by Brian Hughes
“Arh...geddafter it yourself, y’ bladdy Sassenach bitch!” Miss McHerny struggled across the frozen mud, urging her pallid fingers against the walking frame’s crossbar. Eighty-five years a spinster and barely able to see, Miss McHerny had always enjoyed life. Up until six months ago that is. In fact, right up until the moment that Amanda Duck had tried to put the fun back into being chronologically advanced. Her Zimmer clumped another step forwards, its hostile occupant shuffling her blood-worm-crazed legs along after it.
Amanda managed to convince herself that she hadn’t heard the caustic comment. It was something she was good at that...ignoring remarks about her sexual persuasion and her previous acquaintances with animals. The dynamic sportswoman jogged excitedly past the old dear, pointing with severity across the misty field. Her breath became rotund clouds of vapour punctuating the space behind her head.
“Left field, Miss McHerny! Chop chop!” She blew her whistle as if to reaffirm the necessity for speed. “We’re up against the ‘Blackmoore View Retirement Eleven’ on Saturday. And we don’t want to be beaten by a group of old men now, do we?”
“I ’ope ya swallow the fackin’ pea!” Miss McHerny muttered as the loathsome trainer bounced past in a blur of brown skin and shorts.
Whereupon something curious happened.
The football, still rolling down the shallow incline, appeared to collide with the thin air and bounce back up the slope. Amanda, now in full sprint, had to leap in a tangle of long limbs to avoid it.
Puzzled by the ball’s extraordinary behaviour she looked forward, trying to ascertain what it had actually struck. There was nothing there. At least that was what Amanda’s eyes informed her. The sudden blow to her forehead would have made her think differently had she remained conscious long enough to do so.
The instructor collapsed into a heap of football socks and chestnut coloured flesh, lying at an impossible angle in the air. Inside her mind Amanda tumbled down a bottomless well of concussion.
Fortunately perhaps, for the mental stability of those concerned, nobody witnessed the events that happened next. The old ladies had gathered about the goal mouth, animatedly gossiping about varicose veins and horrible lung disorders. With the exception of Miss McHerny, of course, who was still relentlessly ploughing the ground. They were so engrossed in all matters medical that they didn’t hear the extraordinary squeal that sounded as though a large metal jam-jar cap was being unscrewed.
Shortly afterwards came the hum. A brown and green scoop that resembled the shovel of some camouflaged bulldozer appeared about thirty-odd feet above the ground. The ladle descended, positioning itself in front of Amanda’s slumped body.
Soundlessly Amanda Duck was scooped up. Then the scoop retreated into the oblong of exposed craft and vanished from sight. The hatch squealed shut, an operation that shook the remaining leaves from the surrounding thickets.
And not one of the old ladies stopped to question where their manager had gone. In fact half an hour later the whole outfit had started to kick the ball about experimentally on their own. Even Miss McHerny wore her toothless smile for the first time that they could recall from their term involved with the sport.
Fido, the resident feline of the Doyle household, was attempting to increase his volume by four hundred percent. Much to his annoyance, he was failing dismally.
Far from appearing threatening the underdeveloped animal resembled a hairbrush with pointed teeth. Fido had never managed to live up to his aggressive name. After three years of unproductive nutrition both mother and daughter had come to the conclusion that he would never grow above fourteen inches, from the tip of his tail to the permanent rind of food encrusted to his nose.
In his own fashion, however, Fido was defending his owner’s property. Right now for example he was ripping the armchair into shreds.
Fido hissed.
Shortly afterwards he spat.
Then he attempted to roar. Ineffectually as it turned out because the noise that emerged was about as fearsome as a mouse having a temper tantrum. So instead he bravely scratched at the viscous mass swamping the coffee table before him. It was a chivalrous attempt. One conducted in much the same manner that a bluebottle would attack a dangerous brick.
The gelatinous creature on the other hand was much more intimidating. Angrily it wrestled Mary’s Zimmer from her clutches, chewing the paint from one twisted leg.
Mrs. Doyle and Cissy held onto each other, cornered against the fireplace. Expressions of horror pulled impolitely at their facial muscles.
“’Ere…go an’ belt it wi’ this!”
Cissy felt her mother thrust an object into her hand. She took a look. It was the Royal Dolton Dairymaid that her mother had always been so proud of.
“And make sure y’ don’t scratch it! Or else you’ll ’ave t’ pay for it out of your wages!”
“I’m not hitting it with that!” Cissy thrust the figurine back into her mother’s hand. A tussle broke out, both combatants struggling for the ornament’s dispossession.
“I warned y’ Cecilia! I told y’ not t’ bring bloody animals into this ’ouse!” Mrs. Doyle stuffed the pot into her cardigan pocket, reluctant to have it back but even more reluctant to let it fall and shatter.
“I didn’t bring it in!” Incredulous, Cissy stood with her mouth open. It resembled an oyster without its pearl. “Where the bloody ’ell do you think I bought THAT? Percival’s bloody Pet Shop on Lancaster Street?”
“Don’t you bloody swear at me, my girl! You may not ’ave bought it, but I’m bloody sure you’ve ’ad an ’and in bringin’ it into my ’ome!” The aggressive old battle-axe swung upon her daughter with ferocity. “So y’ can just bloody well take it back t’ wherever it come from!”
Unfortunately Cissy didn’t have time to reply. At that moment the creature reared up with a whoop. It undulated and then opened an orifice, huge tentacles growing out from its sides. With a terrifying lurch it bore down on poor old Fido.
Seconds later Fido found himself skittering up the wallpaper using his claws for grip. A ladder of puncture holes climbed towards the daido rail. About one foot off the ceiling and unsure exactly what to do next - especially considering that the ceiling itself would probably be unable to support the full weight of a cat, even a small one - Fido inspected the world across his shoulder and felt the paper give.
With a fretful simper and a plaintive “MEEoowwwwww...” the blown vinyl tore away from the plaster. Fido toppled, head over tail, becoming engulfed in the process. In his own feline fashion he now understood what Cleopatra must have experienced upon her meeting with Mark Anthony.
“Grab the broom, Cecilia! Grab the broom!”
Through the commotion Mrs. Doyle’s crooked finger jabbed assertively in the direction of the door. Cissy swivelled round, noticed the yard brush propped up against the wall and wondered if she’d have enough time to grab it.
Only one way to find out!
She sprinted, the G force pushing her lips back across her teeth. With an outstretched arm she reached for the pole.
Then shrieked in dread.
Her feet left the ground, kicking at the empty air. Something moist and incredibly strong had locked itself around her waist. The tentacle hoisted her upwards until her head was brushing the ceiling, small flakes of paint speckling her hair.
“Mother? Do something! Quick!”
“Cissy!” croaked back the old woman. “Get down from there this instant, y’ stupid girl!”
Down below her Mrs. Doyle was shaking the walking stick with vehemence. It embedded itself in the creature’s stomach. The enormous animal extended its limbs across the lounge. Cissy could just about make out Fido warding off a tangled knot of liquefied tendrils. Then she noticed the great gawking maw that had opened beneath her trembling toes.
It glistened, a salivating abyss of certain death. What a torturous end being broken down in the gastric juices of an invertebrate composed from paste. Her bobby socks brushed against the
ravenous lips.
“MOTHER!”
The window exploded, the curtains minced beneath the onslaught of brilliant shards. Through the confusion hurtled the overweight torso of Sergeant Partridge, wrapping his arms about his head for protection. He hit the carpet in a shower of fragments and stopped as dead as a whale that had grounded itself in an ornamental stream.
The decades might have come and gone for Jack Partridge. And a great many hours had been invested in the construction of his girth. But the academy training had been harsh and wasn’t easily forgotten. Springing to his feet with surprising agility Jack took stock of the situation. Most would have frozen in astonishment. But Jack’s motto was ‘Sort it out now. Worry later.’
With one shovel-like hand he grabbed a lump of rubbery flesh, successfully wrestling it into a headlock. With the other fist clenched into an unstoppable mallet he began pounding the creature’s imprisoned extremity with as much might as he could.
The organism screamed unexpectedly, its skin squeaking beneath Jack’s fingertips. Its hold slackened, its attention diverted to the unwelcome fist being administered, unwittingly, to its reproductive pouch.
Cissy toppled to the floor with a crack, crumpling up into a knuckle of bones.
Writhing, the alien dragged itself backwards. Jack tightened his grip, performing a horrible Chinese burn. He could almost feel the muscles wince beneath the traditional schoolboy’s torture.
With a ‘Golump’ the unwanted intruder metamorphosed into a new and startling form. A shape that resembled the sergeant himself, duplicated right down to every last perfect detail. Only at four-feet-six it was a sort of miniaturised version, looking as puzzled about what had happened as the genuine article.
Instinctively Jack grabbed the nearest chair. He swung it towards the head of his clone and felt it reach a sudden halt as though it had landed in glue.
There was a twist and a struggle. Both were pursued by an inhuman gnashing noise. And suddenly the miniature Jack Partridge had disappeared.
Almost as though the creature had climbed inside his mind, Jack saw its shape change into that of a gigantic model aircraft. With the thrum of a Lancaster bomber’s engines it hurtled out through the window and screamed off down the street.
Leaving nothing behind but a startled policeman, an angry old woman and a battered young girl.
And a badly shaken cat still spitting at the umbrella plant that in all the chaos had landed upside-down.
“I ’ope you intend to clean this lot up, young man!”
Mrs. Doyle cast a glance at the dumbstruck policeman who was attempting to mollify his tousled hair. Jack brushed the odd remnant of window from the bolder sections of his sweater, raising an eyebrow towards the ungrateful old witch. Leaning over to remove a lump of plaster from the senior citizen’s shoulder he found himself being pushed away with an unanticipated strength.
“Get y’r filthy ’ands off me!” Mrs. Doyle snapped. “I don’t want none of your dirty maulin’ goin’ on!”
“That’s all right, Madam. Anytime I ’appen t’ be passin’. Just let me know if there’s anything else I can do. Any dinosaurs in the attic that need a good smackin’! Any bloody great octopuses y’ might require me t’ wrestle t’ death!”
Mrs Doyle pulled a face like a bulldog’s and started to search for her missing walking stick.
“I’m sorry about Mother.” Cissy had straightened herself up, although it must be said she still looked as bedraggled as a goat. “She’s not very good with strangers I’m afraid.”
Having thought about that she added, “In fact she’s not very good with anyone really.”
“Keep away from ’im, Cecilia!” Mrs. Doyle didn’t bother raising her wrinkled head. “You don’t know where ’ee’s bin!”
Before Cissy had the chance to further apologise, Jack placed a finger in front of her swollen eyes and stopped the words dead.
“What exactly was that? That...that...” He sought for an apt description, turning his eyes upwards as though the phrase might be written on the ceiling. “That blob...thing?”
“I’m not exactly sure…” Cissy chewed her bottom lip without conviction. “But I’ve got a suspicion it might have been an Altarian Beast!”
Amanda Duck opened her eyes and suddenly felt very small and frightened. It was a similar sensation to one she had experienced as a child, on her first morning at primary school. When her parents had waved goodbye and walked away without a care in the world.
A distinctive pain arced from one temple to the other. The type of pain that Amanda would have expected had one of her old ladies just jabbed a knitting needle through her forehead.
She tried to sit upright. Then tried some more.
Which was when she discovered that she was strapped to a metal table, several leathery bands securing her firmly in position. For some women such a scenario might have been a dream come true. But for Amanda, who only ever wanted to be in control, it was one of the worst nightmares she could imagine. The memories of recent events began to cautiously scurry forwards to the prow of her mind.
“Hello?” Her voice reverberated around the imposing empty vault, forming a blue haze before her trembling lips. “Could somebody tell me what’s going on?”
No response.
Just the distant sounds of metal instruments being honed and then placed on what sounded like a stainless-steel surface. Above her head swung a menacing low-wattage lamp. The sort of lamp associated with interrogation scenes from 1940’s film noirs. An uncontrollable panic seized Amanda, tightening her chest and forcing her to scream very loudly.
On the periphery of her blinkered vision she caught a glimpse of what was causing the pain in her cerebral cortex. Some construction was tightly fastened about her skull. A hypodermic needle had been positioned once every quarter around its circumference.
“SOMEBODY HELP ME! LET ME OUT!”
A shadowy figure sidled up. Moments later it was joined by something altogether more stumpy. Both figures leaned across the welfare officer’s prostrate body. Small clouds of carbon dioxide hung suspended in front of their ill-defined features. Amanda stopped yelling, every muscle in her body frozen with fear.
The taller of the two was dressed in a Napoleonic military uniform, all granddad shirt collars and gold braiding. The svelte being stooped forwards, forcing Amanda’s eyelids apart with a pair of hooked thumbs. The shorter of the couple, a stumpy creature that resembled a baked potato, held up a collection of glinting instruments in one shrivelled hand. Vicious looking instruments that Amanda was willing to lay odds on weren’t going to be used as tyre levers. The surgeon smiled as though its face had been sliced in half with a scalpel.
“So let me get this straight...” Marshal Hogan brought the two damaged wires together. His head hit the wreckage of the cockpit as a bolt of electricity erupted into sparks.
“Earth...” Wearily he threw the cables to one side. There was obviously no point in continuing the maintenance. “Earth’s society has discovered nuclear energy, right? But instead of using it to propel craft for intergalactic exploration...”
He squinted, reassessing his information.
“They’re making massive great bombs to drop on each other’s heads in territorial disputes?”
“Yeah…” ANN, now in the guise of a stocky dwarf with the sort of beard that a family of birds could have built a nest in, licked a copious thumb. Then she flicked over the page of a beautifully rendered leather volume. The journal of ‘Colonel Fastbinder, Space Explorer.’ “That’s about the long and short of it I’m afraid, Commander.”
“And roughly one tenth of the population,” Hogan persevered, thoughtfully. “Have so much money they don’t know what to do with it all? Whilst the other ninety percent are either living in slums or dying of malnutrition?”
“Odd that isn’t it?” The dwarf raised one eyebrow, rippled and transformed into the sweaty drunkard once more. “And not one of them is bothered enough to actually do any
thing about the situation!”
“So, what you’re actually saying is…” Hogan’s face settled down into a frown. “I’m stuck on a planet populated by apes who’ve invented an atom bomb? A race of imbecilic primitives with the destructive power of an imploding supernova? No wonder nobody ever asked them to join the Inter-Galactic Federation then.”
The pear-shaped dipsomaniac ran a moist tongue about its bulging lips and stared stupidly at the crumbling control panel. Marshal shook his head resignedly, glancing at the splinters of the obsolete unit. Ah well. Might as well give it one last try. An ominous shadow drifted over him. A translucent watercolour that wrapped itself around the hatchway with all the melodrama of a Victorian villain’s cape. Before he managed to raise his eyes a wooden stick belted him round the side of his skull.
“I said ’ee was a shit, Cissy! And ee’ is a bloody shit!”
“Mother! For God’s sake!” A familiar voice interrupted the assault. Mrs. Doyle crammed her head through the narrow opening. She took a careful if not unsteady aim with the staff before lashing out afresh. Several bulbs embedded in the cockpit ceiling shattered. They had been designed to withstand the pressure of an event horizon.
A panorama of false teeth swamped the whole of Hogan’s vision. “Y’ know what we do with shit on this planet, Mister?”
Hogan grabbed the weapon. Mrs. Doyle gave a tug but Hogan pressed his angry face into her own ball of chamois leather. “Judging by the smell of your breath, I reckon that y’ eat it!”
A battle broke out beyond the hatchway. A few moments later Cecilia Doyle had managed to once more gain the upper hand over her mother. With a heave Mrs. Doyle was dislodged from the hole, still swearing unpleasantly. Commander Hogan clutched at his battered elbows, breathing out in relief.
It was short lived. Cissy’s form replaced that of her mother’s, a dark silhouette that belted him firmly on his unshaven jaw. “You BASTARD!” The maddened adolescent thrust her fists onto her hips in a time-honoured fashion and stood there glowering with the unsociability of a weevil-filled Aunt Sally. “So you were just going to bugger off and leave those…things…to eat my friends up, were you? Commander?”