Slave Empire - Prophecy

by T C Southwell

Rayne woke stiff and tired after a cold night of restless sleep that the scuttling and squeaking of rats had disturbed. She rose and stretched, eased her aching back and rubbed her legs. She shivered in the morning chill, chafing her arms as she went to the door to peer out. The street was almost deserted, only the tramps from the day before were back at their fire, haggling over another rat. After waiting for several minutes to see if anyone else appeared, she left the doorway and trotted down the refuse-strewn street, her eyes darting into dark alleys and doorways.

  The hoboes paused to regard her with glinting eyes, and she tried to act as confident as an armed raider. Her ploy seemed to work, for they returned to fighting over the rat as she hurried away. She stayed away from buildings, which often harboured drifters and raiders lying in ambush. Heading towards the suburbs, she kept her pace to a steady jog that ate up the kilometres. As she approached the outskirts, the ruins of office blocks gave way to demolished houses. Far fewer human vermin hid here. Most congregated around the city centre, where rats were more numerous, since the rats lived on the food in the autocrats’ stores. She stayed in the middle of a road, trusting her ability to run more than the possibility of hiding from a threat, which could get her cornered. She looked up in alarm as a shadow fell on her, then stopped in amazement.

  A giant, blood-red saucer hovered about twenty metres above her, light shining from portals along its edge. More lights flickered across its underside in random patterns, and it hung there as if on invisible strings. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, sending chills down her spine. For a moment surprise kept her frozen, then she edged towards the side of the road, where the houses’ safety beckoned. The alien ship filled her with foreboding, and something told her it was not friendly. Vagabonds emerged from the houses to point, shout and stare, but Rayne backed closer to the derelict buildings, her eyes fixed on the ship.

  Dread overwhelmed her, and she turned and sprinted for the nearest house. As she ran through the doorway, crimson fire erupted outside. The explosion blew her off her feet, and she threw out her hands to break her fall. Glass imploded from the few intact windows, whizzing past her in a shower of razor-sharp shards. Her leather jacket protected her from most of it, but splinters stabbed the back of her legs. She hit the ground with a muffled cry, raising a cloud of fine white dust. Lights danced in her eyes as she inhaled the dust, coughing.

  The explosion’s rumble died away, leaving her ears ringing, and she raised her head and shook splinters from her hair, glancing back. The saucer descended, and the vagrants had prudently vanished. Climbing to her feet, she staggered deeper into the house, her mind whirling with stunned confusion. The dwelling offered doubtful protection, its walls mottled with mould and peeling paint, the ceiling sagging under the weight of the wet rot in the upper floor.

  Her leg wounds burnt as she limped through another door, entering a smaller room. Broken furniture, smashed crockery and shredded papers littered the filthy, rotten carpet. Excrement and graffiti smeared the walls, and ripped curtains hung in tatters around empty windows. Rayne flattened herself to the wall when a shadow passed the window, then flung herself down as explosions ripped through the house. Red fire blazed in a brilliant barrage outside. The bolts threw up clods of earth, and the walls cracked.

  Bricks and mortar would not hold up against the fiery fusillade for long. Scrambling to her hands and knees, she crawled towards another door. The house shook and rattled as what could only be lasers pounded it, chunks of brick and cement flying into the rooms to smash on the floor. An outer wall fell with a grating rumble, and dust and wood chips, mixed with cement fragments, rained down from the upper storey. The deafening explosions were almost constant, and the house was collapsing around her.

  Crawling through the door, she entered a hallway. A flight of stairs led to an upper floor ablaze with laser fire, the roof cinders. Smoke billowed downwards, and ash and burning wood fell from above. The thickening haze almost obscured a door under the stairs. Quickening her crawl, she reached it and turned the handle, praying it was unlocked. It swung open, catching her off balance, and she fell into pitch blackness, flinging out her arms. Her hands hit steps and her momentum sent her rolling down them, scraping her palms and banging her head. She reached the bottom bruised and winded, and lay gasping for a minute before crawling deeper into the darkness.

  Above, the house’s destruction continued. The earth shook as laser bolts pounded the building to rubble. The explosions all but drowned out the roar of flames and the bangs and crashes as walls collapsed, bricks falling with dry, grating thuds. The tinkle of smashing glass mingled with the creak of tortured wood. The house groaned and roared as it was destroyed. Reaching a wall, she sat with her back pressed to it and stared up at the oblong of light at the top of the stairs.

  Flames licked at the wooden frame. Soon they would travel down the stairs and fill the room with smoke. She plugged her ears to block out the sounds of destruction above and coughed as the fumes thickened, sweat beading her face and trickling inside her clothes.

  A terrific crash made her jump as the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, hit by a falling beam or wall, and she was plunged into blackness. The door’s violent closure snuffed out the flames that licked at its frame, sealing her off from the burning house until the fire ate through the door.

  Silence clamped down, broken only by the inferno’s crackle, and she unplugged her ears to listen. Burning wood made little mewling sounds, and the occasional crash as a burning timber collapsed, or the tinkle of glass shattering in the heat, made her start.

  Why would an alien spaceship try to kill an insignificant human being? There was no doubt in her mind that she had been the target. The vagrants would have been far easier to kill. She wiped sweat off her face with grimy hands, realising, from the stinging of her palms, that they were raw. Would these hostile aliens leave, or would they wait for the house to cool and search the rubble for her corpse? Had it been sport, choosing a target and trying to kill it for fun? Plenty of UFOs had been seen since mankind’s downfall, observing, and perhaps recording Earth’s demise. They had kept their distance, however, never making contact in spite of humanity’s attempts to communicate with them.

  Smoke stung her windpipe and made her eyes water. The door at the top of the stairs creaked, its outer surface on fire. Rayne forced herself to wait in the suffocating darkness, fighting a strong urge to go in search of light and air. The aliens might think she was dead, or they could be waiting outside to make sure, and if she revealed herself now they would hunt her down again.

  Rats ran about, their claws scratching on the concrete floor. One ran over her leg with tiny hard paws, and she shuddered, jerking it away. Their squeaking held a note of panic, so they must be trapped too, she surmised. The wall against which she leant was damp and coated with slimy mould, which soaked into her jacket, chilling her back. Flames appeared at the bottom of the door, throwing a little light down the steps. Rayne looked around. The rats’ glowing eyes met her gaze from a corner, where they seemed to be engaged in a purposeful activity, perhaps trying to chew their way out through the concrete.

  Rayne coughed again, and realised she had to get out before the fire consumed all the oxygen. Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could make out the faint outlines of boxes stacked against the walls, and an old-fashioned boiler in one corner. She tried to stand up, but stabbing pains in her legs made her grunt and sink back to explore the painful areas. Blood soaked the back of her leggings, and her groping fingers touched a protruding splinter. She gritted her teeth, yanked it out and flung it away. Fresh tears stung her watering eyes, but she continued her search, locating another, smaller shard. It was slippery and deeply embedded, and her fingers failed to grip it at first. The agony that lanced up her leg when she touched it made her stomach clench, but she pulled it out, groaning, and hunted for more. She extracted three more slivers, then sagged back, sick and dizzy.

  The door burnt, flames licking at the ceiling.
Stifling fumes made it hard to breathe and the heat was almost unbearable. She climbed to her feet and hobbled along the wall, running her hands over it. Her head swam. Flames crept down the stairs. Her hands encountered a frame, and she examined it, finding a hatch set at an angle to the wall, which must open upwards. Stepping into the recess under it, she set her shoulder against the trapdoor and heaved with all her might. It creaked, the dry wood digging into her.

  Again she pushed, her legs weakening. She was tempted to give up, lie down and surrender to the injustice of this cruel world she had struggled so hard to survive in all her life. With a strangled cry of defiance, she put the last of her strength into a final push. The hatch flew open as the rusted lock gave way, and she climbed out, inhaling great breaths of fresh air.