The Third Wheel

by Michael J. Ritchie

  The walk to Blackpond is done in almost complete silence. We veer off from the train tracks after a while and cut across a golf course. Ruby-and-Alex are at the front, Shell-and-Terry right behind. Peregrina-and-Pete are doing their best to console me, but I can’t shake the image my brain has created of Jay and Kay becoming, far too literally, Jay-and-Kay. Catsby is still trailing us, but at some distance, as if we’re cursed and getting too close will only cause him more issues than his little feline brain can deal with.

  Ruby-and-Alex stop next to a bunker and they split, Ruby standing on the lip of the sand and Alex running down into it, aiming fruitless kicks at the sand, launching great clouds of yellow and white. He screams, a scream of futility, and no amount of shouting from us can stop him. Breathless, he collapses down into the sand, burying his face in his shirt and half-heartedly punching the bunker.

  Death affects us in different ways.

  Alex had, to the best of my knowledge, not been particularly close to Jay-and-Kay, but then again I don’t know him as well as some of the other boyfriends. Ruby joins him in the sand and sits down next to him, although not daring to touch him. The rest of us move to a small copse of trees and make ourselves as comfortable as possible among fox shit, leafy mulch and lost golf balls.

  No one has any idea what to say, because the obvious stuff doesn’t need to be said, and it’s tactless to mention anything else. If not for the faint roar of cars on an unseen road, and the occasional chirrup of a few birds, the world would be utterly silent here.

  Eventually, someone speaks. It’s Shell.

  ‘We need to find somewhere to sleep tonight,’ she says. ‘I’m not sleeping out in a field, not with wild dogs and aliens about.’

  ‘I estimate we’re about an hour from Blackpond,’ says Pete. ‘Once Alex is… well, we’ll get moving in a minute. Dexter, what food have you got?’ I dish out some supplies and we eat in silence, later joined by Ruby-and-Alex. After half an hour or so, we rally our moods and make a move. The sky is overcast; thick, grey, marshmallow clouds scud the skies and we feel the odd spot of rain.

  ‘I can see the church,’ I say. Pete was right; it’s taken us about fifty minutes. ‘We’ll go there and get some shelter.’ The others acquiesce and the notion of having a goal, no matter how short term, buoys us slightly.

  Blackpond is a small village with very little of note going for it. There’s a train station, a sixteenth-century pub – The Letters Inn – and the imposing church that we’re heading for. I have very faint memories of coming to the village with my parents as a small child, as it boasts a farmer’s market that is locally renowned. I’ve not been here in twenty years, only ever passing through it on the train on the way to work or London.

  The sun is setting and the world has taken on a sepia tone. There are still signs of life here, some people still in their houses, a few in the streets, hurrying from one place to another. There doesn’t appear to be any electricity, though. We see an elderly couple making their way to the church.

  ‘Do you think that’s the safest place to go?’ I ask.

  ‘Church’ll do me fine,’ says Ruby. ‘Big stone walls, hopefully kind and welcoming people inside. Aliens won’t understand, but we can give it a go.’ We follow the old couple to the church and pass through the graveyard. Tall foxgloves line the walls, not flowering yet, but I imagine they’re a beautiful sight in the summer. Inside the church we are greeted, as Ruby predicted, by a kind and welcoming figure, the vicar, dressed in his black robe and white dog collar.

  ‘Welcome, my children,’ he says, arms open wide. I’d guess at him being in his late sixties, with thinning grey hair and a face weathered like the cliffs at Dover. ‘Please, come and shelter. We are safe here. They have not reached Blackpond.’ The seven of us, very conscious of our lack of religiousness, nod at him, give quick smiles and pass through to a couple of pews at the side of the church that haven’t yet been taken. A couple of people look at our guns, but no one comments on them. Maybe they don’t dare. I feel uncomfortable and conspicuous holding a pistol in a church.

  The church is full of people; some look scared, others merely look impatient. Children of all ages run around and are chastised weakly by parents too tired to do anything more. A flicker of disgust laps at my brain, as I realise that humanity has been doomed for less than a day, a matter of hours, really, and so many of these people already look like hope is lost and they’re refugees of a civil war. Very well dressed and clean refugees, mind, but refugees all the same.

  ‘Where did Catsby go?’ says Peregrina, speaking aloud the question I was trying not to think about. If everyone else is paired up, he’s my partner, as it were. Catsby was (no, is) an excellent cat, highly intelligent and about as gentle as it’s possible for a cat to be, showing a sometimes dog-like level of devotion. I always preferred cats because of their independence, but short of having to take him for a walk, I might as well have bought a terrier.

  ‘He’d been following us,’ I say, trying not to let my face betray any emotion. It’s not that I’m scared of showing emotion – most of my friends have seen me cry – but if I start I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop. ‘He’ll be OK. He’ll probably be better without us to be honest.’

  The vicar passes by, introduces himself as Reverend Fawkes, and we give our names in return, although I don’t expect him to actually remember them. He moves on and I’m left with my thoughts again. The others have paired up, hugging together for security and safety.

  My phone is at 47% battery, the screen as dark as it is possible for it to go and, with an idle thought, I decide to try and call Gavin. It cuts straight to voicemail, and I wish I hadn’t bothered because my brain decides to construct an image of the remains of Gavin-and-Frederik mixed together, left bleeding and rotten in their flat.

  Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I call Lara too. Her phone connects, but after a few rings moves to voicemail.

  I shudder and hug my knees, looking sadly at the children in the church, for whom this may be the last time they get to experience happiness. I wonder what will happen to the children left without parents but decide not to pursue that line of thought for the time being. Maybe the aliens will get infected with Earth bacteria, like in The War of the Worlds, or maybe they’ll win. Assuming they’re trying to win.

  I think back to what Jay-and-Kay said about nanobots joining people together. I have no reason to doubt them; it makes good sense. But why? Aliens were always going to be so different from us, but what reason would there be for joining bodies? Maybe they were right about that too – perhaps it’s a breeding thing. It would explain why the nanobots are only attracted to couples. It’s like they know.

  My phone vibrates once and a text message falls into the inbox.

  I don’t know if you’ll get this, but before we die, I wanted you to know that I love you. X

  It’s Georgina. There isn’t a suitable reply to that message. I don’t love her, never did, so I can’t lie and say that, but not replying may suggest that I’m already dead. I’m not being callous, but surely survival comes ahead of texting your ex to ensure they know how you feel, right? Maybe I should lie and give her that hope to hold on to – I’m never going to see her again, after all.

  I feel overcome with exhaustion, and my eyes get heavier.

  *

  I wake up later on the stone floor of the church. It takes me a while to reorient myself. People are singing hymns. I look at my watch – it has gone eleven o’clock. Peregrina-and-Pete are awake on the pew above me.

  ‘We didn’t want to wake you,’ says Peregrina, smiling down at me. ‘The others are asleep too, but we thought someone should stay up.’ I sit up and see the other four in the aisle. The rifles are under the pew, as is my pistol. I smile and stretch out – flagstones are not comfortable and my bones feel like a badly constructed jigsaw puzzle. I pull myself up onto the pew and notice that most people are asleep, but Reverend Fawkes has a small choir up by the altar and they�
�re singing a hymn I don’t recognise. It’s been years since I’ve been in a church.

  The hymn finishes and an echoey silence reverberates about the church’s interior. I’m not religious but I do admire churches and cathedrals for their beauty and calm. Reverend Fawkes takes position in his pulpit and extends his arms. It’s like a nervous tic, or maybe a gesture they teach you when you’re training for the priesthood.

  ‘Brothers and sisters,’ he begins, in that melodious sing-song voice that all religious figures use when in public. ‘We have strangers here on Earth. Although they have not reached our little community of Blackpond yet, I feel that soon they will.

  ‘The media, foul and cluttered cesspit of shock and awe that it tries to be, will tell you that these visitors are beings from another world, come to take our lives. But there is only one who can take our lives without our consent, and that is Lord God, amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ mumbles the crowd. I don’t join in – something feels wrong. Peregrina is looking at her hands in her lap, but Pete is staring at Fawkes. I nudge him and he looks at me instead.

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ I say, barely louder than a breath.

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t like how this is going,’ says Pete. ‘Something’s wrong.’ Reverend Fawkes starts up again.

  ‘Therefore, it is my belief, and the Lord has told me that I’m correct, that these visitors are angels. The Rapture is upon us, my children. And although we thought it would come in days of fiery torment, it has come with an unholy silence. These angels of death have come to turn the Earth into a place of torture for the sinners. We must ascend to a higher plane. Join me, now, in our final drink.’

  ‘I don’t remember this sermon,’ says Alex. He and Ruby have woken up, and Shell-and-Terry are stirring too. Fawkes steps down from the pulpit and I notice for the first time that there is a line of communion goblets on a trestle table at the front of the church. He beckons the first people towards him, displaying a smile with the inviting warmth of a fireplace in mid-January and, as if hypnotised, they walk towards the altar.

  It happens in slow motion. The first two, a couple by the look of things, take a goblet each and drink from them. Before the liquid can finish emptying down their throats, they drop the goblets, which clatter against the flagstones and roll away under a pew. Gripping each other, eyes bulging, they sink to their knees, gasping and grabbing at their chests before falling like the goblets and all movement ending.

  ‘Come forward, my children,’ says Fawkes, looking around at the congregation. My friends and I aside, everyone else is pretty nonplussed about what’s just happened, or so exhausted they’ve stopped caring.

  Trying to leave a place that’s in almost dead silence without being noticed is like trying to reason with a tiger that you’re too stringy to be worth the trouble, but we have to try. We wait until the next people have gone up to Reverend Fawkes and taken a cup of whatever the hell they’re drinking and stand up, picking up the guns and shooting panicked glances between each other, the door and the vicar. Our standing up does not go unnoticed.

  ‘Ah, our new friends have nominated themselves, come, please,’ he says, arms wide again. When confronted by a mad preacher who seems to have no qualms about killing his flock, what is the right course of action? It’s another one of those topics not covered by self-help books.

  ‘No, sorry, we need to be going,’ I squeak, my grip on the pistol tightening. I sound like I’m trying to excuse myself from an awkward dinner party rather than save seven lives.

  ‘Yes, going to heaven,’ says Fawkes, moving towards us. Three more people have drunk from goblets and are choking and falling to their knees. A small mousy man, a verger at a guess, is refilling goblets with a dark red juice that probably isn’t Ribena. More people get up to drink, and we’re too frozen in terror and possibly curiosity to move. I feel more scared of the vicar than I do of the aliens. They are a distant memory here.

  Fawkes moves quicker than I’d like and stands between us and the exit. Pete and Terry move forward first, rifles slung over shoulders, but neither can apparently bring himself to push the priest out of the way.

  ‘You will not leave,’ says Fawkes, in a voice as hard as the stones of the building he stands in. ‘Only sinners will have a future out there. I have always known this day would come, and I have been preparing for the eventuality.

  ‘When the angels landed in their heavenly craft, I knew what was going on. I was destined to bring my children together and with them pass on to the Promised Land. I cannot in good faith let you leave here. You must come with us.’ He moves forward again, threatening this time, as if trying to herd us back into the church.

  The punch that saves us surprises Reverend Fawkes, myself and, probably more than anyone else, Peregrina. The vicar’s nose explodes in a mess of bright red blood and he falls backwards onto the stones. Peregrina looks down at her handiwork and casts a nervous glance at her fist, as if seeing it for the first time and it acted of its own accord.

  ‘I punched a vicar.’ Her voice is quiet. Pete grabs her wrist and, needing no further cue, we make a break for it into the night. It’s cold and drizzling, but we run and don’t stop until the church is out of sight and we’re tucked out of harm’s way between a bike shop and a bakery. None of us knows what to say, except Peregrina, who keeps muttering about her crime over and over again.

  ‘I punched a vicar. I punched a vicar. Punched a vicar. Oh my god, I’m going to hell.’

  ‘Don’t sweat it,’ says Shell, pulling herself up onto a dustbin. ‘We’re already there.’

  Nineteen

  Back to School

  I wake with a jolt. I didn’t even realise I’d fallen asleep – I think I worried myself into a coma. It takes me a moment to recognise where I am. I’m still in the cell. Still eight feet square, still featureless save for the floating orb of light.

  My back is sore. My joints feel like they’ve got sand in them and, when I stretch, several parts of me click and crack. The harsh noise reverberates off the metal walls. I’ve no way of knowing how long I’ve been unconscious. Maybe one of the aliens did something to me.

  My thoughts must have invaded my dreams, as the images of going to sleep in an alley hover like dust motes in front of my eyes. Suddenly, sleeping al fresco during an invasion seems like a welcome exchange for this, but then I remember what happened next.

  *

  Terry jiggles a credit card between the door and its frame at the back of the bike shop. It is the following morning and, while we’ve slept in that dank, damp alley, it’s not because we felt comfortable or safe, just maddeningly exhausted. A day on the run in a freshly post-apocalyptic scenario will do that to a person. Had we been thinking straight, we would’ve made our way into one of the many abandoned shops or houses around us, but none of us had even entertained the idea. Besides, we would have run the risk of trapping ourselves. Better to be somewhere we could escape at speed.

  I scratch my chin, feeling new bristly hairs poking through the skin and wishing that I could have a shower. Modern humanity is not designed for this sort of activity – we’re more of an indoor kind of race, liking the comforts of power showers, Internet connections and toasted bagels. Terry fails to get any sort of movement from the lock, so Shell elbows him out of the way, rifle still slung over her back, and has a go.

  I become aware that this is the first time since she discovered make-up that I’ve seen Shell without any on. Notorious for always slipping to the toilets to pop a bit more lipstick or mascara on, she’s now bare faced and, actually, still not in the least bit unattractive. Her eyes look a little more sunken, her lips less defined, but she’s still Shell, even with a gun. Terry has stubble, and his designer jeans are covered in dirt from lying in the alley. Mine are too, but at least they were cheap. Terry is the sort to spend a couple of hundred quid on a pair of jeans, then complain he doesn’t have enough to get a round in.

  Ruby wears little make-up anyway, but her
blonde hair has morphed from a style worn on the head of a Greek goddess to something that looks like it’s trying to eat her. Her eyes are ringed red – which explains who it was crying all night – and Alex looks much the same, still clinging to her as if leaving her side for one second will be the death of him.

  I actually think that, given what we’ve seen so far, sticking that close to her might be.

  Pete already has a beard, so he doesn’t look much different, but Peregrina is kneeling in the mud, her breathing jerky and uneven. I heard her get up and vomit a couple of times in the night and she now looks dehydrated and is shaking. Pete rubs her back and looks at me with a glum expression, not really knowing what to say.

  I dread to think what I look like, but I feel like it’s been another night of monkey sex with Georgina. I still haven’t replied to her. There’s nothing to say.

  ‘No, get off, I’m doing it,’ snaps Shell, pushing Terry away with the heel of her hand. A look I don’t like passes like a storm cloud across his face, but he resigns himself to letting Shell take control. After a few more wiggles, the door pops open and she goes inside, Terry following and me bringing up the rear. The others aren’t going anywhere.

  The door opens right into the staffroom, which is cluttered with cycling magazines, abandoned coats and hats, half-empty drinks bottles, and a bin overflowing with food packaging and more magazines. I explore the fridge and find several cans of Coke. I shove them in a carrier bag and fill a few bottles with tap water. We had food left in our rucksacks, but they were abandoned at the church in our hurry to escape.

  In the alley, Ruby-and-Alex have at last stood up, but Peregrina remains on her hands and knees.

  ‘Make her drink this, get some sugar and stuff inside her,’ I say, holding out a chilled red can to Pete. He takes it and I give the rest of them to Ruby. ‘One of you needs to get into that bakery too; we can stock up on food from there. I’m going back in to help Shell get the bikes.’ I return to the shop where Terry is trying on a helmet and Shell is pulling bikes off of racks, checking tyre pressures and seat heights.