Mortal Skies: A Post Apocalyptic Sci Fi Horror Novel

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Alert to any movement, and rifle at the ready, he takes two steps down and another over the rotting body.

  “The fuck!” Ludlow exclaims at the sight of the body.

  “It’s dead.”

  “So, why’s it moving?”

  A cold creep runs down Marks’ back. The man had appeared to be dead. He checks forward into the dinge, then, with a sharp twist, turns to look back at the body. It is definitely dead; brown oozing liquid leaks from its mouth, eyes and nose, and stains its bloodied, filthy clothes. Skin crepe-like, it has the wizened frailty of an old man, though Marks can tell from its thatch of thick, black hair, filthy Crosshatch jeans, hoodie and Caterpillar boots that the man was probably no more than forty. He stares at the face, waiting for signs of life. Nothing.

  “He’s dead as a dodo, Ludlow.”

  “It fucking moved.”

  Marks kicks at the man’s legs. The hoodie undulates, a lump pressing out beneath the ribs. Marks takes the remaining steps down, eyes on the pulsing fabric.

  “Jesus!”

  A rat scurries from beneath the head, squeezing out from under the chin.

  “Fuck’s sake!”

  “It’s just rats. Let’s go and get the real monster, shall we?”

  He turns back to the open door that leads into the basement. He knows exactly what to expect; a dark room piled with rotting corpses and, among them, the black and slithering creature that the drone had filmed. If anything is alive in there, the gas will knock it right out. At the door his headlamp shines a wide arc into the room. The scene is beyond horrifying and, despite his excitement, he gags. Seeing glimpses of the piles on the drone’s feed hadn’t prepared him for the true extent of the horror of being surrounded by so much death and pain. Bodies are strewn in undulating piles across the vast floor of the tower block’s basement, stacked up against the metal cases and cylinders of the boiler house, broken bodies with staring eyes, some with flesh stripped to the bone. What the hell is he seeing? What in God’s name kind of creature is this? You know exactly what it is, Marks, so get a grip and get on with the job! Sweat trickles at his temple and down his back; the heat in the room is immense.

  Looking across the piles, ignoring the swirling bile in his belly, he checks for any sign of movement. When none is obvious, he quickly unstraps the bag at his waist and retrieves one of the cannisters containing the Sevoflurane that the military veterinarian had assured him ‘will knock the bally creature out’ long enough for them to retrieve and secure it in the thick canvas bag provided. He attaches a metre-long tube to its nozzle and opens the valve. It emits a low hiss. He grabs the tube, points it forward, then squeezes the trigger. A rush of gas escapes. He releases the trigger, scans the piles, and waits.

  “Can’t see it.”

  “Keep looking. It’s here.”

  Both men wait, their headlamps casting bright arcs of light across the piles.

  “Connaught said they’re triggered by movement. Maybe we should … jiggle about or something?”

  “You want to dance for it, Shen?”

  “No, Captain. I just thought if-”

  Marks raises a hand as movement catches his eye. To the right, a shape is making its way down the pile, bony legs angled at the knuckles, stabbing up and down into the corpses. Both men turn in unison, their headlamps brightening the area. Sitting on the head of a blonde woman, a repulsive, oily creature extends a leathery membrane, reaching out and over the head of another body. It retches, bulbous body heaving, then spews yellow liquid onto closed eyelids. The membrane descends, enveloping the eyes, nose, and lips of a bearded man.

  “That is fucking disgusting.”

  Marks raises the cannister, takes quick steps forward, elongating the tube as he walks, and presses the trigger. Gas sprays from the nozzle only inches away from the creature, covering it in a fine mist.

  “Aim for the mouth!”

  “What mouth?”

  “The … thing over the face.”

  As the gas continues to rush from the tube, the thing retracts the membrane from the man’s face. It’s bulbous abdomen sags, its bony legs splay, and it lies still.

  “It worked!”

  Marks pokes at the abdomen with the hissing tube.

  “Did it work?”

  “Looks like it.”

  A voice breaks through on the intercom. “Turn off the Sevoflurane, Captain Marks. We want that thing alive.”

  As instructed, Marks releases the trigger, closing the valve. “Let’s get this thing bagged up.”

  As the soldiers heave the thick canvas bag onto the floor of the waiting helicopter, the ‘pregnant’ rat lies with its abdominal cavity a hollow. In the basement, a clawed and bony leg splits the rotting skin of Mick Trelawney’s belly, tearing through his red cable-knit sweater, and slithers out into the dark and muggy room. It gnashes its incisors and scurries towards the light.

  Thirty-Four

  Nate had expected the journey to the warehouse to be difficult and, in preparation. he’d gone back out, collected the helmets left by the firefighters, searched two of the fire engines for useful tools, then sat beside Ellie as she’d driven them from the hell-hole. Three of the infected had made an effort to attack him, and three were now lying dead, each shot by Nate. The first had nearly taken him out, grabbing him around the throat, before Nate had butted the rifle into his head, knocked it down, then shot it at point blank range. The other two had given him more warning, but he’d missed several times before finally, and very messily, catching a couple of headshots.

  They’d travelled less than a quarter of a mile in the ambulance before the roads had become impassable, blocked with vans, cars, and lorries. Ellie had driven forward as far as she could, mounting kerbs to make progress, until the path had narrowed.

  An irate lorry driver, several cars further along the road, had jumped out of the cab, slammed his door and rapped on a shop door, long-handled monkey wrench in hand, checking along the street, obviously wary. To Nate’s surprise, the door had opened and the man had disappeared inside. Most of the cars were empty though, and the street was unusually still.

  “We’re going to have to walk from here.”

  “No!” Mimi’s voice is high pitched and she grabs for Ellie’s arm.

  “He’s right, Mimi. We’ll have to walk.”

  “The warehouse is about half a mile from here. We’ve got weapons and I’ve got a gun. We can make it if we’re careful.”

  The girl’s hand tightens around Ellie’s.

  “We’re going to have to be brave, Mimi. We can’t stay here.”

  Nate unclips his seatbelt and steps into the back of the ambulance, checking again on Josh. The boy is pale, and blood has stained the white sheet and pillow of the stretcher they’d laid him on.

  “He hasn’t opened his eyes yet.” Tina pulls the top sheet to below Josh’s chin.

  “He will. Once we get him somewhere safe. He will.” Nate pulls the security strap to check it is still secure, then clips the other to secure his legs.

  Tina pulls a large messenger-style bag from beneath the stretcher and begins to search through the cupboards, filling it with bandages, dressings, and medicines as Nate hands the helmets to the children. Ellie helps to tighten the straps, before placing one on her own head.

  “Will the angry people get us?” Mimi asks as Ellie clips the strap beneath her chin.

  Ellie’s eyes lock to Nate’s in a moment of mutual recognition; they have to show a solid front “No.” His voice is firm. “They won’t hurt you, Mimi. I’ll make sure of that.” His words carry a conviction he doesn’t feel, but he has to make the kids believe it.

  “Will they, Ellie?”

  “You heard Nate, Mimi. We’re going to the warehouse and everything will be all right.”

  It’s a colossal lie - how can it ever be all right? - but it’s a lie the kid needs to hear. A low groan from Josh as Todd pulls the over-large helmet back from his eyes.

  Nate checks through
the windscreen. “Ready?”

  Four voices reply in unison. “Ready.”

  They’ll be at their most vulnerable as the doors open and the stretcher lowers on the ramp. He decides to forget the ramp. Instead they’ll have to lift the stretcher out onto the path, even if that means a bumpier ride for Josh.

  The back doors swing open. Nate jumps out, rifle in his grip, and checks the area for movement. Several people walk further along the road. Their gait is natural, hurried and tense, but natural, not the stiff movements of the infected.

  The youngest children follow, then Ellie and Tina wheel the stretcher to the open doors.

  “Keep your eyes peeled, kids. If you see anything, tell me,” Nate instructs as he turns his back to the road and grabs the stretcher. Its wheels land with a thud on the tarmac, and Josh groans.

  The next minutes are frantic as Tina and Ellie push the stretcher along the path, Nate running alongside, rifle ready to shoot, aware that most of the ammunition has been used. Mimi and Todd keep the pace with ease, each carrying a fireman’s axe, helmets permanently slipping forward.

  They cross two, then three roads, their breath coming hard, legs burning, pace fast, before reaching the roundabout that will lead them to the industrial estate. Sweat trickles down Nate’s back, and beads Ellie’s forehead as they slow to a stop.

  “One more road …” Ellie stops to take a breath. “And then we take the first exit.”

  Nate can only nod as he catches his breath. Sweat trickles into his sideburns, his body overheating beneath his jacket. Tina, red-faced, strokes at Josh’s hair, then checks the surroundings. Mimi and Todd follow suit, checking left and right along the roads.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.” Ellie replies and lifts the stretcher from the kerb to the road. It lands with a rattle as Tina takes hold, and a shriek splits the air. Within seconds the road behind them fills with thudding feet.

  “Go!” Nate shouts swivelling to the noise. Three infected charge towards him. Nate raises the rifle and shoots. One drops, blood spreading from a damaged belly as he hits the floor. The other two continue to pelt forwards. Nate fires. The trigger clicks, but no bullet fires. Damn! Empty. He pulls the strap over his shoulder and swipes at the man with the butt as he bears down on him. The rapid trundle of wheels grows distant as the other runs past. No! With rage rising, he smashes the butt of the rifle at the creature’s head. The creature, a woman this time, topples to the floor. Before Nate has time to thrust the butt of his gun against her head, Todd strikes her with his axe.

  The last creature, what had been a teenage boy, is sprinting towards Ellie, Tina and the stretcher. Nate powers forward, every ounce of his strength forced into his thighs. Mimi runs at his side, moving ahead, screaming a warning as she sprints towards the women.

  Tina turns, grabs the axe slipped beneath the stretcher’s safety straps and swings. The boy isn’t close enough and she misses. She swings it again, twisting on her toes. This time, the sharp blade makes contact with his cheek. With a grunt, she pulls back and swings again. The boy falls. A low and guttural scream erupts from Tina’s throat and she slams the blade down over and over again. Nate gags at the sight of the boy as he reaches her.

  “He’s dead, Tina.”

  She chops again, far slower now, and catches her breath in great sobs.

  “Tina! You can stop.”

  She ignores him.

  “Tina! Stop!”

  He grabs her arm, and forces the axe down. She collapses into his chest, suddenly limp.

  “It’s OK,” he soothes, and puts a tentative arm across her shoulders. Checking the roads, Mimi at his side, he waits a few moments before urging her to make the last part of their journey to the warehouse.

  Number twelve, the home of Prepper UK, sits at the end of a wide road, flanked either side by rows of squat and ugly buildings edged by a long expanse of steel fencing. Thankfully, the road is empty. Tufts of weed grow between the barbed steel posts that make up the fences, poking between the gravel. An array of cranes, bucket-loaders, and earth movers sit behind one padlocked gate, a fleet of rental cars behind another.

  Parked directly in front of number twelve, are two Harley Davidson motorbikes and a dark blue Volkswagen Transporter. As they draw close, the door is thrown open and Tim strides out, a huge grin across his face.

  “You made it!” Cathy exclaims from behind Tim’s shoulder and reaches for the stretcher.

  Thirty-Five

  “Gentlemen, we will now proceed to a vote.”

  Littleton turns to the voice, breaking away from the screen with relief, restraining his disgust for the greasy politician addressing the group sat around the table. He shudders, cold creeping down his spine, despite the warmth of the dark-panelled briefing room.

  “Are we in agreement, gentlemen?” David Blakey, Minister of Defence, continues as he wipes at his brow with a folded kerchief. The man is repellent, the anathema of everything Littleton believes in. His face, pale and pudgy from a life of indulgence, is almost grey in the harsh overhead light, his lips a dark liver, and sweat beads at his receding hairline. Nods of assent and mumbled, uncomfortable, yesses fill the room. Littleton scans the faces; all are sombre. One of the cabinet ministers, Benjamin Castle, looks particularly grim, his skin ashen.

  Castle stands. “No, gentlemen. We are not.”

  Blakey holds the man’s gaze, his lips pursed. “What!”

  “I can’t in all conscience vote ‘yes’. What you’re proposing is extermination.”

  “Yes, of a deadly virus.”

  “Of people! Of whole cities full of people!”

  “Mr Castle, you cannot be unaware that once infected, the residents …” Blakey glances at the muted screen, “the violence … Hell!” He can’t hold back the horror. “They just become murderous savages killing anything in sight!”

  “I’m aware of that, Mr Blakey, but quarantine is proving effective. We should be throwing all our efforts into finding a vaccine.”

  Someone laughs.

  “Idiot!”

  “No!” Blakey shouts back. “No, quarantine is not proving effective. Have you heard nothing Colonel Littleton has said?” He sags back into his chair then leans forward, throwing down his pen, oily forehead gleaming in the light. “For God’s sake, Castle. Look at the screen!” Spittle sprays from his lips.

  “I’m well aware of what is happening on that screen, Blakey.”

  “Look at it, man, look! That … horror, is happening across the country. It’s not an isolated slum in some inner-city!”

  Castle returns to the screen, his eyes narrowed, a child squinting at a film he’s too young to watch. He groans as another body falls, and another neck is snapped. Breath is sucked between his teeth. “God help us.”

  “God? Until we find out what is causing this, and find a way of curing it, only Protocol 5 can help us.”

  The carnage continues, people fight, and tear into each other. The ambulance crews, police and firefighters are overcome, or join in the violence. The image zooms in to a paramedic, blood streams down her temple, but what makes the major’s stomach churn is the red glaze of her eyes, the opaque, cataract-like blue of her iris, and the broad, insane smile, that is fixed across her face. The room is silent, the screams and agony of the massacre muted.

  Littleton broadens his shoulders. “Gentlemen, Protocol 4 has proved to be inadequate to this threat.” He makes eye contact with as many people in the room as will meet his own. “In considering this final option, we must realise that we are not alone; two meteors hit Moscow last night. Putin’s immediate response has been to initiate Protocol 5.”

  “Quick off the mark!”

  Grumbled assent.

  “Washington DC and Baltimore have also been reported as having being hit. No confirmation that the President has initiated Protocol 5 though.”

  “He will. Protocol 5 is the only option … in these circumstances.” Blakey glances towards the screen, screws his eyes tight sh
ut, and grips the back of a chair, his knuckles white. “The only option.”

  “Protocol 5 has been successful in London. There are no more reports of violence.”

  “Only because everyone is dead!” Castle quips.

  “All other efforts have failed. Once the meteors strike, violence spreads like wildfire. Manchester is now under quarantine, Edinburgh and Birmingham were placed under martial law last night. We don’t have enough equipment, or troops, to keep the cities under control.”

  “Are we all in agreement then, Gentleman?”

  Unanimous yesses. Castle tightens his fist and knocks it against the table as he forces a disgruntled ‘yes’. Littleton picks up the phone and dials.

  A voice answers. “Carlton.”

  “Carlton, this is Colonel Frank Littleton.”

  “Confirm please, Colonel.”

  Littleton recites the confirmation code.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Initiate Protocol 5 for all areas under quarantine.”

  The line is silent.

  “I repeat, initiate Protocol 5 for all areas under quarantine.”

  “… Yes, sir.”

  Littleton replaces the receiver with a trembling hand and swallows hard, his throat and mouth suddenly dry. The room fills with uneasy comments, sighs, and grumbles, tension rising.

  Several minutes pass, and then the phone rings, the room falling to silence.

  Littleton answers, confirms his identity, and listens to the soldier on the other end of the line. Replacing the receiver, he addresses the room. “Gentlemen.” Seven pairs of eyes scrutinise his face, Castle looks to the wall. “I can confirm that Protocol 5 has been initiated.”

  Blakey gives a satisfied nod.

  Thirty-Six

  An uncomfortable silence falls on the group crowded into the small reception room. Until that point, Toby, an impressively tall, and broad-chested man with a huge copper beard, and larger hands, had been surprisingly jovial as he’d explained exactly what items they’d need if the government did go ahead and ‘poison the lot of us’.