Normalverse Too: The Normalverse Trilogy, #2

By Simon Dunn

What happens when the invasion of Earth has all become a bit … tiresome?

And there’s dust everywhere?

Norman yearns for more than his lot in a post-apocalyptic hell-hole, especially now that his neighbours have moved in with him. If only he could fix the hole in the wall made by the meteorite, do something about the death from the skies, and get a decent sandwich.

But as the world crumbles into dystopia, Norman is the only one who can save it.

Possibly.

Normalverse Too is the continuation of a trilogy about normality and universal class warfare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Dunn
• Release date: Dec 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781507021989

Book preview

One

Norman heard the familiar whining and sank deeper behind the mound of rubble. The dust kicked up around him and he had to cover his mouth so as not to cough. Naomi would be furious if he gave away his position that way.

Again.

A few stones loosened from their home and tumbled quietly down the slope. For a moment he lost track of the whine, and he had to strain his ears to relocate it. It was closer now. He could hear the gentle throbbing of its hover engine, the odd click here and there, and the constant dribble drabble noise of data analysis.

Iris, he spoke in his mind, knowing his implant would sense it, parse it, and reply with an appropriate response. Locate Naomi.

She hasn’t moved moron, Iris spat, then popped up an overhead wireframe view of their location. The blinking dots marking their positions hadn’t budged.

The only thing that was different was the blue dot marking the whereabouts of the drone.

My life has changed, Norman thought.

Mine hasn’t, Iris said. I’m the one stuck in this vacuous hole you call your brain.

Bumface.

YOU’RE a bumface.

She shut down the display out of spite. In its place she played a video of the time last week when Norman had sneezed into his ice cream. Over and over again, on a constant loop. She’d even added comedy music.

Grow up, he hissed audibly.

YOU grow up.

The video popped away, and was replaced by a box in his line of sight that relayed a text massage from Naomi.

Shut UP!

Norman replied with a shame faced emoticon, and immediately hated himself for doing so. Then he checked to see if anyone had liked any of his recent posts.

No one had.

He let out a little sigh, and leaned back against the rubble, wondering how long life was going to be like this.

The drone on the other side of the pile made an odd beeping noise, and a beam of green light shot vertically into the air for ten metres. He hadn’t seen one of them do that before.

Was it a signalling beacon?

Another message from Naomi read, Get ready.

Norman felt the wooden shaft in his hand, not wanting to take the full weight of it just yet. Instead he balanced it on its end and watched the little countdown appear and begin in the corner of his vision.

With five seconds to go, he started to take gulping breaths, filling his lungs ready for the exertion.

It changed to zero and he clambered to his feet, the ground beneath him loose and rough. His legs struggled to get a purchase as he lifted the sledgehammer up and tried to ascend the short mound.

Over the top and from a distance he heard Naomi goading the drone.

He was already late.

His back foot slipped and his knee jolted, bringing his upper down with the weight of the sledgehammer. He struggled to get his footing again, and had to crawl up the collapsing bank, dragging the hammer behind him.

As he emerged over the crest, he saw that the drone had spun round and was moving at speed towards Naomi’s position. He could see the look of anger on her face as she saw him stumble out from his cover.

And when he lifted the hammer over his head, gravity took hold and pulled him backwards. His feet kicked out from under him and he felt the ground falling away. He went with it, landing on his back with a painful thump, the heavy head of the hammer smacking down just inches from his skull.

In the blur of motion and flurry of dust plumes, he saw the drone closing in on Naomi.

He felt the rubble digging and scraping beneath him, and heard the tearing of his trousers as the ragged stones ripped at his buttocks. Even in that moment, he had time to lament the ruination of an expensive pair of chinos.

His feet hit the bottom of the slope, and the momentum stood him upright, but he had lost grip of the hammer, which was coming down the rubble behind him. The lumped head smacked into the back of his ankle, and he let out a pained yelp.

The drone stopped and started to turn.

At least he’d stopped it from descending on Naomi.

But now its big eye-like lens was aimed firmly in his direction. He ducked, as much to get out of sight as to grab the sledgehammer at his feet. But he knew he would never get past the drone’s defences with it looking right at him.

His fingers grabbed the handle, and he found a strength from his reserves, lifting it up in one fluid motion, feeling himself pivot like discus thrower, launching the hammer in a spinning arc towards the drone.

He dropped to one knee and watched his handy work as it careened right past the drone and onwards towards Naomi’s head. She ducked and yelped, and the hammer smacked into the rubble a few inches from where she had just been.

A message appeared in Norman’s vision.

Prick.

He didn’t have time to respond, what with the drone making its way towards him now. He saw the familiar rising glow from one of its sensor pads, getting brighter and brighter, a high pitched whine rising like an old fashioned camera flash powering up, ready to burst forth with a scanning beam.

After that hit, there would be no more lamenting the turns his life had taken.

There would be no more life.

Norman didn’t think he could outrun it.

He’d never seen anyone manage that before.

Oi, a voice barked.

Norman froze, and watched as the drone slowly turned around ninety degrees to examine the source of the noise.

It was Barnaby Loaf.

He was buttoning up his tweed jacket, and making sure the leather elbow patches were properly aligned.

Run, appeared in Norman’s vision, but he didn’t obey. Instead, he watched dumbfounded as Barnaby stood right in front of the hovering drone.

Now listen up, Barnaby began, his deep baritone voice rumbling from his lungs, rich with a righteous indignation that had taken years to foster. You big floating testicle.

He was right, it did look like a high tech bollock.

I say this without emotion, but I think I share the sentiment of the entire bloody planet when I say – Just. Piss. Off.

With that he revealed a giant bed sheet from behind his back, which he whipped over the top of the drone in one fluid motion, dropping down beneath it to grab the sheet and bunch it all up in one hand.

The drone whipped and fought beneath its trap, but Barnaby managed to keep hold of it with a firm grip.

Naomi bolted from her hiding place, running over the crest of rubble with such force that it was a wonder the whole pile didn’t collapse out from under her. She skidded to a halt next to Barnaby and wrestled the sheet from his grasp. When she had it under her control, she span on the spot and launched the trapped drone at the side of the building.

Norman heard a massive plastic crack and then some fizzing, before a cloud of blue smoke burst out through the cotton weave. The hovering drone lost all its power and collapsed to the floor with another wrenching crack.

Naomi made sure it was dead by trampling on it until it was half its original size and sounded like a bag of plastic spanners. All the while, she glared right at Norman, and he wilted under her intense gaze.

I told you not to go out, she said, punctuating the sentiment by smacking her foot down with a hard crack.

I needed some milk.

She shook her head once, the admonishment enough to make him feel like a child.

Have you ever had tea without milk? he protested, knowing it was pointless.

I have, Barnaby said with a wince. Tastes like old people.

Norman didn’t know what that meant.

What do old people taste like? Naomi asked, her face showing immediate regret for the lapse.

Milk-less tea, Barnaby replied, like it was obvious.

The point is, Naomi said, giving Barnaby one last confused look before returning to Norman with her ire. Don’t. Go. Out.

Bloody thing ruined my bed sheet, Barnaby said before Norman could retort.

It doesn’t matter, Naomi sighed.

Of course it matters. My only other sheets are silk, and my pyjamas are silk. Ever tried sleeping like that? It’s like trying to hump a bar of soap in the bath.

You would know.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Let’s just get back inside.

Together they traipsed noisily through the rubble, their feet crunching, their ankles turning as the ground shifted beneath their feet, and all of them exhausted in the dust coated clothing that was hanging from their bodies.

Norman hovered in the threshold as the others wandered inside and up the stairs.

For the first time in days he looked up at the sky.

It seemed like there were even more ships up there today, just hanging there, defying gravity, repelling the weak efforts of self-defence, and looking slightly vague and unreal, almost like they were watercolour paintings on the clouds.

He’d been on a spaceship a lifetime ago, and even he couldn’t comprehend these vast behemoths, some so huge they looked like they had their own private weather systems hugging their shape.

The largest one filled a large section of the horizon, and he wondered why they all looked so different. Shouldn’t they be homogenous, peopled by aliens all wearing the same outfit, and part of a galactic alliance that bought out the best in people? Or the worse?

Instead, they just sat there, waiting in the sky for God knows what.

Norman sighed and turned inside, letting the door close loudly behind him. It echoed in the lobby, as did his footsteps on the stairs, and he slowly climbed up, feeling the familiar dull ache in his thighs. He realised he needed to eat something.

Inside his flat, he found Naomi tinkering in the corner as normal, and Barnaby sitting in the shrunken armchair reading a three week old copy of the Sunday Times. He’d read it from cover to cover every day since the invasion, and every time he tutted at the same things, got angry with the same things, and even rubbed out the pencil letters on the crossword and did it again. The page there was so thin, it wouldn’t be long before it was just a hole.

Norman didn’t want to think about holes.

So he turned to Naomi and looked at the machine she was fussing over.

Where did you even get that? he asked for the twelfth time, not expecting an answer. Okay then, what does it do?

Makes tea, she grunted, and jabbed at it with a screwdriver.

The machine seemed to scream with pain for a second, and she hit it over the head with a hammer. It clanked loudly, and the screaming stopped.

Norman gave up and wandered into the kitchen to make a sandwich. When he opened the fridge he nearly swore at volume. He slammed the door and wheeled back round into an accusatory stance.

Who took the last slice of ham?

Naomi shrugged.

Barnaby looked sheepish.

I was saving that for lunch.

And a fine lunch it made, Barnaby said without guilt.

Just leave me alone, Norman grunted as he collapsed on the tiny sofa, feeling the ennui envelope him so tight it was suffocating. He grabbed a cushion and held on to it with both arms.

No one moved.

I could go out and catch some pigeons, Naomi said without humour.

There’s still food on the supermarket shelves, Norman replied.

If you can call tinned foie gras food. Barnaby said.

I call ham food, Norman sneered.

As do I.

I could shoot a cat, Naomi suggested, bringing a gun from her hip and checking the chamber.

No, Norman blurted.

You hate cats, she said.

I don’t, he half-lied. I had one once. I think.

We’d only end up arguing about how to skin it.

Barnaby waited with a thin smile for the joke to get a laugh.

It never came.

He sulked, and pulled the paper back up