Christopher Nuttall - Their Darkest Hour

“What?” He demanded, furiously. There were times when he thought that going to the whorehouses would be a good way to punish a shrewish spouse. It wasn’t as if there was a shortage of whores these days. Pussy was cheap when so many were starving, kept alive by the mush the aliens doled out every week to those who bent the knee to them. “What’s so fucking important that you have to drag me out of the bathroom?”

“They’re saying there’s going to be a national announcement in twenty minutes,” his wife shouted back. God — what had he been thinking when he married her? She’d trapped him, all right; she’d told him that she was on the pill. But she’d gotten pregnant and her father had insisted that he marry her, or else. Jimmy still remembered the moment when he’d realised that he’d been trapped, forced into a marriage to a girl he didn’t love. And even though they’d had three brats together, he still didn’t love her. “You have to watch it too.”

Jimmy snorted, but didn’t argue any further. The BBC was wholly controlled by the aliens these days and they used it to make sure that their subjects heard announcements that might otherwise be missed. When they weren’t issuing orders, they were showing old soap operas and movies, rather than anything else. The once-famed BBC news service had terminated two days after the aliens landed, never to be replaced. It seemed that the aliens believed that humans were only to know what they needed to know, rather than have news from all over the world pumped into their living rooms. Jimmy was almost relieved. His wife and her cooking group had held sales for every lost cause across the world, apart from Britain itself. No one was allowed to mention how Britain had problems…

He stumbled down the stairs, cursing the five pints of beer he’d downed after leaving work earlier, and crashed into the living room. She’d decorated it, of course, with all of her frilly decorations, rather than the beer table and fridge he would have preferred. Surely a man could design at least one room in his house. But no, it was all her own work — and it had cost him a pretty penny too! He sat down in the armchair and pretended not to see his wife’s lips thinning with disapproval. So what if he was half-drunk? It wasn’t as if he wasn’t providing for her, was it? She still got half of his salary — real alien money — and there were goods in the shops for those who had alien money. They ate better than all of their neighbours.

The television was showing the end of one of the soap operas he so detested, but he told himself to be patient. It wasn’t easy, not when his wife was either looking at the television or scowling at him, giving him the look that suggested that she regretted marrying him almost as much as he regretted marrying her. But it wasn’t as if he’d had any choice… and then there were the kids. He loved his kids, or at least he told himself he did, and he wouldn’t want any harm to come to them. They’d be shattered if mum and dad broke up… maybe he would go to the whorehouse after all. It wasn’t as if his wife was giving him access to her body any longer.

He looked up as the music announcing an alien broadcast caught his attention. The aliens always announced their broadcasts in advance, warning everyone to watch — or else. Jimmy had no idea what had got into their minds this time, but he knew better than to avoid watching, not when his very career depended upon them. The aliens seemed interested in recruiting thousands of humans and they paid well, although they were really the only paying employers these days, No doubt the wretched banking CEOs and others who made it impossible for a man to overcome his debt and stand tall had sold out to them. No one had any principles any longer.

“Case in point,” he grunted, as the collaborator-in-chief appeared on the screen. Alan Beresford was just another MP who proved that there was no point in being loyal to the country. Why should he be loyal to a government that pardoned outright criminality among its own members and at the same time hectored him to improve his lifestyle? What fucking business of theirs was it if he smoked twenty fags in a day, or drank himself senseless every weekend? It wasn’t as if there were any dreams any longer. How could they claim his loyalty when they so manifestly didn’t deserve it? The last Prime Minister was probably hiding in a aristocratic mansion somewhere, while his successor was an outright collaborator.

His wife looked over at him. “Yes, Jimmy?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jimmy grunted. He wanted a beer, any beer. But he’d stashed all of his cans upstairs and there was none within reach. “I thought you admired this guy anyway.”

“These have been tragic times for our country,” Beresford said. Jimmy snorted. Somehow, he didn’t think that Beresford had found them very tragic. It was clear that he was well-fed and content, even if he was the focus for a great deal of anger. The aliens would protect him if the lynch mob ever reached his door. “We have been forced to adapt to a new world order — and yet there are those who are resolved to fight to the bitter end. But their fight is hopeless — we are part of a greater universe now and it is time to earn our place in it.”

“By whoring for the aliens, no doubt,” Jimmy sneered. “Bet you’re not worried about thugs slashing your tires when you park and go for a beer.”

He smiled at the memory. It hadn’t been that long ago that he and his fellow lorry drivers had caught a pair of young kids slashing their tires. They hadn’t bothered to call the police, knowing that the little brats would only be let off with a warning. Instead, they’d thrashed hell out of them and abandoned them some miles from town. Jimmy had half-expected them to inform the police, but there had never been any comeback. Perhaps the police had figured that the brats deserved their treatment.

“We have broken many cells of bitter-enders, people who believe that they must still fight on,” Beresford continued. “It is with great regret that I am forced to confirm that those fighters — who have killed far more innocent humans than aliens — will be executed in two days. Their deaths will serve as a warning — being a bitter-ender will bring you nothing, but grief. The entire population will see their executions on television. And then let us pray that that will be an end to the fighting. Our poor country has suffered enough.

“But you haven’t suffered at all,” Jimmy bellowed, and threw the remote at the television set. People like Beresford never suffered. They simply attached themselves to the centre of power and made themselves indispensible, at least until a new centre of power arrived. Bottom-feeders, the lot of them. “Do you really think that we will be impressed?”

“It gives me great pleasure to announce that the daily ration will be increased in response to the increasing number of people who have seen the inevitable and started to work with the aliens to build a new world,” Beresford concluded. “Together, we will build a new Britain.”

His face vanished from the display. Moments later, the next soap came on, while a small line of text underneath the pictures warned that the alien broadcast would be repeated every hour on the hour. Everyone in Britain would see it. And then they would watch in horror as the aliens executed their captives. Jimmy shrugged as he stood up. What had Britain ever done for him that he should fight for it? He’d been nagged by the nanny-state since he was a little kid. Don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t question… we know what’s best for you, never mind that you don’t like it… we have the right to reshape you as we see fit…

He rolled his eyes, just as the doorbell rang. Jimmy blinked in surprise; ever since he’d gone to work for the aliens, their circle of friends had dwindled away to almost nothing. His wife had taken it harder than he had — he was happy as long as he had beer and a place to sleep. Perhaps it was one of the religious freaks who went around offering salvation — in exchange for a cash donation, of course — or someone collecting for charity. It seemed that the only endangered species unworthy of assistance was the white male.