Christopher Nuttall - Their Darkest Hour

Smith’s wife — who’d turned out to be called Jean — had loaned her a dress and a shirt that was only a size or two too big for her. Alex pulled it on anyway; her uniform had been growing increasingly rank and it would only attract attention when — if — she set out to contact higher authority. There was no way to know what the roads would be like, or how many people would be fleeing the cities for the countryside now that the world had turned upside down. The modern RAF had never designed contingency plans for regrouping after an invasion of the British mainland. It had never even been a serious possibility.

She went to the toilet, splashed water on her face, and headed down the stairs towards the kitchen. Jean was already hard at work, frying what looked like bacon, eggs and potatoes in a massive frying pan. It looked wonderfully unhealthy, just the kind of food she’d eaten back home, when she hadn’t been worrying about her weight. Whatever else could be said about life in the military, it ensured that soldiers, sailors and airmen got plenty of exercise. There weren’t many fat personnel until one reached the higher levels of military leadership.

“Take one of the plates and pass it over to me,” Jean ordered. “I’ve pulled you some fresh milk, straight from the cow. You’ll have to learn to milk her for herself if you live longer — it’s one of those experiences no one ever tells the city-folk until they come out here and stay with us.”

Alex took the milk with some trepidation. “Is it safe to drink?”

“Of course it is,” Jean said. “Of course, those bureaucrats think otherwise — and they do have a point, if the milkman isn’t very careful. But no one here wants to go down in history as the farm that got a few hundred people killed. If those aliens” — she pronounced the word with a snort, as if she didn’t quite believe it — “happen to kill all of those interfering meddlers who know nothing, plenty of people round here will raise a glass in their honour.”

Alex frowned, sipping the milk. “But isn’t that a bit disloyal…?”

Jean snorted, again. “You seem to think that the government is always a good thing,” she said. “Do you know how much red tape we have to jump through, every year? Government seems determined to bury us in red tape and endless paperwork. Dear God — there have been years where I’ve seriously considered just urging the man to walk away from the farm. No one seems to want us to do anything, but fill in forms. You can’t make a man a farmer by sending him to impractical courses run by people who aren’t farmers…”

She shook her head. “I won’t miss the government, young lady,” she added. “And I think that many people here will feel the same way.”

There was a hiss as she turned a pair of rashers over, and then piled them onto a plate with potatoes and eggs. “Eat up,” she said, cheerfully. “As far as anyone knows, you’re one of the city-folk who booked a holiday with us so you could experience life on a farm. You’re going to have a busy day ahead of you.”

Alex ate slowly, savouring the natural taste of the bacon and fresh eggs. She didn’t mind working on the farm — for all she knew, money was worthless right now — but she knew that she couldn’t stay for long. The farm would probably soon be visited by the aliens, who’d want food for themselves — if they could eat human crops. Alex was fairly sure that they’d like Earth as a new home; they wouldn’t have bothered to invade if Earth was useless to them. Unless they were just nasty bastards, of course — and that was quite possible. They certainly hadn’t bothered to demand surrender before they started shooting.

She tossed the thought around her head as she ate, trying to guess what the aliens would do next. There was no way to know. The last messages she’d seen on the internet reported that the aliens were securing London, Manchester, Birmingham and a number of other cities. There had been clashes between their forces and human mobs, clashes that had gone very badly for the humans. Somehow, Alex wasn’t surprised. The aliens seemed to prefer brute force to anything more subtle and nothing stamped one’s authority on a situation like brute force — provided that there was enough brute force, of course. But the aliens controlled space. They could lose control of large parts of Earth and still win the war. Hell, for all she knew, they were deliberately provoking humans to attack them so they could wipe out potential resistance fighters before they could get organised.

“Ann and Sue dropped in this morning,” Jean said, as Alex was chasing the last of the egg around her place with a slice of bread. “They left their home yesterday and camped out before making the rest of the drive here. Ann had to pay for petrol the old-fashioned war, damn it. Maybe the aliens can do something about the price of fuel while they’re at it.”

Alex frowned. The old-fashioned way? It took her a moment to realise that Ann had probably had to go down on the petrol station’s owner to get fuel for her car. The thought was sickening, but it was probably only a taste of the future. If the aliens had blocked off supplies of fuel as well as food, the civilian population would lose its mobility very quickly — once the rest of the fuel ran out. The RAF had had stockpiles of aviation fuel for its aircraft, but the aliens might have destroyed it. And that would leave what remained of the RAF permanently grounded.

“Maybe they can,” she agreed. “What did they say about the roads?”

“The aliens have been broadcasting orders for people to stay off the main roads,” Jean said. “Speaking of which” — she clicked the radio and music started to echo out — “listen to this. Someone will start speaking in a moment…”

“People of Britain, my name is Alan Beresford and I am the sole remaining member of the British Government…”

Alex listened in disbelief as the message played out and then started to repeat. She knew of Alan Beresford by reputation — no military officer could afford to be a virgin where politics were concerned — and she knew that he wasn’t well-regarded, but outright treachery? The message played again and again, before music started to fill the airwaves once again. Maybe Alan Beresford believed that there was no way to resist the aliens, or maybe he’d just seen a chance for advancement and taken it. There was no way to know for sure.

“That bastard,” she said, finally. “He’s sold us out to them!”

“So it would seem,” Jean agreed. She picked up Alex’s plate and stuck it in the sink. “Go wash your hands and then report to the man outside. He’ll keep you busy until lunchtime.”

Alex nodded and obeyed. The next three hours were an education. She’d never realised how much had to be done each day on a farm, from mucking out the pigs — who eyed her with disconcerting eyes — to rubbing down the horses. Smith explained that they also made money by renting out their horses to a nearby riding school, which had ties to a college for young ladies that specialised in turning their brains into mush. Alex had never thought much about horses, but it seemed that the young girls honestly had no idea how to treat them when they finally got to ride on their backs. Some of the horses were very docile, even with young and inexperienced riders; others seemed nasty, including a big black horse that eyed her balefully.

“Stalin there won’t allow himself to be ridden,” Smith commented. Somehow, Alex found it difficult to turn her back on the horse. Stalin — a play on words, she realised after a moment — seemed to be waiting for a moment to kick her or trample her into the ground. “Someone treated him very badly, poor thing, and he’s been good for nothing apart from breeding ever since. A couple of people have tried to ride him and always come off worst.”