Alien Apocalypse: Genesis

By Dean Giles

In book two of the series, following "The Storm", humanity is on a downward spiral. Leon and Elliott set out for the Coryton Refinery and discover the oil reserves needed to fight the alien moss are under the control of a gang of kidnappers. A botched rescue attempt nets only one captive, and she knows of a “safe zone” where Leon can recruit help to take over the refinery, but getting there could get them killed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TWB Press
• Release date: Feb 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781936991389

Dean Giles

Dean lives with his wife and two young children in Surrey, UK. He owns a business jointly with his father, developing and manufacturing fibre optic components and instruments for the telecommunications, sensing, and data industries. His day job consists largely of shining light through fragile glass fibres, and trying to glue very small things to even smaller things.Dean is a 2nd Dan Black Belt in Kickboxing and has won national and international titles in the sport. In 2003 he spent a few months living and training at a Shaolin Kung Fu academy in Northern China.Dean writes science fiction and horror, and his short stories have appeared in webzines in the UK and US. A love of reading, gaming, and watching SF/F has given him the motivation to put his ideas onto paper.

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Alien Apocalypse - Genesis

By

Dean Giles

Copyright by Dean Giles 2012

Published by TWB Press at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this story (eBook) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or book reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidences are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Edited by Terry Wright

Cover art by Terry Wright

ISBN 978-1-936991-38-9

By

Dean Giles

THE INVADED LAND stretched out to the horizon in a patchwork of beautiful but deadly green. Our only path through the acid fields of alien moss was the motorway that carved through the ravaged countryside. Elliott and I had only the clothes on our backs, a hunger in our bellies, and futures bleak as nightmares.

Trees still lined the roadside, but too few stood tall and healthy, lonely in their defiant last stand against the smothering moss. Most were hidden by the stalks and leaves of an alien growth that slowly ate through the woodlands like a malevolent parasite.

I led Elliott along the safety of the asphalt road under the watchful gaze of possessed trees. Their clawed branches leaned over the motorway’s edge, stretching as far as they could, as if to grab us as they swayed in the wind. All around, vehicles were crushed and piled across the M25’s tarmac like discarded beer cans. The wind through the abandoned metal husks moaned like the doomed ghosts of humanity.

I searched the horizon for signs of movement, of human life, animal life, a bird or a bug, any recognisable earthly life at all. But there was none to behold.

In the days since the comet passed, we’d found only traces of living people, abandoned camps, cold fire pit embers, fresh litter dumps, and human waste. I hoped we would meet other survivors. We could band together, help each other...another truth struck me: survival of the fittest. Dog eat dog. We could just as easily run into lawless savages.

A voice in my head snapped at me: Don’t let your guard down, Leon Weber.

The road rounded a bend and ran straight down to The River Thames. Northbound traffic would normally go under it by tunnel, and southbound traffic ran over it by bridge. I pointed to the suspended carriageway. The Dartford Crossing, I told Elliott.

It looks dangerous.

Past the last slip-road before the crossing, the four lane road widened to thirteen lanes leading up to a row of vacant pay-stations. Beyond them, the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge towered one-hundred and fifty metres above the Thames - a once white cable-stayed design now green and creaking under the weight of the moss. On the underside of the bridge, alien pods grouped around the supports like giant mould patches. But the road over appeared clear.

To the left, the tunnel entrance was covered with moss shimmering like green ice as crystalline reflections bounced off its textured surface.

I stopped and took in the sight of the bridge access ahead, fraught with obstacles, hazards and imminent death. Cars were strewn in all directions, perpetually mirroring the panic of their long dead owners.

My heart thumped hard, angry that we’d be forced to survive this gauntlet in order to live through the day, and tomorrow, and the next.

Are you sure about this, Dad?

I regarded Elliott. He slouched under the weight of his backpacks, a forest fire-fighter’s CamelBak filled with oil instead of water and a Blackhawk Phoenix packed with canned food, hand tools, and spare clothing. His cargo trousers and multi-pocketed jacket were coated with oil, and his white-rimmed eyes blinked from a face blackened with grease. He held a sprayer nozzle and pump in his right hand, ready to douse the moss with oil piped from the CamelBak, our silver bullets against the invading blanket of slime that was destroying our world.

Though my twelve-year-old son looked uncomfortable under his gear, he was determined to carry on, never once voicing a complaint.

I carried a similar arsenal except my Phoenix was filled with other equipment: night vision kit, bolt cutters, map, and flares. To my leather belt I’d strapped extra oil bottles, precious as ammo. We were a sight to look at, the two of us.

So what do you reckon? I asked him. Are you fit?

Elliott regarded me with a raised eyebrow. You’re the one who’s afraid of heights.

Nah, just falling, mate.

He took a deep breath and looked out over the water. How far do you think it is across?

About a mile.

I glanced up to a clear summer day. The deserted skies still filled me with dread. No insects, no birds, no planes, no jet trails. Nothing. But we had good visibility.

We walked on, and I kept my eyes forward searching for signs of human activity amongst the chaos of destroyed cars that were heaped across both carriageways. Beyond the pay-stations, the oil-stained road sloped upwards to the bridge. The only sound was the dull thud of my Timberland boots. The air smelled like a chemical lab, sharp