World Killer: A Sci-Fi Action Adventure Novel

by Barry J. Hutchison

  “You... you were?”

  The policeman nodded. “Of course we were. Everyone was.”

  “But... I wasn't that late. I was only out for a few hours.”

  The man in the uniform frowned. Daryl's dad released his grip and leaned back. Both men exchanged a glance.

  “What are you talking about, son?” his dad muttered, and Daryl felt the cold air tingle across his cheeks. “You've been gone nearly three weeks.”

  TEN YEARS LATER

  Two

  Daryl wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror, squeezed a slug of toothpaste onto his brush, and set to work.

  Halfway through brushing, his hand slowed, then stopped. He studied his reflection, the toothbrush still pressed against his foamy teeth.

  Something was… not wrong, exactly, but different. A niggle, an itch deep down in his brain told him that something about him had changed.

  Daryl put down the toothbrush, rinsed, spat, then examined himself more closely.

  His hair was the usual reddish-brown, or ginger as most of the kids at school insisted on calling it, even though he was pretty sure it technically wasn’t.

  His pale face was the site of a long-standing battle between the opposing armies of Acne and Freckle. The tide looked to be very much turning Acne’s way at the moment, but then that had been on the cards for a while, so nothing unusual there.

  He was tall for his age, which was good, but stick-thin, which was not. It was as if his body had focused all its energy on growing upward and completely neglected to get any wider. From certain angles, he almost looked like a lollipop.

  Daryl examined his bare chest. Hairless as ever. It wasn’t that he wanted a hairy chest, but it’d be nice to at least have the option. He rubbed his chin, in case there was any action happening there, but other than the wispy beginnings of a ging—of a reddish-brown mustache there was, as usual, nothing to report on the facial hair front.

  He quickly ran through his Top Trumps stats.

  Height: 8

  Physique: 5

  Looks: 4 (Maybe 5 under certain lighting conditions.)

  Skin: 2

  He raised an arm and took a deep sniff of his pit.

  Body odor: 10. Or 0, depending on your scoring system. He smelled absolutely perfectly baby-fresh clean, so under his system that made him a 10. His one top score, and the only one he could take any real credit for.

  No change to the stats, then. There was nothing different. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. Wishful thinking, that was all.

  There was nothing unusual elsewhere in the house, either. Daryl walked into the kitchen to find his dad asleep at the table, an overflowing ashtray and a haphazard pyramid of beer cans beside him.

  Once upon a time he’d have tiptoed around the kitchen, but he had long since learned that a full brass band would have trouble rousing his dad now. He cleared away the cans while he waited for his toast to pop, then took it and a cup of milky tea through to the living room.

  Yesterday’s edition of The Sun lay draped across the armchair by the window. It had slipped down off the back and spread out across the seat, giving the impression it had melted. Daryl balanced on one foot and used the other one to slide the paper onto the floor.

  The springs groaned beneath him as he sat down, and he had his usual moment of stomach-knotting panic when he feared today was the day the chair would finally give up the ghost. It held firm, though, and he relaxed against its threadbare back and sat the toast down on his lap.

  It had been his mum’s chair. He remembered sitting on her knee, all scrunched up against her, while she read him stories and pointed out funny bits in the pictures. At least, he thought he remembered it, but his dad had spoken about it so many times he sometimes worried that he’d made the memory up.

  He couldn’t really picture anything else about his mum. There were just occasional snatches here and there that would rise up through the murk at the back of his memory, then dart away when he tried to hold onto them.

  He missed her, though. That much he knew for sure.

  Daryl took a bite of his toast and drowned it with a glug of tea. The TV was on, the volume turned all the way down. The Scottish woman with the friendly face was on. She looked very animated this morning, but then from what Daryl could gather, it didn’t take much to get her excited. A colorful hat often did the trick, or any recipe involving chocolate.

  He took another bite of toast. There was a slightly sour edge to it. He wasn’t sure if it was the bread or the butter, but something was definitely on the turn. He dumped what was left back on the plate and nursed his tea.

  Spots of rain began to dot the window. Over the roofs of the neighboring houses, dark clouds were drawing in. Daryl vaguely remembered the weatherman promising several days of sunshine recently. Showed how much he knew.

  The TV was showing what looked like a scene from a new film. That American teen pop sensation/talentless idiot that every girl in the world seemed to always be going on about, was standing on top of an expensive-looking American car and laughing like a maniac.

  Beams of orange light were streaking from the palms of his hands and up into the night sky. A few years ago it might have been an impressive effect, but anyone with a decent computer and access to Photoshop could do that these days.

  The camerawork wasn’t up to much, either. It looked as if it had been shot on a mobile phone. Then again, that sort of found-footage stuff was all the rage in Hollywood. They’d probably shot it on state-of-the-art HD equipment, then spent ten million dollars making it look terrible.

  The guy on the car looked like he was having the time of his life. He swung his arms around, sweeping the beams across the sky like searchlights.

  What was his name again? Daryl couldn’t remember. He should know it. The girls in school were always talking about him, and he was all over the newspapers on a near-daily basis, usually for something completely pointless. Like the time he’d sent a jet to Italy to bring him back a single bowl of ice cream, or the week when he’d brought a fully grown adult pig with him everywhere he went.

  Twat.

  Daryl finished his tea and went back to the kitchen. He slid the toast into the bin, then had a sniff of the butter and dropped that in, too.

  He was loading the dishwasher when he heard his dad groan awake.

  “Hey, you’re up. Morning.”

  “What?” said his dad. His throat sounded as if it were lined with crushed glass. He blinked and squinted up at the clock. “Time is it?”

  “Twenty to nine. I’m heading to school. Want me to make you a quick coffee?”

  Daryl’s dad shook his head. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Right. Good idea.” Daryl took his jacket off the hook by the back door and pulled it over his uniform. “Are you going near the shops today?” he asked. There was no reply from his dad. “We’re out of butter. And other stuff.”

  “You can pick it up on your way home, can’t you?”

  Daryl nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Course, yeah. I can get it.”

  His dad got up and stumbled over to the cupboard where the painkillers were kept. He pulled open the door and fumbled inside.

  “You be in later?” Daryl asked.

  His dad turned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just… I was just wondering. I could make us something to eat.”

  There was a pause as his dad knocked back a couple of painkillers. “Don’t know yet.”

  “Right,” said Daryl. He smiled and nodded. It was his automatic response to most situations. “See you when I see you, then.”

  He turned and opened the door. A gust of damp air swirled in from outside.

  “Daryl.”

  “Yeah?”

  His dad’s bloodshot eyes scrutinized him. “There something different about you?”

  Daryl looked down at his sparrow-legs in his too-short trousers. “No,” he said. “No, don’t think so.”

  “No,” said his
dad. He gave a shake of his head and kneaded his temples with his fingertips. “See you later.”

  “See you,” said Daryl, then he nodded, smiled and stepped outside into the gathering storm.

  Three

  Daryl ran the last hundred feet to school through a downpour. At the main gates, he weaved through a throng of jacketless Year Sevens who stood looking up to the sky and laughing, acting as if they’d never seen rain before in their lives.

  He puffed and wheezed up to the student entrance (Stamina: 4) and gave the heavy double doors their usual hard shove. They flew open and banged against the walls beyond. Daryl stumbled headlong into the foyer, thrown off balance.

  The gleeful gazes of a dozen or more pupils turned his way as he fought to stay on his feet, then they turned away in disinterest when he miraculously pulled it off. Daryl looked back at the doors as they swung slowly closed with a clunk. Huh. Lighter than usual.

  There was a sharp knock from nearby. The school secretary glared at him through her window. She stabbed a brightly-painted fingernail in the direction of the doors and shook her head in disapproval.

  Daryl auto-piloted a nod and a smile, then turned and scurried off in the direction of registration. The bell hadn’t gone yet, but if he set off early he might avoid running into—

  “Where you off to, Pidge?”

  Kenzie.

  Daryl pulled his bag higher on his shoulder and quickened his pace. Some days, if he pretended not to hear her, she lost interest and found someone else to have a go at. Some days.

  Not today.

  “Oi, Pidge. I’m talking to you,” she said, striding fast to catch up, no two bits of her wobbling the same way (Obesity: 8). She fell into step beside him, right in close because she’d long ago figured out it made him uncomfortable. “All them spots clogging up your ears or something?”

  Kenzie had been on his case since primary school. She’d joined his class in the final year, and had immediately set about making herself top dog. She’d spent that year and every year since picking on pretty much everyone, but Daryl was her favorite target by far.

  He wouldn’t have minded so much if she had been a boy. If it had come to it—if there had been absolutely no other choice open to him—he could at least have had a bash at fighting a boy. He could never fight a girl, though. It wasn’t right.

  Besides, she was enormous—as tall as him and three times as wide. She’d mash him into a paste.

  “I’m going to class,” Daryl said.

  “Bell’s not gone yet.”

  “So?”

  “So why you going to class? Why don’t you hang out with your friends? Oh wait, I forgot,” she said, slapping herself on the forehead. “You haven’t got any friends.”

  From behind him, Daryl heard the sniggering of Kenzie’s pack. He was sure those four girls had once all had names of their own—possibly even rudimentary personalities—but now they were Kenzie’s gang and nothing more.

  In fact, ‘gang’ wasn’t even the right word. Kenzie didn’t need a gang. She was the size of a gang all on her own. The other girls were there to be the one thing she did need—an audience.

  “See the news this morning?” she asked. “Ash Stone was on it. You well fancy him, don’t you?”

  Daryl shook his head. Ash Stone. That was him—the light-show guy on the TV. Ridiculous name. He should have remembered.

  “You do,” insisted Kenzie. “You well fancy him.” She began machine-gunning questions at him. “I bet you think about him in the shower, don’t you? Do you even have showers? When did you last have a shower?”

  “This morning,” said Daryl.

  “No, you didn’t,” snorted Kenzie. She held her nose. “You’re stinking.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are so. You should borrow your mum’s perfume.”

  Daryl’s feet stopped walking all on their own. Kenzie put her hand to her mouth, only half-hiding the smirk behind it. “Oh no, I forgot,” she said. “Your mum’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Something stirred in Daryl’s stomach. Even Kenzie didn’t go down the mum route very often. She’d done it maybe once or twice since primary school, but had otherwise steered clear of the subject.

  Her minions sniggered, but the tone was different. It sounded nervous now, like they weren’t entirely comfortable with the direction things had taken. They knew better than to speak out, though.

  Daryl turned to face Kenzie. His chest went hot, then his neck, then his cheeks, as if all his blood was surging up into his head.

  The corridor was still mostly empty, but the chatter of the other pupils seemed deafening, as if someone had cranked Daryl’s hearing up all the way up. They laughed, they joked, they spoke about homework, about the telly, about Eleanor Murray from Year Twelve getting caught in the store cupboard with one of the music teachers.

  Daryl could feel the heat of Kenzie’s breath on his face. A voice in his head urged him to let it go, to turn and walk away, but the rain rattled on the windows like war drums and he felt his heart beat faster in his chest.

  “What you staring at, Pidge?” asked Kenzie.

  “He looks like he’s going to cry,” said one of the pack.

  “You going to cry, Pidge?” Kenzie snorted.

  Daryl swallowed. His hands balled into fists. His limbs felt light, as if there were nothing in them but air.

  He despised her. She had come crashing into his miserable life five years ago and immediately set about making it even worse. He should hit her. He wanted to hit her; had surely earned the right to hit her, girl or not.

  The bell rang. The doors at the far end of the corridor opened and a stream of other pupils piled in. And like that, the moment passed.

  Daryl relaxed his fists. He adjusted his bag.

  “Just leave me alone, Kenzie,” he told her, and he hurried off to registration.

  “Line up, single file, behind the white line.”

  Daryl shuffled into position behind nine or ten of his classmates. The P.E. teacher, Mr Collins (Psychotic tendencies: 10; Mustache: 7), stood to the right of the basketball net, legs wide, clenched fists resting on his hips. He shook his head and scowled as the class tried to arrange itself into a line.

  “What a bloody shambles,” he barked. “One behind the other, it’s not difficult.”

  If anything, that just made matters worse as everyone hurried to get into position and avoid the teacher’s wrath.

  “And no talking,” Collins continued, even though no one was. “This is a sports queue, not a pension queue. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir,” chimed the class, just as they had been drilled to do so many times, and even though the teacher’s statement made little or no sense whatsoever.

  Sports queue. What was that? Mr Collins came out with that sort of thing all the time. Daryl could never decide if the sports teacher was A) winding them all up, or B) a complete headcase.

  All things considered, though, it was probably B.

  When the line was to his satisfaction, Mr Collins picked up a basketball and tossed it underarm to the girl at the front of the queue. To Daryl’s disappointment, she caught it confidently in both hands.

  “Kenzie, approach the red line and shoot. Quickly.”

  Kenzie took three steps, aimed, jumped, tossed.

  Miss it, thought Daryl. Miss it.

  No such luck. The ball swished through the hoop to a nod of approval from Collins.

  “Good. Get a ball, practice dribbling.”

  Kenzie grinned triumphantly as she strolled over to the plastic bin where the balls were kept. Mr Collins bounce-passed the ball to the next person in the queue. “Nick, red line, shoot, go.”

  Nick was one of the shorter boys in the class, but he was alright at basketball. He bounced the ball up to the red line, took aim, then launched it. It clattered off the backboard then dropped down through the hoop.

  “Good. Bit quicker next time. Go with Kenzie,” Collins said.

  The queue s
huffled forward. The next boy took his turn, the ball narrowly missing the target.

  “Terrible. Go to the back, practice shooting. I want five in a row.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy, almost snapping to attention. He scurried off to the plastic bin, then raced to the back of the gym hall.

  And so it continued down the line. Those who scored a basket were congratulated and sent to practice dribbling. Those who missed were banished to the back to try to redeem themselves.

  By the time Daryl reached the front of the queue, the hall echoed with the smacking of basketballs hitting the floor.

  “Right… Darren, isn’t it? Off you go,” said Mr Collins, tossing him the ball.

  “Daryl.”

  “Hurry it up, haven’t got all day.”

  Daryl bounced the ball a couple of times, getting a feel for it. He approached the line and took aim at the basket. He wasn’t great at basketball, but he wasn’t terrible either. His shooting ability was six out of ten on an average day, sometimes creeping as high as eight.

  He focused on the basket. He took aim. He could do this. He could do it.

  PHEEEEEP!

  A sharp blast from Collins’ whistle broke his concentration. All around the hall the balls began to fall silent as all eyes turned to the teacher.

  “Too slow,” Collins snapped. “Pass the ball behind you, get to the back and practice shooting. And hurry it up!”

  Reluctantly, Daryl passed the ball to the girl behind him. The clatter of the other basketballs began to fill the hall once more as he turned and trudged toward the plastic bin.

  He was half-way to the back, ball in hand, when he heard Kenzie shout.

  “Oi, Pidge!”

  Daryl turned in time to see Kenzie's ball rocketing toward him. It spun through the air like a cannonball, hurtling straight for his face, barely three feet away and closing fast.

  There was no time to duck or dodge or do anything but throw up his hands and close his eyes and try to shield himself from the force of the impact.