World Killer: A Sci-Fi Action Adventure Novel

by Barry J. Hutchison

  He gritted his teeth. He screwed his eyes tighter. Here it came. Any second now.

  Any second.

  A series of gasps went up from around the room, amplified by the acoustics of the hall. One by one, the balls stopped bouncing.

  Daryl slowly opened first one eye, then the other, keeping his hands up. Through the gap in his arms he saw Kenzie’s ball. It hung in the air directly in front of him, just a few inches from his raised hands.

  “What the Hell?” muttered someone at the back of the hall. The sentence seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.

  Daryl’s eyes left the ball and darted around the room. Every single person in the class was staring. Most of them were staring at the ball, but a few had begun to look at him. Silence had fallen over the hall now. Even Mr Collins had been struck dumb.

  Over near the door, two girls who had forgotten their kit stood up from the bench where they had been sitting. One of them raised her mobile phone, the camera pointed in Daryl’s direction.

  Lowering his hands, Daryl backed away. The ball stayed where it was, floating in empty space, swaying ever so slightly back and forth like a balloon on a soft spring breeze.

  The moment of silence passed as an excited mumbling rumbled around the hall. Daryl heard his name whispered from all corners. Kenzie was leaning in close to one of her cronies, saying something low and quiet into her ear.

  Daryl felt his blood begin to race and his limbs go light again. The room spun around him, the swirling sound growing louder and louder in his ears. He stumbled further from the ball, which continued to just hang there.

  “It… it wasn’t me,” Daryl said.

  “Darren!” bellowed Mr Collins, cutting through the growing chatter. Daryl’s eyes—wide, startled—flicked to the teacher. He came storming up the hall, mustache bristling, brow furrowed in confusion, anger or possibly a bit of both.

  “It isn’t me, sir,” Daryl insisted. “I’m n-not doing it.”

  The floor lurched and rolled beneath his feet even as the ceiling began to spin. The voices of his classmates were all around him, mashing and merging into one collective noise that was punctuated with his name—Daryl, Daryl, Daryl, Daryl—over and over and over again until he felt as if he was drowning in the din of it all.

  He clamped his hands over his ears. “It wasn’t me!” he shouted, swallowing back a wave of nausea. “It wasn’t me!”

  With a sudden jolt, the ball shot away from him as if struck by some giant invisible bat. It slammed into Mr Collins’ face, bursting his nose and knocking him backward off his feet. The teacher and the ball hit the floor at the same time, and silence instantly returned to the hall.

  Daryl stared down at the teacher writhing in pain on the floor, his blood seeping through the fingers he clutched to his face.

  “It wasn’t me,” Daryl insisted. He backed up to the door, all eyes and the mobile phone camera following him every unsteady step of the way. He stumbled into the door. “It… it wasn’t me.”

  The door squeaked open then closed as Daryl fled the hall. The girl with the phone lowered it, then tapped her fingertips across the screen.

  “Right,” she said, addressing no one in particular, “that is totally going on YouTube.”

  Four

  Daryl slammed the back door and pressed his weight against it, leg muscles burning, chest heaving in and out. He looked around the kitchen. How had he got there? The last thing he remembered was running from the gym hall, racing along the corridor and then… What?

  There was a tension surrounding his brain, like an elastic band squeezing it around the middle, tighter and tighter until he wanted to scream. He grabbed at his head, pressing his fingertips against it, as if he could reach right in through the bone and pluck the band free.

  “What’s h-happening?” he slurred, before a jolt of agony seared up his spine and went off like a bomb at the base of his skull.

  The scuffed lino raced toward him. He grabbed for a chair, pulling it over on his way to the floor.

  BANG. The side of his head thumped against the vinyl and a piercing squeal screeched in his ear. Another wave of pain washed over him, starting at the feet this time and tearing upward until it erupted out of him as a scream.

  He felt as if he were being violently stretched in every direction at once, all his muscles being pulled and ripped and torn apart. He tried to shout for help, but the pain fuzzed his brain and made finding the words impossible.

  He tried to scream, but his lungs cramped up and his breath shriveled in his chest. His body convulsed, the grip on his brain tightened and he felt his teeth clamp together like a vice.

  Something small and metallic whistled by above his head. It hit the back wall with a clunk and dropped to the floor.

  A moment later, something larger rose up sharply and bounced off the ceiling. It clanged off the lino and came to rest right beside Daryl’s head. It was a pot. A dirty cooking pot.

  A stab of agony flipped him over onto his back. He screwed his eyes shut and hissed, panic and nausea rising in his throat. There was a tearing sound, and Daryl managed to let out a long-overdue shriek of agony. His muscles. His muscles were ripping themselves apart.

  Above him, the kitchen was filled with pots, pans, plates, and other debris. They twirled around near the ceiling as if caught in the grip of a miniature tornado. For a moment Daryl felt like he was deep underwater, watching fish swim overhead. But then the pain came again and every other thought was pushed from his head but that.

  And then, as quickly as it had come, the pain stopped.

  The howling sound Daryl realized had been filling his head faded away, leaving nothing behind but the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

  The utensils suddenly found themselves bound by the laws of gravity again. They dropped straight down and thudded off the floor. Daryl turned his head and gazed vaguely at the pot he’d made scrambled eggs in the night before. He knew it shouldn’t be lying there. He appreciated it should never have flown. But, right then, he didn’t care. That was a worry for later.

  For a long time he just lay there, breathing heavily, terrified the pain would come back, and wondering what he would do if it did. Die, probably.

  Then, moving very slowly, he got up onto his elbows. The pain didn’t return. Nothing tried to squeeze his brain to mush. So far, so good.

  He sat up and used the table to pull himself to his feet. The good kitchen knife was embedded deep into the tabletop. Daryl ducked down and saw the rest of the blade jutting out through the wood below.

  A draft swirled around his shoulders as he straightened up again. He reached around to his ribcage and realized his T-shirt had ripped right up to his armpits on both sides. So that was where the tearing sound had come from, not his…

  Muscles.

  Daryl stared at his biceps. He’d been only very vaguely aware of having biceps before. There had been a slightly more fleshy area on his otherwise stick-like arms roughly where he knew the muscle should be. Now though, there appeared to be something like a baby’s head just above the crook of each elbow.

  He twisted his arm around. He had triceps, too—big ones—and his brachialis muscles stood out like ropes on each arm.

  Daryl blinked. Brachialis. Where had he pulled that out of? Some old biology class, presumably, but if you’d asked him yesterday what a brachialis was, he’d almost certainly have said a dinosaur. Probably a herbivore.

  He picked his way past the debris on the kitchen floor and headed upstairs. A lie down, that’s what he needed. He was clearly having some sort of psychotic episode, but it was nothing a quick snooze couldn’t fix. Things would make more sense then.

  At the top of the stairs, he tiptoed past the door to his dad’s bedroom. It stood slightly ajar, and the phlegmy rattle of his dad’s snoring reverberated out onto the landing. His dad had slept soundly through everything that had happened downstairs, but Daryl wasn’t taking any chances. If he woke up now he’d be reasonably sober and very
grumpy, and Daryl didn’t fancy having to explain what he was doing home, or why the entire contents of the kitchen were strewn across the floor.

  Not that he could actually explain either of those things, even if he wanted to.

  Stepping into his bedroom, Daryl let out a yelp of fright, then quickly clamped his hand over his mouth. It was a long time before he risked taking it away.

  His reflection stared back at him from his full-length mirror. Only, it wasn’t his reflection. Not really.

  It looked like him—the face was the same and the hair was identical, if a little bit more disheveled than usual. The body, though... A lot had changed in that department.

  His shoulders had widened, and not just by a few inches. The muscles there (the deltoids, he knew, although he once again wasn’t sure exactly how) were rounded and broad, like a character from a comic book. His neck, too, had filled out. ‘Pencil neck’ had always been a popular nickname for him in school, but now he had the neck of a boxer, and a particularly big-necked one at that.

  Daryl pulled off his torn t-shirt and studied himself properly. A six pack! Where his flat but undefined stomach had been was now a rigid washboard. He gave the muscles a prod. Solid.

  "Physique: ten," he whispered, then he shook his head in disbelief. “What the Hell is happening to me?”

  He dropped to his knees and peered into the jumble of clutter beneath his bed. He pulled out a stash of magazines, his old boots and a robotic arm kit he’d started building six months ago but which he’d quickly given up on when it had proved a bit fiddly.

  At last, tucked in near the wall, he found what he was looking for. Hooking his fingertips around the bar he rolled the dumbbell out from under the bed and glared at it like a bitter old enemy.

  It had originally been part of a pair, but he’d agreed to swap one with Jason Bevin from the year above a couple of months back, in return for not getting his head kicked in.

  After that, Daryl had been determined to use the one remaining weight to pump himself up, but realized very quickly that it was quite a lot of hard work, so had given that up, too. The last time he’d picked it up had been six weeks ago. It had nearly crippled him.

  And now there it was, just sitting there, daring him to have another bash. Come and have a go, it seemed to say, if you think you’re ‘ard enough.

  Daryl shot another look at his reflection. Veins stood out along his forearms and across his baby-head biceps. He wasn't freakishly big like a body-builder, but yeah, he reckoned he was hard enough.

  He took hold of the plastic grip, gritted his teeth and yanked sharply. The weight flew upward as if it were filled with Helium, sending Daryl’s arm hurtling backward over his head. Instinctively, he opened his hand.

  The moment of silence that followed was quickly shattered by the sound of twelve kilos of cast iron punching a hole through Daryl’s bedroom door.

  From the next room, the snoring snortled and then stopped. Darren cringed. That had done it. He was in trouble now.

  Grabbing a T-shirt from his washing pile he gave it an experimental sniff, then wriggled it over his head. It stretched across his densely-packed chest, then ripped slightly at the shoulders the second he moved. Still, it would have to do.

  Daryl hurried out onto the landing and snatched up the weight, being careful not to hurl it through a wall this time. He deposited it back in his room, then turned his attention to the door. The hole was vaguely oblong-shaped, with jagged splinters around the edges. There was no way his dad was going to miss it, even with his hangover.

  Working quickly, Daryl took down the Minecraft poster from the wall beside his bed, being careful to keep the BluTac intact. Darting outside, he positioned the poster over the hole. His dad always glazed over when Daryl spoke about Minecraft, so hopefully, the sight of the Creeper poster would have the same numbing effect and stop him from investigating any further.

  Job done, Daryl knocked gently on his dad’s door then nudged it open. His dad was lying half on the bed and half on the floor, still fully dressed. One shoe lay on the floor, but that looked to be as far into the undressing process as he had managed to get.

  “Dad?”

  His dad grunted sleepily.

  Daryl waited by the door until his dad began snoring again, then turned to sneak away. He had barely made it a step when a hiss rose up behind him.

  He spun to see his dad’s body start to tremble. His dad's eyes were closed, but the hissing was coming from between his cracked lips, rising in volume and urgency until it was more like a long, continuous squeal.

  A violent tremble shook Daryl’s dad off the bed and onto the floor. He rolled onto his back, the squeal now a high-pitched shriek of pain or terror or something else entirely. It was a sound unlike any Daryl had heard before, and yet there was something disturbingly familiar about it. It reached into Daryl’s brain and stirred shadows of things long since forgotten.

  “Dad? Dad, what’s happening?” Daryl asked. He should go help him—he wanted to go help him—but something forced his feet to remain rooted to the threadbare carpet. “Dad!” he cried, and he could hear the panic rising in his voice. “Dad, what’s wrong?”

  His dad’s eyes flicked open and he sat upright, bending at the middle like he was spring-loaded. The squeal rose to an ear-splitting pitch, then stopped completely. He stared at Daryl—no, not at him, exactly, more like through him, as if Daryl wasn't really there.

  "They are coming." It was his dad's lips that had moved, but it wasn't his voice that emerged. It was lower and deeper, like a recording that had been slowed down. "Run."

  Daryl took an unsteady step closer. "D-dad?"

  "They are coming," said the voice again. Its tone was as empty and emotionless as the expression on his dad's face. "They will take you. They will hurt you. They will kill you."

  "I don't… What are you…? Who…?"

  "There is no time. If you wish to live then run, Daryl Elliot. Run."

  DING-DONG.

  The sound of the doorbell made Daryl jump. He glanced out into the hallway, then back to his dad in time to see him slumping back down onto the floor, his eyes closing over.

  "Dad?" said Daryl, rushing to his side. He knelt on the floor beside him, instinctively checking for a pulse.

  Still alive. That was something.

  It wasn't unheard of for his dad to act weirdly. In fact, acting weird had sort of become one of his trademarks, especially after a few drinks.

  But this was different. His mouth had moved, but—insane as it sounded—that voice hadn't been his.

  And as for what the voice had said…

  DING-DONG. DING-DONG.

  Keeping low, Daryl crept to the window. His dad's curtains were always closed, but there was a gap at the bottom where they didn't quite reach all the way to the sill. From that angle, he couldn't see down into the garden, but he could see the road outside the house.

  A Royal Mail van was parked just beyond the gate. It was one of the big ones that usually only came when there were parcels to deliver. Daryl relaxed. The postman, that was all.

  He kept watching until he heard the letterbox rattle and saw the postman walking away. Sure enough, he carried a package under one arm.

  Daryl pulled the curtain aside and knocked on the glass. The postman peered around in confusion, then looked up to the window and nodded.

  "It's OK, Dad," Daryl said. "Just… uh… lie there."

  He hurried down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The postman was holding the parcel out as Daryl pulled the door open.

  "Daryl Elliot?" the postie asked.

  He wasn't the usual guy. He was younger for one thing, and heavily-built beneath the red waterproof jacket. His hair had been cropped almost to the scalp, and there was an intensity to his stare that either said he really wanted to deliver the parcel, or that Daryl had made a very big mistake in opening the door.

  "Um, no," said Daryl, his heart suddenly racing. Why had he opened the door? Idiot. "H
e's not… That's not me."

  The postman cocked his head, but held Daryl's gaze. "You sure?" he asked. "I think you are."

  "Sorry, no," Daryl said. "I think they moved."

  He began to close the door, but the postman jammed it with his foot.

  "I know it's you, Daryl," he said, snapping the words out. "You can drop the act."

  At the edge of his hearing, Daryl picked up a soft scraping noise from the kitchen. It was faint, but sounded like someone messing with the lock on the back door.

  Daryl felt his pulse quicken further. Someone at the front and someone at the back. He was trapped. How could he have been so stupid?

  He looked down at the postman's foot in the doorway. He wore polished black boots, an outline beneath the leather revealing a metal toecap. Daryl doubted they were standard Royal Mail issue.

  "Who are you?"

  "Postman," the man said. "Now you want this parcel or not?"

  Daryl shook his head. The postman shrugged. "Ah well. Suit yourself," he said, then he tossed the box backward over his head, clenched his fists and lunged.

  Without thinking, Daryl moved. He saw his own arms come up, watched as they countered the postman's attack, heard the crack as they slammed his scowling face against the wall.

  The postie fired an elbow back. Daryl blocked it, twisted the arm and flipped the man over onto his back. The postman hit the floor hard, and let out a low huff as the air was knocked from his lungs.

  Along the path, the rear door of the delivery van was thrown open. Three men emerged, all dressed in black combat gear, all sporting the same military-grade haircut.

  Daryl spun on the spot just as the kitchen door was kicked open. Surrounded. Nowhere to go except up.

  "Freeze! Stop right there!" barked one of the men as Daryl bounded up the stairs.

  At the top, he looked back in time to see the men come charging in. Hands raised and…

  Guns! They had guns!

  There were men in his house and they had guns!

  Daryl stumbled into his room and slammed the door so hard the Minecraft poster fell off revealing the gaping hole in the wood.