Christopher Nuttall - Their Darkest Hour

Outside, he could hear the sounds of fire engines already on their way. It was far too late. The flames had consumed much of the evidence, if there had ever been any evidence at all — it was, he realised grimly, a trap intended to kill a number of policemen as well as wipe the slate clean. It was clear that the bomb-maker had a nasty sense of humour.

His skin still burning, he found a place to sit and waited for the fire brigade. Somehow, he was sure that they wouldn’t find anything in the ruins of the garage. The bomber had gotten clean away.

Robin glanced up at his small force of policemen. They were all wearing riot-control gear, which should provide some protection if the situation turned violent. And it might well turn violent — Londoners weren’t used to seeing hundreds of people torn from their homes and transferred to detention camps, even during the terrifying days after suicide bombers had struck the London Underground. People might resist — and if they did, it was likely to get bloody. And they’d still been denied firearms. The aliens had promised that they would have a force on standby to help out the police if necessary, but Robin was determined not to call on them. They’d kill civilians indiscriminately in the name of restoring order.

The vans pulled up outside the house and halted. Robin opened the doors and led the way out and up to the door, pressing down hard on the buzzer. A second team had been deployed to the back of the house, where it would snatch up anyone trying to climb out the rear window. There was a brief pause, and then a middle-aged Asian woman opened the door, her dark eyes clearly armed. The police weren’t very popular in this part of London, despite attempts to recruit more officers from ethnic minorities. And they were about to become a great deal less popular…

Robin grabbed her, frisked her with casual efficiency, and then spun her around and slapped on the cuffs. She let out a yelp of shock that became a scream when he shoved her into the arms of another policeman, who would put her out in the garden until they’d rounded up everyone in the house. Her yelp brought two teenage boys out to see what was going on; Robin barked at them to keep their hands where he could see them, just before taking advantage of their shock to handcuff the lead youth. The second tried to swing a punch at Robin, only to be sent falling to his knees when Robin slammed his baton into his chest. He vomited, but Robin had no time to see to his health. As soon as the cuffs were on, he crashed onwards, into the next room. Two younger girls were cooking something that smelt hot and spicy; he gave them a moment to turn off the gas before cuffing both of them and pushing them outside.

Five other policemen had clumped up the stairs, finding three middle-aged gentlemen and an elderly lady who looked old enough to be Robin’s great-grandmother. Her ID card claimed that she was sixty. The policemen cuffed her anyway, shouting at the men to keep them subdued as they were hauled downstairs. Robin kicked his way into the suicide bomber’s room, but saw little of interest apart from some pamphlets produced by radical fundamentalists calling on the Muslim community to rise up and slaughter the infidel. He picked a new-looking booklet up and glanced at it, realising that the fundamentalist arseholes had demoted America from Great Satan to Middle Satan. The aliens seemed to be the new Great Satan, although he wasn’t sure why. He’d heard that some fundamentalists were claiming that the aliens had bombed Mecca, but as far as he’d been able to tell they’d largely ignored the Middle East. The region was sinking into chaos after they’d smashed the military bases and left the rest of the region to sink or swim on its own.

Outside, a crowd was already gathering. The policemen ignored them as the next set of vans pulled up, ready to take the prisoners to the detention camp. Robin shuddered as the prisoners set off an awful racket, yelling and screaming for help from their fellow Muslims — and everyone else in the area. He felt sick at what he was doing — the Nazis had done the same to the Jews, as well as everyone else who’d incurred their hatred — but there was no choice. The looks some of the civilians were giving him suggested that they wouldn’t accept his excuses, or his self-justifications. They saw him as a monster serving an inhuman enemy.

But we’ve no choice , he wanted to shout. They can kill the entire human race .

A rock was thrown by one of the crowd, followed rapidly by a small volley of stones, bricks and bottles. Robin ducked for cover as objects began to bounce off the side of the vans, or strike policemen. They were wearing armour, but no body armour was totally perfect. Two of the policemen fell to the ground, bleeding. One of them was caught up by the advancing mob and stomped to death.

Damn you , Robin thought. Don’t you know what the aliens will do to you ?

He barked an order and the water cannons activated, spraying water over the advancing crowd. They staggered backwards, some of them choking for breath as the hose was played right over their faces. Some of them seemed to have the sense to run, but others seemed far too aware that the police vans could only carry a small amount of water. A few minutes and they’d run out completely. And then they’d be forced to use the gas…

The engines roared to life and he barked orders. They’d have to leave the body of their fallen comrade behind, even though it tore at him to leave it. The only way to recover the body was to use gas — and he wasn’t ready to use it unless they were in desperate straits. He watched as the remaining policemen scrambled for the vans, and then beat a hasty retreat. Absently, he wondered how the other teams were coping. The aliens had designated three hundred relatives of the suicide bomber and his friends for capture. Some of them would probably be arrested easily, but the others…? The Islamic community might hide them from the aliens.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding as the vans lurched down the empty streets. They’d made it out without having to kill any of the civilians. But next time…

Next time, he was sure, it would be a different story.

“I strongly suggest that you don’t go any further,” a man’s voice said. “You’re already in deep shit.”

Fatima jumped. She’d been walking home from the bomb site, lost in her own thoughts — and yet surely someone should not have been able to surprise her. The streets of London weren’t safe — hell, they hadn’t been safe before the invasion. She had been asked to take up lodgings at one of the hospitals, but she’d declined. There was no way to explain it to her stepmother. Respectable girls lived in the family home until they married, whereupon they moved to their husband’s home and found themselves slaving for their mother-in-law.

“Don’t worry,” the man said. “I’m on your side. Call me Abdul.”

“Right,” Fatima said. She’d met men who thought that they were God’s gift to women before, brimming with unjustified confidence… but this man seemed to be more relaxed than confident. “What’s going on…?”

She glanced around the corner and stopped, dead. There looked to be a small army of policemen outside her house, and a growing crowd of friends, relatives and neighbours surrounding the policemen. As she watched, her stepmother was hauled out by two of the policemen and dumped in the garden, her hands cuffed behind her backs. The rest of her extended family followed moments later. Fatima realised, in growing shock, that she would have been arrested herself if she’d been in the house.

Abdul caught her arm. For once, she wasn’t offended at a man touching her without an invitation. “Walk with me,” he hissed. She could feel his breath against her ear even though the scarf. “Pretend we’re a married couple and walk slowly. We don’t want to attract attention.”