The Invasion (Extended Version) Page 2

  He fell, screaming.

  The slime fell into his mouth.

  Hiscock could look no more. He turned away – just in time to catch a movement on the screen that monitored his front yard.

  A figure, bulked up by many layers of clothing, made its way slowly up the driveway. It limped heavily, dragging one leg behind as if it was a dead weight. It carried something in the crook of its arm.

  At first Hiscock thought it might be a walking stick, but as soon as the figure stopped and put the stock to his shoulder he knew it was a shotgun. And he knew who it was inside the clothing -- Jake Forbes, his nemesis from the garage.

  Hello Jake. I was wondering if you’d show up.

  He watched, slightly amused, as the man outside shouted and waved the gun around.

  I can’t hear you Jake. You’ll have to speak up.

  His amusement faded when the man stepped forward onto the porch and into the light. The left side of his face was one long weeping burn. Patches of green seemed to dance in the wound, so deep that some of the man’s cheekbone showed through.

  Even from deep in the bunker Hiscock heard the bang as the shotgun went off and the lock of his front door was blown away. He didn’t hear heavy footsteps on the floor above him, but he could imagine them.

  At first he just sat in his chair, feeling secure in the knowledge that Forbes wouldn’t be able to reach him. The hatch was solid, nearly two inches thick, and when locked was only accessible from the inside.

  His feelings of security started to fade when he thought of the air filtration system. The ducts would be clearly visible to anyone that knew what they were looking for – he hadn’t yet got round to camouflaging them.

  Did I tell Forbes that?

  Did I?

  He couldn’t remember. And he wasn’t about to risk the rest of his life on a fallible memory.

  He broke open the gun cupboard just as another shot rang out overhead. He took out an AK-47, banged in a clip, and headed for the shaft just as the clanging from above started to get frantic.

  He stopped climbing just below the hatch lid. The clanging had stopped, and the concrete roof of the bunker was too solid for any other sound to penetrate. He knew he was taking a risk – a big one. But the safety of his air system was too important to leave to chance. He turned the handle and pushed the lid open, lifting himself up in the same movement with the Kalashnikov ready to shoot.

  Forbes stood only ten feet away, shotgun already lifting to a firing position. Hiscock fired, four quick shots into the torso. Forbes staggered, but didn’t fall. He somehow kept the shotgun trained on Hiscock

  “You selfish bastard,” Forbes screamed. Green spittle flew from his mouth and wounded cheek where something bubbled.

  The shotgun went off and Hiscock heard the spatter of pellets on the wall behind him.

  Time to go.

  Forbes staggered forward, shotgun still raised. Without aiming properly Hiscock let off a volley of rounds, hitting Forbes’ bad leg. It blew apart, green slime where there should have been blood. Hiscock only had time to see it coat the wall and start running down to the carpet as he put two bullets between Forbes’ eyes and pulled the hatch quickly closed behind him.

  Sorry Jake. But I do believe I just did you a favor -- a big one.

  He stood there for a long time just below the hatch, breathing heavily.

  Did any get in? Am I contaminated?

  He’d know the answer soon enough.

  ***

  The wind buffeted and tugged at Alice’s body every step of the way along the shore path that linked her house with that of the Duprees. She was forced to move slowly, partly due to the constrictive clothes, and partly because the path was treacherous in places when slippery. The green snow blew in a blizzard around her. Between gusts of wind she could now occasionally see the lights from the house ahead, but her vision was still too obscured to make out any detail.

  She reached the boundary of the Dupree’s garden without any mishap, but what she found there made her stop and stare, despite the storm raging around her.

  The Dupree’s pride and joy was their garden. On the far side of the house were two acres of vegetable plots interspersed with large greenhouses. That was Chuck’s domain. On this side of the plot Jean held sway. They’d inherited some already mature rhododendrons, and she had interspersed them with magnolia and azalea of many different varieties. In the late summer they provided a riot of color that could be seen from far out on the Bay. Indeed Alice had often pointed it out to the people on the Zodiac as an example of what could be done if you worked with, rather than against, the weather in these parts.

  That glorious garden was no more. Thick ropy slime hung from dead branches. Bushes that had been ten feet tall just this morning were reduced to blobs of boiling, festering sludge that bubbled and popped as if they sat on a hot stove.

  She might have stopped for a closer look, but when she looked up she saw that the front door to the house lay wide open. The green snow was blowing right into the house, coating the porch carpet in an inch-thick layer.

  She made her way quickly through the garden, having to dodge several times to skirt more patches of the bubbling sludge before she reached the doorway. She struggled to close the door against the wind and the snow but was eventually able to get her shoulder full against it and force it shut. She leaned against the frame, breathing heavily.

  Now that she was protected from the storm, her faceplate almost immediately started to steam up, but she refused to lift it, not until she had stepped out of the porch and into the house proper, shutting all traces of the green flakes behind her. She stomped on the hall carpet and stood there for a minute making sure that anything she had brought in with her had melted before raising the faceplate just far enough so she could shout.

  “Jean?” she called. “It’s Alice.”

  “Up here,” a voice called from upstairs. She sounded weak and Alice had a feeling of trepidation as she climbed. She felt hot and sweaty inside the suit, but could not being herself to remove any of it.

  Not until I know what it is we are facing here.

  “Jean?” she called out again when she reached the top of the stairs. A light came from under the door at the end of the hall and the old woman’s voice came from the other side of the door.

  “In here.”

  When Alice opened the door the old woman screamed and threw a hand to her heart. Alice saw why when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. In her day-glo orange suit, with the helmet under her hood and only the black visor showing, she looked like an escapee from a ‘50s monster movie.

  She started to remove the helmet.

  Then she saw what lay on the bed and thought better of it.

  Most of it was Chuck Dupree – at least the parts above the waist. Although the rest of him was covered, whatever lay beneath the sheets was not remotely human. The sheets lay almost flat, with something feebly moving beneath the covers. A green stain covered most of the bottom half of the bed.

  Having seen the bubbling sludge outside, she could guess the rest.

  Chuck was dead – and by the looks of him had been for some time, wide-open eyes staring at the ceiling. Jean sat at his side, her grip on his hand so tight that white showed at her knuckles.

  The old woman looked up at Alice.

  “Alice?”

  She raised the faceplate just enough for the old lady to see her, then quickly lowered it again.

  I have to get her out of here.

  Jean went back to staring at Chuck’s face.

  “He only popped out to the porch for a cigarette. That’s my fault you see. I can’t have smoking in the house. It ruins the furniture. And he’s never complained before. I didn’t even hear him go out. The first I knew was when he called out … something about strange snow.

  “By the time I got to the door he was staggering back in, shouting that his legs were on fire. I tried calling Doctor McGuin, but there’s no answer from the big
island.”

  She looked up at Alice and the tears flowed faster.

  “I don’t know what else to do.”

  Alice put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, trying to ignore the heaving movements from below the bedclothes.

  “Tell you what Jean. Go and make me a cup of coffee please? I’ll see to Chuck for a bit.”

  She’d pushed the right button in appealing to the older woman’s sense of propriety. Guests got coffee – it was part of the right way of things, and something that would ground Jean in some semblance of reality.

  The old woman left with one last look back at the bed.

  “You’ll look after him, won’t you?”

  Alice didn’t trust herself to speak. She just nodded.

  As soon as Jean had closed the door she threw the sheets back. Below the chest there was nothing left of Chuck Dupree – just more of the noxious slurry, bubbling and steaming slightly in the chill room. Alice went to the large window and threw it as wide open as she could. Snow immediately started to blow in, but that couldn’t be helped.

  She bundled what was left of Chuck along with the sludge into as many bedclothes as she could gather together. The mess slid under her hands and she had to force down a sudden urge to vomit. In a single movement she tossed the whole steaming bundle out of the window then slammed it closed.

  She stood there for a while, making sure that all the melting snow was harmless, and watching the green stain that was left on the bed. Only when she was sure there was no more activity did she go downstairs, following the smell of fresh coffee and the semblance of sanity.

  ***

  Hiscock was back looking at the kids huddled under the bandstand.

  They’d stopped screaming, and had huddled even closer together. Five minutes ago one of the smaller lads on the outside of the pack had fallen to the ground. The others had immediately huddled around him. Since then they’d taken turns in the center.

  Like a flock of penguins.

  From what he could see in the picture, Central Park was a melted ruin. Great trees, some well over a hundred years old, were reduced to skeletons in a matter of hours. Other cameras told him the same tale.

  This is big. The Eastern Seaboard is toast.

  The news sources finally started to pick up on the story but even now Hiscock realized that they still hadn’t grasped the sheer scale of the attack.

  It took a mass death on the Jersey turnpike for them to start paying attention. From what he could gather it started with a traffic accident – a jack-knifed lorry leading to a ten-vehicle pile-up. Tempers flared, people left their cars – and started to melt. All of this was caught on CCTV, but what really got their attention was the quick demise of the news crews who got to the scene at the same time as the rescue teams. Anyone watching on the live feed saw ten people – five from the television, five public service workers – die horrible, messy deaths. After that, people started to wake up to what was going on.

  The full horror of the situation was brought into people’s homes by an enterprising television crew from Boston who managed to get hold of half a dozen HAZ-MAT suits and ventured out into the country to check up on what were originally considered wild reports of apocalyptic conditions. The snow had turned to rain here – but that hadn’t helped matters any. The rain fell, thick, like green-pea soup. And above freezing temperatures meant that its effect was not impeded in any way. Where it hit trees, the vegetation simply melted like plastic under intense heat leaving behind only a rolling mass of sludge.

  The reporter in the HAZ-MAT suit remained remarkably calm as he left the relative safety of the highway and approached a large puddle of bubbling goop.

  “Scientists have taken samples of the substance for analysis,” he said. “But as yet there is no official confirmation as to the cause of these events. All we can say for certain is that this is a deadly attack, from a source as yet unknown. FEMA has issued a preliminary statement asking people to remain indoors with doors and windows locked until the storm has passed, and we can only reiterate the importance of that advice. From what we have seen here, this country may never be the same again.”

  The camera panned round in a near three hundred and sixty degree shot. Although it was dark, there was light enough to see that, beyond the highway, in any direction, there was nothing but green, bubbling, sludge.

  ***

  Alice got downstairs to find Jean standing beside the kettle with a vacant look in her eyes, as if unsure what to do next. The television was on in the room beyond, blaring commercial inanities about the wonders of a household disinfectant.

  Jean saw Alice and turned.

  “He’s dead. Isn’t he?”

  Alice raised her faceplate – but didn’t take off the helmet.

  “I’m so sorry Jean.”

  She helped the old lady to a seat in front of the television and made them both mugs of coffee. Neither of them talked until Jean looked up at her then pointed at the television.

  “They say it’s happening all over. They say it’s the end of the world.”

  “Who says?”

  Alice recognized the face on the television but couldn’t put a name to it. He was a fire-and-brimstone Evangelist, and over the years had predicted the End-Days about as many times as Alice had hot dinners. He looked to be positively enjoying himself as he relayed detail after detail of reported death and destruction in the Eastern States of the USA.

  “Has it really come?” Jean said quietly. “Are we at the end?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Alice said, and changed channels.

  She got the Canadian Prime Minister, in somber mood. A line scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

  National State of Emergency Declared. Canada and USA close their borders.

  She sat and watched, open-mouthed, as the PM laid out the scale of what was still happening. The word terrorism stuck in her head, but her scientific mind refused to believe that any human being would be capable of unleashing such widespread devastation, no matter what the cause. She was so intent on the screen that she didn’t notice that Jean had stood. The first indication of what the old woman meant to do came when Alice felt a colder breath of air and heard the creak as the hall door opened.

  She stood and turned to see Jean walk, barefoot into the porch.

  By the time Alice reached the hall Jean was already outside. She hardly made a sound as the green snow splattered against her thin clothing and started to eat at her face and arms. Alice lowered her faceplate and stepped outside, hoping to grab the older woman, but Jean saw her coming and broke into a run. Alice heard her last words, shouted into the storm.

  “Wait for me Chuck. I’m coming.”

  She disappeared into the wall of snow.

  Alice tried to follow but she already knew she would not find Jean alive.

  She found the body soon enough – face down in what had been the couple’s favorite patch of roses. The green was already taking her.

  Alice turned away, fresh tears in her eyes, and headed back for her own home, where a bottle of rum waited.

  She was halfway back when she realized that the wind had fallen and the snow was now little more than the occasional flake drifting softly from a clearing sky. The temperature had dropped and she felt a chill grip at her feet and legs even through the protective suit. She started to hurry. Some of the green patches of snow had started to turn black. On a quick inspection she saw that whatever made the snow green, it did not survive the sudden drop in temperature and was dying in the cold.

  If Jean had waited, just ten minutes more, she might have survived.

  She had no more time for inspection. She made her way home as quickly as she could. Once inside she slumped gratefully against the door. After making sure all traces of green were gone from her suit, she took off all the protective gear and headed for the kitchen – and the rum.

  She sat in front of the big television, barely registering the growing sense of panic that was filling the airwave
s. Her mind was full of images she couldn’t shake – of the strange flat melted thing under the bedclothes where Chuck Dupree should have been, of the bubbling goop that had been a clump of bushes, and of poor Jean, face down in the roses as the green ate her.

  She poured more rum down.

  After a while, oblivion called for her and she thankfully answered.

  ***

  Hiscock stayed up all night watching the feeds, fueled by hot coffee and adrenaline. His lifestyle choices had all been vindicated – he was safe and secure in his bunker while the world went to hell outside. He did not find much comfort in the fact.

  He’d been diverted for a while by some of the more extreme fringe web sites. They sometimes got information that wasn’t readily available to mainstream sources, but tonight the cyber-communities had been awash with far too many conflicting theories for him to take any pattern away from it. Reported causes for the attack varied from Planet X to the CIA, from a bio-weapons lab accident to full scale terrorist attack.

  All Hiscock knew was that this was the big one.

  That view was only reinforced when it slowly became obvious that the Eastern Seaboard wasn’t alone in suffering. Reports started coming in from other parts of the world. The green rain was falling steadily all along a wide swathe of the Amazon rain forest, reducing it to a thick sludge that was already choking the tributaries and flowing like thick gravy towards the main expanse of the river.

  Sketchy reports arrived from the Far East, where the jungles had started to melt and flow down mountainsides, like mud in heavy rain.

  The Russians were quiet except for a brief press statement blaming Western pollution for an ecological crisis across the Siberian forests.

  And everywhere the green rain fell, nothing was left behind but the noxious sludge.

  Casualty reports rose at an alarming rate, from hundreds, to thousands, to hundreds of thousands. By the time a thin dawn came up on Saint John they were talking in the millions.