intense beam of the torch had caught the head and shoulders of a man, arms thrown askew, red cable-knit jumper bloodied, head – Oh, God, the head! – skinned, and fleshless, the eyes, lidless, staring madly from blood-smeared sockets. She gags and this time the vomit spews and her knees give way. Something had eaten his face. Her mind blanks as her hand splays against the floor, her face pushing up against something smooth and cold, the scream she’d repressed bursts from her throat in a wheedling, high-pitched whine. Had it been the woman, Fat Babs, who had eaten his face?

  The pile shifts, a body slides, another rolls, something wet slithers, and, from somewhere to her right, a sucking noise is followed by a groan.

  She pushes back from the face hers had touched with a jerk, vomit rising again as the cold imprint of its cheek on her own, clings to her skin. She squats on her haunches, forcing herself to focus. One last look for the boy—just one. Red hoodie, blue jeans, black trainers, dark hair. Look Ellie, look!

  She swings the torch. The outer edges of its beam highlight the ceiling, illuminating the top of the pile. Something shifts in her periphery—No, it scuttles. Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Get me out of here. She focuses her eyes on the lower edges of the pile, sure that Fat Babs wouldn’t have been able to drag the boy further, and sees him.

  No! Head on the concrete, torso resting on the pile, feet pointing to the ceiling, he appears to be dead. Beside him Fat Babs lies slumped, her eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. Dead! Please let her be dead.

  A slithering of wetness, a slobbering, clacking, slapping of liquid between flesh, and she flashes the torch to the top of the pile, arcs it across, sees nothing. Breath catches in her chest. Get out, Ellie. Get the hell out! She points the light at the boy, his head moves. He is alive!

  A carcass shifts in the pile.

  Crouching, she whispers, “I’m here. I’m going to help.”

  Movement again and the air shifts around her. She flashes the light to the pile; something black and wet sits crouched, its skin toad-like, arms, or maybe legs, she can’t tell, extend as bony protuberances. As she watches, a tube extends from its body, a membrane, black and oily, opaque against the light, feels its way along the bodies to the face of a woman. The thing heaves, bokes, and liquid spreads over the woman’s eyes, forehead, and nose. Her skin bubbles, and a white mist rises, as the edges of the membrane creep over her head, enveloping her face, and the monster sucks.

  The boy groans.

  The sucking stops.

  Ellie steps to the boy, slides her arms beneath his pits, and pulls, keeping the torch trained on the thing. It retracts its proboscis and a bony leg rises.

  The boy is surprisingly heavy. He had seemed so slight, a teenager yet to fill out, but as she lifts him, his muscular frame is obvious. Her arms hooked beneath his, she pulls. The thing lifts another leg, and then another. She strains to pull the boy, and his feet knock against the floor. The thing moves, its speed alarming. She grunts, pulling the boy to the left. The thing mirrors her movements along the pile, digging
clawed feet deep into the flesh of the bodies. Jesus! It’s following her.

  She heaves, pulling the boy back with rapid steps, and the thing scuttles forward. With a thump, she drops the boy, and digs in her pocket for the tyre iron. The monster’s claws tack on the concrete. With all the force she can muster, she hurls the tool, then grabs the boy beneath the pits and heaves. The thing shrieks, scuttles back, and disappears into the gloom as she drags the boy through the doorway.

  “Ellie!” Todd’s shout makes her bowels wither. They’re back! She can hear their footsteps, their insane chuntering. She’s trapped! Pulling the boy into the space next to the steps that descend into the basement, she crouches against the wall, and waits.

  Footsteps, chuntering, and cackles, grow louder as the seconds pass.

  The first of the infected reaches the top step and begins its descent. The woman staggers down the stairs. A man follows. Both creatures are sallow-skinned, and dark blotches sit beneath their eyes, the red fading, almost fully opaque. A high-pitched buzzing breaks through the noise of their disjointed, garbled chatter. Three more clatter down the steps, all oblivious to Ellie and the boy, and disappear into the room.

  The buzzing increases and a small drone, the size of a shoebox, flies in through the doorway. It hovers, turns, trains its lens on Ellie, then turns back and heads for the open door before disappearing into the dark space.

  Ellie takes her chance.

  With shaking legs, she drags the boy to the top of the steps, then pulls him across to the wheelchair. The buzzing of the drone grows louder as she heaves him into the chair, tips it back, and pushes at a run to the ambulance. A creature blocks her route. Caught in the open, Ellie increases her speed, determined to save the boy; she’ll plough the monster down if he tries to attack. The man staggers and drops to the grass. Ellie keeps up her pace. As she passes, he doesn’t move, and brown fluid oozes from his mouth, ears, and nose. His skin is wizened and leathery; a modern-day Tollund Man. The heavy thrum of motorbikes grows louder as the drone reappears from the basement and flies above her head.

  Thirty-Two

  The thrumming of the engine vibrates through Nate’s thighs as he grips the handle. A dull pain sits across the back of his head and his back, though both are numbed by Cathy’s pills. Across his shoulder, held by a sturdy leather strap, is Tim’s rifle, the older one he keeps as ‘back up’. The newest one is strapped to Tim’s back. Nate hadn’t questioned Tim on the existence of a licence for that weapon; no civilian had a licence for that kind of weapon, not in England anyway.

  “This,” Tim had said as he’d handed Nate the older rifle, “is the weapon you hand over when the authorities decide to ban all guns.”

  “They won’t ban sporting rifles, surely.”

  “Don’t you be too sure. They’re trying it in the US. This,” he said brandishing the heavy-duty rifle, “is the weapon you keep quiet about. This is the one you’ll need if the shit hits the fan.”

  “I think it has.”

  “Exactly. And we’re ready to scoop it up and throw it right back at them.” He slings the rifle, something that wouldn’t look out of place on a battle field, over his shoulder, and slides a leg over the bike’s seat.

  “After we get your boy, we’re going to the warehouse.”

  After Nate had explained the disjointed conversation he’d had with Gareth, Tim had grown quiet, the blood leaving his face, then left the room. When he’d returned, his face had been flushed and a sparkle sat in his eyes. ‘In this situation, it’s who you know that will get you through, Nate, and I know one of the best,’ he’d said with a knowing smile.

  The warehouse belonged to Toby, a good friend, who also just happened to own Prepper UK, an online store that sold anything the discerning survivalist could possibly want. ‘It’s stuffed to the gunnels, Nate. Tents, sleeping bags, gas stoves.’ Nate had listened to the list of camping equipment with growing despair. Canvas and chemical toilets would be of no help if the government dropped Novichok on them. Tim had continued to smile as Nate’s interest had waned. ‘And, Nate, he’s got military grade personal protective gear.” Nate had perked up. “Gas masks, Hazmat suits, respirators, decontamination kits.’

  “If anything happens,” Tim continued. “Make your way there. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Get on, then.”

  Nate had lifted his leg to hook it over the seat with a stiffness that had nothing to do with the injuries, and sat behind Tim’s broad, leather-clad back, sewn with a patch embroidered with a phoenix and ‘SCUNTHORPE’ arced across the bottom. The bike’s engine had roared and they’d rolled out of the garage and onto the street with Cathy close behind, the shadows across the roads still untouched by the rising sun.

  The four tower blocks come into view only minutes into the journey. That Nate had been so close when he’d been attacked galls him bitterly; if only he’d walked a little quicker, hadn’t been so timid about moving from one safe place to the next, then perhaps he could have rescued Josh by now.

  Ahead, ambulances, police cars, and fire engines sit in the towers’ shadows, and debris is scattered across a wide area. A single light flashes on the fire engine parked bonnet-to-wall against the first tower. The first tower! The one where Josh said Tina lived in. He checks the area for movement. He had expected there to be more of them; the streets yesterday had seemed to teem with roaming groups of the infected. There hadn’t been a road clear, and each inch of progress had been hard fought, but today the space is quiet, with only the blue flashing light a canker to the stillness.

  Tim slows the bike to a stop and dismounts, rifle deftly manoeuvred to sit in his hands. Nate follows as Cathy pulls beside them. Movement to the right. Faces appear at the window of an ambulance, two girls, and a boy. The boy lifts his hand as though to wave. Nate raises his hand, then stops. Figures burst from between two of the towers. Tim swivels, raises his rifle, unclips the lock.

  The figures are bizarre. A red-headed woman in a high-visibility yellow jacket, face almost puce, is pushing a wheelchair on its back wheels. A body lies in the chair, held in only by the tipped angle, its arms dangle at the side, and its head jostles at an awkward angle. Josh! Tim focuses his sights on the pair.

  “Don’t shoot!”

  Tim pulls the trigger, and the woman stumbles.

  “No!”

  The body slips from the chair. Tim fires again. And Nate sees the thing, only feet away from the redhead, fall to the side. The woman crawls on all fours to the fallen boy.

  “Josh!”

  Another figure appears behind the woman. Tim fires. Misses. Fires again. Hits his target as Nate sprints across the road, jumping debris, striding over the grass towards the redhead and his son. She’s kneeling as he reaches them, pulling at Josh. The boy’s face is smeared with dried blood, his eyes closed. Nate doesn’t hesitate - no time to check for pulse or breathing - and hooks his arms beneath Josh’s back and legs, then lifts. The boy is heavier than he expected.

  “The ambulance,” the redhead shouts, breathing hard. “Across the road. Take him to the ambulance.”

  “The one with the kids?”

  “Yes.”

  Another shot fires and then another as Nate runs with Josh. A call of ‘The warehouse, Nate!’ is followed by more shots. Figures dart, stumble, dance, and fall in Nate’s peripheral vision as he focuses on the ambulance; the quiet road now alive with action. The redhead sprints ahead, darts to the back of the vehicle, and pulls the door open. Inside, Nate lies Josh on the stretcher. Three pairs of eyes stare at him from the front of the cab as the redhead closes the doors. Outside, the noise of gunfire is replaced by the thrum of motorbike engines. Throttles open, and Nate stares down at his son as Tim and Cathy ride away, engines roaring. In the distance, the air vibrates with noise.

  Thirty-Three

  As Nate searches the ambulance for antiseptic wipes to clean the wound on Josh’s forehead, the helicopter, an Airbus Super Puma with enough cabin space to
hold an armed retrieval team, a secure container for the ‘creature’, plus a military veterinarian to keep it sedated, lands beside the crater. As the landing skids lower, and the helicopter’s door opens, Captain Taylor Marks steps onto the debris of the destroyed tower block for the second time. Carrion crows, startled by the chopper’s descent into their territory, return, landing on broken blocks and armchairs, then jump back down to pick at the morsels of flesh smashed into the debris. A rat scurries from beneath a block and disappears down one of the kerb’s run-off drains.

  His first visit had been a rush, killing zombies - sure, he knows they aren’t really zombies – with abandon, had been pure pleasure, the stuff of his teenage dreams, a gamer’s paradise. Now, here he is, sent in to retrieve a creature they believed had landed with the meteorite, an alien species lurking in a basement full of bodies. It is all totally insane, a scene straight out of Zombie Nation, and it is fucking awesome with a capital A. Curb your enthusiasm, boy. This is serious business! No shit, Sherlock. He suppresses a smile as he turns back to his men, beckoning them forward as they reach the top of the steps. Three of the lads watch his back as he scans the entrance to the basement; clear—if you don’t count the putrefying body eternally crawling up the first two risers and the carrion crow pecking at its cheek. The whole area is thick with death and he’s thankful that all he can smell is the raw, chemically-tainted fabric of his bio-hazard suit and respirator.

  A rat crawls over his foot as he takes a step down, its swollen and distended belly, dragging across the ground. He watches with undisguised disgust as the rodent crawls alongside the wall of the building then simply stops and rolls onto its side. The belly undulates. Move it, Marks! You’ve got a job to do, no time to watch a rat give birth even if it is grotesquely fascinating. “Bailey. Jensen. Mallory. Stay topside. Shen. Ludlow. Fellowes. Come with me.”