There were scores of them now, lurching towards me, their inhuman eyes staring, staring . . .
Chapter Thirteen
From the journal of Brian Nylon, 2nd January, 1952 – Iteration 66
Instinctively, I knocked the P.C. out with a single blow from my free hand.
I have no idea where that instinct came from, and felt vaguely ashamed of it. It seemed unpredictably violent for me, but predictably stupid. I now had to escape the lumbering mob whilst dragging behind me the dead weight of a rather corpulent village constable.
It was the world’s slowest ever chase.
Slowly, and mostly backwards, I hastened at a ponderous crawl up past the fishmonger’s and, finally, one desperate heave at a time, the temperance bar next door.
Sweating heavily, I looked back. I’d managed to gain a few precious seconds on the horde – just enough time to clumsily manhandle the unconscious seventeen stone copper I was toting into the conveniently empty pram parked outside.
I began to push it up the hill, barely eluding the grasping lunges of the chanting pack.
I was making much better time, but the pram creaked and moaned with its grotesquely adipose load over the clattering cobbles. I could feel every bump and divot transmitted directly via the rattling handles to my teeth, which were gritted in fear and resolve. Well, to be honest, just fear.
By the time I’d finally put enough distance between me and the mob to rest for a moment, I’d earned quite a ferocious headache, which wasn’t helped by the incessant stream of profanities being squawked from my flies. I started to dig through P.C. Mosely’s pockets for the handcuff key.
A cluster of furred-up boiled sweets, a whistle, a notebook, a plastic fried egg, three bicycle clips – why three? What on earth does he do with the extra one? – a well-licked pencil . . .
‘One of Us . . . One of Us . . .’
Come on! A curly sandwich. Very curly. When I held it up to my ear I swear I could hear the sea. A handcuff key, a packet of three Player’s Weights – perhaps he used the third clip around his arm to keep his sleeve up. But then, what about the other arm? – a box of Puck matches, a warrant card with a rather threadbare cover – did he keep a spare bicycle clip for a friend? Ooh! Wasn’t it something to do with the Freemasons? Didn’t they wear a special – Hang on there. Hadn’t I said ‘handcuff key’? But where had it gone? I must have put it some where.
‘One of Us . . . One of Us . . .’ Loud now.
What was that rattling in the sandwich? No – just a cockroach . . . Cockroach? Aghhhh! Wait, yes, there was the key, glinting between those cobbles!
I scooped it up, jabbed it in the lock and twisted feverishly. The rabble was almost upon me. There was a click that sounded to me like the sweet clarion trumpet of the heavenly host and I was free!
The possessed P.C. was starting to come round. He made a grab for my wrist, but he was still groggy, and I unnecessarily punched him in the face again. Who the devil was I?
There was a disturbing humming noise. I spun round to see, with alarm, some of the villagers rolling the meteorite in front of them. As it drew closer, I could hear a kind of unearthly music emanating from it, which seemed to be seeping into my brain.
I turned the pram around and sent it hurtling into my pursuers, scattering them like bar skittles.
I hared off up the hill, over the brow and into the nearby woods. Almost immediately I stumbled and fell over a hard metal object concealed by bracken and fronds. A pink motor scooter!
What an unlucky and cruel twist of fate. Any other colour on the planet and I could have ridden it home!
I picked myself up and stumbled on into the unforgiving wood. The path would have been easier, but this way was more direct. And wet. And thorny. And painful.
The sounds of the mob began to fade behind me. Those poor souls!
There was only one way to prevent this nightmare.
And that was to stop it before it happened in the first place.
Chapter Fourteen
From the journal of Brian Nylon, 2nd January, 1952 – Iteration 66
With shattered nerves and shredded clothes, I staggered into the lab reception. Jenkins was scrutinising some kind of report. He pretended not to notice me for a few moments. Then, unexpectedly, he exhaled a sudden cloud of smoke and surreptitiously slipped a pinched out dimp behind his ear with a smooth, practised movement. Only then did he look up.
‘Mr. Nylon, sir!’ He hiked his moustache. ‘You’ve got yourself in quite a state, there.’
‘There’s no time to explain, Jenkins.’ I raced down the corridor to the room with the Future Phone. I tried the handle. Locked, of course. I banged on the armoured door in frustration.
Jenkins ambled up behind me.
‘I need the key to this room immediately!’ I yelled.
Jenkins sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Sorry, Mr. Nylon, Dr. Janussen left strict instructions in that regard. She said: “On absolutely no account are those two brainless tur—”’
‘This is an emergency!’ I rattled the handle impotently.
‘It’s no good you trying to get in, sir, she’s got the key with her.’
There came a loud, rude word from my private quarters.
Jenkins coughed and nodded down.
The damned parrot had pecked open my fly buttons! Its multicoloured head was protruding, looking very pleased with itself, I must say. In fact, as I stared at it, its crest slowly raised in delight.
Jenkins ostentatiously averted his eyes. ‘Perhaps you’d like to “adjust your dress”, sir.’
I stuffed the bird rudely back inside and pinched the gap closed with my fingers. ‘Jenkins – I want you to forget what you’ve just seen.’
‘Believe me, sir, I’m trying to.’
My mind swirled through the remaining options. There weren’t many. ‘Right! We’ll have to use the ordinary phone. I need to speak to Downing Street immediately.’
This was one of those moments Jenkins lives for. He shook his head, but couldn’t shake the smile from under his tash. ‘I’m very much afraid, sir , the ordinary phone lines went down with the meteorite storm. And, before you ask, the two-way radio is jammed with what I can only describe as “an unearthly static”.’
‘Jenkins, listen carefully: that was no commonplace meteorite storm.’
‘I’m well aware, sir. This is the information the Professor asked for.’ He produced the report from the Telemergency Print-O-Gram machine he’d just been perusing. ‘By a hextraordinary coincidence, meteorites landed behind every single post office in the country.’
I grabbed the sheet and scanned it. This was worse than I could have dreamt. Except, possibly, for that dream about Winston Churchill dressed as a Lyons’ Corner House waitress – which, come to think of it now, may not have been a dream after all. I stuffed it in my jacket.
This was an invasion, nothing more or less. Unless I could come up with something fast, the entire human race was in peril. But what?
A razor sharp bill suddenly embedded itself in my thigh. Of course – the parrot! ‘Wait out here, Jenkins! There may still be one last chance.’ I raced into the gentlemen’s washroom and locked the door.
I manhandled the parrot out of my trousers and held it firmly so it faced me. It regarded me coldly, the steel of defiance still glinting in its eye.
‘OK, parrot: this is your moment. I’ve got to get this warning to the Government.’
‘ Awwwwk! ’
‘Here’s the message . . .’
The parrot looked at me. ‘ Here’s the message . . . ’ it repeated.
‘No, that’s not the message.’
‘ No, that’s not the message. ’
Clearly, this was not going to be a straightforward procedure. ‘No! Stop! The message will start . . . now.’
The parrot looked at me again. ‘ The message will start now .’
‘God give me strength.’
‘ God give me . . . ’
‘Shut up!’
‘ Shut up! ’
‘No, you shut up!’
‘ No, you shut up! ’
I bit my lip. I was arguing with an echo. This wasn’t getting me anywhere. Obviously, I needed to go straight to the message without saying anything else. I cleared my throat. The parrot cleared his.
‘Don’t go to the post office.’
The parrot considered this very carefully, and then said: ‘ No, you shut up! ’
‘No, you shut up!’
‘ No, you shut up! ’
I was doing it again! Damn this parrot! Infuriating little . . . I tried again. ‘Don’t go to the post office.’
‘ No, that’s not the message. ’
‘Yes it is! It is the bloody message!’
‘ God give me strength. ’
I composed myself and tried one last time.
‘Don’t go to the post office.’
There a very long silence. The parrot mulled it over. It put its head on one side and said: ‘ Go to the post office. ’
‘No no no no no no no! That’s the very opposite! Listen. Now listen very carefully. We’ll do it one word at a time: Don’t . . .’
‘ Don’t . . . ’
‘Go . . .’
‘ Go. . . ’
‘To . . .’
‘ To . . . ’
‘The . . .’
‘ The . . . ’
‘Post . . .’
‘ Post . . . ’
‘Office.’
A glint of comprehension dawned in the parrot’s eye. He puffed out his chest feathers, and in a confident tone declaimed, ‘ Go to the post office. ’
I’m afraid at that point my patience ran out, and I made it rather brutally clear to the parrot what his options were.
There was a discreet knock on the door, and Jenkins called, ‘Is everything all right, sir? Only, I heard a lot of hideously tortured squawking going on in there.’
‘Out in a minute, Jenkins!’ I held up the hopefully chastened bird. ‘Right, this is your last chance, Buster. Don’t go to the post office.’
‘ Don’t go to the post office. ’
‘No no no . . . hang on, though. What?’
‘ Don’t go to the post office. ’
‘Yes, yes. That’s it! You beauty! I could kiss you!’
The bird was extremely pleased with itself. It started bobbing its head up and down and repeating very excitedly: ‘ Go to the post office! Go to the post office! Go to the post office! Go to the post office . . .’
Clearly, this was hopeless. I had no option but to stuff the wretched creature back in my trousers. Serve him right, too.
The obstreperous janitor was waiting outside, pretending he hadn’t been listening at the door.
‘Jenkins! Any second now, an angry possessed mob of villagers is going to swarm up that road . . .’
Jenkins rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, not again.’
‘I’ll try and hold them off for as long as I can. In the meantime . . .’
I scribbled out a note as best I could on a sheet of Izal:
I handed it to him. ‘You’ve got to get this to the Prime Minister somehow.’
Jenkins took the note and openly read it, which I considered rather disrespectful. ‘Very good, sir. I’ll slip out the back gate . . .’
He hastened out of a nearby side door, as my mind raced ahead. Would the Professor’s security devices be sufficient to keep out a violent mob? And if not . . .? My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a familiar voice, but with a rather dark and unusual tone.
‘Hello, Brian.’
I turned. It was the Martian.
Chapter Fifteen
From the journal of Brian Nylon, 2nd January, 1952 – Iteration 66
I smiled, but the grin rather froze on my face. ‘Guuuurk – didn’t I see you going into the post office?’ I asked as casually as I could. ‘Did they happen to show you the glowing meteorite at all?’
‘Yes, they did. It’s rather . . .’ The Martian paused. Various eyes opened and closed so rapidly his face looked like a pinball machine. ‘Oh I see,’ he finally concluded. ‘You’re “One of Us”?’
Damn! He’d been turned!
I had no choice but to pretend they’d got me as well. ‘Yes . . . I am . . . One of Us.’
‘And so am I.’
We looked at each other uneasily. There was a long, embarrassing silence.
‘Shall we do the chant?’ Guuuurk suggested.
‘I suppose so,’ I reluctantly conceded. Neither of us seemed eager to chant first, so I rather feebly attempted to take the lead. ‘One of Us . . . One of Us . . .’
Guuuurk joined in in a rather cursory fashion, before breaking off apologetically. ‘I’m not very good at the chanting, actually.’
‘No, neither am I.’
‘We’ll take it as read, shall we?’
That was a relief. ‘I am looking for the Earthling Dr. Janussen,’ I lied as best I could, ‘to, uhm, stop her using the Future Phone to warn Yesterday-us not to go to the post office tomorrow. Today. Do you know where she is?’
‘I’m right behind you, Brian.’
I wheeled around, shocked. ‘Dr. Janussen!’
Guuuurk seemed similarly taken aback. ‘Gemma! Did you hear what we were just saying? At all?’
Her eyes took us both in for a moment, then her voice seemed to take on a deeper timbre. ‘Every word. But have no fear – I am also One of Us.’
This was a terrible, terrible blow. The beautiful, brilliant Dr. Janussen subsumed by an alien intelligence – perhaps forever! I should have realised there was something amiss when I’d seen her curious lumbering walk in the village. I had to struggle to wrestle the emotions from my face.
I was about to speak, when Professor Quanderhorn himself stepped forward out of the shadows and boomed, ‘I am also One of Us.’
I couldn’t help myself. Before I could stop them, the words ‘Oh, Rats!’ had fled my mouth.
The others turned towards me as one. ‘Perhaps I got the Earthling expression wrong,’ I squirmed. ‘I mistakenly thought rats were good things. I meant to imply I was just so utterly delighted the Professor is another One of Us.’
Quanderhorn nodded. ‘Troy is also One of Us, aren’t you, Troy?’
Troy stepped out of the shadows himself. ‘Actually, I don’t feel any different. But if you say so, Pops.’
So. My worst fears had been made manifest.
Everyone had been taken over except me.
Chapter Sixteen
Booday the argth of Phobos, Martian Year 5972 Pink
From the Secret Report to Martian Command, by Guuuurk. Also known as ‘Guuuurk the Intelligent’, ‘Guuuurk the Mighty’ and ‘Guuuurk the Sartorially Superior’.
Everyone had been taken over except me.
Obviously the dreary meteorite hypnotism couldn’t possibly work on my superior Martian brain, but I’d cunningly managed to dupe the rather simple-minded zombies behind the post office into believing I had been converted. As soon as the tedious chanting really got going, I made my excuses and left. I succeeded in starting Maureen in a lightning-fast twenty-three minutes, teased her up to almost 12 mph, foot flat down, and zipped out of town like wax off a floozy’s hairpin. *
Encountering Brian alone in reception, I realised just in the nick of time that he, too, had been ‘absorbed’. Unsurprisingly, it quickly emerged that the entire useless so-called ‘Invasion Prevention Team’ had fallen to the same device. How these sorry nincompoops ever managed to beat off the might of Mars on three consecutive occasions is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, folded up in a conundrum and stuffed inside a paper hat. With ‘I don’t know’ written on the front in brown crayon.
It was child’s play persuading the alien Brian that I was also ‘absorbed’. But maintaining the subterfuge now all four of them were possessed was going to prove very trying and extremely dangerous.
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed. ‘We’re all One of Us, then. How lo
vely!’
There was a rather worrying pause. I broke the silence by suggesting we tried the chant again, but alien Brian mercifully demurred. ‘I’m afraid I have to go off now . . .’ he declared, ‘and do . . . evil alien . . . thingumabobs. Gemma Alien, could I possibly have the key to the Future Pho—’
‘Stay where you are, dammit!’ the alien Quanderhorn barked. ‘I sense that one of us is not One of Us.’
I heroically resisted wetting myself. ‘Are you saying one of us is . . . One of Them?’
‘There’s only one way to root out the imposter,’ Quanderhorn insisted. ‘Extreme physical violence.’
‘Good idea,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m sensing it’s Brian.’
The alien Brian looked shocked. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he stammered.
‘That’s just what Not One of Us would say,’ I cleverly countered, ‘if he was One of Them.’
‘Very well, let’s see.’ Quanderhorn turned grimly to Troy. ‘Punch Brian in the face.’
The lad seemed confused. ‘Won’t that hurt him?’
‘Exactly the point. If he’s truly One of Us,’ alien Quanderhorn said, ‘he will feel no pain.’
‘Actually,’ alien Brian squirmed, ‘I turned my ankle earlier, and oooh . . . no pain at all. Just nothing. So it’s obviously not—’
Troy punched him in the face.
‘Ow! H. . . owwww did you not hurt me, Alien Troy, when you punched me so viciously hard ?’ A rather large and painful-looking bruise seemed to be swelling across his jaw.
I could see Quanderhorn was about to shift his attention towards me. Thinking fast, I yelled: ‘Let’s try kicking Brian in the shins.’
‘Uhm . . .’ Brian started to protest, so I had no choice but to quickly deliver the first vicious boot myself. The others joined in enthusiastically.
I could have sworn Brian’s eyes glazed over, but obviously, I was imagining it.
‘Ahddnngg! Unnnghhh! Ha ha ha,’ he screeched with an unconvincing half-laugh. ‘See? If that had hurt at all, I wouldn’t be able to dance a hornpipe now, would I?’
He staggered forward, took a single step and immediately fell over. He started flailing about on the floor humming a sea shanty. ‘See? I think Guuuurk’s the traitor! It’s definitely Guuuurk, not me.’
The Quanderhorn Xperimentations Page 10