Capes

by Drabble, Matt

  “WHOA!” Doc yelled as she jerked back out of the line of fire. “What the hell!”

  “Sorry, Sorry!” Jesus gasped.

  “CJ, why didn’t you tell him it was me?” Doc demanded. “I sent you a blast.”

  “CJ, what the hell?” Jesus joined in.

  CJ stared at them both, one after the other, looking through them blankly.

  “What the hell’s wrong with him?” Crimson asked, making them all jump as they hadn’t heard him coming.

  “I don’t know,” Jesus answered as he wiped the water from his face. “Drugged, maybe. Maybe there’s something in the air that only affects him?”

  “Well you’d better get him back on track because there’s a whole giant shitshow coming our way,” Crimson replied.

  “What now?” Jesus asked with a sigh.

  “There’s a van backing up outside the loading bay at the rear. By the size of it, I’m guessing maybe another dozen of these bastards inside,” Crimson answered.

  “Doc?” Jesus asked.

  Doc closed her eyes and touched her temple. She was silent for a few moments before she opened them again.

  “So? What have we got?” Jesus asked.

  “Trouble,” was the only answer she had to give.

  “So what else is new?” Crimson joked.

  “You’re still here, for one thing,” Doc countered.

  “Hey, where the hell else am I going to go this time on a Tuesday night?” Crimson shrugged.

  CJ started to laugh at that remark, which made all of them turn and stare at the alien like he was crazy.

  “Okay, seriously, what the hell is going on with him?” Doc demanded quietly as she quickly checked on Jesus’ shoulder wound.

  “I don’t know,” he answered quietly. “But I really don’t like it.”

  “You ask me, he looks rat-arsed,” Crimson offered as he tilted his head to one side and stared at CJ.

  “How can he be drunk?” Doc asked as she tore a strip off her shirt and wrapped it tightly over Jesus’ shoulder. “I mean, when would he have even been drinking?”

  “Oh, shit, doesn’t he get pissed on water? Wasn’t that his thing?” Crimson asked, still watching CJ intently as the giant alien swayed from side to side, unable to focus.

  “The sprinklers,” Jesus mused. “I was thinking some kind of gas maybe, but Crimson’s right. Water affects CJ like alcohol does us.”

  Crimson tasted his own fingers that were still wet. “Tastes odd. My guess is that they added something to the water supply, maybe purification tablets to make it more potent for him,” he said, jerking a thumb towards CJ who was now asleep and snoring loudly.

  ----------

  Buckley smiled to himself as he watched on. The plan was playing out how he’d expected, and he allowed himself a small moment of self-satisfaction before proceeding.

  He’d gotten a good look now at what he was dealing with. The Queen’s Guard were indeed still formidable, but they were a far cry from what they had been back in the day; now, they were most definitely beatable.

  He’d used his men to draw them out, to study them up close, and now that they were out in the open, he could put them down for good.

  His second unit were now parked up against the rear delivery doors at the base. These were his big hitters. This was his main assault unit, and most importantly, this set of SCO19 men were the real deal. They were the real police force, armed to the teeth not just with weaponry – they came loaded with authority too.

  48 HOURS EARLIER

  Simon Clermont sat pensively, his mind racing with every permutation of the information laid out before him. Of course all roads tended to have the same destination: to himself – to what was best for Simon Clermont, the current prime minister of the UK.

  He was a man driven by an unfulfilled need to make his father proud, a man who had died two decades earlier and would never get to see his son become the country’s youngest ever leader.

  The COBRA meeting, or meeting in the Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, to give the acronym its official title, was where the government held any discussion when the safety of the UK was in question.

  “Remind me again why I’m meeting with this woman?” he asked his aide.

  Brian Dennison stood as primly as always, holding his position at his master’s shoulder. Brian had been his aide for over 18 years now and the man didn’t just know where the political bodies were buried… he’d dug most of the holes.

  “This meeting is at Mr Fontaine’s request,” Brian replied.

  “I find that man most detestable.”

  “That’s as maybe, sir, but with an upcoming general election to fight, we need his money and we certainly need his influence.”

  “That’s as maybe, but it doesn’t mean that I have to like the man.”

  “Quite right, sir,” Dennison agreed with a curt nod.

  “How long is this going to take?”

  “I’ve allowed eight minutes.”

  “And what exactly is this about?”

  “He wouldn’t say, or more accurately she wouldn’t say.”

  “She?”

  “Mr Fontaine’s fiancée, sir. It would appear that she is taking a most… active part in his business dealings at present.”

  “Really? Old Wilson is really settling down? She must be quite the lady?”

  “I would imagine so, sir.”

  Clermont shook his head at his aide’s inscrutability. In all the time they had worked together in close proximity, he still knew next to nothing about the man outside of the office, or even much of his real personality. He still couldn’t pick up on when the man was being serious or sarcastic.

  He looked around nervously. In the modern age, secrecy was a rare commodity; it seemed like nothing stayed in the shadows for long.

  The meeting tonight was set for well after hours. Most of the staff were long gone, but there were always eyes watching. A lifetime in politics had taught him that.

  “You know this whole thing seems a little… dubious,” Clermont said with real concern. “Late-night private meetings, secret entrances… are you really sure that this is necessary?”

  “The Fontaine name, sir,” Dennison clarified. “Money and influence.”

  “So I’m meeting the future Mrs Fontaine then?”

  “It would appear not, sir.”

  “Then whom?”

  “It is not my place to say, sir, or indeed to know. Suffice to say that this meeting is deemed most important by the Fontaines. A deal breaker, if you will.”

  “Okay, fine then. Let’s get this over with so we can get back to real business,” Clermont said with an irritated flap of his hands.

  Dennison bowed slightly before walking across the room to open the door and bade the woman outside entry in.

  Clermont was running through a thousand other things in his head when Cynthia Arrow walked into the room.

  As such, he didn’t recognise her immediately, mainly because he wasn’t paying her any attention but also because she now looked a far cry from the television personality she’d once been.

  Gone was the glossy polished PR face of her cause, replaced now with a serious business woman in demure clothing akin to a priest’s and an aura to match.

  The woman who had been the public face of a terrorist organisation that had terrified three-quarters of the country and enthralled the other quarter, a woman who had disappeared after the incident at Havencrest and had become the most wanted woman in the land, now strode into the most secure meeting room in the country for a private one-to-one with the prime minister, seemingly without a care in the world.

  “What the bloody hell is this?” Clermont cried out, leaping up from his chair and now paying full attention. “Dennison?”

  “I am as surprised as you are, sir,” his aide replied without showing the same level of emotion, or in fact any.

  “Mr Clermont, perhaps you should sit down,” Cynthia said as she took her own seat and placed a la
rge shoulder bag at her feet.

  Clermont stood back in shock and growing rage at the woman’s presence.

  “You must be crazy to come here,” he gasped. “Dennison, alert security. I want this woman arrested immediately.”

  “Perhaps we should listen to her, sir. It would appear that she has gone to an awful lot of effort, after all,” the aide replied.

  “You can’t be serious! She’s a bloody terrorist!”

  “I can assure you, prime minister, that what I have to say, you will want to hear,” Cynthia said patiently as she crossed her legs and smoothed a crease out of her skirt.

  “And I can assure you, madam, that there is nothing you can say to me that shall hold any interest.”

  “It’s about your father.”

  “My what? What on earth is this? Dennison, why are you still standing there? Fetch security now.”

  But Dennison didn’t move. He only stayed in his position with his hands folded in front of him neatly.

  “Your father died some 30 years ago,” Cynthia continued.

  “An accident, so what?” Clermont flustered.

  “Was it?”

  “Look, madam, I don’t know exactly what game you think you are playing here, but I am not one of your feeble-minded followers, clear?” Clermont fired back. “Now I don’t care what sway you hold over Fontaine or what influence he can bring to bear on me or my campaign, but this time you have overplayed your hand and you will answer for your crimes.”

  “Your father was Miles Clermont. You were told that he died in a farming accident, correct?”

  “Look, what is this? What game are you trying to play here?” Clermont demanded angrily.

  The subject of his father had always been a delicate one and a private wound. His father had died working the farm alone while Simon had been studying away at university, preparing for a career far away from the hardness of the farm.

  “Even now they have kept the details from you, prime minister. They have kept the truth hidden; it is what they do,” Cynthia replied cryptically.

  “What are you saying?” he asked, unable to stop himself.

  “Miles Clermont, your father, did not die in a farm accident. He was, in fact, the first victim: the first victim of our alien visitor. He was killed by the devil who walks among us and calls himself Cosmic Jones.”

  “This is crazy!” Clermont exclaimed, but suddenly he noticed that Dennison had lowered his gaze. “Dennison? What exactly do you know about this?”

  “That perhaps you should listen, sir,” the man replied with consideration.

  “They told you that it was an accident, correct?” Cynthia asked him and he nodded in reply. “That… abomination killed your father. He landed on your family’s land, and when your father challenged him, the demon murdered him.”

  “That’s crazy. I… I would have known. I would have been told,” Clermont stammered. “They wouldn’t keep something like that silent. They couldn’t.”

  “Those who witnessed the initial scene were all controlled, either by bribe or by force,” Dennison interjected. “I have seen the files, the real ones. The craft that crash-landed on your land was found with your father underneath it.”

  “So it was an accident then?” Clermont said, shaking his head in confusion.

  “As far as I’m aware, the initial thought was to erase any notion of the creature’s original landing. A man, your father, had died at the scene and the powers that be didn’t want to start a national panic, so the landing site was kept a secret,” Dennison continued.

  “So there was no murder?” Clermont said, turning to Cynthia.

  “The government files lied, or should I say the creature lied,” Cynthia replied patiently. “I have it on very good authority that the autopsy revealed an energy blast killed your father, his energy blast. He murdered your father and then he tried to hide it. Forces inside the government went along with it, a cover-up inside a cover-up, if you will.”

  “I… I don’t believe it,” Clermont said as he sat down heavily.

  “I am sorry, sir, but it certainly could be true,” Dennison said quietly as he moved forwards and placed a hand on his master’s shoulder.

  “There are agents of evil inside this very building, Mr Prime Minister,” Cynthia added, leaning forwards, her face a mask of concern and sympathy. “Even today, our country is beset by darkness, a darkness that has gone unchecked for far too long now. But I have faith, sir. I have faith in you, faith that you will see the dangers unlike your predecessors, that you will not make their mistakes all over again.”

  Clermont looked at the woman sitting across from him for several evaluating moments. She appeared to be quite sane, but he couldn’t help but wonder just what was going on beneath the surface.

  “Well thank you for bringing this to my attention,” he said finally. “I shall be looking into it as a matter of some urgency, I can assure you.”

  He thought that his words had an air of finality about them, but Cynthia Arrow showed no signs of leaving. He wanted her out so that he could call for security, but mostly he just wanted her out. The way that she was staring right at him as though she could read his thoughts made him deeply uncomfortable.

  “I have an understanding with Mr Fontaine,” she began slowly. “Now there is a man who shares my concerns, prime minister. There is a man who believes in our cause, a patriot if you will.”

  “Look, Miss Arrow, your… cause was a little before my time, but I’m sure that you had your reasons,” he said, trying to placate her.

  In truth, it was hard to focus on the woman across from him when all he could think about was his father. Was she right? Had his father been killed by the alien? Had the government covered it up? God knew he’d been in the hot seat long enough to know that you could barely open a cupboard in 10 Downing Street without a skeleton falling out.

  “I think that we should listen to Ms Arrow, sir,” Dennison said from his shoulder, and Clermont couldn’t help but wonder if the voice was that of an angel or a devil.

  “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear, prime minister.” Cynthia smiled coldly. “I had hoped to enlist your aid in our cause. After all, that creature murdered your father. Perhaps I need to take a more direct approach, appeal to your own personal interests. Mr Fontaine has the power to shape the election, to steer the nation towards a candidate of his choosing, or should I say mine.”

  Cynthia reached into her large shoulder bag and pulled out a file; she slapped it down on the table.

  “Here are some projections from Mr Fontaine’s own private team – election predictions – if you decide that you wish to help save our country.”

  She pulled out a second file and put it down on top of the first.

  “These are some rather unsavoury details from your predecessor, the sort of private actions that would sink your party’s chances at the ballot boxes.”

  Clermont picked up the second file and started to quickly flick through it.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked incredulously as he stared down at page after page of his party’s dirty laundry laid bare.

  Rosemary Williams had led the country during a time of war, but according to the papers he was flicking through, it was a war that she’d largely instigated. His eyes widened with each page turn until he felt sick to his stomach with the betrayal of everything he’d perhaps naively believed his party stood for.

  His predecessor had practically staged a coup to suspend an election that she was in danger of losing while creating mass panic, and according to the files he was working through, almost invented an enemy in SOUL to fight.

  “And finally,” Cynthia said as she laid a third file down on the war room table, “this details the death of your father and the government cover-up to hide it from the people while persecuting good Christians for their beliefs. Let me run you through them all.”

  Clermont sat and listened. He listened to the woman talk or, perhaps more accurately, preach at him. She r
an him through a tale of deception that reached the very top of the country, and all the time she spoke, Dennison joined in the seductive chorus.

  At some point in the next few hours, the woman started to make a lot of sense. Exposing the country to the contents of her files would rock the land to its very core. The people would struggle to comprehend the depth and scope of what he was being told. Such destructive grenades lobbed into the middle of an election campaign would hand the reins of power to the opposition, and that he could not allow.

  He listened to the sins of the past, to the offer of salvation and the promise of bringing his father’s murderer to justice.

  At some point late into the night, he started to nod in agreement.

  chapter 23

  HOME INVASION PART THREE

  NOW

  12 men sat waiting patiently for Buckley’s orders in the van. He didn’t know how Fontaine’s fiancée had managed to provide him with an actual SCO19 police strike force, but he had to admit that it was nice to be operating on the right side of the law for a change.

  Too much of his time was spent organising jobs with one eye looking back over his shoulder in case the authorities came sniffing around. Now he had the authority to act with impunity, it made this all so much easier.

  The civilian staff inside the base were all dealt with now. Most were dead, and the remaining few had been rounded up and placed in a large storage bay to be used as bait or hostages, depending on how the next few minutes went down.

  The important body camera footage from his initial breech team had shown him what he was dealing with.

  Dr Quantum was still dangerous, but she looked as though she was using her abilities with regret; she was hesitant, she didn’t want to be here, and she didn’t want to hurt anyone if she could help it. That hesitation was the key.

  Crimson, on the other hand, was still deadly, and Buckley couldn’t help but wonder if he could get the man on the payroll. While he was still fast, he’d most definitely lost a step, according to the extensive files he’d read on the man. The most curious thing, however, was that Crimson had been heading for the exit, saving his own skin before something had made him turn back. Despite his reputation, he undoubtedly had feelings for his old team. That was a weakness that could be exploited.