I clear the alley and find myself back on the high street. My pursuers are slower, but still not far behind. I hear them clattering along, ungainly, crashing into bins and signs, even each other at times. I hear them struggle. At least that is one advantage I have over them.
I cross the street, take refuge in an alcove beside the old drycleaners. Here I kneel, I watch, I study, but nothing ever emerges from the alley. I wait for a while, and another while, and for another while longer until I feel I have waited long enough. It must have been at least twenty minutes. I feel cold again, convinced that my sweat has turned to ice.
The clouds have finally cleared. Moonlight floods the streets. I peek my head around the corner, then look the other way. Nothing. There is no movement, no noise. Those things could not have just disappeared ... could they?
I step from the shadows, ensuring that I tread carefully. The night is dead, silent as a grave. It is as if I had imagined the whole thing. Maybe I had. Maybe I have been out here for too long, or had been waiting too long for the scanner to charge, so my mind decided to jazz things up a bit. Maybe John is right. Maybe there is nothing to fear in the night, and all monsters are confined to the day. I wish that were true. I wish that I was alone and that nothing else walked the night, but wishing cannot change reality. I realise this as I hear the sound. The loud bang that echoes through the street, shakes the few windows that remain unsmashed, and leaves a sonorous ring in my ears. My hand clamps down hard on my flank. I grimace and grunt as I fall to my knees. I draw my hand away slowly, laying it out ahead of my gaze. It shimmers in the moonlight, reflecting a red ambiance. I can smell it, metallic, like iron. I can feel it seeping from my side. A flesh wound, I surmise. But it could still prove fatal out here.
Now I see movement, but not on the street. They are up high, on the rooftops, camouflage against the veil of darkness behind them. Only the stars give away their secret. I find my feet, but my legs are not as reliable as they once were. I feel unstable, but have no choice but to move. If I stay here, death will most certainly find me.
I follow the stars, heading in the direction of home. They follow, moving with the shadows, holding to the dark. They think themselves invisible, but I see them. I see everything.
I pull my crossbow, aim, and release. One falls. I hear it drop, hear it roll down the roof tiles, and finally plummet to the floor below. I ready a second bolt. By the time I look up the others are nowhere to be seen. Another bang, another echo, another round of ringing in my ears. This one skims my shoulder, a warning shot. They want me alive.
I back into a side alley, keeping an eye on the sky. This may be a problem. I have wasted far too much time. The sun will rise soon.
I cannot see them anymore. They know my strengths and have adapted quickly. Now they hold the upper hand. I slump against the wall. I am losing too much blood. A noise from behind me, faint but undeniable. Something approaches and I am too weak to run. I hold my breath, make no sounds, yet it still comes. I can feel the air changing. It must be right behind me.
I close my eyes. "I'm sorry, Dad," I mumble. I do not know why. It was the first thing that came to mind.
My eyes snap open, bulging in bewilderment. A meaty hand hooks around my face, covering my mouth, as Dad's voice whispers, "For what, son? You're not dead yet."
"Dad?" I try to say, but his hand muffles the word to a hum.
"Shush," he says in hushed tones. "It's close. Just stay quiet, okay?" He takes his hand off my face and pads my flank with it. "You're hit."
"I'm fine," I say. "Just a flesh wound. What's the count?"
"One," he says. He sounds certain.
"Really? I count two," I say. He shakes his head. "Are you sure?"
"Positive," he confirms. I know he is wrong. I have seen them, all three. I have taken one down myself. That leaves two. Maybe he is not so sure after all.
"Where?" I ask. He points. I clock it instantly, sitting patiently behind the steep pitch of a roof across the street. Only its upper torso is visible. Strange, it looks almost human, but its size alone says otherwise. More like a bear than a man.
"What is it? A solar?" I ask. He shakes his head.
"I don't think so." He points again. This time, I focus on the finer details. It travels light, no otherworldly technology. "Doesn't seem very alien to me," he adds.
"Then what?" I ask.
"A man." A smile graces his lips. "Just a man. That's all."
"It can't be," I blurt. "Look at the size of it. It would have to be as big as-"
"Me?" he interrupts.
Damn, he is right. I look at the silhouette on the rooftop, then back at Dad. It makes the most sense. I have never seen a solar, and certainly never heard of one venturing out into the night. Just a man. I believe it. A fucking big man, but a man none the less.
A sudden rush of confidence swells inside me. One man against us, he does not stand a chance. I shoulder my crossbow. Dad grips my shoulder.
"Take the shot," he whispers. I follow his instruction, let the bolt fly, and watch as our assailant takes it in the chest.
"Yes," I say as I watch him keel over. "Gotcha, you bastard!"
"Shot, son." Dad gives my shoulder a proud squeeze, but then his jaw falls slack. We both watch as the figure rises, settling back into a seated position. I look at Dad. His face clearly shows what we are both feeling, as he utters, "Not just a man."
"No way," I say, incredulous. "He must be wearing body armour."
Dad points. The moonlight reflects off the figure's torso. "You see that?" he says. "Your bolt is still lodged in his chest. Armour would have deflected it. You hit your mark, son, no doubt. Should have been a kill shot, but that's no man." He looks me square in the eye, wraps his meaty hooks around my shoulders. "Run home, son. Tell John to bolt the doors behind you. I'll keep them off you."
He pulls me close into a crushing embrace. "You can't be serious," I say, trying to push back, to look in his eyes again, but he is too strong.
"This isn't up for discussion," he says. His words are sharp. "Get going." He pushes me back, basically throws me to the far end of the alley. "Keep running. I'll be right behind you." I do the only thing a respectful son could. I obey.
I limp off into the shadows. I look back as I reach the alley's end. Dad stands in the street. I hear him shout, "Come and get me, you fuck!" Can it even understand him? I guess it must, for I hear a sudden boom. Heavy feet hitting the pavement. Dad gives me one last look, and then he is gone. I stand fast, watching. The footsteps grow louder. I hide, concealing my body behind a walled corner. I see it. It lingers near the alley's mouth. I cannot see anything of note; just an outline. It is staring in Dad's direction, or at least it was. It has turned. Now, it is looking straight at me.
I rush back, begin my escape, but I have waited too long. It comes for me.
I run, pressing my palm to my injured flank. The wound slows me. It has no such hindrance. It has covered half the alley in the time it takes me to move a few feet. It will be upon me soon. I turn, fire another bolt. I catch it in the face. It falls, but it is not dead; not yet.
It finds its feet swiftly. The silhouette has changed. My eyes widen, mouth falls agape. My bolt has found its mark. It is still there, plain to see; protruding from its eye socket. Not just a man.
I turn, my wound forgotten, and run with all I have left. I can hear its call. The clicks, like a hundred knuckles cracking in quick succession. This is the noise I have been hearing in the forest. These things have stalked me, studied me. They know where I go, what I do, how I do it. How can I outrun something like that? How can I lose something on the way home when it already knows where home is?
It is gaining on me. I can almost feel the ground vibrating behind me, under its feet. I focus on the noise, the pounding of steps, the clicking, the rhythmic tempo of my breaths, then nearly jump out of my skin when I hear another bang, another concussive wave of ear-splitting echoes.
I fall to the ground, cover my head wit
h my hands. I assume that it has fired at me. I wait to feel the burn of jacketed lead grinding against my innards, but no such feeling arises. There is no way it could have missed me, not from so short a distance. I glance up, wrenching my head around to see behind me. it is down.
"Get up, son," Dad shouts. He stands in the alley's mouth, a smoking gun in his hand. In the darkness, I could easily mistake him for one of them. If he had not spoken, I probably would have. "Run. You don't have much time." It shudders, legs flailing, and then leaps to its feet. Dad grabs for it, wraps his burly arm around its throat. "GO!" he yells. "NOW!"
I want to stay, to fight it with him. My nerve will not allow it. I turn. I run. This time I do not look back.
It takes a few minutes before I feel safe enough to slow my pace. I could hear it growling, snarling. I could hear Dad grunting, crying out in pain. Now all I hear is the wind, the birds singing their morning chorus, and my own whimpers of despair. I left him to die, too afraid to stand and fight at his side. Shame, regret, gut wrenching sorrow; these are the feelings that haunt me now.
The walk back is only short, but seems to last a lifetime. The sky is no longer black. It now has an indigo streak, merging into blue.
I reach home just in time, with the sun on the rise. Solars will be all over this area in a matter of minutes. Still, I loiter at the door, afraid of what to say when I am asked what has happened. I muster what little courage remains and pound loudly on the steel. I turn away, look to the sky. I do not want John to see my tears. The door opens. I await John's scornful tone, but it is not him I hear.
"Took your time, son."
"Dad?" My voice cracks and hits notes a grown man should not be capable of, but I do not care. "How did ..." I am overwhelmed. He stands in the doorway, barely a scratch on him. "Your ... you made it."
"I did," he says. He slaps my shoulder. It is as if nothing has happened, as if he had not nearly lost his life.
"How?" I sound like a whining baby, tears streak my face.
"Nothing can take down your old man," he say. I am beginning to think he is right. I thought he was a goner for sure.
"And the ... the-"
"Thing?" he says, finishing my question for me. "I broke its neck, or at least I think it was its neck. Still don't think it's dead, though." He grabs my arm and pulls me inside. "It's best we don't tell anybody about this. Don't want to scare them."
"They need to know," I say between gasping breaths. The shock is beginning to take its toll. "We need to tell them what we're up against."
"They don't need to know this." His eyes rip right through me. He is adamant that this is to remain between us. "Trust me." After tonight, I would trust anything he says. I nod, and earn another slap on the shoulder. He seals the door shut and ushers me down the staircase. "Good boy. Just say the usual: you we're hunting, snagged your side on a tree. Simples."
We clear the stairs. John and Caitlin are sat in the common room, their faces riddled with worry. John's eyes narrow as they meet me. My heart leaps to my throat. He stands, balls a fist, prowls towards me like a hungry wolf, as he says, "Where's Rose?"
ROSE
Saturday, 12:41
My head is killing me. I ache all over. I smile; an inward joke. This is how I feel most mornings after Mum and Daddy leave me alone with David. I do not know why I find it funny. I suppose it is better to laugh about it than cry all the time. I roll my head to the side. The pillow is unforgiving this morning, bristly, slightly damp. Oh shit!
My eyes spring open. My smile is long gone, replaced by a quivering frown. The sight is so beautiful; so alien. A cerulean sky stretches to all sides of my vision. I have never seen it this colour before. I shield my eyes, protecting them from the blinding rays of the one entity that fills my heart with undying dread.
I cannot panic, not now. If I lose my head I am done for. The thing that amazes me is that I am completely calm. I am frightened, but I have always been frightened. The feeling is nothing new to me.
I leisurely sit, inhale deeply. The aroma of fresh flowers fills my senses. A curious thing. Winter is in full flow. Flowers should not bloom this fully for months. I look around. They are everywhere, flourishing, even in the bitter chill that causes me to cuddle myself so that I may retain my own warmth.
I can hear something. Something unnatural. A whirring sound with an underlying rumble. A machine.
I climb to my feet, dust myself off. My hand wanders to the right side of my head. Blood encrusts my ear, streaks my hair, matting it into a tangled mess. I find my eyes scanning the meadow, searching. The presence of blood has triggered my memory. I look for it. The thing that chased me here. The thing that stood over me as my sight failed and my memories end. Why am I alive? Why did it spare me? Was it even there at all, or was it my mind playing tricks? It does not matter now, either way. There are bigger things to worry about, namely that, as my eyes scale the sky, there are two suns hanging overhead instead of one.
I run from the clearing, hoping to gain cover under the canopy. I can identify the real sun instantly. I can feel the heat emanating from it as its rays hit my face. The other is closer. As I face it I feel colder, as if a chill wind licks at my cheeks. There are other telltale signs: like how it shines with a duller flare than the genuine article, or the clouds passing behind it instead of in front. The whirring, however, does not come from this fake sun. It is coming from somewhere lower to the ground, from somewhere through the trees, from somewhere very close.
The tree next to me is tall and strong. I am certain it will offer a great vantage point, so I climb. I still feel dizzy, my head is spinning, my ears are buzzing. Still I reach one arm above the other, foot over foot. Little by little I inch my way up the girthy bole until I reach my required height. I can see everything from up here. I can see the town in the distance, or the highest rooftops at least. I can see the vastness of the forest and its boundaries, the roads that spread forth from woodland trails, and I see it; the machine, the source of the whirring sound, the cause of the rumble. It is like nothing I have ever seen before, yet somehow familiar, as if certain components were forged by human hands. It is far away, in a clearing much like the one I awoke in, but everything around it is dead. The trees, the plants, even the grasslands, all festering, rotting, a perfect ring of black upon the rich, green landscape. The machine itself looks metallic. It shines like glass, glowing with every colour of the rainbow. It keeps to no recognisable shape: no straight edges, no pattern, no symmetry to be seen. I know the land on which it rests. Last night, that was the way from which I came. It was not there then. The area was still brimming with life. Whatever this machine is, it has not been there long. Still, the decayed area that surrounds it is growing before my very eyes, as if this machine is sucking the life from the earth beneath. I am conflicted, torn between a desire to flee this horrid place and the need to learn more about this otherworldly contraption. I need not decide. The decision is taken from me.
As I sit upon the highest branch a flare from above catches my attention; a flare that bursts from the fiery hull of the fake star. It falls little more than a mile from my location. I expect to hear the impact. I hear wind through the trees and nothing more. I see a flash of light heading my way, bright, fast, and only then do I hear something. The light shoots past me in the blink of an eye. It whistles as it passes, a projectile of sorts. I flinch, lose my grip on the bark, and fall. A pillow of fallen leaves cushions my fall, but as I scramble to my feet I realise I have been hit. My middle and ring finger on my left hand hang limply, unresponsive. As I rotate my hand, assessing the damage, I see the hole through the centre of my palm. I feel no pain. The flesh is not charred or torn. The wound does not bleed. Just an open circle, bored through my hand, perfectly round. On closer inspection I can see lines of colour seeping from the opening. Shimmering veins, reminiscent of printed circuitry, that react in the light. They look familiar, identical colouration to the machine in the distance. The machine, I suddenly remember. I look
past the trees, past the foliage and rays of light that filter down through the canopy. I cannot see it through the thick woodland, but I see enough. I see enough to know that I am not alone anymore.
The trees shake in the distance, unnaturally. Not the wind this time. The shaking is violent. Something is fighting its way to me, taking down half the forest as it comes. I do not wait for it to find me. I run, tearing through shrubbery, trudging through mud. There are few places of shelter, and fewer with a complete lack of light. Darkness is the only thing that can save me now.
I can still hear trees shaking, branches snapping, but the more I run the further behind me it all seems to be. My chest burns. It is becoming hard to breathe. I do not know why. All I know is I cannot stop. I can never stop.
I reach a clearing. Fields, far sweeping, completely open. I cannot hide here, but I cannot go back. Now I am afraid, more afraid than I think I have ever felt before. I should have stayed at home last night. Nothing that David could do to me is worse than waiting to be caught; waiting to be killed. No point in wondering what if? It will not save me now.
I see a house in the distance, small, derelict, but not far. I head for it. The windows are boarded. By my assumption it should be pitch black inside. Darkness is my ally.
My legs carry me swiftly. The flat grasslands are easy to cross; or easier than the forest, at least. My body feels heavy, feet like lead. I am so tired. Fear is all that urges me onwards. If not for that, I would collapse where I stand.
The door is open as I reach it. I do not bother to knock. I doubt that anyone lives here. If they did, surely they would know to lock their door during the day. I run inside, slam the door behind me. It is not as dark as I had hoped. Stray beams of light pierce through the shadows from cracks in the panels. They streak the walls, touch every corner. If a solar finds me here ...
I creep to a window, peek through a crack. The daylight outside seems brighter now. Maybe it is just me. I look to the tree line, fingers tightly crossed. I am not usually superstitious, but will try anything for a little extra luck. It does not help. It still comes.
Solar: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Thriller Page 5