An Alien Rescue Read online

  The terrain was a gigantic mess, where disorder had reigned harshly since the net of terrible destruction was weaved upon this once great and power-yielding city, redesigning its decor and decadence in a flash of destructive incandescence. Wide and solid supporting pillars of various bridges had stood their ground against all odds, standing proud and upright like soldiers without a purpose. The once-upon-a-time motor congested bridges were completely gone, wiped off the face of the map, leaving the Thames without a crossing-point for many miles in both directions. Nobody wanted to cross the river anymore; in fact, there was no one around who needed to. London was dead, sunk like a capsized ferry and partially buried with tidal silt. Park Lane and Mayfair appeared as canals with poles standing in regimented lines where small boats might tie-alongside. The poles turned out to be the blackened stumps of mighty trees whose once tough boughs provided a perch for birds and a vantage point for people during parades, celebratory marches or occasional riots. The bark-lacking trunks whose branches had been sheared-off and burned by a super-hot blasting wave were well on their way to rotting. They were succumbing to the elements and soggy roots, each beginning to list like a famous Italian tower. Marble Arch resembled a mottled-grey coloured bridge gone badly wrong, its cracked and holed façade looked onto an area where Hyde Park now resembled a lake. Scott recalled getting a McDonald’s Big Mac burger close to the Park’s Corner, before enjoying it on the day following the huge fireworks celebration for Prince Charles’ and Diana Spencer’s wedding. He sighed at the memory, looking at what had become of such a splendid and historic place. Buckingham Palace stood alone like a lost child, crying in what seemed like its own shallow inland sea. Its exterior had taken on the neglected look of bedraggled bed-sits with smashed vandalised windows and missing doors, instead of the much photographed and grandiose royal mansion it had once been. The entire city resembled nothing more than a tangled mess of cracked concrete and twisted metal, a once busy metropolitan city now partly submerged in its own tidal basin. The stockbrokers and governmental figures had either been driven into exile… or blasted to Kingdom-come. Everything Scott remembered about this thriving city had changed. His attention was turned away as his mind steered itself towards a northerly direction. He wondered what had become of the royals with their head-bowing and boot-licking entourage. Might they have survived the carnage of whatever had taken place? He wondered.

  Whisked away at great speed from that place of destruction and absent spires, soaring ever higher across soggy chalk-coloured downs with an occasional church steeple rising from the encroaching sea, he began to see thin and broken dark lines through a haze of distance and pollution. Approaching head on and high above, he saw impossible to believe ranks of people trekking across the highest and driest areas of land, elevated positions where the risen sea had been unable to gain access. The ill-looking and bedraggled figures looked bent and broken as they marched with looks of despondency and hunger written across their drawn faces. Some were taller, many looked shorter, lots were limping and everyone appeared thin. A few had bicycles, not so much for peddling but to ferry the owner’s meagre possessions. Each person tagged along one behind the other like a crazy zigzagging snake. A few lucky souls were carried on a rickety cart, dragged over puddles on a muddy track by a single plodding horse that strained feverishly at its tethers and foamed grotesquely from its bit. Each and every individual in this line of destitution searched for safe refuge and something to eat, a place to live wherever they could find it. Makeshift tents and shelters had sprouted here and there, forming small communities along the edges of new riverbanks and tributaries. Thin wispy trails of blue wood-smoke could be seen rising from the centre of huts, with people actively scurrying around as if busying themselves with chores and urgent business. Hurriedly constructed barricades surrounded these little populated areas, all consisting of sharpened branches and sticks. They were designed to repel attackers, hopefully persuading any who might consider forcing entry to turn away. The fences encircled those who felt threatened, defending them against roaming gangs of lawless thugs. It had already happened in a few isolated places, as Scott had noticed by swooping lower. The blackened and occasionally still smouldering remains of former homesteads were becoming a common site; some with what looked like freshly filled graves nearby. Everything resembled something from a Mad Max apocalyptic movie, but this was in real time and without the glamour of photo-shoots, cameras, catering-vans and Mel Gibson as the swashbuckling head-bashing leather-clad hero. From the height of Scott’s observation, the land looked nothing like its former glory. This was something completely out of the ordinary, almost like Gondwanaland, he considered, but much colder and wetter. Gondwanaland is the name given to the separating prehistoric continent that drifted apart by the action of Plate Tectonics. Huge areas of the planet’s crust pulled away from adjacent masses, steadily moving apart with deep and widening gaps appearing as a result of geological movement. This allowed the sea to flood in to fill these new spaces, eventually forming new seas and oceans as these gigantic plates motioned further apart. A few crashed into an opposite, forming high mountain ranges as a result, such as the Himalayas and the Swiss Alps. The original single piece of land prior to the split was called, Pangaea. This was a single super-continent with an extremely dry, desert interior. But once divided by the tectonic movements, it was turned into the present-day continents and island groups. The sea had become a very powerful agent of change… with history seemingly repeating itself. The sea was once again intruding the landmasses. Only this time it was much higher than any so-called scientific expert had been bold enough to declare might be possible, with any prophesies of doom scoffed-at or censored by the world’s head-stuck-firmly-in-the-sand governments. These long since departed heads of state had hoped the worst possible scenario might never actually happen, while, in reality, they knew they would personally not be around to answer for their mistakes and errors of judgement. The intruding sea was not unique as some believed, it had already happened countless times before, and for many and varied reasons. This time was different though, this destructive flooding was due to the arrogant species that now found itself on the wrong side of nature. Gaia was fighting back, taking over from the eco-warriors who had tried in vain to persuade officialdom to consider what pollution was doing to the environment… and winning while wreaking a terrible sword of vengeance for the ills subjected to the planet by those she was slaying.

  His soaring ethereal flight took off once again, heading further north.

  Scott recognised some of the passing landscape from personal experience, particularly that of Nottingham City. The elevated Castle stood proud and aloof upon solid rock, its historic shape was unmistakable. With almost impossible to scale cliffs as its first line of defence against attacking hordes, the castle was now inhabited. Instead of the Sheriff of Nottingham or a present-day Robin Hood with his merry men, it was the stronghold of thieves and murderers. There was absolutely nothing merry about its new uncaring caretakers. Scott had visited the city on numerous occasions and studied at the university. He had enjoyed an occasional beer at the oldest pub in England called, The Trip to Jerusalem, with student friends. It had been built into the vertical face of the castle’s cliff many centuries before, exploiting a fault in the solid rock face. It was rumoured the Knights of St John had drank ale within The Trip’s confines before setting off to fight in the Holy Crusades, tanking themselves up for the battle against a most unchristian but worthy enemy. He sighed at its flooded disappearance, wondering if any sealed barrels of beer might remain submerged in its remains. The entire Trent Valley had become drowned from the effects of a rising sea level, forcing millions from their comfortable homes, it seemed. It now gave the impression of a wide and lengthy water-filled estuary that stretched halfway across England from Lincolnshire’s own lost coast. He suddenly understood that all the coastal cities, towns and villages, over the entire planet, were now presently beneath the sea, completely engulfed or destro
yed. The former inhabitants of all these areas were now on the move, millions upon millions of homeless souls forever driven onwards by the will to survive. Any ground above the new sea had found itself inhabited by a new breed of person. The pretentiously green-wellington-boot brigade who would have walked their professionally groomed pedigree dogs with silly and ridiculous names across the dry-stone walled fields had been replaced by worn-clothed and soggy footed refugees. A dog under these conditions would more than likely be considered as a tasty dinner than that of a pampered pet. The dog’s pretentious owners would be considered even less! Surviving farms, towns and villages were indiscriminatingly possessed by those who felt their own selfish needs were greater. The original owners and occupants had been forced out of their homes by the advancing and angry tide of city slickers, with the disposed owners reluctantly joining the ranks of the homeless… or to die defending what was rightfully theirs. Property was a thing of the past, except for the new warlords. They were the latest product of a vanishing landscape and growing violence. These unscrupulous individuals proved to be nothing less than ruthless dictatorial criminals who grasped at an easy advantage over the desperate and the needy.

  Here and there, across the land, small groups of survivors organised themselves into little communities, each one striving to build small makeshift fortresses within soggy swamps or on the edges of lakes, rivers and remote highland lochs. The learned ways of the ancients was making a comeback, with historians showing their true colours in an otherwise lost society by helping to reconstruct crannogs. A crannog is a type of ancient loch-dwelling found throughout Scotland and Ireland dating from about 5,000 years before. Many crannogs were built well out into the water as defensive homesteads and represented symbols of power and wealth in their own day. Present-day settlements became particular about who was allowed to share their bounty as available living space was minimal, especially as crops and livestock were limited. Former salespeople, bank-managers, accountants, lawyers, red-tape loving bureaucrats and similar who pleaded to be allowed in to the small settlements were instantly dismissed and rejected as a useless waste of valuable resources. Previous applicants of the aforementioned types had already proved time and again they were of no use to the new colonies. These officialdom loving characters had no backbone for hard work and even less useful knowledge. These ex-fat-cat, lazy and arrogant individuals, had shown themselves to be an unnecessary drain on strained resources, important supplies of food that were difficult to grow and store. Their easy life had left them unable to work to any degree of effort or to apply themselves in any worthwhile occupation. Those who were deemed to have any sort of use were readily accepted, but always on probation, until they deemed themselves worthy and able to interact with those already accepted. These valuable individuals turned out to be scientific types, teachers of practical skills like biology and botany. Experienced engineers and mechanics were worth their weight in gold and prized beyond measure. Builders were held in great esteem, especially carpenters and joiners whose each and every word was gospel when it came to construction. Military types came and went, unable to follow orders from those they viewed as undisciplined. Most couldn’t use common sense or tact to sort out a dispute, resorting to fighting and violence as a means to getting their own way. Those who did fit in with the crowd were invaluable for their defensive skills, courage and strength. A community felt more secure and happier when they had their own small private army to protect them. Mains electricity was a thing of the past, as were motorised vehicles, piped water, sewage-plants and supermarkets. Animals were a commodity in their own right as they were easy to keep while providing nourishment and clothing, always worth fighting and killing for. The manure they produced helped to nurture the crops into a healthier and greater harvest too. They were herded and guarded by armed guards, where the acceptable military types really played their part well. Recovering fish stocks had started to invade areas where the protected animals once grazed, where fishing wasn’t seen as a sport or pastime anymore. Vegetarianism was a thing of the past, as was tobacco; although a plentiful supply of alcohol could still be found among the many ruins. Sailing boats were some of the most valuable possessions to be owned, powered by the wind. They enabled distant travel, communication and trade by barter, with net fishing becoming common practice. Some individuals and their families took to living on the ocean wave in marvellous looking yachts, where safety from marauding hordes was almost assured when at sea. Scott recalled a movie called, Waterworld, featuring Kevin Costner as the boat owning lead character. It wasn’t a particularly successful film in box-office terms, but its basic theme had become reality by all accounts. Governments and police forces across the planet had been inundated and overwhelmed with untold levels of crime, before eventually succumbing to more powerful forces of violence than even they could withstand. Weapons made the new masters, and whoever controlled them controlled life and property. Murder and mayhem had become as commonplace as felled forests. Tree plantations were decimated like never before as survivors depended on timber for fuel and building supplies. Peat bogs were hastily drained to supply the most northerly populations with a steady supply of slow burning fuel, desolate areas where cold gale force winds and frequent rain persuaded most refugees never to venture. Winters were as big an enemy as was the violence, with as many dying from each. Open-cast coal fields were the new gold mines, with the black stuff becoming more valuable than people. The desperate, with a level of sense and aptitude, attempted to cross the English Channel by whatever means was available. They understood that the further south they could travel the better and healthier the climate would be. Everything from homemade rafts to ballasted bathtubs were tried, anything that floated was seen as a possible means of escape to the continent. A few who considered themselves fit and healthy enough to do so tried swimming, towing whatever they treasured wrapped in buoyant watertight plastic bags. Their bloated bodies were frequently washed-up on the southern-most coasts, alongside the broken wreckage of their own and others’ makeshift and foolhardy vessels. The remains provided small amounts of support to the scavengers who scoured the waterline. Small territorial dictatorships sprang up, with bloody battles being fought over the rights to claim whatever was found. The seaport of Hastings involuntarily returned to its earliest historic beginnings where, once again, kingdoms were either won or lost. It was recognised that southern European countries were the best places to head for, where warmth and forested mountains afforded the best chances of survival. But the unforeseen danger was that bandits roamed everywhere for easy pickings, with peace-seeking and hungry foreigners being the easiest to manipulate and to rob. Across the entire planet, people were being slaughtered like sheep, their remains either fed to fatten animals like pigs or left to rot above ground for carrion. The killers rejoiced in whatever spoils could be taken, savouring the moment before they needed to hunt again. They were the new predators.