Christopher Nuttall - Their Darkest Hour

One of the constables put their choice into words. “They seem to want us to work for them,” he said. “If we do that…”

“Collaboration,” someone else growled.

“If we work with them,” the constable continued, “we would insulate the ordinary people — the people we swore to protect — from the aliens. If we refuse… we put our lives and those of our families in danger. We all know how the aliens react to challenges.”

Robin nodded, bitterly. A group of louts — if he could be excused a moment of political incorrectness — had attacked an alien patrol with glass bottles and little else, apart from bad intentions. The aliens had opened fire and killed many of their attackers before the remainder fled for their lives. It hadn’t been the only encounter between the aliens and humans who had tried to fight either. The aliens didn’t seem to care that the humans were young, barely armed, and powerless… they’d seen a threat and dealt with it. They didn’t have lawyers and politicians in uniform holding them back from handing out a good thrashing.

“There’s another possibility,” Sergeant Singh suggested. “We join up — and prepare ourselves to turn on the aliens if necessary. They might have told us that they’ve crushed all resistance, but we know that that might not be true.”

“I won’t push anyone into the decision,” Robin said. He’d made up his mind. “If anyone wants to leave, they can do so now — without fear. I will go and see if I can shield humans from them…”

“Maybe,” Sergeant Singh said. “Or perhaps they’ll expect us to do as we’re told. And we might be told to do something truly awful.”

Fatima rubbed her eyes as she pulled herself from the depths of sleep. She’d just run out of energy — after seeing so many patients she’d lost count, she’d ended up finding a quiet corner and just collapsing into an uneasy sleep. Never in her worst nightmares had she imagined having to help so many people — and watch others die though lacking the supplies to save them. Maybe it had been a dream… she shook her head, cursing her own weakness. It had been no dream. They were still in the makeshift hospital and she could hear patients moaning in pain.

She pulled herself to her feet and headed towards the corridor. It was crammed with patients, lying on the floor; only the lucky ones had blankets to insulate themselves from the cold. The sight appalled her; the NHS hadn’t been the best medical service in the world, but it wouldn’t have allowed such conditions in a hospital. Now… now there was nothing they could do for their patients, but try to make them as comfortable as possible. They’d raided all the nearby chemists and supermarkets — and they were still short of supplies.

A hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped. “You all right, missy?”

It was a policeman, wearing what looked like riot-control gear. “I’m tired,” she said, bitterly. “What are you doing here?”

“It seems that they want us to take care of the hospitals,” the policeman said. He sounded as if he didn’t quite believe his own words — or the changes in the world since… had it really been only a day ago? “There’s fifty of us assigned here and over a hundred at the nearest hospital. Someone’s been helping them assign us, that’s for sure. Did you hear the broadcast?”

“I’ve been sleeping,” Fatima admitted. Her body ached and she was uncomfortably aware that she stank. The white jacket she wore had been stained by blood. Her supervisor would have been furious at her if she’d turned up to work looking as if she’d walked out of a slaughterhouse. “What happened?”

“One of our beloved MPs has sold out to the aliens,” the policeman explained. “I think we’re expected to bow and scrape before them now — or they’ll be offended. And it seems that their response to offense is to open fire.”

Fatima shivered. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“It seems that we’ve been beaten,” the policeman said. “Maybe there’ll be a chance to do something about it later, but for the moment we just have to keep our heads down and see what happens. Maybe the remains of the military can beat them off, or… something. Perhaps the Americans will fly a captured UFO up to the mothership and blow them up…”

He shook his head. “All we can do is wait and see,” he said. “The fighting seems to be at an end — and we lost. The country has been invaded. And God alone knows what is going to happen next.”

Near Salisbury Plain

United Kingdom, Day 2

“You know,” Chris Drake said, “I never thought I would be pleased to see a redcap.”

The Military Policeman smiled, a little weakly. “It’s been one of those days,” he agreed. “Name, rank and unit?”

Chris smiled. He’d allowed the Thames to push him out of London before climbing out and finding a convenient place to dry himself. There had been a small charity shop nearby where he’d picked up enough clothes to keep himself warm as he walked the long way around London and up towards Salisbury Plain. He’d been lucky enough to find a civilian Range Rover, which he’d borrowed to complete the rest of the journey, but he’d been forced to stay off the main roads. The aliens, according to the radio transmissions he’d picked up, liked roads. They would, he assumed, have shot him or captured him the moment they saw him.

He’d relaxed a little as he headed westwards, until he’d run into the military police unit. He wasn’t the only soldier who’d been separated from his unit and forced to travel alone to the rendezvous point, although as far as he knew he was the only soldier who’d escaped the Battle of London. The others had been supposed to link up in a disused warehouse and consider either making it out by foot or carrying on the fight against the invaders — God alone knew what had happened to them. He’d trained beside them, fought beside them — and now he was alone. Unless he was very lucky, he’d be pushed into a new unit to make up the manpower shortfall.

“You were in London ?” The MP said asked, clearly impressed. “We’ve got orders to forward all survivors from London to the RV point. It seems that some of our superiors will want to talk to you.”

Chris hesitated. There was a defence line being constructed that should slow the aliens down — he doubted that a force with air supremacy could be stopped — and part of him wanted to join it, to get stuck into the aliens who had killed so many of his friends and comrades. The rest of him knew that it was his duty to brief his superiors, to tell them what had happened at London and to ensure that the Household Division’s last stand went down in the history books. But would the people writing the history books be human — or alien?

“They’re going to be waiting to hear from you,” the MP said, a moment later. “I suggest you brief them quickly. They’re going to hit us soon.”

Chris nodded and gunned the engine. He knew the area around Salisbury Plain fairly well — a legacy of the time spent boozing after exercises in the Live Firing Training Area — and it shook him to see so many deserted houses. The civilians would have been warned to leave the area as quickly as possible, whatever the aliens might have had to say about it. They probably wouldn’t care if human civilians were caught in the crossfire. Everything they’d done suggested a certain lack of concern for human life. The sight of refugees heading north or south tore at his heart. Britain hadn’t seen such deprivation since the Civil War — and that, by European standards of the time, had been remarkably civilised. He caught sight of a tank hidden under camouflage netting and waved to the man standing beside it, clearly planning an ambush. They should get in at least one good shot before the aliens started dropping killer crowbars from orbit.