Mike Lancaster - 0.4

Or twenties, even.

Now her hair was messed up, her face was beaded with sweat, and frown lines ploughed up her brow.

She was standing over the foetal form of Mr Peterson and was obviously losing patience with him. In fact, she seemed on the verge of delivering a kick to his backside.

She looked relieved to see Lilly and me, even when we shook our heads to show her we’d made no progress.

‘He’s been like this since you left,’ she said, pointing to the prone form of the ventriloquist. ‘You kids are handling this a whole lot better than he is.’

I wondered if that meant we were pretty darned tough.

Or whether we simply lacked the imagination to see how bad things really were.

We told Mrs O’Donnell about our trip to the shop. She seemed especially disturbed by the fact that the phones weren’t working, but to be honest I was too. It hinted at a problem that stretched further than the village boundaries.

‘We need a TV,’ Mrs O’Donnell said. ‘The internet. Anything that will give us a bigger picture.’

‘The radio and telephone don’t work,’ Lilly reminded her.

‘Doesn’t mean that every form of communication is down,’ Mrs O’Donnell said. ‘Come on.’

‘Where?’ Lilly asked.

‘My house.’

‘What about him?’ I pointed at Mr Peterson.

Mrs O’Donnell shook her head.

‘We’ll have to come back for him,’ she said. ‘I can’t get him to do anything but that.’

‘Let me try,’ I said.

She nodded.

I crouched down over the man. His eyes were squeezed as tight shut as eyes can be. His lips moved rapidly, but no sounds came from between them.

‘Mr Peterson?’ I said. ‘Can you hear me?’

If he could, he was making no visible signs.

‘Mr Peterson?’ I touched his shoulder as I spoke and suddenly he let out a scream of terror. His eyes shot open like the eyes of a china doll. They met mine and for an instant he appeared perfectly sane and rational.

‘Are you all right, Mr Peterson?’ I said.

His eyes were wide, but he looked like he was back with us.

‘Everything… it’s all changed,’ he said, so quietly I had to move my ear closer to his lips to hear.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked him.

His voice got louder, stronger.

‘They’re gone,’ he said. ‘Changed. All of them. You hear me? I… I SEE THEM!’

His words sent a physical chill down my spine.

‘See what?’ I demanded. ‘What can you see?’

‘All of them.’ His eyes were stretched even wider now, and his voice was little more than a rasping whisper as he said, ‘ They are to us as we are to apes .’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked desperately.

Mr Peterson looked confused, as if I was missing some obvious point and he wasn’t sure how to explain it in easier terms.

‘It means that… we are the only… the only ones left… four… four against all…’

His voice trailed off and suddenly his face lost its urgent intensity, going slack, almost sleepy.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you mean.’

Tears streamed down his face and he gave me the weakest of smiles.

‘I… I… I’ve groken ny gicycle, ’ he said in Mr Peebles’ voice, a falsetto voice of utter insanity. ‘I get you don’t really care oo-at’s wrong with ne.’

And then he started laughing, laughing in that awful, high-pitched way that he reserved for his ugly-headed ventriloquist’s dummy.

I got up, feeling very cold and very scared. We all backed away from that terrible sound and left the green.

Mrs O’Donnell’s house was on Carlyle Road, an old terrace that ran behind the high street. It’s one of those narrow streets that mean people have to park half on and half off the kerbs.

We were midway up the road when Mrs O’Donnell stopped. A beautifully clipped hedge bordered a tiny concrete garden and I thought we had arrived at her house, but she pointed through an open front door where two young children – a boy and a girl – had been in the process of coming out, perhaps on their way to the green, before being struck down by the… event.

The girl was waiting by the front door; the boy was stuck, mid-stride, in the hallway.

‘Annie and Nicholas Cross,’ Mrs O’Donnell said, and I thought I could see tears in her eyes. ‘I babysit for them now and then. She’s six and he’s eight. They’re nice kids. What could have done this to them? To everyone?’

I wondered why she was asking us.

But what could have done it?

And then I made one of those unlikely connections the human brain is so good at making – joined together a couple of pieces of information that really didn’t belong together.

Today’s events and something that happened a couple of years ago.

There were some local kids near Naylor’s farm, on the outer reaches of the village, who swore blind that they saw lights in the sky over one of old man Naylor’s grain silos. Bright, moving lights that didn’t behave like ordinary aircraft.

To start with there was a certain amount of sneering and laughing, but they were absolutely certain, and a report made it into the local weekly paper.

Although why alien craft always appear over grain silos and open fields rather than over towns and cities has always bothered me. If there really were aliens flying their spaceships above places in the middle of nowhere… well, maybe they aren’t all that smart, you know?

Anyway, I suddenly started wondering whether it might be connected. I’d joked about UFOs earlier to Lilly – went down like a lead battleship, too – but what other alternatives were there?

A chemical accident.

A biological plague.

A fracture in the fabric of time.

Were they any more likely?

I thought about the mad things that Mr Peterson had said. Things I had ignored because… well, because they were so mad. But had he seen something that our eyes hadn’t?

Had we been invaded and didn’t even know it?

I shook my head to clear the stupid thought. What kind of alien invasion would cause people to stand still, for goodness sake? I mean, how was that an invasion exactly?

I was filling the gaps in what I knew, and painting them ET green.

Surely that was a sign of madness, too.

Mrs O’Donnell’s house was tidy and neat, just like the woman herself. Actually, being honest about my first impression, it was way more than tidy: as if its contents had just come out of protective coverings. There was a heavy smell of furniture polish and artificial flowers. I guessed she spent a lot of her free time cleaning.

The walls were pastel pink with paintings of flowers and horses hanging on them. The books that graced her neat shelves were all of the chick-lit variety. I realised that Mrs O’Donnell had, at no point, expressed concern for a Mr O’Donnell, and her house reflected his absence from her thoughts.

The TV was small and old-school, and it wasn’t even hooked up to a hi-fi. There was a DVD player and a cheap Freeview box. She switched on the TV and its screen came up blank. No static, just a blue screen. She flicked through the channels slowly with a remote, as if she wasn’t a hundred per cent certain how it worked. There were no stations, just the same, neutral, blue screen. She killed the TV and shook her head.

The living room led on through an arch into a dining area, with the corner made into a workstation. A very neat workstation: computer, keyboard, mouse. No piles of papers or stacks of disks.

She pushed the power button to boot up her iMac and we waited for it to warm up.

It only took a few seconds of absolute silence for us to realise that something had gone wrong.