Christopher Nuttall - Their Darkest Hour

They walked down the stairs and into the canteen, where they would wait until ten minutes to zero hour. The police had been getting more and better food lately, a bribe to keep them on the streets in the face of public hatred and near-constant attacks from gangs of resistance fighters. He poured himself a cup of tea and waited, glancing from time to time at his watch. They weren’t meant to go on duty for another hour, but the collaborator government didn’t approve of lateness. Even a few minutes late was grounds for a reprimand.

He tried to push his thoughts out of his mind as the seconds ticked down. In truth, he didn’t expect to survive the next few hours. The aliens had their own guard force on duty by the gates and if they weren’t taken out in the opening moments of Operation Hammer, they would certainly respond to rogue policemen. Operation Hammer, even the small section he’d been told about, had simply too many working components for everything to come off perfectly. Years of experience in the police force had taught him that the more moving parts in a particular operation, the greater the chance of something coming apart at the wrong moment. The day they’d had to arrest nearly fifty suspected terrorists across Britain had come alarmingly close to being unglued.

His watch vibrated a warning and he nodded to his allies, standing up and heading down to the lockers. He’d stuffed the briefcase in the locker he used as a matter of course, just to keep someone from trying to open it too early. Between them, they were carrying assault rifles, grenades — and one large briefcase that had been converted into a makeshift IED. Picking up the final briefcase, Robin headed to the lift and down towards the bunker. It had started life as a corporate gym, but the collaborator government had lost no time in installing the latest computers and assigning operators to watch over the city. Robin had done a few shifts at Scotland Yard before the aliens had destroyed it and he had to admit that the collaborators had been very efficient. If they hadn’t lost so many CCTV cameras over the past few weeks, they might realise what was going on before the operation began.

He strode through the chamber and up to a set of lockers assigned to senior personnel. One of them belonged to a detective-inspector with a habit of using the same combination for everything, a combination that he shared with some of his assistants who needed to use the locker. Robin opened the locker, cautioning himself to act normally and not make any moves that might attract attention, and placed the briefcase inside the locker. He had a cover story planned, but it wasn’t necessary. People had a habit of assuming that anyone inside a secure perimeter had been cleared to be there. Closing the locker, he walked back out of the compartment and up the stairs to where his allies were waiting. The timer was ticking down the final minutes to zero hour. He took his rifle, pistol and a handful of grenades and led the way to the stairs. They were at the third floor when the building shook, violently. The IED inside the briefcase had detonated and taken out the command centre.

“Come on,” he snapped, as they broke into a run. The emergency procedures insisted that everyone had to abandon the lifts and take the stairs, which meant that they would find it harder to get up while everyone else was heading down. He winced as the security alarm started to sound, even though it would add to the confusion. The procedure for security alerts was to remain where you were and wait. Panic would start sweeping the building.

The hardcore of dedicated collaborators were on the twentieth floor; men and women who had completely dedicated themselves to the alien cause. Some of them were intent on their own people, others had tastes they wanted to indulge — tastes that made Robin and his allies sick at the mere thought of such people being allowed out of jail and left free to prey on an innocent population. He kicked open the door and led the way into the first conference room. The collaborators looked up at him in shock, saw the weapons, and started to babble helplessly. Robin pointed his rifle at the closest man, shot him through the head, and then moved onto the next. They would decapitate the entire collaborator government before they were done.

A woman — blonde, with long legs revealed by a very short skirt — ran for the other door. Robin hesitated, but one of the others didn’t, putting a bullet in her back. She collapsed, blood leaking onto the carpet, as Robin turned his attention to the remaining collaborators. They were trying to run, or begging for mercy, but it was far too late. They were gunned down and abandoned, left to die like so many of their victims. Robin remembered the guilt and shame he’d felt when he’d served the aliens and refused to feel sorry for them. They’d chosen to serve the aliens and deserved to pay the price.

He kicked open the next door and ran into the office. A personal assistant — one he knew had been hired for her looks rather than her brains — took one look at him and started to scream. Robin ignored her and checked the next room, almost running straight into the Director of Human Resources. He’d always hated Human Resources departments — personnel departments had been much more friendly — but this one had served the aliens, turning humans into their servants. Cleaning the debris one day, burying the dead the next… they’d been shamelessly intent on selling out the entire human race. Robin hit him in the chest, knocked him down and then put a bullet through his head. Behind him, the assistant continued to scream.

All the alarms were going off now, deafening him. The people downstairs would be probably running now, despite security procedures. He headed back to the stairwell and ran up to the top floor, leaving the others behind to finish off the rest of the collaborators. It had once belonged to a rich businessman, but the collaborator-in-chief had taken it over to serve as his living space. God alone knew what had happened to the original owner. Far too many people had gone missing in the chaos since the aliens had landed. He kicked open the door and stormed into the penthouse. It was time for the bastard to pay for his crimes.

“What’s that noise?”

Alan snorted, rolling over in bed. “I’m not paying you to talk,” he sneered, through his yawns. He’d planned a late morning after a night spent enjoying himself with one of the whores his assistants had found for his pleasure. Prostitution was a buyer’s market these days, particularly when one had access to real food and drink. The girl was young, barely legal age. Indulging himself with her was a sign that he had truly arrived.

A moment later, the alarms shocked him awake. The emergency panel beside his bed was buzzing, reporting… an explosion? Every alarm seemed to be going off at once, demanding his attention. And had the entire building shook just now? If something had exploded down below, would it bring the entire building down…?

The girl looked over at him. “What’s happening?”

She sounded frightened. Alan couldn’t really blame her. “This building appears to be under attack,” he said, as evenly as he could. Crisis… it was a crisis, but he knew how to deal with a crisis. The secret was to remain calm and alive. Everything else came second. “Get down on the floor and stay there…”

He heard the sound of someone breaking down the door in the next room and swore. If someone was intruding on his privacy, it almost certainly wasn’t someone friendly. He’d made the point to his allies time and time again — he wanted his privacy while he slept. Desperately, he tore open the drawer and removed the pistol he’d hidden there, despite the alien edict against human firearms. The door burst open and he swung around, lifting the gun and pulling the trigger. It kicked in his hand, just as the intruder fired at him. There was a brief moment of pain, and then he fell into darkness.