The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller

by Smitherd, Luke

  Given the rough direction that I knew the Stone Man to be taking, I’m amazed when I look back on it that I hadn’t even considered the possibility. I’m a pessimist at the best of times, and this was a worst-case scenario that even the average man in the street might have thought about, given all that was going on around him … but it hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  The TV was showing footage (clearly taken by a professional news crew this time) of another flattened apartment block. It was a far bigger one this time, many floors high. The destruction, according to the reporter, was total, due to bad dumb luck. The Stone Man had happened to not only strike the eastern wall, but continue directly along and through it, utterly removing any support for the eastern side of the building. It had taken twenty minutes to fall fully, and incredibly, the handful of people inside at the time (most of them elderly) had been evacuated during this period by fire crews, but the building itself was no more. The shot, taken from behind a line of police tape, showed the faint remaining haze of dust and plaster hanging in the air. The familiar betting shop was visible next door, and the edge of the Dominos outlet next to that was also just in shot.

  That had been my apartment building. I was now homeless. It was not the last thing that the Stone Man’s arrival meant I would lose.

  ***

  Chapter Two: A Kind Gesture and a Betrayal, A Very Different Kind of Broadcast, Andy Heads North, And Paul Shakes Hands

  ***

  I remember the arsehole laughing. He actually laughed when I told him that had been my home. Unlucky mate! Son of a bitch. I was almost too shocked to say anything, but then he took down the bottle of Sambuca from the shelf and handed it to me, still chuckling, and said that it was on the house. I was still so shocked and confused, both by what I had seen and his reaction, that I dumbly took the bottle from him and staggered out of the shop without a word.

  I stood in the street with the sun now nearly completely below the horizon, trying to work out both what was happening and where I was so that I could get back to where my building had been. I don’t know why I wanted to go back. I just did. Some kind of dumb hope that I might be able to salvage something from the utter wreckage maybe, or perhaps just a need to see it for myself so I knew that it was really gone. At this stage I wasn’t thinking about insurance or possessions. That would come shortly after. Right now I just wanted to get back.

  In absolutely typical fashion, now that I no longer wanted to get hold of anyone in the media, I found that my phone’s network was suddenly stable again. All of the few local friends that I had lived in the suburbs of the city, and mostly behind the starting point of the Stone Man’s path, so they would be safe. My parents had both died some years back, so I didn’t have to worry about calling them. Perhaps some people would be concerned about me, given that they may have seen the ruin of my apartment building thanks to national TV, but at that time I didn’t give a shit. I just wanted to get back, and phone signal meant that I could use the GPS and map function on the device.

  A quick check showed that I was almost an hour’s walk away from home. I was very tired, and it would soon be fully dark, but I figured that I had a bottle of booze and some music on my phone; the two combined would keep me nice and numb, so that I didn’t have to try to comprehend how much I’d lost in the space of just a few short hours. Plus, walking was easy to deal with. Pick the feet up, put them down. That would be something to focus on. It would do. I unscrewed the cap on the Sambuca, put my headphones in my ears and began to walk, slack faced and wide eyed.

  The streets were fairly deserted now. Most people were presumably indoors, glued to their TVs to follow the Stone Man’s progress. Indeed, why should they not be? When had there ever been such a genuine marvel portrayed live on TV for all the world? A real-deal, miraculous, tangible thing of wonder not provided by CGI or puppetry, but by something far, far more magical; a mysterious, unknown creator. The only thing in this world more irresistible to human beings than greed is curiosity, and the need to know the answers. I was no different. I simply had concerns of a more practical nature to deal with at that point, as I staggered, rather tipsily, through the streets of Coventry. Passing cars, too, were few in number, both due to the TV attraction at home and the scare factor of the earlier traffic chaos. The city seemed to have a settled feel to it as the night fell; although there had been destruction and death on a scale not seen since the wartime bombings, and the fact that Coventry had been at the very heart of an event that held worldwide fascination, the initial impact of it was over. For those with still-standing homes, the aftermath could be dealt with and cleaned up tomorrow. The people wanted to rest. I knew the feeling. Every time thoughts tried to push in (what about clothes? What about ID? What about the computer? What about the TV? What about) I simply took another swig.

  Eventually, I reached my street, lit only by streetlights now. I could see the police cars, and the floodlights, and the large crowd gathered around the police line. Even at a distance, I could hear the walkie-talkies buzzing back and forth as the tired rescue crews picked through the rubble. Ambulance crews dealt with the minor injuries of the people that had been waiting until the few critical cases had been shipped out to the hospital. As I drew closer, on unsteady feet, I began to actually realise the stupidity of what I was doing. Yes, I needed to see it, needed to see the ruin for myself, but on a practical basis, what the hell did I hope to achieve here? I could see enough even from the end of the street. My home was gone. I was lucky that it had been such a warm day; the way things were looking, I had no choice but to sleep in an alleyway that night, unless I could get hold of someone who’d put me up. My phone still had signal, so I stood at the back of the crowd of gawkers, swaying gently back and forth, as I went through my phone book to see who would have the privilege of putting my drunken ass up until morning.

  After five tries at getting hold of five different people, a pattern was clearly emerging. Everyone’s line was going straight to answer phone. Even now, other people, normal people, had loved ones to call, families to check on, friends to ring and gossip with, people that they hadn’t yet called for their opinion. I would have exhausted all of my close-enough contacts within an hour of the story first breaking, had I not been in hot pursuit. This realisation made me pause for a moment, and a sadness washed over me that was far greater than any feeling I’d had about the destruction of my flat. I can remember that moment very clearly, for some reason. That’s the funny thing about people like me; so much can happen and not cause our emotional tripwire to even slightly vibrate, and yet discovering that five people’s phones are engaged can send us into paroxysms of despair and self-pity. But then, I’ve never had a problem generating self-pity.

  As I stood, shoulders slumped and eyes beginning to water, part of my brain was registering that there was something I should be paying attention to. I just didn’t know what. I looked up, and then heard it clearly.

  “Andy? It’s Andy, isn’t it?”

  Someone was calling from the back of the gathered crowd; a man’s voice, although I couldn’t make out his features or even his body shape; from here, the people were silhouetted into one black blob against the glare of the police lights. I watched as a figure broke away from the mob, one hand now raised to catch my attention more clearly.

  “Andy? It’s me, Shaun, Phil’s mate?” Straightaway, before I could see him fully, I realised who this man was, and at the same time felt a pang of fear for someone else. Phil. Phil, my flatmate, and his visiting brother. I hadn’t even thought about the two of them. Shaun must have seen it in my face, as he held up his hands quickly to placate me, drawing closer.

  “No, no, don’t panic; it’s okay, they’re fine. They were here about an hour ago, I was talking to them, they’re both fine. They’d gone out to have a look at the damage, just being nosy. You’ve only just missed them, they’ve gone to a B and B for the night,” Shaun finished, smiling as he lowered his hands.

  I remembered Shaun well. Nice
guy. He’d been round the flat a few times; he was a workmate of Phil’s who happened to live nearby. He was a few years younger than me, only just into his thirties, and still in enviably good shape. He hadn’t long been married, and I’d met his wife briefly too; gorgeous. It wasn’t surprising, as Shaun was good looking and outgoing. By rights I should have hated his guts, but the fact was that the man was just naturally likeable. Shaun held out his hand, smiling with sympathetic eyes as he stood in his beach shorts and T-shirt, a still-capped beer in his pocket. I took his hand and shook it.

  “Glad to see you’re all right,” he said. “We were wondering what the hell had happened to you. Phil tried to call you a few times earlier, and all he was getting was your answer phone. We didn’t think you’d been in there, as you were out when they left and the fire crews had managed to check a few flats before it came down, yours included. But still …” he shrugged. “Send the guy a text though, eh? Let him know you’re okay.”

  “I will,” I replied, and meant it, but I didn’t think Phil would be too worried. We liked each other, but we weren’t close. “I’ve had no signal for most of the day, to be honest, but I don’t think I’m the only one.”

  “No, everyone here’s been saying the same thing. Did you … did you have anything in there that was important?” Shaun asked, wincing theatrically.

  “Nope. Laptop here in my bag, phone here, everything else was just clothes, food, a few pictures,” I said, slurring my words now and waving it off with a flapping, uncoordinated hand. “I’m not the sentimental type. I had contents insurance, but I don’t know where the hell this fits into the policy. You want some of this?” I asked, offering the bottle of Sambuca. Shaun looked at it, thrust towards his face as it was, and started to refuse, then suddenly raised his eyebrows and took the bottle, unscrewing the top.

  “Yeah, sod it. Listen, have you got a place to stay tonight?” Shaun asked, taking a swig. He screwed his face up slightly at the aftertaste, and continued. “I offered Phil and his brother the spare bed and the sofa but they didn’t want to impose. Stupid if you ask me, the offer was there, but hey. Anyway, leaves more room for you. You want it? If you don’t mind me saying so man, you look like hell. Rough day?” I took the bottle as he offered it back, and considered the question.

  “Yep. My house fell down,” I said, and started to take a swig, but suddenly burst out laughing and sprayed Sambuca everywhere. Shaun laughed too, but not as hard, and wiped the spat-out booze off the side of his face.

  “Okay, okay, stupid question,” he said. “But look man, come stay at mine, the missus won’t mind and we’ll get some proper food in you, and some hot tea. You look like you could, y’know, do with leaving off that for an hour or so,” he finished, pointing at the bottle. He handed me back the cap, and I screwed it on.

  “Thanks, Shaun. Thank you,” I said, meaning it and suddenly feeling emotional again. “That’s a very, very kind offer of you … from you … of you. Of you. Okay,” I finished, taking a deep breath and standing upright, looking around. A moment passed, and Shaun didn’t seem to know what to say next. Nor did I, really.

  “Okay, well … well, let’s go!” he finished, with a forced, breezy air (possibly regretting his decision, and I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did) and turned slightly, a gesture meant for me to follow. I looked down at the floor and gave him a thumbs-up, suddenly dizzy, but kept my shit together long enough to make it down the road with him, heading round the corner and into Shaun’s terraced house. I collapsed onto the sofa, and he went off to explain to his wife what I was doing in the living room with my filthy shoes on.

  I just remembered, actually; thinking about that bit with the jets and the missiles has reminded me. I saw footage later, much later, of them trying something that I’d wondered would work; nets. Not to stop the Stone Man—even at the time they’d realised that trying that would be laughable—but to lift it up. The idea went round very quickly that, yes, obviously it couldn’t be destroyed, but if it could be lifted, removed from the ground, then any further progression would be impossible. But, as with many things regarding the Stone Man, the result was baffling. They couldn’t pick it up. They’d laid an immense steel-cabled net, attached to four choppers, one on each corner, and placed the whole thing in its path (another field if I remember right) and waited. Once the Stone Man had stepped onto the net, the choppers had taken off … and yet the Stone Man had just carried on walking. The net had gone taut, and yet the part of it that had been under the Stone Man’s foot at any single time remained anchored to the earth. As the Stone Man stepped forward onto the next part of the net (obviously raised up at an angle due to the upward pull of the choppers) that part went down under the Stone Man’s heel also, actually dragging the choppers slightly downward with it. The bit that the Stone Man had just stepped off sprung upwards, taut as a drum. The really, really crazy thing, that they still don’t understand even now, is that apparently it was nothing to do with weight.

  I remember seeing a show on TV talking about that exact same day; apparently the amount of weight it would take to hold down four choppers of that model (whatever the hell it was) especially when placed onto a point the size of the Stone Man’s foot, would have left a small impact crater under each footstep many feet deep. I don’t remember the numbers. But the marks left on the field were, whilst still much deeper than that of a normal man, only several inches deep. Obviously, no civilians knew anything about this until later, when the footage came to light, but at the time the military and government absolutely freaked out. Even after all the staggering destruction and ease with which the Stone Man had flattened entire buildings, it was still at least vaguely within the realm of our understanding; we understood physics, and the laws of greater forces acting upon solid objects. Walls collapse, buildings fall down. Everything the Stone Man had done so far obeyed those laws, even though we had only vague ideas how such a creature, or machine, could be created to carry these actions out with such force. But this was the first sign that we really were unquestionably dealing with something far, far beyond our understanding; at this point, the men and women at the top started to become very, very afraid. Later, the rest of the world would catch up. But that was later.

  Anyway. Shaun’s house.

  ***

  I woke up an hour later, and realised that I’d fallen asleep on the sofa without meaning to. My first thought was to assess how I felt, and to compare it to earlier on the flyover. Was this another blackout like before, or a combination of exhaustion, dehydration and booze? I sat very still for a few seconds, and came to a conclusion; this wasn’t the same as the flyover. This felt different.

  Yes … I knew this feeling from past experience; this was waking up drunk. Not as drunk as I’d been before sleeping, but still decidedly tipsy, nonetheless. I knew the light-headed, slightly headache-y feeling that went with a pause in heavy drinking. I’d always thought of it as the tipping point. One more and you’d be almost instantly on your way, pull up now and you could become kind-of sober, kind-of fast, mentally but not legally. I needed water, I knew that much for certain.

  I struggled to my feet, nearly fell back onto the sofa, then pulled myself upright and took in my surroundings. Shaun’s living room, at least, had the air of a house designed for resale; Magnolia walls, stripped of paper and painted over, with small, carefully placed shelves on the wall bearing miniature coloured candles. A fluffy, single coloured cream rug lay on the red pile carpet, and the too-small floor space housed a three-piece black leather suite, with the armchairs crammed into the corners of the room so that the whole set just fit inside the floor area. The pictures on the walls were canvas frames bearing terrible, colourful acrylic artwork that either Shaun and his wife—I couldn’t remember her name—or a friend had painted. Either that or they had felt sorry for the artist and bought their works out of pity. Behind the sofa, a staircase led to the upper floor. I was never a fan of that kind of thing. Made the whole room feel like a hallway to me, but ea
ch to their own.

  I heard noise from the door at the far side of the room, tinny sounds that suggested a TV or a radio, and assumed that was where my hosts were to be found. I headed towards it, feeling unsteady on my feet and becoming more and more aware of the need for some water. As I pushed the door open and found myself in the kitchen, the harsh, unshaded light from the spotlight bulbs hurt my eyes and my head. If the living room was magnolia, the small kitchen was white-white-white, with the odd cheap reflective surface here and there. I didn’t like it; someone was thinking about nothing but the property ladder. The floor was tiled with terracotta-effect squares, and the cupboards were, oddly, as white as the walls. Shaun was sitting at the pine (effect?) four-seater table by the wall, watching the small LCD TV on the countertop, whilst his wife turned to see me as she paused halfway through loading the dishwasher. To her infinite credit, she actually smiled.

  “Aha, the sleeper awakes,” she said, with genuine amusement, and Shaun turned round also, smiling too.

  “Here he is!” he said, grinning. “Thought we’d watch telly in here, didn’t want to disturb you. How you feeling now, bud? Any clearer?” I held my thumb and forefinger tips about a centimetre apart, and raised my hand.

  “Not bad,” I said, smiling back. “I think I’d better have some water, to be honest.”

  “Good idea,” said his wife (I still couldn’t remember) as she went to the cupboard, still smiling, and took out a pint glass to fill at the sink. “We haven’t got a lot in, but have a look in the cupboards and the fridge; help yourself to whatever you want. Seriously, I’m going shopping tomorrow, so go nuts.” She crossed the room to hand me the glass, and I was struck by how right my original, hazy memory had been. She was indeed gorgeous.