Story Idea Two

A death bed confession for a revenge murder in the form of a letter. The letter is addressed to someone important to the killer or the victim.  

The story should be no more than 4000 words.

Deadline: 9th March 2013

AM

How The Other Half Live

They were utterly ridiculous, their very existence absurd.  They professed to believe in a God, of which there were supposedly many, yet their prisons were full to overflowing and many lives were lost in wars between the factions. They worshipped singers and actors, inconsequential people, while their scientists went unknown to the masses. They were polluting their planet and breeding themselves into extinction. Their intellect was lacking and their instincts selfish. Yet most took joy in their existence. They were unfathomable and in a culture that revered reason above all else unfathomable could not be ignored.

They had been studied extensively and the biology of their bodies gave no clue as to the reasoning of their actions. The humans concept of soul, some intangible part of their makeup, was not a concept the beings put much credibility in but after exhausting all other scientific avenues it was a concept more and more of the beings found necessary to study.  This, of course, was easier said than done.

The beings watched.  They waited.  They saw an opportunity and they took it.

**

On the morning of July 7^th 2005 the sky was blue, the temperature promised to be warm and just over two million Londoners made their way to their respective tube stations for their journeys to work; some would never arrive.

At 8.50am three bombs were detonated on board three underground trains.  Almost an hour later a fourth bomb detonated aboard a bus in Tavistock square.  Moments later a fifth and final explosion took place on board an overland train arriving at Waterloo station.

Mike Jones was on that train.  He’d gotten a later train than usual as he was hung over and couldn’t bear the thought of being crushed amidst the masses for the entire journey.  With fewer commuters to contend with he was able to get a seat in which he settled himself and promptly fell asleep. He was still sleeping when the train was just outside Waterloo station so he missed the searing light explosion that blinded many of his fellow passengers.  He didn’t, however, miss the ensuing destruction of the train carriage. Metal tore; seats were ripped from their foundations, windows shattered.  Mike was thrown from his seat by the blast and landed on top of a body.  Something hard and sharp dug into the back of his head and he had the presence of mind to wonder if it was teeth.  The body beneath him was wet, the liquid seeping through his clothes and after he explored with his hand he discovered the liquid was blood. His stomach heaved to release its contents and a viscous pain tore through him.  He looked down to discover a metal pipe protruding from his chest.  He was impaled.

“Help me!” His panic spiked as blood bubbled up his throat with the plea.

He desperately looked around the strangely smoke free carriage for help.  All he could see around him were the dead, their limbs missing or their eyes burnt out leaving horrifically empty and bloody ocular cavities. Again his breakfast tried to evacuate and he cried out in pain as his organs clenched around the pipe.  He coughed and a spray of blood flew from his mouth and landed in his left eye. He frantically wiped and blinked it clear as though the act could eradicate the fact that he was slowly drowning from his own blood.  Further down the carriage his blinking eyes spied two survivors who were remarkably unscathed.  They stood in the centre of the carriage in the area that looked to be the impact zone of the blast but they appeared to be in perfect health, even their clothes were unsoiled by the blood that coated the area around them.  They, a man and a woman, seemed to be in shock as they stood blinking at each other and then started running their hands over their bodies as though performing a cursory check that they were okay.

“Help me!” Mike gargled as more blood burst from his lungs.

If they heard him they gave no indication of it. The woman, an attractive blonde he remembered boarding the train with, started unbuttoning her blouse and then felt her breasts as though she never had before.  The man opposite her was just as vigorously exploring his body and suddenly Mike was glad they hadn’t heard his cry for help, every instinct in his body told him this scene wasn’t right.

“I feel…perishable.”  The woman said as her fingers pinched at her nipples.

Her words reinforced his instinct and he tried to inch backwards but the pipe dug into his organs with the movement and he cried out in pain.

The man and woman swung their heads in his direction.

“One of them has survived.”  They spoke the words in unison, their voices flat as their eyes bored into his and Mike was thoroughly convinced no help would be forth coming. 

They stepped closer and he whimpered with fear while struggling to maintain control of his bladder.

“Fascinating.”  The man said as he leaned closer.  “Tell me human, does your terror stem from our irrational body exploration or do you somehow sense that we are other?”

When Mike didn’t answer the man grinned at him but the expression was so devoid of emotion it left him certain these were the last few moments of his life; Mike lost the struggle with his bladder.

“You will be dead within the hour human – where is your God now?” The woman asked in the same flat tone.  It couldn’t have been described as a threatening tone but the mention of his death caused his heartbeat to kick into gear and adrenalin flooded his system.

The adrenalin spiked his defiance. “Don’t…” blood sprayed forth, “believe in God.”

The woman’s grin was worse than the man’s. “Then where is your Justin Beiber? Or is it Lady Gaga that you worship?”

Mike frowned but any answer he may have given was overtaken by a coughing fit that produced great globs of blood – this time when the blood landed in his eye it was much darker than before.

“Leave him.”  The man said. “We have lives to live.”

The man and woman straightened and offered each other those eerie grins. A moment later they had climbed through one of the broken windows and were gone. Mike exhaled in relief.  He was going to live! He ignored the fact that his exhalation sounded akin to someone drawing on a sheesha pipe.  The threat had passed, any moment rescuers would come and save him and he would be fine.  More dark blood bubbled between his lips but it was okay because any minute rescuers would be there to save him. Any minute now.

The beings in their stolen bodies made their way along the tracks to the platform. Alarms bells were ringing and hundreds of humans stood around milling in confusion; sheep without a leader.  The beings easily vaulted to the platform and in unison they pushed their way through the panicking crowds to the exit.  On the steps they paused. The being that inhabited the man searched his pockets; the being that inhabited the woman searched her purse.

“I am Tom Bennett.” The man announced as he studied the license in his hand. “And I live in Brixton.”

“I am Clara Powell.  And I live in Kensington.”

With a brief nod of their heads they each headed in their respective directions to their homes.

The being now known as Tom didn’t like Brixton but he didn’t know if that was just because people were acting out of the ordinary due to the terrorist attacks. In reaction to the attacks there were dishevelled people begging on the street who would shout abuse to those that didn’t contribute to their cause. There were people sleeping in the alcoves of vacant shop fronts, wrapped in sleeping bags and lying on cardboard. A man and woman danced fervently on a corner to silence and the most curious man stood at a set of lights and shouted loud and long in a language Tom didn’t understand and what intrigued him the most was that he knew them all. He stood and puzzled for a while at the wobbling man’s speech but became overwhelmed by an intense emotion when he couldn’t decipher the man’s message and strode on purposefully to his abode. As he strode he analysed the emotion as anger, and though it left him wanting to irrationally punch his fists into something he thought he might like it, it was far preferable to the nothingness he’d experienced his whole long life.

Interestingly as he neared the abode the human he had overcome started to stir within him.  Tom felt a fluttering inside him as though the human were fighting to get out or maybe force him out.  Tom shook his head in disdain at the impossibility.

  “What’s the matter human? What’s at home you don’t want me to find?” Tom muttered.

Despite the futility of it the human kicked and fluttered all the harder which triggered an emotion Tom analysed as humour.

When Tom stood at his front door the human was incessantly battering him to the point of annoyance.  The battering increased as he turned the key in the lock. When he stepped into a silent flat the battering ceased.

Curious, Tom explored the small, clean but shabby flat. No one was home but there were plenty of pictures decorating the walls of his body with a dark haired woman. In one of the pictures the woman was grabbing his head in her hands and pressing her lips to his.  The image stirred a feeling in him he analysed as desire.  The battering reconvened.

Sex. Orgasm. Connection to the soul? He had to know, it was his sole purpose for coming to this place. He had to find the dark haired woman. The battering escalated but Tom found that now he had his mission he could easily tune it out. He went to the PC set up on a small desk by a window overlooking a tiny patch of grass and powered it up.  Within minutes his fingers were flying over the keyboard deciphering every file on the system.  According to their bank statement Thursday was shopping day at a business called Sainsbury’s.

Dark haired woman was at Sainsbury’s. Sex. Orgasm. The human battered.

Tom left the small, clean but shabby flat and headed back to the main thoroughfare in hopes someone could direct him to Sainsbury’s. Three men were walking towards him. They wore what Tom believed was called leather and had ink stencilled into their skin. From research he knew them to be rappers, black men that lamented their government’s shortcomings or their need for “pussy” through verse.

“Can you direct me to Sainsbury’s?” Tom asked as he neared them.

The three rappers stopped in their tracks, one of them imitated Tom’s sentence in a high pitched nasally voice and the others laughed.

Tom frowned. “I’m not interested in your act I just need to find the dark haired woman.”

The three rappers frowned back. “What act?” The biggest male asked aggressively.

Curiously the human stopped his battering. “Your act. I know what you are.”

The three rappers stepped closer. “And just what are we, little man?” The biggest male towered over him with a sneer. The others had their teeth bared.

“I believe you call yourselves rappers or, as you refer to yourselves, niggers.”

Faster than Tom would’ve thought possible the big male had his hand fastened around Tom’s throat, his back was suddenly up against a rickety wooden fence and his feet were dangling in mid-air.

“What you call me bitch?!” The big man barked in his face, his spittle covering Tom’s face which he found to be less than sanitary.

The big man’s hand tightened on his throat and for the first time Tom considered the vulnerability of his human flesh.

“Stop. There is no need for this.” Tom reasoned, wanting to get to the dark haired lady and discover the meaning of soul.

“Wallet.”  Big man sneered.

Without reservation Tom handed over his wallet.  The big male pocketed it without taking his hand off his throat, if anything the pressure of his hold increased.

“Release me.” Tom demanded.

“Say nigger again mutha fucker!” Big man snarled.

“Nigger.” Tom said calmly.

The pressure on his throat increased substantially making it hard for him to breathe.

“You’re actions are beyond reason.” Tom choked. “I have done exactly as you have asked.”

“Yo, I don’t let no one call me no nigger and I ain’t about to start with you fucker!”

The big man’s hand tightened and Tom was sure the human body he inhabited would fail shortly. He concentrated on ejecting himself back to Castron but he was anchored to Tom’s body. He could feel his lungs burning, his head swam as his brain stem was starved of oxygen and the human within him laughed louder and louder until mercifully blackness clouded his vision and then there was nothing.

The being now known as Clara found Kensington frivolous. The houses were large and great expense had been used to make them unnecessarily aesthetically pleasing. The store fronts were lavish, utilising mannequins draped with fine fabrics presumably to entice consumers inside. The vehicles were oversized, appearing to be designed for mass transport but most of them were only inhabited by a woman and a child in a specialised seat.

The frivolous theme continued into Clara’s apartment.  Thick woven drapes framed the large glass windows that overlooked Hyde Park. The floor was covered in a richly colourful Persian rug, a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling at the centre of the room and almost every surface was littered with candles.  Clara frowned at this; the candles had been used did that mean the lighting didn’t work? She flicked on the switch by the door and the chandelier immediately lit up. She regarded the used candles again; frivolous.

After exploring the small apartment Clara had discovered she was a lawyer and seemingly a rather boring one at that. The apartment had revealed no clue to a social life, the clothes in the drawers and closet were staid and business like, no photos of friends or lovers adorned her walls, where framed pictures could have been candles clustered instead and on her dining table were thick work files surrounding a laptop. Clearly work came first.

Clara rifled through the files and felt the human stir within her for the first time.

“Interesting. You are more affected by me touching these files than you were your own possessions.” The human settled back into nothingness.

Clara felt disdain for the useless human. “You work tirelessly to defend rapists and thieves and then come home to your candles. Do you have stress Clara? Do the candles soothe you?”

Nothing.

“Well little mouse, I am here to learn about soul and for that I need human connection. Brace yourself as we are going out to find some.”

An hour later Clara strode into the Park Terrace bar at the Royal Garden Hotel. She’d managed to find a pencil skirt among the human’s clothes and hoped it would be suitable to attract attention. The bar was surprisingly full but a large percentage of the inhabitants were Japanese and appeared to be conducting a meeting, they didn’t even look her way.

A man sitting at a corner table tracked her every move and she noticed that as she took a seat at the bar his eyes stayed on her. Within moments he was perched on the stool beside hers.

“I’m Brian.” He smiled as he offered her his hand.

“I’m Clara.” She returned and placed her hand in his. She wasn’t sure what to expect from human connection but she had expected more than just the feel of his warm skin on hers, in fact there was no evidence to ascertain if there was any connection at all.

Brian’s eyes dropped to her chest as he withdrew his hand. He was exhibiting one of the signs of sexual arousal, pupil dilation. She wondered if he was also experiencing accelerated heartbeat and perspiration. Was he even now producing pheromones? Would they spark the connection of soul?

“Can I buy you a drink Clara?”

She inclined her head while wondering how long she would have to endure the human before the connection began. He bought her champagne, a drink she knew was considered lavish, but the bitter/sweet taste left her questioning the human’s means over his sense.

As they drank from the tall flutes they partook in the human custom known as small talk.

“Weren’t the terrorist attacks terrible…”

“All those poor people…”

“I hope they find those responsible…”

Most of the conversation came from Brian, a Politian in London for business but stranded in Kensington due to the tube attacks. Clara found him utterly tedious but the champagne was starting to taste better and she liked the way the bubbles tickled her nose.

As he was extolling his negotiating skills Clara poured the last of the champagne into her mouth and placed the glass back on the bar.

“Another.” She directed to the barman.

Brian frowned at her and she comprehended that she had violated the etiquette of the occasion but she liked the way the bubbles tickled her nose.

As she started in on the second glass she realised another thing she liked about the champagne; her mind was blank and a beings mind was never blank. The very purpose of a beings existence was knowledge and not a Nano second passed without thousands of bytes worth of information being considered, everything from quantum physics to astronomy. And now silence. It was freeing.

Clara drained the rest of the glass anxious that the information would return before she was ready, she wanted to keep this nothingness.

Brian was frowning at her again.

“You can go now.” She said and then signalled the barman for another glass of delicious champagne. She would explore the human soul connection later, right now she needed to keep the nothing.

One glass after another took her well into the afternoon when she started to get what she deduced to be hunger pains in her stomach. She knew humans were accustomed to eating every five hours during the daylight hours but she also knew food would absorb the liquid in her stomach and stop the full absorption of the alcohol into her system. That might bring back the information so food wasn’t an option. She knew missing a few meals would not harm her human body so she ordered another drink.

A curious thing happened. The barman said no.

“I don’t understand. I have the means to pay.” The words were difficult to get out.

“I think you have had enough.” The barman said in a discreet tone.

“I haven’t.” Clara insisted.

“Listen lady, you’re slurring your speech and you’re wobbling around on that stool like you’re about to fall off. It is against the law for me to serve you anymore alcohol. If you want to continue drinking go home and do it.”

Clara realised she was wobbling on her seat and held the bar for balance. “I will go home and drink.” She slurred. “To my frivolous home and I will drink with my candles.”

She managed to stand but her motor skills were severely diminished and it took all her concentration to walk out of the bar without careening into any of the tables. Outside in the fresh air she staggered to the pathway. Across the road she could see a store with a red awning announcing food and wine for purchase. Clara’s stomach pains intensified but she was still determined to avoid food.

The doorman of the hotel helped her across the street, clearly believing she was incapable of the feat on her own. In the store the shopkeeper eyed her warily but made no reference to the law when she asked for service. As no champagne was stocked Clara purchased Whiskey and then made her way slowly and very unevenly to her apartment.

When she swung the door open she went with it and landed on her knees. It took her a moment to realise what had happened but then she laughed, relieved the glass bottle in the bag she carried hadn’t broken.

“Look at you now little mouse, what would your colleague’s think?”

The human stayed passive and the fact that she did irritated Clara, she wanted a reaction. After scrambling up and slamming the door she swept her arm over the dining table sending the files, and laptop, to the floor.  Clara wobbled on her feet as she waited for the human’s reaction but again nothing happened.

“I don’t need you.” She slurred as she stumbled to the couch and fell onto it. “I have this.” She grinned as she drew the whiskey bottle from the plastic bag. The first mouthful had her coughing and her stomach burning, the combination with her hunger pains had her doubling over and clutching at her stomach.

The whiskey wasn’t as nice as the champagne and it didn’t tickle her nose but moments later warmth spread through her veins and she found that quite agreeable. Still she saw no hurry to take the next mouthful.

Her eyes fell on a box of matches on the coffee table in front of her. What was the human’s fascination with the candles? Out of curiosity Clara lent forward and struck a match and lit the cluster of three candles. She could discern no sense of well-being as the flames illuminated the candles. Maybe that was why there were so many, three weren’t enough.

One more swig of whiskey, more coughing and stomach pains and then she staggered from surface to surface lighting every candle in the dwelling. She felt nothing except an increasing feeling of nausea. Her mouth filled with saliva and her whole body perspired leaving her certain she was going to throw up. She found the idea repellent, ejecting waste from ones mouth but she found the act even more so as she leaned over the toilet. Liquid erupted from her and her stomach cramped viciously.

When the eruption ceased Clara looked into the bowl with trepidation; the bowl was coated in thick dark blood. For the first time Clara considered the limitations of the body she’d stolen. Was the human sick?

With great effort she pushed herself to standing and peered around the bathroom looking for any sign of medication she’d missed earlier. She lost her balance and fell into the mirror above the sink, as she rebounded backwards the mirror opened to reveal a cupboard inside. Clara’s vision was badly impaired so she had to squint at the bottles within. She picked up one and managed to make out “PPI”.

She lamented her inebriation as her usual awareness would’ve been able to decipher the medication in seconds. She focused, putting all her efforts into remembering the initials and she finally came up with the answer. PPI stood for Proton-pump Inhibitor, medication issued for stomach ulcers.

The human had a severe stomach ulcer and the alcohol she had been consuming all day had ruptured it. She shook some of the tablets into her hand and swallowed them down. She would be okay, she just had to sleep it off and avoid alcohol. Clara experienced regret at the thought of losing the nothingness but knew her mission to study soul had to take priority.

Back on the couch Clara stretched out and within moments was almost in a drunken slumber. She had the presence of mind to think that sleeping on her back was foolish in case she vomited again so she rolled to her side and succumbed to sleep.

As Clara rolled to her side her hand caught the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table and it fell onto the candles knocking them over and spilling alcohol over the table. When whiskey met flame the coffee table became completely ablaze. The flames spread to the frivolous Persian rug, to the thick woven drapes that framed the large glass windows that overlooked Hyde Park and finally to the couch which was engulfed in seconds.

The beings that observed couldn’t reconcile their peer’s actions. Was this the effects of the human soul? Could it affect intellect as such? Was soul actually an infection that plagued its host’s? More research had to be completed.

They watched. They waited. They saw and opportunity and took it.
 

By Dayv Metcalfe

Alex

The carriage was plunged into darkness the moment the bomb detonated. There was no flicker or spark; the lights just went out. Alex knew there were people, bodies near him, and he sensed that their lives had ended. In the fuzzy silence he looked around, head whirring as his eyes adjusted and the flesh and metal surrounding him began to appear between the dust and smoke that crept through the air.

Alex had been thrown several feet from where he had been standing beside a set of doors. Now from his sitting position on the floor, he could see that the doors had blown out and were concertinaed against the wall of the tunnel. There was much blood and remains of the several passengers that had filled the carriage minutes before. Alex could see that many of them had been forced through the windows and shreds of clothing and limbs now hung between the service cables that ran along the side of the tunnel.

Alex stood up, and took a moment to re-orientate himself. One side of the tube train had dropped slightly, tilting the floor down to the left as he began to make his way carefully through the carriage. Moments later Alex heard the sounds.
The creaking of the metal panels that had sprung from the ceiling as gravity now pulled at their last remaining rivets. The buzzing, fizz and clicking of an interrupted electric current and the low groans, primal guttural noises of human pain.

Alex climbed over the debris and bent over to avoid the obstructions in the ceiling using outstretched arms to balance himself. He approached the area where he had been standing before the bomb detonated. Being the centre of the blast it was relatively clear but the blood was pooling here and spilling over the edge of the door opening to the lower side of the carriage.

Alex could see more bodies outside the tube train against the tunnel walls. One made sounds but most were silent. As the dust began settling, the tunnel bulkhead lights weakly illuminated the inside of the carriage. Newspapers were scattered over and between the seats and twisted steel tubing of the hand poles and rails, and Alex could see some limbs, fingers, fluttering through the mesh of steel fixtures.

A woman sat on floor in the next section of carriage and Alex moved towards her. At first he couldn’t see her legs but when he approached he saw that the bottom half of her body had fallen through the carriage floor. The woman looked up at Alex and he couldn’t quite compute her response, the distress on her face seemingly overwhelmed by her sensing him making his way towards her.

Alex glanced down at his body and each arm, and saw that most of his clothes had been ripped off in the blast. There was also skin, and his skin which wasn’t there, and the dull smeary reflection may have been the blood.

He knelt down and touched the woman’s arm. She was trembling quite violently and spat fine droplets of bloodied saliva with each of her rapid and shallow breaths. She was visibly confused and staring intently at Alex trying to understand what had happened and the relevance of this stranger now kneeling before her. A knight, her maker, Death.

‘What is your name?’ Alex asked.

The woman’s eyes widened as her concentration intensified and focused solely on Alex’s face. She lifted her chin and moved her tongue slowly, trying to form and shape the words to speak her own name. With an effort she forced some air from her lungs. ‘Hannah’ she breathed quietly.

Alex placed the palm of his hand against one side of her face, which was blackened from the blast. The force had burst the vessels in her eyes and they had bloomed red across the surface bringing her blue eyes into sharp alien relief.

‘Hannah. There has been an accident, an explosion. It’s over now.’

‘Who…..who are you?’ Hannah asked.

‘I am Alex.’

A tear moved down Hannah’s face and slipped across Alex’s hand. He watched it slowly redden as it as it slid over his wrist and down the inside of his arm.

Alex lifted his hand and gently stroked Hannah’s hair away from her face.

‘Hannah, do not be frightened,’ he said.

‘But I don’t know who you are.’ Hannah wept. ‘What have you done? Am I?…..’ Hannah choked and spat out more blood. Am I dying?’

Alex dropped his head in consideration and took Hannah’s hand in his.

‘We have made a decision,’ he began. ’ A decision that your time here must end. Today will be an historic day.’ There was a proud excitement in his voice.

Hannah looked beyond Alex but found it difficult to see anything with any clarity but she was aware of the carnage around them. She knew there were other people; bodies near.

‘My time? What is this?’ Hannah wept. ‘Please, I want you to stop this now.’

Alex smiled. ‘It is over now.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘It is done.’

‘Who are you?’ She said.

‘I am Alex.’

‘Can’t you help me?’ Hannah gently pleaded. She coughed and had to swallow quickly.

‘These people, they need help. What has happened. Have you done this?’

Hannah was pale, her lips becoming an inky bluish colour. Her body had been forced through the floor of the tube train after the explosion, severing both her legs below each knee. Unaware, she continued to roll her ankles beneath the floor attempting to relieve an aggravating sensation in her feet.

Before today, Hannah had not really considered death but she was not surprised that visions of her short life were flashing before her. They say this happens. The serenity, the overwhelming sense of calm; she felt that too. A slow chemical release flooding her central nervous system, the body’s emergency plans in full operation. Sunshine, Hattie the cat, Mum and Dad, Alex.

‘Hannah. Hannah.’ Alex was stroking her hand now.

‘I’m so tired Alex, I’m getting confused. Why are you wearing that mask? Are you hurt? I want to leave here now please. My feet really really ache.’ Hannah was struggling to keep her eyes open.

‘It’s nearly time Hannah. You will soon leave this place for somewhere else. We want you to know that our decision has your, has all human interests at heart.’

‘What were you saying about history, about today?’ Hannah’s eyes were wide open again and she looked down at Alex’s hands. ‘What’s wrong with your hands?’

​​​​​***

Alex didn’t recognise his dying wife, and would not now understand anything before today. Once his mission objective has been initialised and the bomb detonated, all memory of his past life on earth was erased. Travelling with Hannah on the tube train, they had stood together beside a set of sliding doors. The instruction to Alex had come via a concealed receiver implanted deep inside his cranial cavity and without hesitation he had pressed the detonation sequence into his smartphone which contained the equivalent of nine pounds of plastic explosives. The resulting force blew out the doors, stopped the train, and threw them both in opposite directions.

‘You said something about an history… day.’ Hannah was finding it hard to focus.

“Yes Hannah, you are part of this day, you are one of the so very few. We of the tenth wave have completed the work which began over two thousand years ago. Today begins the Succession.”

Hannah was listening and trying to comprehend what was being said. She knew it was important but was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on Alex’s words. He looked and sounded so different but she recognised something, a timbre in his voice.

He was trying to calm her, she thought but didn’t understand quite everything he was saying. Alex didn’t seem to be injured. Had he been on the tube train when it crashed, an explosion? She remembered that they had been standing together talking about what they could do on Saturday. That was just minutes before now, she was sure. Yes, and a man mumbling to himself had got on at Whitechapel and they were rolling eyes and making faces at each other and secretly pointing in his direction. Then Alex had stopped laughing abruptly and taken out his phone.

It was so cold now.

Alex was still talking.

‘…a decision was made to replace every person on the earth but we wanted to ensure that the history of the human race remained intact.’

Hannah spoke, a slight panic in her voice. ‘Alex. Is that you, I think it is.’ She touched his face and felt a sharp coldness tingling through her fingers.

‘Oh God what has happened to you. Please Alex tell me what is going on, your skin. Can’t we just go now. No one is coming for us, I don’t want to talk anymore. Something is wrong with me, it’s so so cold Alex.’

Hannah’s hand slipped from Alex’s face and fell back into her lap. Her entire skin had taken on a yellow pallidness and her breathing was becoming more laboured.

Alex didn’t understand his wife’s condition, but he knew she was dying. His emotional response to her had been disabled and he was now limited to implementing the final stages of the Succession which involved sharing his pride with Hannah, to him a stranger now but one of the very last human beings alive on earth.

‘Hannah, today one hundred and fifty thousand, four hundred and thirty one people on the earth will die and you will be one of them. To be the last of your species is a truly extraordinary thing and a great privilege. Tomorrow a new day will begin on earth and we will reveal ourselves. Life here will finally change.’

Hannah closed her eyes and Alex’s voice drifted away and became a distant mumbling she could no longer capture. There was something wrong with Alex, she needed to help him but her body wasn’t responding to any of her efforts to move.

She remembered Alex was using his phone, then a massive rush of air had forced her off her feet. Newspapers were flying around, and things struck her before she was finally thrown to the floor. An immediate and strong chemical smell pervaded the air and she saw a hot light, fierce but fleeting and now here in the dark, in her quiet peaceful calm she saw the light once again growing from a tiny nebula inside her head. She reached for it and it wove around her outstretched fingers.

‘Alex,” she whispered. ‘Are you there? Please hold me.’

Alex had moved to the centre of the tube train and was climbing down to the side of the tracks. He had completed this stage of his mission and had been instructed to report to Sector 5 headquarters where he would be debriefed and his new identity assigned. He was looking forward to starting his life on this new planet.

After two thousand years they had finally succeeded in removing the entire human race from the earth. The terrorist attacks in recent decades had allowed them to covertly undertake their objectives using the techniques all too familiar to the war ravaged species they had worked so hard to replace. Finally their objective was complete and the earth would be at peace.

Alex paused to look back at the dying woman he had spoken with. Her head had fallen to her chest and he no longer detected any signs of breathing. He felt a sudden and strange sense of loss which he calculated was a sadness for all humans, but ultimately they had not been successful in protecting the planet which had supported all life for three and a half billion years.

As he walked away through the tunnel the final remnant of his skin slipped to the floor. On his back just below the right shoulder, four words were stamped into the iridescent metalloid of his external body casing.

Alternative Life Engine X.

By Darren Seeley

Story Idea One

A terrorist attack similar to 7/7.  One of the bombers is not of this earth.

Deadline: 15th February 2013

AM