Fictional Novel

© Darren White 1996

" R a t s l i p s "

b y

d a r r e n w h i t e

www.darrenwhite.co | www.facebook.com/darrenwhit3 | twitter.com/dazzawhit3

www.darrenwhite.co/blog.html

Excerpt 1 of Ratslips:

© 1996 Darren White

Martha had spent the best part of the day alone, inspecting the containment fences in the fields furthest from her village, with only her old dog Rufus for company. She'd finished her task just before sunset, and wearily, she'd started the long journey home shortly afterwards.

She had been less than two kilometres into it, when the old vehicle that the humans had given her, had finally died. She tried to raise help on the communicator, but it too had seen better days, and she soon gave up. The obsolete equipment they gave never lasted very long.

So, she had been forced to begin the long walk back. She knew the country well; she had never lived anywhere else, after all. There was a short cut across the hills, that few people outside her village knew. That few people outside her village even cared about.

The brooding sky had been threatening to rain all day. So it came as no great surprise when the heavens eventually opened, soaking her and her canine companion completely. She had originally hoped that they might make it home before the storm came. But that hope soon died.

And now as they trudged together down the final hill, with the welcoming glow of their village firmly in sight, and her cheap boots turning to sodden cardboard beneath her freezing feet, she felt secure.

She could hear the distant whine of a human transporter, hidden somewhere behind the brooding clouds, its engines muffled by the ferocity of the storm. She paid little attention to it. They often overflew the land belonging to her kind, preferring it to the airspace above their densely populated human cities.

Yet, something about the sounds that it made concerned her.

She pulled the collar of her coat tight around her neck, trying to keep out the driving rain that dripped in, then she yelled at her dog to keep up, and pushed forward through the deluge. "Not long now,” she told herself. "We'll soon be home."

The relentless drone of the plane above her, still shrouded by the grey mire, grew steadily louder, and she realized that it was heading her way. That was unusual; the planes never came this close. Not without a good reason, anyway.

Then suddenly, it unexpectedly burst through the clouds, right in front of her, and flew so low over her head that she instinctively ducked. Her dog barked furiously at it, first running towards it, as it raced behind them, and then thinking better of it, running back towards her, still barking in confusion.

"Come here!" She shouted at him. She bent over and hugged the dog, frightened by the howl of the transporter's roaring engines. She stared petrified as the craft disappeared into the dark night, its dipped nose carrying it ever closer to the side of the looming hill.

"Pull up!" She heard herself shout forlornly, her words hopelessly drowned out by the noise of the engines. But it was already too late.

The nose of the plane ploughed forcefully into the hillside, momentarily digging a rut into it, before it began to flip forward. It's back seemed to arch for a split second, before the ruptured fuel tanks exploded into a huge orange fireball, the intensity of which made her eyes ache.

The sound of the explosion hit her full on, and she found herself being hurled to the floor, as if by the sheer force of the immense noise alone. She quickly pushed herself up, off the ground and looked back up the hill. She could see the main body of the plane, rolling furiously up the hillside as it disintegrated, trailing an immense ball of flame and dense smoke. Smaller splinter groups of wreckage flew around the hillside in all directions, and floating light pieces danced into the night. Streams of lit fuel portrayed the length of its slide up the hill.

She sprung to her feet and began to sprint up the mountainside towards what remained of the plane, forgetting about her dog. The first pieces of debris lay smouldering on the ground as she reached them, just so many unrecognizable pieces of twisted, smoking metal. She ran amongst the chunks of plane, searching for any possible survivors.

She found a red double seat lying on the ground, on its side. A human airhostess lay strapped into the bottom chair, her skin charred brown by the explosion, but her long blonde hair, falling over the dirty, wet ground, was virtually untouched.

Martha caught the gag of vomit in the back of her throat, which had risen from her sickened stomach. She turned quickly away, and ran from the corpse, repulsed by the gruesome sight.

She found herself sat on the fringe of the crash site, staring at the muddy ground. The surrounding hillside glowed in the illumination of the flames still burning behind her. Her back burned from the fire's radiated heat. She became aware of a low whining noise coming from somewhere to her right, amongst the furthest piles of sizable rubble.

She ignored the noise initially, and then realizing that it was her dog Rufus, she ran to the site of the whimpering, fearfully that he may be trapped or injured. But she couldn't tell exactly where he was, so she began searching frantically, calling his name at the top of her frail alien voice.

She found him in an isolated section of the fuselage, standing strangely undamaged on the ground, like some sort of surreal sculpture. He lay, quite peacefully, with his muzzle and a comforting white-tipped paw on the chest of one of the former passengers, who also rested his arm on the dog's body. She wondered how and why the dog had pushed under his arm, but as she drew nearer, she realized that the passenger was somehow still alive. She watched his chest slowly rise and fall beneath blood stained clothing.

Cautiously, she knelt down beside him, careful not to touch him. His empty eyes stared at the broken roof above him, and his dry lips moved slowly, forming unspoken words.

"Don't worry," she managed to stumble, unsure of just what she should say, "I'm sure help is on its way." She glanced along his broken body. The white of a broken bone protruded from the gory pulp that had once been his upper arm, beneath the torn shreds of dark clothing, and his right leg lay twisted at an impossible angle beneath him. "You're going to be all right." She added, trying to comfort him.

But he just stared upwards, as if mesmerized by something unseen, still slowly forming his unheard words.

"What are you trying to say?" She asked, leaning over him, her ear almost pressed to his mouth. She could feel his warm breath on her as he slowly croaked the hoarse words, pushing the sounds forth from deep within his throat. She could only catch some of the words that he whispered to her.

He was trying to tell her something about his baby, something about a hospital and his wife; begging her to do something that she couldn't quite understand. She pushed herself up, looking carefully around the smashed cabin for some sign of the others that he was talking about, but she could see nothing that confirmed his vague story.

When she turned back to him, his lips had stopped moving, but his eyes still stared relentlessly at the featureless ceiling.

"Come on Rufus," she beckoned to her dog, "let's get out of here." She looked back at the man, a member of her own species, but only half her age. "There's nothing we can do here." She declared, more to herself than to her dog. Then she made the sign of her own religion and left.

She found herself walking away from the piece of broken plane, in no particular direction, just away from the horrors within; anxious to leave them behind.

She could see the twinkling of a hundred lights, a mixture of both electric and flame torches, slowly creeping up the hill, from the valley below. Yet she hardly noticed the approach of her villagers.

She found herself leaning against another large section of the smashed plane. It felt warm to her touch, and soothing somehow. She turned around and pushed her back against the metal sheet, in an attempt to drive the cold away.

She could feel the shattered tube rocking slightly, not with the wind, but in an altogether more random pattern. Almost without thinking, she followed the cabin to its edge, and peered in. She could see a woman, still strapped to her chair, writhing in apparent agony.

As she got closer, she couldn't help but notice that the woman was pregnant. Her arms clutched her swollen stomach, grabbing at the bulge, while her mouth screamed silently. Martha ran to her side. The woman reached out to her as soon as she saw her, grabbing frantically at her rough clothes.

"Don't worry." She shouted, trying to comfort her. "My people are on the way." But the woman just pulled her closer, her nails digging painfully into her arms.

"My baby!" She screamed.

"Yes, you're going to be alright." She tore her grasping hands off her clothes, and backed away, towards the gaping opening of the broken cabin.

"Save my baby!" The woman screamed from inside the battered hulk. Martha ran out into the night, and peered down the hillside, desperate to find her villagers. She could see their lights, still some distance away, but closing slowly. In desperation, she ran back inside the plane, aware that she should try to comfort the woman. But as she got closer, she realised that she was too late, and that the woman was already dead.

She lay in her seat, still strapped in, still clutching her stomach. Only now she looked mercifully peaceful, released from her former torment.

Martha dropped to her knees, besides the dead woman. She found herself closing the young woman's eyelids, and pulling her arms away from the nurturing mound covering her child. As she did so, she felt the child moving inside her, kicking as if trying to escape.

Instantly, she knew what she must do. She carefully unfastened the woman's blood stained clothing, pulling her shirt apart, smoothing her hands over her still warm stomach.

Then she slowly pulled her long, ornate hunting knife from its sheath, by her side, watching it glint in the warm light from nearby fires. She carefully pressed the long blade against the dead woman's stomach and pushed.

Excerpt 2 of Ratslips:

© 1996 Darren White

Matthew crept through the deserted corridor, two steps behind the group commander. He could hear his own rasping breath echoing through his helmet, contrasting with the whisper of the conversations in the target apartment. His helmet display showed the position of all of the troops in relation to the suspects and each other. His own racing heart rate blinked at him from beneath a clock that revealed the time down to thousandths of a second. His suit smelt faintly of many previous wearers.

It felt good to be back at the sharp end.

He noticed the rampant, chaotic graffiti that scarred the once clean walls. There would have been a time when this block was firmly within the boundaries of his cosseted, enclosed city, probably even a desirable residence. In a time before the ghetto writhed in and claimed it as its own. Now it stank of neglect and abuse.

He repositioned his hand around the gun handle and trigger, trying to relax his grip and gain any possible advantage.

They negotiated the final corner in pairs, stepping out cautiously into the corridor. Rounding it in a wide arc rather than hugging it. The far end of the hallway was empty, the original guards having fallen back, taking up a support role. Their head up displays switched to reveal a ghost, heat trailed image of the other side of the wall, overlaid on the original map. The leader took his hand slowly off his gun and held up four fingers behind his head, signalling to his troops. Then he swept his hand forward twice.

Four well-trained soldiers strode silently down the corridor with long, controlled strides, their upper bodies as still as possible. Their guns constantly trained on the apartment door as they walked first towards it and then past it. Another four soldiers eased themselves into symmetrical positions on the near side of the door. Matthew and the captain took up central roles, their weapons trained on the door and the ghost images of the people beyond it.

"What time is it, Mr. Wolf?" The captain breathed.

Someone instigated the countdown to the offensive; the signal was marked by an almost inaudible tone within their earpieces. Blood-red numbers on their displays steadily declined below a title marked 'assault in'. He felt his heart quicken as the figures counted back.

The troops fidgeted as they waited for their moment of action. Their moment of violence. The moment in which they would probably be fighting for their very lives. He could feel the tension. Its icy fingers caressed his neck. He could feel the soldiers poised on a knife's edge; sweating nitro-glycerine just waiting to erupt.

"We go in as soon as I blow the lock." One of them whispered. No one needed to answer.

Then, just as the countdown hit zero, the soldier fired, blowing the middle right hand side of the door completely away. It began to slowly drift inwards from the force of the explosion, before someone hastened it on its journey and kicked it viciously to the floor. Then they all rushed in through the gap.

Matthew felt himself swept into the room. He could feel his legs move, see the front of his rifle bob through the now open doorway. But it all felt as if someone else was controlling his limbs. As if he was being pushed through the gap by the sheer will of those around him.

He feared that his movements were far too slow, like agonising dream-state crawls through honey and that they put him at risk. But he realised that his perception of time had altered. That the people inside the room had hardly had time to react. They were only just beginning to show their surprise.

He swung the barrel of his gun around, viewing the room from behind the protection of its threat. Checking that the inside of the room agreed with the information being fed by his battle computer. His blood thumped through his head and his hand began to shake slightly as he realised that he had lost control of his breathing.

"Freeze!" Someone behind him bellowed.

"Armed troops!" Another added.

Something caught his attention to his right and he veered towards it, swinging his weapon wildly. It stopped over the sight of a man standing apart from the others. He struggled to control his breathing now that the threat had been neutralised.

He realised that it had been the act of the man raising his hands in surrender, in front of his chest with his palms out, that had caught his attention.

"No sudden movements!" He heard a troop shout. But he had his gaze trained on the man's pale palms, his most immediate threat. Aware that if they should move than he would have to act. He sensed the soldiers edging deeper into the room behind him.

All he could see was the hands, just beyond his rifle barrel.

"Don't shoot." One of the occupants behind him pleaded.

The hands moved imperceptibly closer to each other.

"Yeah, we surrender!" Another declared, but Matthew did not hear him. All he could hear was the hiss of his own ragged breath against the rifle metal, and the pumping of his blood through his head.

One of the man's hands began to slide towards the inside of his jacket.

His breath quickened, aware that he would have to act soon. His finger twitched on the trigger.

The hand disappeared inside the jacket.

Matthew felt the rifle buck against his shoulder and a moment later all hell broke loose. A barrage of rounds hammered into the body behind those hands, sending fountains of blood flashing out from it. The roar of the rifles behind him encased him for a moment, sealing him safely against any threat.

The yell of the guns died at once, leaving the room strangely quiet for an instant. Then the guttural moans of the downed man began. Soft cries pushed through a throat flooded with thick, warm blood.

One of the troops sprinted forward and fell on top of the man. His knee on his chest and his rifle muzzle centimetres from his face.

"Threat neutralised!" The trooper shouted back. The other suspects began to moan in fear, aware that they might receive the same treatment if they pushed their imprisoners. Two of the troops rushed forward and handcuffed the suspects.

"Area secured!" The captain declared

"Two-oh-six squadron win again!" One of the victorious squadies hollowed.

"Yeah, we overcome!" The other answered, slapping the proffered hand.

Matthew finally lowered his rifle. But his eyes remained fixed on the body of the wounded man, as it twitched slightly in a rapidly growing pool of its own blood.