by Ian Woodhead
Damien wound his way through the shells, not caring if they were following him. As he reached the tree perimeter, he saw the remaining things high up in the sky and following the tree line. He wondered if they were restricted by the boundary between the tainted town and the rest of the countryside.
Jennifer tapped him on the shoulders and Damien turned, his jaw dropping at the sight before him. The other two had followed them out and stood transfixed as well.
Damien was back home. His house and garden stood untouched by the invasion, but the houses on either side had gone. Overgrown, pulled apart and demolished. The only evidence that anything had even been there were small mounds of green covered earth.
The ground under Damien’s feet began to move; he hoped that the worms hadn’t decided to come after them after realising that their next meal had escaped. He wasn’t about to stand around and find out. He took one last look at the bizarre landscape, astonished that they were still alive, and ran towards the garden gate.
Dave and Pete reached the gate before him. He watched the old man walk through his mother’s flower bad, trampling the delicate stems and petals into the loose soil, not caring, not giving a shit. Damien wanted to kill him. Jennifer squeezed his shoulder and shook her head, the state of her face helped to defuse his fury. She dragged him up the garden path, seemingly more eager to see Alan than him.
Pete thumped on the door a few times and Damien saw Dave pick up a white painted stone.
”Put that fucking thing down!” he shouted.
Dave dropped the stone then staggered back, pointing at the sky. The flyers were back and this time they had brought reinforcements - the sky on the horizon was black with them. Damien ran up to the door, pushed Pete out of the way and pushed down the handle. Oh hell, the sodding door was locked. He lifted the letterbox.
“Alan! Open up, come on man!” He looked back; saw the fliers were landing just outside the garden fence. Jesus Christ, there were thousands of them.
“Come on, Alan!” He continued to bang on the door.
“He’s here,” whispered Pete.
Damien looked up, seeing the light in the kitchen come on. The key in the lock turned and the door swung inward. The fliers that had landed began to moan and sway. Alan seemed surprised to see them.
“Thank God you’re okay,” said Damien who went forward to hug his brother but was pushed into the door frame by Dave rushing into the house.
“Shut the door, man,” said Dave.
Damien looked through the kitchen window, unable to work out what the things were doing, why weren’t they attacking? Alan was acting like the horde of yellow killers weren’t even there. The other three squeezed past him and settled down in the living room. It sounded like Pete was crying.
“Alan, will you please shut the door!”
His brother just looked at him, confusion plastered all over his face. “But I haven’t mown the lawn yet”
He looked at his brother in disbelief. The lad was serious. He placed both hands on his brother’s shoulders.
“That isn’t important right now, Alan.”
“How come the lights are still working?” Dave asked. He’d re-entered the kitchen, reached over and picked up an open packet of biscuits lying on top of the bread bin. Jen grabbed his collar and pulled him back into the living room.
“Wait, Jennifer!” shouted Alan.
She responded by spinning around and walking over to him, her eyes glazed over, she wasn’t even looking at him. Damien realised that it wasn’t a request but a command.
As he stroked her face with the back of his hand, the lights dimmed then went off altogether.
Damien shook his head from side to side, feeling that a veil of certainty had just been lifted, leaving him for the first time full of doubt concerning his brother’s motives. He no longer saw him as a victim of change but an instigator of all this - which led him to the question of what he, had planned for him.
The bony shell lost its grip and fell onto the floor tiles. Jennifer grabbed Damien’s hands and hugged him tight while sobbing.
“Oh God, oh God. Thank you for not leaving me.”
He buried his head into her hair, she smelled like she had been through a pile of rotting leaves. Underneath, he could still detect the faint whiff of her perfume. He looked at Alan who was grinning from ear to ear.
“Has it gone? Did you get rid of all of it?”
He nodded. Jennifer wiped her eyes and tried to hug Alan who jumped out of the way and shook his head. Jennifer shrugged, used to his odd behaviour.
There was something niggling at the back of Damien’s head, something important but like the fragments of a dream upon waking, he was unable to grasp it.
“Does anyone want to watch me play Alien Holocaust? I’m on the final level.”
Damien’s hand found hers and this time it felt as smooth as it should have been. He forgot about his previous thoughts; it didn’t matter now that his Jen had been returned to him.
“Okay, that’s it. Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Dave had thundered back into the kitchen, empty biscuit wrapper in hand that he dropped on the floor.
“Help yourself to my biscuits why don’t you?” muttered Damien.
Dave looked over at Alan. “What about you, kid? Are you able to give me some answers?”
“What is your problem?” asked Damien. “You’re warm and safe, you have my biscuits. What more do you want?”
He stared at the old man, towering over him with his puffed out chest, his dominating attitude and the crumbs around his lips. Dave was used to getting his own way, at being in charge and now he felt out of his depth, powerless. Damien knew all this, he understood that the man was scared stupid and was just lashing out but it didn’t stop him from wanting to hurt him.
Damien saw Pete’s shadow wander back into the kitchen, he’d probably heard the commotion and getting ready to apologise for his friend yet again. Jennifer rested a hand on his shoulders.
“Leave him be,” she whispered. “He’ll get what’s coming to him.”
“Are you going to answer me, kid?”
Alan blanked him, acting like he wasn’t even there. Damien saw the colour rising in Dave’s face but didn’t say anything, respecting Jennifer’s advice.
“Holy mother of God!” Pete exclaimed. “Look at that!”
Other strange creatures had joined the flyers. There were only a few at the moment but more were swelling the ranks. They just stood there silent and still, watching the house.
“Okay, everybody into the living room,” Damien said. “Keep away from the windows.”
Damien caught Alan as he went past. “What are we going to do?”
Alan smiled. He put the game case on the top of the microwave then pulled out a pair of new gloves from his pocket. “We are going to save the apple trees.”
Damien didn’t have a clue what he was talking about; he looked back out the window, watching more creatures arrive. When he turned back, Alan had joined the others in the living room.
Alan walked up to Dave, while clenching and unclenching his gloved hand.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Dave shook his head. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“We’ve got to leave him down here. Have you any idea what they do to child killers in prison, Arthur?”
Alan’s voice was the perfect imitation of Dave’s. The old man went white.
“No way,” he whispered.
“What the flame eyed devils take away…” he placed his hand on Dave’s stomach.
“…I give back. Consider it my gift to you.”
Dave arched his back and screamed. His stomach expanded, the buttons on his shirt popped. He ran out of the room and into the kitchen. Damien heard the front door open, yet he couldn’t move until Jennifer dragged him to the kitchen door.
“He told me what he was going to do to him,” she said. “He wants you to watch.”
He saw Dave through the window, rolling about on the lawn in absolute agony. The creatures were howling and shouting. Dave convulsed, his stomach burst apart, spraying the neatly manicured garden with stringy green gore and thousand of tiny spiders. Alan walked up to the window and watched the spiders desperately trying to escape from the garden.
“I could have spared him but I chose not to. He helped to kill my two friends.” He looked at Pete. “He would have killed you too.”
He faced the window and closed his eyes. The ground beneath Dave opened up and he fell into a writhing sea of orange worms. The hole closed, leaving an ugly crater.
“Mum will be so pissed when she sees the state of the lawn.” Alan murmured.
Chapter Nineteen
Where was that tramp taking him? Arthur wanted to know where he was. A few minutes ago, his journey was seen through a translucent red liquid mask but even that drug like effect had been denied as the blood that had collected in his eyes congealed and dried.
Not everything was able to move out of the way as the tramp crashed through the thick forest. The green flexible shoots and vines shrank back but more established plants with their thick woody stems and branches couldn’t go anywhere. This didn’t bother the tramp as he just ducked underneath but Arthur didn’t have this option.
His body was still under the control of the tramp - he couldn’t even blink, so consequently the hard thorns and rough bark transformed his face into a network of deep cuts and welts as he blindly followed his master.
The tramp’s power over the man’s body went deeper than just controlling his limbs; he had turned off his ability to feel pain as well. Something Arthur was thankful for. He would have gone insane by now if he had felt every branch and stem that smacked him in the face and body, not to mention the strain his body must be under from the tramp driving him hard for the past hour.
Arthur’s legs lost their inertia and he slowed down, coming to a stop. Were they here? He wished he could see. The tramp approached him muttering, he couldn’t make out a single word but he sure did sound scared. He thought some feeling was beginning to return to his extremities, he sensed that the tramp was about to lose control of him again.
He was able to blink the dried blood out of his eyes just in time to see Ernest fall to his knees and scream at the sky. All feeling returned with a suddenness that almost made him cry out loud, he could not yet feel any pain but he didn’t question his good fortune - he just took off in the opposite direction before the tramp realised that he had taken flight. He’d rather take his chances with the alien jungle than hang around to see what Ernest had planned for him.
Arthur raced through the trees, following the path that he had already trampled down. He sensed that the effect was only limited to the Holburn area so the most sensible course of action would have been to get the hell out of town but he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He didn’t know where he was anymore; every familiar landmark had gone. The only option left was to head back to that charity shop and see if he could barricade the door in case that insane tramp followed him. It was the only place he knew that was safe from the wildlife.
He put on an extra burst of speed when the manic sound of a very pissed off tramp reached his ears. He screamed out Arthur’s name, demanding that he return. Arthur took this as a good sign. The tramp didn’t know where he was; perhaps the smelly bastard would fuck off and find someone else to persecute. He doubted he’d be able to catch him anyway, he couldn’t believe how fast he was going; he felt he could run forever.
The tramp’s voice got fainter and fainter, he didn’t think that he was about to give up just yet but Arthur didn’t care anymore; there was no way he could catch him. Then from out of the blue, an enormous wave of nausea crashed into him. He ground to a halt and put his hand against a tree to stabilise himself.
Sticky resin flowed over his hand and pale blue vines uncurled and slid down towards its latest victim. Arthur was in too much distress to even notice what was going on, he felt like his insides were trying to climb out of his throat. He bent over; gagging as thick, gelatinous jelly oozed out of his mouth and fell to the forest floor. The material was now a dull grey and looked diseased. Arthur’s brain shut down, he collapsed beside the stinking mess that his body had ejected.
Arthur’s eyes shot open shocked to find he was still alive. The tree’s resin had dried on his hand but the tree itself was nowhere to be seen. He formed a fist, watching the stuff flake off. How long had he been out for? Hours or days, he had no way of knowing. Arthur touched his face and winced, he still felt like he had been through a meat grinder.
He scanned the landscape, the place was as silent as a tomb, he could see none of the ultra-aggressive flora that had been so prolific earlier on which would probably explain why he hadn’t been eaten whilst dead to the world.
Then he saw the shop, it was right behind him. Arthur almost choked on the absurdity of it all. It stood alone; all the vines had been removed, revealing a pristine looking building. Apparently the Applewood hospice shop was open for business.
Arthur turned the handle and the door swung open. He wasted no time in getting inside the shop and shutting the door, grinning at the sight of the two enormous bolts at the top and bottom of the door, he pushed them both home.
Mrs Reed may have been a believer in charity but she was also, it seemed, a great believer in security as well. Once the bolts were secure, he sat down against the door and forced himself to relax. The view helped. There was still no sign of any of the new plant life growing in the shop and with sunlight streaming through the window, the place felt like an oasis of normality.
The only thing in the shop that displaced normality were the still-lit candles. They should all have been a cold, solid lump of white wax by now, instead of looking like they had just been lit. Even so, he was reluctant to extinguish them.
He looked around the shop, remembering that he’s dropped his walking stick in here. The damn thing had to be somewhere. He wandered into the middle of the shop and sat down on one of the chairs; he was so concerned over the whereabouts of his precious stick that when something brushed up against his shoe, Arthur screamed and almost wet himself. He looked down not knowing what to expect.
Arthur resisted the urge to giggle when he saw the pigeon. He almost booted it across the room but stopped himself; after all, this was another link to his old life.
Things may have looked pretty grim but he hadn’t given up hope yet, despite all that he had seen in the last couple of days,; there was still no doubt in his mind that rescue was still imminent. In another few hours, those army trucks and police cars would be charging into Holburn, complete with men with flamethrowers. He nodded to himself. Those alien plants wouldn’t stand a bloody chance.
All Arthur had to do was to sit tight and wait for them to get here. He was safe in this shop, at least unless that bloody tramp came back. Where was that walking stick? Arthur knew that he’d feel a lot safer if he had that in his hands.
“Have you seen my stick?” he asked the pigeon.
The bird hopped onto a cardboard box full of coat hangers then flew onto the cash register, then crapped on the desk.
“Is that your final answer?” Arthur sighed and wandered over to the till. The pigeon watched him approach but didn’t move away.
“Well, ain’t you the cocky bastard.” Then his eyes caught sight of something familiar lying on top of a pile of old paperbacks. It was his walking stick. Arthur grinned and grabbed it. His grin fell off his face when he saw something odd stuck to the handle. There was a price label on it.
This could only mean one thing, the tramp must have known that he was going to escape and come back.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered.
Arthur shook his head. No, he refused to believe that. The tramp was furious when he lost control of him; the last thing he would have been expecting was for Arthur to come back here.
He peeled the sticker off and read it. There was a message on t
he paper, not a price. It said…
‘I can’t help you anymore so hang in there. By the way, my mum loved your homemade burgers.’
His mind was in too much of turmoil to try and work out what that meant, so he stuck the price label on top of the cash register, sat down against the door and placed his stick beside him. He had made up his mind to wait this out and he wasn’t going to move for anyone.
The pigeon flew down from the counter and landed on the tip of his shoe. If the bird was expecting him to feed it then it was in for a disappointment.
“I’m sorry little man, but I’ve nothing for you.”
Arthur reached into his trouser pocket and was rather surprised to find an old dog biscuit. He crumbled it up between his fingers and made a little pile between his feet.
“Are you going to leave me alone now?”
The sudden rattling of the door handle and frantic banging against the door scared the hell out of him. He reached for his walking stick.
“Let me in now!”
Arthur considered ignoring the tramp but that would make him look like a scared little mouse.
“Piss off! If you try to come in here, I’ll snap you in two, you vile little man.”
There was no response, perhaps he had gone.
Then he heard the letter box creaking open.
“Okay,” said the tramp, his voice full of disgust and scorn. “I can do this myself. I don’t need you anyway. Oh, before I leave you, why don’t you look at the top corner above the counter? Can you see it?”
Despite himself, Arthur did look up. He saw the wallpaper hanging down, revealing a dark patch on the wall; a couple of bright green mushrooms pushed up through the plaster.