by Chris Yeoh
Neven was glad for having rid himself of his rifle and taken up the hand of a lady.
They stayed there for an hour or so, and the sun passed lower behind them, so they returned to the station building.
*
The tents had been made, sheets of cloth dragged out using the round wall of the station as a backbone. Branches and sticks driven into the ground opened them out, supported their circus-top like structures. They did not look particularly warm, but would protect against the elements, and keep away the worst of the night.
"I have brought you and your friends some lanterns," the assistant, Hercule announced.
"Thank you," Neven replied. He and Phillipa un-joined their hands for a time so that they might take the bundles from Hercule's outstretched ones.
"I am sorry for your friend earlier," he was obviously not a native British speaker. "The one who dies," he elaborated unnecessarily.
"Thank you," Neven was not sure what to say. "You are a broadcaster here?"
"Oh me? Oh no!"
Neven was unsure if he had said anything to offend the man.
"I was a cleaner here," Hercule said. "But I have been learning from Doctor Copenhagen for a long time."
"Oh," Neven said. "Well, thank you."
"The Doctor," Hercule's voice lowered to a whisper. "He is currently preparing for a night of star-gazing. Would you like to join?"
"Oh wow," Phillipa said. "That sounds amazing!"
"Yes, I think I'd very much like to join the Doctor's astronomical sojourn this evening," Neven smiled and Hercule smiled back.
"Excellent. It is quite a sight, I assure you!" He hurried off, waddling back inside. The coat, which was definitely not his for the fact it was two sizes too small, billowed tightly like a sail in the wind until he closed the door to the observatory.
"Dinner's ready!" Enoch called across the way.
Neven and Phillipa obliged. They sat in a circle outside of the biggest tent they had erected. An extra bit of canvas served as a porch that allowed them to sit in modest shelter.
"A few donations, from them indoors," Margaret said, and Neven wished she hadn't.
She pulled a few tins out of a bag, and then a sack of potatoes.
"We're okay with them now then, are we?" Harold was brooding. "All they've done, and now the indignity of being shut outside on a cold day?"
"Harry," Church said, holding his empty plate out in hope in one.
"We're guests," Neven said. "And we are lucky to have what we've been given."
"Beats the hell out of Chiswell," Toby said.
The group was silent, and remained silent for the rest of the meal. It was exactly what Neven hated.
Chapter 17
The death of Britain
When all the plates had been put away, and all of the food properly wrapped - so as not to attract any undue attention (something they all noted without admitting) - the camp was at a loss of what to do.
Whether or not their situation was truly safe, it was the first time when they found themselves with free time. Breathing space, and a time to reflect. Their bags, which had been packed in the mindset of hurrying, in the mindset of survival, had not known the weight of a book, the delight of a toy, the pleasure of an idle distraction.
The group had forgotten how to be itself.
Luckily, the tendrils of life began creeping back into them one by one. One day, Harry Thornhough found an old football, broken and slightly deflated among the trees, and the old soldiers began playing. At first they used jumpers, but then as the light faded, they used lanterns as goalposts.
It was riveting to watch, and more so as others joined. Even the Baton of Britain, terrible though he was at the game, pitched in. Like a large child he forgot his strength more than once, bundling people over in the half-light and wailing when the ball went amiss or was stolen from beneath his feet.
When the game was over, Simon, Polly and William bustled about the place, chasing the Baton of Britain as they all laughed.
A sharp poke in his back alerted Neven to Phillipa's presence.
"Fancy going and seeing some stars, Plumsworthy?"
"I'd love to," he said.
They climbed to the flat, roof of the station, where Copenhagen, bundled up, sat reclined in a wooden chair one would typically find at a beach. Around him, a small sea of lanterns at once illuminated the path and the various pitfalls of the roof – mostly pipes, wires, and dishes. The high radio tower from which Miles had halted their initial approach was gloomily dark, save for the occasional synaptic blinking red light somewhere up and down its spinal column.
"Ah, Neven, Ms Phillipa, please come come come," Hercule was bustling around like an excited dog. "Would you get those?"
Neven obliged and dimmed the lamps as they passed them to a comfortable level, and then completely extinguished them. A smaller lamp on a table and one at the foot of the telescope remained on, and lit the place moodily.
"I love broadcasting. But this is the reason I wake up every morning, I assure you," Copenhagen said. "Allow me to show you some of my favourite constellations."
When talking about his passion other than, Frederick Copenhagen became as friendly as a gentle uncle. He had changed into casual attire and was relaxing for the evening.
"I take it your group is settling in well."
"Given the long lists of circumstances, yes, thank you."
"Good," the time for frivolous fun was over for the dear Doctor. Now he wanted to get to business.
"Look here, my dear," he talked to Phillipa.
She daintily leaned into the eye of the telescope at the behest of the Doctor. She had all the manner of a young girl, and Neven realised that she was, and always had been. It was strange to finally see that reflected in her body language.
"The night is not quite clear enough, I am afraid," Copenhagen stroked the apparatus as though it were his only love in the world. "But it may get better. If you place your eye to the lens you should be able to see Orion's Belt. One of my favourites and doubtless one of the most popular."
"I see it," she said through pursed lips and wide eyes. "It's amazing. Neven, come and look!"
Neven did so, and thus began an evening of light entertainment. Throughout it, the others came up intermittently and looked for themselves.
As the evening wore on, Neven continued to ask questions. "Doctor, what is the most interesting thing you have seen through this telescopic apparatus?"
The Doctor was quiet. Neven, who was at the lens at the time, sat back and looked up.
“Well," Copenhagen said. "I tell you what, I saw the aliens arrive."
The roof was silent. Neven felt Phillipa's fingers tighten around his.
"Beg your pardon?"
"Just over a month ago," the doctor explained leaning forward; the leading man in a stage show. "It was a bright majestic light. Not unlike a shooting star, but so much bigger. So much brighter. It came out of nowhere, and flashed across my telescope out in the stratosphere. Gave me spots in my eyes for days, I tell you."
"And then what?" Neven's mouth was dry.
"It crashed into what I imagine ended up being London. Not before it split."
"It what?" Phillipa could not contain herself.
"It split, into many smaller pieces, which landed I do not know where."
It all made sense: how the enemy had crossed so much ground so quickly. There had been many access points, many places of entry. Many planetfalls. Did they all land upon Britain green and fair? Or did they hit the oceans, or continents, the orient? Did all the Empire know of their presence, and had they been defeated as quickly?
The aliens had suddenly become a curiosity, high up on that hill they perversely held an allure. It was as though discussing them historically, as concrete objects with contexts suddenly made them palatable, the unthinkable turned thinkable. Neven and Phillipa were engrossed in the academia of the whole thing, education being a more innocent past-time, when Margaret scre
amed somewhere in the darkness.
"What is it? What is it now?" Phillipa asked in the near-darkness, judging the sentiment of the group in one question.
Quick as a flash, the whole group rounded the station, careening down the hill – Copenhagen stayed by his telescope and smoked a cigarette. Neven strode on the soft grass of the hill, which hugged his boots overwhelmingly. In the light of Frank's approaching lantern, he shared a glance with the old man.
"Too many nights like this," Frank whispered.
Neven barely heard him over the furore.
A gathering of lanterns further down the hill drew his attention and he hurried that way. He approached and found most of the group gathered around Enoch, who was holding Margaret up bodily. At first Neven thought the woman to have been struck down, but in reality she was overcome with grief.
"Enoch, what is it?" Neven demanded.
Enoch looked up but words failed him.
"The children... they went missing earlier," Toby said, he was talking into the darkness, his gaze averted from Neven's and on to something much more arresting.
"And?"
"Enoch found one of them," Toby was quieter now, talking only to Neven and Phillipa.
He said nothing more, but his body language encouraged them to follow him, which is what they did. A patch of grass some yards away had been disturbed. As Neven approached he realised it was not just wet with dew, but with blood.
Lying, cut, scraped and battered, was Simon. His six-year old body was still, and his face was turned into the mud.
"Holy God," Neven breathed, and was almost sick. "Did anyone see the creature that did this?"
"Are there any more?" Phillipa asked.
"I don't know, but I think we should go back inside the rotunda and lock it," Toby said.
"Not before we find the other children! Please!" Enoch wailed at them, still struggling to hold up his limp wife. "The Baton was playing with them, find him too!"
Church was at Neven's side.
"Neven, Toby, Harold. Let's go," Church said, patting his comrade on the shoulder and handing him a revolver.
Neven looked at the weapon. He had so hoped that these would be no longer necessary. He took it anyway, recognising that the day when people had a choice over these matters was long gone. It was silly to pretend otherwise.
"We can fan out a little, cover this side of the hill. Watch the woods too," Toby said. "These things are fast."
"I'm coming too," Phillipa said, pulling her own pistol.
Enoch was with the group too, having given Frank leave to look over Margaret. He clutched his hunting shotgun officiously. "What are we waiting for!"
"Enoch," Neven turned. "I don't think you are in the best mind for this..."
"Hang what you think!" Enoch screamed back at him. "Something just killed Simon and Polly is still out there with my son!"
Harold stepped into the confrontation. "You can accompany me, Enoch."
"Let's go," Phillipa said.
By the light of lanterns they spread along the hill like a small group of fireflies. Neven, Church and Phillipa crossed further down and towards the trees. The air rang with danger. Meanwhile, Frank, Miles and Hercule shared duties of comforting the bereaved Margaret as she covered William's body with a coat.
"Polly! Polly?” Phillipa called out.
Neven was unsure of the wisdom of making noise, but they were already rampaging across the countryside at an alarming rate. Anything that could possibly have detected them would have done so already.
*
The wind billowed about him. It swept his cape forward in such a manner that it slapped out and snapped at the town below them. With one clenched fist, he tossed it back across his body, but the gale was relentless and from all sides.
"Mr Baton."
He ignored it. Wiped his sweaty and clammy head with his gloved hand.
"Mr Baton."
He looked down, and could pretend she was invisible no longer.
Polly was scared, she help William close. She had seen a sudden, violent and unbelievable change in a man she had previously considered her friend. He was unrecognisable, not merely because of his now skewed eye-mask, but because of the grime that sat in his teeth, the dirt on his hands, his torn clothes. He had picked her up and carried her away so quickly that she had barely the time to scream. Her fingernails had dug into his scalp and ripped pieces of flesh from it and so he had hit her.
"Don't be scared," Peter, the Baton of Britain said – to himself mostly.
He didn't know why he said it. Deep down he knew she would be scared. He was, too. He was shaking, but told himself it was the wind.
"You shouldn't have been so mean to me," he said with a steely glance out over the dead town.
"You killed Simon," she argued back with a vigour he had not expected. "You killed him and that's even meaner."
For that, he reasoned with himself, she had to die. If only for that. She knew what he had done. So did the others. His playmates, his chums. Polly and Simon. They knew. And they would tell on him. His head was spinning at an alarming rate. He reached to his belt and drew the long bladed knife he had stolen from the kitchen at the station.
Stars were boring. Radio stations were boring. Boring like school. Boring like father.
This was fun.
Samantha saw his knife proceed from its makeshift and torn sheath and she cowered, but he caught her with his other gloved hand. It was filthy, muddy, and damp with all sorts of fluids.
"Please, Mr Baton, I'll never do it again."
"You'll tell on me," he insisted and raised the knife.
He could never bring it down however, as he was barrelled over by a charging Enoch. The former farmer had hurried so far ahead of his charges that he had happened upon the Baton and Polly alone on the side of the hill. He roared with the passion of a lion and punched the man who was both stronger and younger.
This youth began to tell, as the Baton fought back brutally, landing a blow to Enoch's jaw.
"Polly, run!" he shouted between gasps. "You monster!" he rounded upon the Baton.
The Baton wrestled Enoch Simpson to the ground. The knife was still in his hand.
"I didn't mean to!" he pleaded. "They were mean! They were going to tell on meeeee!"
"Stop!" Church screamed as he reached the scene.
The Baton stood, his back to the edge of the hill. From below, the huge, chalk, white horse watched wearily and knowingly with an unblinking eye. Peter slowly removed himself from the terrible mess he had done, wiped his hands upon his disgusting uniform as though it would undo everything.
"You are a sick fuck," Church said.
"Church, wait!" Neven also arrived, winded and out of breath. He had drawn his pistol, but it hung limp in his hands, pointing at the ground.
Church was aiming down the gun. He hesitated.
"What are you waiting for?" Harold screamed. "Kill him!"
"And where does it get us?" Neven said. "More bloodshed."
"More bloodshed," The Baton repeated. His brain was overloaded, and lost its capacity to understand. He looked like an animal that had been lobotomised.
"Shut the fuck up!" Church said. "Neven, we can't let him live. Not after this. He's sick in the head."
"Please," The Baton was a pathetic and pitiful whelp.
"Stand still!" Toby yelled.
"Maybe he is," Neven said. "But is he evil? Just think about it. Maybe he needs help?"
"No Neven!" Church let his rifle down an inch. "That's not how this works. We agreed upon survival, back in Chiswell house. We agreed its about every man for himself. We don't have the luxury of helping those who can't stand for themselves."
"Don't shoot me," The Baton was a dishevelled mess, mewing at the ground. No one heard him.
"Anyway, I don't have to answer shit to you!" Church raised his rifle again, still talking to Neven. "I live this life one day at a time. A child killer and wacko doesn't feature in my choice of
life. For the good of the group, but mostly for myself, I do this."
He fired a shot. An awful shot. The kind that had been waiting desperately to be fired. The kind that Neven knew was going to come. And as he experienced a wave of nausea for agreeing with Church, he felt like it was he who had been hit.
The Baton, for his part, could not have died more dramatically. His face was shattered by the well placed bullet, and he was deceased before he had fallen backwards off of the sheer side of the hill. His body tumbled away, and they did not go to look for it. The white horse was splattered with red, a trail of blood and brain that slopped messily down its flanks.
"And that," Church said, putting his gun back on his shoulder. It still smoked in the cold air of the hill as its barrel celebrated. "Is how we deal with that."
No one replied. Silence had overtaken them, and it had not taken a monster to do it.
*
Over the crest of a hill some miles away, a motorbike rumbled through Eden Vale, and towards them.
Chapter 18
Every man to do his duty
It was the early hours when Neven and Phillipa first heard it. They left their tent, and walked to the edge of the hill. Neither of them had been able to sleep so far, and now that dawn was cresting the hilltops, it did not look as if either would be able to at all. A thick beam of light was working its way around the last remaining streets of the town.
“Army?” she asked, blearily.
“Mmm,” he agreed. “I guess this thing's not over.”
She clutched his arm lightly. “He's looking for something.” They turned around to look at the broadcasting tower, which winked its red lights knowingly.
“Doctor Copenhagen, you have a visitor,” Thornhough roused Frederick from his sleep. The doctor leant back in his chair, mouth agape, glasses askew.
Frederick Copenhagen did not look happy, but acquiesced to the facts before him and left the confines of the rotunda to the breezy dawn. The motorcyclist had navigated the steep incline up the hill and was winding his way down the last road towards them. The group were awake, standing on either side of the path now, like honour guard for a procession.
The bike stopped short of the front door, and a young man hopped off, kicking down the supports and letting go of his vehicle. He took off his helmet, which dragged and caught against his fairly long hair. In one gloved hand he held paper.