THE INVASION
by William Meikle
This eBook edition published 2010
by Generation Next Publications
www.GenerationNextPublications.com
www.williammeikle.com
© William Meikle 2010
eBook Creation by Stephen James Price
THE INVASION
WILLIAM MEIKLE
PART ONE
THE ARRIVAL
The winter storm that blew through the Maritimes on 23rd February saved the lives of thousands of people. At the time most of them were too busy surviving to be grateful.
It had started quietly enough, with a cold breeze from the Northwest blowing a few lazy snowflakes around in the early evening. Thereafter the velocity and the volume ramped up like an accelerating truck until, by the time Alice Noble went to check on the boat-shed, it was blowing a gale and she knew it would be piling up drifts that were already several feet deep.
She had been listening to the steady rise of the storm with some trepidation as the winter had already proved to be a hard one, and the boat house roof was showing signs of wear. She was relieved to find everything still intact when she opened the door from the kitchen and walked into the large barn-like space.
The Zodiac sat snugly under its winter tarpaulin, looking strangely sad in its deflated state. It seemed like a long time since the hot summer days out on the Bay with the tourists, but that was the price you paid for being here – the Summers were magical, but the Winters were there merely to be endured. It was no surprise to her that many of the island’s inhabitants left in December for more clement places, but she couldn’t afford that luxury, and stayed behind with a few hardy others, hunkered down in solitude against anything Nature could throw at them.
And tonight it’s throwing plenty.
The main door of the shed rattled violently. It was taking the full force of the wind and the old hinges creaked and complained with each gust. But Alice had put a new set of locks on just this Fall and she was confident it would hold. Before going back to the relative warmth of the kitchen she ran a hand over the tarpaulin covering the rigid-hull Zodiac. This construction of fiberglass and rubber had eaten most of her life’s savings – but it also allowed her to pursue her life’s dreams. For the last two summers she’d made a living bringing tourists over from Grand Manan to spend days at a time out on the Bay of Fundy with the local whale population. If truth was told, she’d have been out on the water anyway, but the tourists provided much needed income – more than enough to see her through the winter.
She patted the tarpaulin.
Soon.
She went back to her kitchen and closed the door behind her. A mug of coffee quickly dispelled any chill that had settled into her during her visit to the shed, and she settled down in her recliner with the coffee and a fresh beer just in time for the second period of the game.
She was to be disappointed. Just as the players came back out onto the ice the broadcast cut to a news-flash – and that was when she realized it was important. Anything that disrupted a big hockey night had to be important.
At first she thought the color had gone on the television. They showed the scene of a snowstorm in a city – but everything was tinged a deep green. The presenter sounded serious though, so she paid attention.
“An unusual phenomena is being reported all along the East Coast tonight. It is snowing in a zone stretching from New England all the way up to Labrador – nothing unusual for this time of the year. But what has the scientists baffled is the color. Across wide swathes of the storm-hit area the snow is falling green. As you can see from our pictures, this is no joke.”
The screen indeed showed what appeared to be green snow falling heavily on city streets.
“Reports are also coming in that this snowfall is having strange effects on plant life in some areas, but these reports are as-yet unconfirmed, as many rural areas are completely cut off in the storm. We will, of course keep you fully up to date with this breaking story, but in the meantime, we return you to the big game.”
The teams were already playing, but Alice’s curiosity was piqued. She took her mug with her and went through to the sunroom. In the summer she’d have been taking her coffee here, with the windows open and cool evening breezes washing away the heat of the day. At this time of year the room was mostly unused. Frost ran in spider-web patterns across the windows, but she could see enough.
The snow is green!
The game still blared in the front room, but she wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass her by. She went to the main door and started the process of inuring herself against the weather – snow boots, coat, hat, scarf and gloves.
She opened the door thinking she was prepared. She’d left her right glove off to turn the handle. As she opened the door some green-tinged snowflakes landed on the back of her hand.
They immediately started to burn, like cinders from a fire that had been poked too vigorously. She withdrew her hand quickly and pushed the door shut. Her hand stung and she had to grit her teeth against the pain. She ran to the kitchen and ran cold water over the affected areas – five small holes bubbled as if acid had fallen there.
The water didn’t erase the burning. Looking closely she saw points of green deep down in the small wounds. They seemed to be burrowing deeper, the green areas spreading as if it was actually eating her flesh -- and growing as it did so.
What is this shit?
There was only one thought in her mind – to get rid of the pain. She scrambled in the kitchen drawers until she found what she was looking for.
She managed to light a series of matches and, while the heads still burned, poked them deep into the wounds. Each burning brought a fresh scream from her, but five matches later she was able to study the back of her hand. There was a ruined mess of burned tissue, and the pain was almost unbearable.
But there were no more green spots.
***
John Hiscock only just got to safety in time, but he had already spent most of his adult life preparing for this moment, and was not surprised it had finally come.
Bloody terrorists!
When he was younger he’d thought it would be a nuclear event that he’d have to hide from. But in recent years it had become more obvious that it would be either a biological or chemical attack – that was the sneaky thing to do.
He’d bought this cabin high in the hills above Saint John nearly fifteen years ago, and had spent most of his spare time building his defenses and ensuring that he would be fully stocked in the event that his fears came to pass.
They’d laughed at him long and hard for years down at the garage. Jake Forbes in particular had ridden him constantly, calling him a paranoid freak, and taking every opportunity to ask what he was wasting his paycheck on this week.
But who is laughing now?
He almost hadn’t been given enough warning. It was only by luck that the storm didn’t start until he’d got home from his shift. The first green flake had fallen as he walked from his truck to the front door. Old Ben loped over to welcome him home and a flake landed on his nose. The old dog yelped and started to run in circles. It was only by sternly ordering him to stand still that Hiscock was able to get his training to overrule his pain. He examined the dog’s nose closely. Something green and bubbling festered in a weeping sore.
A second flake landed next to the dog’s left eye and immediately started to boil.
That had been enough for Hiscock. Less than five seconds later he was inside the house with the door securely shut, locking the poor dog outside.
Two minutes after that he climbed down into a basement that had been turned into the equivalent of
a nuclear bunker. He locked it down and set the air filters going. He spent several minutes checking for any signs of the green spots on exposed skin and let out a sigh when he found that he was clear. It was only then that his breathing started to return to something near normal.
He fired up his satellite and CCTV links and tried to make sense of what was going on.
The first thing he did was check on the dog. Old Ben had been a companion for ten years now -- a good gun dog and a faithful friend. It had pained him greatly to leave him outside.
But I couldn’t take the risk.
He had control of several cameras from a joystick and keypad on his main desk. The one in the yard showed green snow coming down – thicker now, coating the drive. A bundle lay in front of the door, a seething mass that bore no resemblance at all to a dog – the only sign that it was indeed Old Ben was the remnants of a tail that had, so far, escaped the terror. The dog’s body looked like green acid had been poured all over it. Flesh boiled and ran.
Yet the dog was amazingly still alive, still struggling to stand, mouth open in a howl of pain and fear. Hiscock was glad that he had not got round to installing microphones.
He watched for several minutes until the sight got too much. He switched to look at the rear view, where green snow fell on the forest that butted up to the back garden. At first his gaze was drawn to the lawn. It seethed and boiled in the same manner as the dog’s skin.
Whatever that green stuff is, it affects grass as much as flesh.
He panned the camera up towards the trees and gasped. Thick ropy drools of green slime seemed to be sloughing off the pines, leaving behind only skeletal arms of dead wood behind.
Houston, we have a problem.
And I guess it’s time to find out just how big that problem is.
He fired up his news feeds, expecting to find that the major channels were already onto the story. He was to be disappointed. The hockey game dominated the schedules. He was about to try the FM bands when the hockey cut to a news flash.
About time too.
“Reports are also coming in that this snowfall is having strange effects on plant life in some areas, but these reports are as-yet unconfirmed, as many rural areas are completely cut off in the storm. We will, of course keep you completely up to date with this breaking story, but in the meantime, we return you to the big game.”
You must be shitting me! Come up here and I’ll show you some strange effects all right.
He could believe that such a blatantly obvious terror attack was getting so little airtime. Then the thought struck him.
They’re in on it. It’s the New World Order. They’re finally taking control.
He needed to check that theory – the answer might determine just how long he’d be required to spend in the bunker.
He had long ago been given a hack that allowed him access to CCTV cameras in many parts of the USA and Canada. First up he checked in on Saint John itself. He often used the CCTV camera near the garage to check up on his workplace – it gave him some small feeling of power to watch the others without them knowing he was there. Tonight the picture showed only an empty street. Green snow fell and accumulated, but there was no sign of any damage being done to buildings, and there was no vegetation in that area of downtown that might be influenced.
Besides, this was New Brunswick, during a major winter storm. The locals knew better than to be out and about.
Then he remembered what they’d said on the news flash.
It is snowing in a zone stretching from New England all the way up to Labrador.
Canadians might know better than to be out in a storm, but he was willing to bet that some of the Yanks weren’t that smart.
He started in New York. He knew exactly what he was looking for. It this was the New World Order coup that so many had forecast, then UN troops, in conjunction with FEMA, would already be out on the streets making sure that any insurgency was quickly quelled.
He didn’t find any such signs. But what he did find scared him more.
He had flicked through tens of scenes of deserted, snow-covered, roads until he came to a camera in Central Park. A group of teenagers huddled inside a bandstand. He did not need a microphone to know that they were screaming. The snow was thinner on the ground here, but that only gave the green flakes access to the grass and bushes. He was just able to make out the same slimy drool that he had seen falling from the trees in his back yard. The teenagers just had enough cover to keep out of reach of the falling flakes. But some of them hadn’t been so lucky.
Three heaving mounds lay on the steps. Hiscock didn’t look closely – he didn’t need to.
Whatever was falling, it had the same fatal result -- on trees, on dogs… and on people.
***
Alice was in agony. She had bandaged her hand as well as she was able, glad to be hiding the raw-meat look of her flesh. She’d also swallowed three painkillers.
That had been half an hour before. But the pain had not lessened. It still felt as if she held her hand on a hot skillet. The hockey match was still on the big screen but she had lost interest. She flicked channels, looking for news reports that might explain why her hand was afire. All she found was a few joking pieces about the green snow – one even suggesting it was just a publicity stunt for the Boston Celtics.
Her biologist’s training told her that algal blooms could conceivably be picked up in a big enough storm at sea and deposited somewhere else entirely.
But no algae can burn like that.
She too considered the possibility of a terrorist attack.
But surely that would have made the news by now?
Her hand started to throb in time with her heartbeat.
That’s all I need.
She was about to make a start on the rum when her phone rang. By instinct she made a grab for it – with her right hand. She was still cursing at the fresh flare of pain as she answered.
The voice at the other end sounded frantic.
“Alice? It’s Jean. Come quick.”
And that was it. The phone was hung up at the other end, and when she redialed no one answered.
Jean and Chuck Dupree were her nearest neighbors, retired shopkeepers from the mainland, with a plot some fifty yards further down shore. She went to the window and looked in that direction, but the snow whipped and flurried, obscuring any view. She couldn’t even tell if their lights were on.
There’s no way I’m going out in that.
But Jean had sounded so distraught. And the Duprees, although proud of their independence, were both getting on in years. If they were in trouble during the storm, it was her duty to help them out.
But how can I? That green shit is deadly.
An image came to mind, of standing at the wheel of the Zodiac while rain lashed horizontally against the boat – and her body. But she was snug warm – and protected.
The survival suits.
She’d bought them last year. They were of the kind used by the military and air-sea rescue teams across North America -- bulky, and in a gaudy florescent orange. Ten of them cost more than five thousand dollars. But they saved her that much and more in insurance payments, and kept the tourists warm and dry out on a Bay that was often inclement.
And, tonight, they’ll repay me even more.
Or so she hoped. She went back out into the boathouse and put on one of the suits. In the summer she wore hers over just shorts and a thin vest. Putting it on now over her winter woolens felt like trying to wedge herself into a tight sleeping bag. It proved to be a struggle, but two minutes later she was encased in the warm suit.
It was when she pulled up the hood that she realized there was something she’d forgotten. Although the suit covered her body completely, knee-high boots protected her feet, and thick gloves covered her hands, her face would still be exposed.
The helmet she’d used during the one winter when she thought a Skidoo was a good idea sorted that out. It just fit, and when she pulled the
survival suit’s hood over the top of it her neck was also completely protected. She stood there for a while, making sure she got enough air so that she wouldn’t suffocate. A claustrophobia panic threatened to send her straight back to the kitchen and comfort, but the thought of the old couple in trouble got her moving.
Gingerly she went to open the shed door. She had intended to push just one arm out, a quick test and no more. But as soon as she unlocked the door the wind caught it and smacked it wide open. Green snow hit her full frontal, pattering like buckshot against her faceplate.
She winced and drew back, but, looking down, she saw that the green flakes slid harmlessly off the suit, and the ones that hit the faceplate melted and ran off almost immediately.
This just might work.
She set her gaze on the path that would lead her over to the Dupree’s house and headed out into the teeth of the storm.
***
Hiscock couldn’t keep his attention from that bandstand in Central Park.
Of all the cameras at his disposal, it was the only one that showed any people. He’d seen enough to realize that most of the greenery on the East Coast was being eaten by the green snow. That of itself was enough to convince him that he’d made the right choice in taking to the bunker. The fate of the kids in the bandstand only cemented his belief.
He had watched them, on and off, for nearly an hour before the first of them broke ranks. They had stood in a shivering, screaming huddle all that time, calling for help that showed no signs of arriving. The three mounds on the steps were completely covered in thick green snow. The bodies had seethed and boiled for a time, but now seemed to lie still. The lack of movement, and the fact that they must have been close to hypothermia, led two of the teenagers to attempt an escape.
They lasted less than ten seconds.
As soon as the snow hit them they started to scream. One fell to his knees, palms in front of his face. The flesh on the back of his hands immediately melted where the snow hit them. The other escapee ran for the trees. One of the ropy drools of slime fell on him, almost completely covering him in a green goop. His skin fell off in oily patches and within seconds white bone showed.
The Invasion (Extended Version) Page 1