First Contact
A Sci-fi/Horror Short Story
This story contains graphic descriptions of violence, death, and post-apocalyptic themes.
Reader discretion is advised.
He stood on the edge of a dead forest on the side of a mountain as he watched them descend. A spaceship, shaped like an egg, emerged from the haze as it crossed the sky. He snorted and curled his lip. Fools.
Scientists, sci-fi writers, and even conspiracy theorists all speculated on what would happen if humanity was not alone. He had heard the stories, the theories and the speculations. How they would come in peace, or war. What they would look, talk and act. The fantasies of clashing civilisations, a battle for survival. A fight for the fate of the planet, and in the end humanity would prevail.
They were wrong.
The night the ships came, they loomed in silence above, out of reach of man. The invaders sought not war, but conquest. And they needed not to fight, but to nudge. A single asteroid, pulled from its orbit by a subtle gravitational tug, was enough to do the job. It slammed into the Earth, creating a global cataclysm that wiped out most of life in an instant. The impact triggered massive earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, and wildfires. The dust and debris thrown into the atmosphere blocked out the sun, plunging the world into a nuclear winter. The survivors faced starvation, disease, and chaos.
The aliens waited patiently. Years upon years, orbiting the planet while the Earth healed itself from the wound they inflicted. Today was that day.
He unslung his rifle and scanned the landscape around him. He had not seen a living soul in months, but he still had to be cautious. The last time he crossed paths with someone, it did not end well.
It had been a least a year since he spoke. Would he be even able to say his name? His lips parted. The croak that emerged was barely a whisper. The back of his throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper.
Leaning his rifle against the trunk of a dead tree, he dropped his pack. His shoulders, relieved of their burden, rolled. Taking out a pair of binoculars, he scanned the edge of the world. The left lens was shattered, distorting the image of the gigantic oval-shaped spacecraft sinking beyond the next range. He checked his rations. There was enough jerked meat for four days, a week if he stretched them out, which he had to do often, and the same with water. It would take him about a day to hike across the plain, then another two days to circumvent the next range, three at the worst. It looked steep. The risk of getting injured going over the range was too great.
Lowering the bandana covering his face, he sipped the stale water from his canteen. A cold breeze washed over his face. He flicked his hood off. Calloused fingers rubbed his beard on his chin, and the dust that fell drifted off. It was everywhere, his clothes, his food, even his water. The grit stuck to his teeth. He spat out the dust and resentment. He rinsed his mouth, but it lingered. It was their fault.
He decided to make first contact.
#
A chill seeped into his bones as he descended the mountain. Reaching the base well into the night, he found a rocky overhang that afforded him some sanctuary. Unloading his pack, he unclipped a thin roll of foam that he used as bedding. New cracks would form every time he unrolled it. It was only a matter of time before he would have to dump it, even though it was getting harder and harder to salvage luxuries from the old world. But burdens in the new world had to be discarded.
He propped his pack on the stone wall and rested against it, rifle across his lap. The muscles in his legs throbbed, and his feet ached. He closed his eyes for a moment before unlacing his boots. The frayed bootlaces seemed to be held together by will alone. He eased the cracked leather boots off revealing blackened, tattered socks, soaked through with a mixture of blood, sweat, and pus. He gagged from the pungent odour as he removed them. The big toe of his right foot was inflamed. The flesh on the sides of both feet was raw. He set the ill-fitting boots aside and spread the socks out on top to dry. The crisp air embraced his feet and soothed the throbbing to a dull ache.
He took a moment to rummage through his pack until he found it. The only link to the past that survived, was an old photograph of when he was a child, standing in front of his parents. He angled it in his hand, trying to see it clearly in the low light. All the photos of his children, of his family, were digital. Memories of them were as faded as the photo he held in his hand. He returned the photo and moved the pack to the side.
Stretching out on the brittle foam, he felt the weight of his eyelids press down on him. The condensation of his breath rose like smoke from a chimney. The only sound was the ringing in his ears. No game or birds lurked here. A cry from scavengers echoed from off in the distance. He snapped his eyes open. Soft light surrounded him. His hands were empty. He gasped and flailed to an upright position, hands blindly reaching for a weapon. He retrieved the hunting knife strapped to his right thigh. The dull blade waved as bloodshot eyes darted about. After a few panicked seconds, he took a deep breath and saw the rifle lying in the dirt next to him. He must have dropped in his sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept through the night.
Grunting, he sheathed the knife and shook out the socks before putting them on, then eased his boots on. He took out a stained sheet from his pack and with a flick of his wrist, waved any dust off it and spread the small clean sheet on the ground. Next was a bag containing his cleaning kit, his supplies were running low. He unloaded the rifle and made sure that the chamber was empty. Once unloaded, the bolt was removed and disassembled, the parts spread out on the sheet, careful not to lose anything, such as the firing pin or spring. Next, he used a bore brush and bore solvent to clean the rifle barrel. He made sure to brush the barrel from the chamber to the muzzle, and then run a clean patch through the barrel to remove any remaining solvent. Once the barrel was clean, a cleaning rod and gun oil were used to clean the bolt and other metal parts of the rifle, coating all the metal parts with a thin layer of precious oil to help protect them from rust and corrosion. Finally, he reassembled the bolt and inserted it back into the rifle, chambering and ejecting a round several times to ensure that the bolt was working smoothly. He reloaded all the ammunition he had. All four bullets.
#
After hours of crossing the broken ground under a grey sky, the sun finally peaked over the range ahead, casing the way ahead in a weak shadow. Scraps of dried bushes scattered the land, and yellow clumps of grass crunched under his feet. To the south dark clouds they started to build, pregnant with sulphur-laced rain. He broke into a jog. The pitted scars on his flesh were a harsh reminder of being caught out in the elements.
Shapes began to form out of the landscape and soon he was amongst them. A field of bones, half buried under layers of earth, and on these white pillars, desiccated flesh flapped as if on the end of a flagpole. A massive herd of cattle had perished where they stood, leaving scattered burial mounds. He made his way through the vast graveyard. He felt a sudden jolt as his foot sank into the ground, collapsing the thin layer of dust that concealed the rotted carcass of a cow. He felt bile rising in his throat as he pulled his foot out of the yawning maw. He examined his leg for any injury but found none. The next steps were measured. Thunder beat like a soft drum in the distance, its rhythmic sounds echoing through the desolate landscape. He quickened his pace.
Scanning all around he saw a trail of dust rising in the north. He threw himself to the ground and slid out of his kit. Flatten out in the earth, he dragged himself and his gear until he found a husk of a cow in which he could hide his pack. Double backed and waited. The trail of dust split into two, the larger one continuing east, a scouting party headed south. He cursed himself for getting caught out in the open. Stupid.
He crawled into a mound draped in the mottled dusty skin and peered between a shattered ribcage He held his rifle low and waited. The sun was at its peak when two riders came into view. With the naked eye, he could see the broad-brimmed hats on their heads. As they came closer, he could see their bare chests marked with scars and coated in paint made from ash. One had a rifle slung over his back. Barbarians.
He’d seen the trail of desolation these human locusts had left and given it a wide berth. The worst of humanity collated into a marauding band. No beast nor man could satisfy their hunger. He'd spent years avoiding such plagues.
They rode up to the edge of the buried herd and scanned for movement. He could not hear what they said, but they nodded at each other. His finger caressed the trigger as he held his breath. Dirt rose from the ground as they kicked their horses into a gallop and headed west to find his trail. The window had closed. Thunder rolled towards him. He could hear their horses’ tentative steps through the maze of carcasses. There was a loud snap and one of the horses cried out. He edged his face to the left and he could see one of the horses in its side thrashing about, wailing.
A spit of rain irritated his hand. A bang and the cries stopped. The raindrops fell in twos and threes as lightning crashed around them. He caught a glimpse of ash-painted skin and leather as one of the barbarians dismounted and led his horse out of the boneyard. He couldn’t see the other but could hear tentative steps closing in. He gritted his teeth and the stinging barbs of rain washed over his exposed skin. It wouldn’t be long before his clothes were soaked, cocooning him in a chemical bath. Dirt and ash crunched under a boot. The blood pumping through his veins echoed in his ears. Gently releasing the grip on his rifle, his right hand slid down to the handle of his knife. The crack of another carcass collapsing exploded next to him. He sprung to a crouch and lunged at the barbarian a few feet next to him. Grabbing a tuft of hair on the back of the barbarian's head, he drove the knife deep into the throat. Crimson fluid sprayed over his hand and arm, mixing with ash and sulfuric rain creating a blackened concoction. The barbarian's eyes locked onto his, there was a mixture of shock and hopelessness before they faded.
He pulled the knife out and dived for his rifle. The slain barbarian made garbled sounds and then slumped at an odd angle; his leg trapped in the pit that was once a living animal. With a loud crack, dirt and bone exploded next to his head. He grabbed his rifle and crawled on his belly. Another bullet tore through the mound that had been his shelter a moment ago. Sheets of rain blurred his vision, and the bitter smell clogged his nose. He could make out the silhouette of the barbarian on his horse, struggling to maintain control. Horses didn’t like being burned by acid rain any more than he did. He raised his rifle and aimed. A burst of plaid light erupted from above that forced his eyes shut. After a few heartbeats, the light faded enough so he could open them. Even through heavy rain, the landscape was illuminated greater than any flash of lightning. The horse bucked and whinnied, throwing the barbarian who still held tight to the reins. The barbarian glanced up at the sky while trying to retain control.
He couldn’t help but look up. High in the clouds was the source of the light. A metallic sphere was at the centre of a ring of clouds with a clear blue sky in the background. Flashes of magenta rippled through the storm clouds, turning them grey as they thinned out. A shockwave slammed into him, hurling him to the ground. The air in his lungs was squeezed out. He rolled over and managed to get to his hands and knees, he tore the bandana from his face and gasped for air. After a moment he pushed himself up and looked to the sky. The sky sphere sped towards the east and disappeared over the ridge. The storm clouds were gone. Stray drops of rain still fell from the sky, but they didn’t burn the flesh. The bastards could have fixed everything years ago—a rainbow formed in the drizzle.
His hands trembled as he lifted the rifle. Looking through the scope he could see a barbarian mounting his stead. No doubt returning to the others, to get help. He drew in a deep breath through his nose and expelled all the air in his lungs. Held for a moment, then squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out in the silence. Missed. The barbarian continued to escape. He ejected the shell and chambered the next round. Only three rounds left. He calmed his nerves and aimed. Another crack echoed.
Through the scope, he could see the barbarian twist and clutch his side. He couldn't tell where he'd hit the barbarian, but he hoped he'd bleed out before rejoining his marauding band. He spat out the grit in his mouth and went to collect his pack. It didn’t take long to find it, the pressure from the shockwave had collapsed all the cavities. He took a moment to survey the scene. The dead barbarian didn’t have anything worth scavenging, but the horse meat was priceless.
A howl came from the west, then another. A cacophony of cries erupted from the range to the west. Packs of wolves and once-domesticated dogs hunt together, enticed by the sounds of gunfire. The beasts learnt quickly that following humans was the surest way of finding something to eat.
He flung his pack on and ran east, towards the next range. He would have to climb over it now.
#
He rested halfway up the next ridge, his chest heaving. The night was falling, and the shadows were growing long. He scanned the landscape with his binoculars, his eyes darting to the pack of animals swarming like ants on the scraps of the barbarian's horse. He knew it wouldn't be long before the wolves forgot their bellies were full and found his trail. There was no sign of the marauders. The trail from the wounded one continued northeast. He regretted not aiming for the horse. He took a sip from his canteen. He should have checked the boot size of the dead barbarian. No, he still wouldn’t have had time. He was getting tired. Ignoring the pain in his feet, he pressed on up the slope.
Dead trees were scattered across the mountainside like tombstones. Loose soil and rock began to slip under his feet as the angle of ascent increased. It wasn’t long before he had to use his hands to search for stable earth. He scaled the slope until he came to a cliff face that he estimated to be at least twenty feet high. He sank to his knees and his head came to rest on the rock. A weight lodged in his throat. Stupid. He slammed the bottom of his fist against the wall. Stupid.
He slid on the loose soil as he rolled to his back. His backpack, filled with all his worldly possessions, had dug into the earth, stopping his momentum. He let a tear run down his cheek as he looked up at the night sky. It had only been a few days since the dust in the atmosphere started to thin and for the first time, in a long time, he allowed himself to see.
The Milky Way glittered like a stream of stars poured over the horizon, filling the sky with celestial brilliance. Constellations that his mother pointed out to him as a child and shown to his children now revealed themselves. The glimmer of the stars was enhanced by the tears that welled in his eyes. A solid light, no bigger than a star, drifted across his view, then another, then a fleet of them. His jaw clenched as he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and sat up. He looked down at the back of his weathered hands as they began to shake. The mixture of blood and dirt clung tight to his right hand, concealing pitted scars. Some wounds never heal.
Movement at the bottom of the range caught his eye. He struggled to his feet and took out his binoculars. A mix of dogs and wolves had broken off from the main pack. They trotted along his trail, sniffing the ground and air for his scent. He scampered up the slope, hoping not to lose his footing again. He followed the rocky obstacle. His legs and lungs were burning. His heart was pushed to its limit. The thrumming in his head was like that of the paws of hellhounds upon the earth, hunting him down. Ahead were some large boulders that had fallen out of the rock. He knew he had to reach it before they did. He climbed up the side of the outcrop and found his footing. Reaching out he was still a few feet short. He tossed his rifle on the ledge. Taking off his backpack he set it down and stood on it. The tips of his fingers curled over the ledge. The sound of claws scratching on stone cut the depths of his soul.
Jumping from his pack, he placed his palms on the ledge, pulled his torso up and swung the rest of his body to safety. Below, a wolf pulled his backpack off the boulder then three other dogs helped tear it apart. All his supplies were gone. His photograph, yellowed with time, was trampled under paw in the frenzy of drooling jaws tearing the last of his jerked meat. Growls and yelps echoed into the night. Collecting his rifle, he rose and walked into the darkness.
#
Perched high on the range he saw the scale of the gigantic ship entrenched into the earth miles away, the sight sapped the strength from his knees. He fell to his backside, eyes blinked in confusion. The morning sun glistened off the metallic dome. Even though it was at least a day's walk away, the size of the machine was ridiculous. The prairie resembled a shattered pane of glass with an embedded bullet, marred by the arrival of the aliens. He looked through the scope of his rifle to try to gauge its size. Its diameter must have been at least the size of a small city or a large town, and just as tall. Rings and shapes wrapped around its circumference; he assumed them to be hangar doors, but he was too far away for the aliens to give up their secrets just yet. There was movement near the dome. Silver specks went back and forth between the alien craft and tiny structures. The bastards were building their cities.
The heat from a high noon sun was an experience he had long since forgotten about. Sweat stung his eyes and the sun's rays seared his pale, wiry arms. He had left his hooded jacket halfway down the mountainside. There was no use for it anymore. He scrambled down the last hundred yards of the descent, dodging boulders and rocks that threatened to trip him. He stopped to rest in the shade at the base next to a boulder and took his canteen out. He only had a few mouthfuls left in it. He took a sip, then heard a growl. His heart shrank in his chest. It was one of the dogs from the pack. An older one, with grey fur and a scarred muzzle. It stalked forward with teeth bared, eyeing him with hunger and hatred. He cupped his hand and poured the last of his water. The dog sniffed and came closer. It lapped up the water from his palm, the rough texture of the dog's tongue was a new sensation. It wagged its tail slightly. A hint of a smile cracked the corner of his lips. It pricked up its ears and ran off. He scanned all around before he caught sight of a silver sphere shooting across the sky then turned vertical, disappearing into the atmosphere without a sound, or with a sound that he couldn’t hear at least.
He tossed the canteen aside and decided to rest until nightfall before continuing his last journey.
#
He set out on the moonless night, with no food or water left, his pace was controlled, but urgent. A few miles into the journey he came across tracks. Lots of them. They belonged to the band of barbarians. They were heading towards the alien landing site. His eyes strained to scan for movement, but it was quiet, eerily quiet. There was not an insect, not a bird, nothing, just a gentle breeze washing over his face. He followed the tracks for an hour until they suddenly stopped. He inspected the ground carefully. It looked like they just disappeared. A few stray trails of horses’ hoofs veered to the left and right of the main body, but those too met a similar fate. There were no bodies, no blood, no signs of struggle. It was like they were pulled from the earth like a weed, with the divots of horseshoes as the only clue that they ever existed in the first place. He gripped the rifle tighter and continued at a lowered crouch, feeling a cold sweat on his forehead. Soon the ground was broken and looked like the surface of the ocean in high winds, choppy with jagged soil and rocks serving as white caps. Chasms and ravines were deep enough so he could travel unseen, hiding from the alien eyes. The glow from the lights in the metal dome grew as he drew closer, filling the sky with an unnatural brightness. He could still see the crest of the dome from within the fresh canyons, towering over the horizon like a metal mountain.
Clawing his way up the side of the ravine wall he peaked above the edge. He was at the extreme range of his rifle. Close enough. There was a small ditch a few yards from him that would give him a firing position. The sky was pale, the night retreated as the alien craft blocked the sunrise, casting a long shadow. If he tried to say hello now, they would see the glint of his scope. Better to wait until the sun was at his back. He slid back down the fresh-cut gully and rested in the shadows. He could feel his body ache. He unsheathed his knife and cut the laces of his boots. He let out a sigh as the pressure on his feet eased. He peeled back the tongue of his boots to relieve grubby socks stained red with fresh blood. He stabbed the knife into the ground, then got as comfortable as he could.
Silver balls flew high overhead most of the morning and into the midday. If they saw him, they didn’t take any notice of him. Maybe they were too busy with their tasks to worry about a lone human lying in the dirt. He licked his parched lips and wiped the sweat from his brow. White clouds rolled through the pale sky as his mind began to wander. When was the last time he saw a clear sky? How long had it been since he took a breath of fresh air? Since they took everything from him, that’s how long. His knuckles turned white. What did they look like? What if they have two heads? Good, there’s still two bullets left.
The pale sky in the west gave way to golden hues. It was time. He collected his rifle as he stood. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as tremors started to grip his hands. He pushed the air out of his lungs to steady himself. He scaled the crest and crawled on his belly with his face pressed against the ground until he found himself in the ditch he spied earlier. Without lifting his head, he raised his eyes. The metallic dome was like a monolithic monument, towering overhead. He pushed off the ground and looked ahead before falling back down. In a swift glance, he saw more buildings had been constructed, smaller domes further out than what he saw yesterday, as if they were a virus, duplicating and spreading, infecting the earth. There were figures too, milling about. It’s time.
He pulled some dirt from the edge of the ditch, creating a nook for the rifle to rest in. He wanted to make the shot count, make them pay. With surgical precision, he moved into a firing position, he wanted to see the bastard’s face before he pulled the trigger. He gazed through the scope.
“Oh, God.”
Thanks for reading.
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Very good.. held my breath till the end!