So, here's a taster. It follows the adage 'hit the ground running', so that it starts with quite a punch. I haven't yet decided if it is going to be a long short story, a novella or a full-blown novel, but the title is clear to me: Last Human.
He woke up running, though he didn’t see
how that was possible. He stumbled, but something told him to keep going, not
to look behind, so he regained his rhythm and stared straight ahead, arms and
legs pumping away, as if he was a pro track athlete. Mustard cones of light
sprayed down from the ceiling every ten metres or so onto the slick floor,
reflected in oily puddles, while grey soot-encrusted pipes snaked their way
along the low ceiling and walls of the grimy corridor, toward a distant yellow
glow he somehow knew was his destination. No sound, except the pounding of his
feet on the floor, distant thuds and squelches. The air was acrid, a smell like
burned matches. There were other noises, he realised, muffled cries, shouts,
screams maybe, and something else he couldn’t place, a shrill whine, like a
deranged synthetic laugh. Each time he heard it, it was followed by a shout –
no, a scream – then more shouting.
Part
of the wall up ahead on his left exploded, pipes and wires spilling into a
mound in his path. Instead of slowing down, his stride lengthened and he
vaulted it – hurdled it – and landed hard on the other side. As he did so,
something popped in his ears, and he could hear again. He wished he couldn’t.
“Keep
going, Sir, we’re right behind you, but they’re closing. We’ll hold them off as
long as we can. You’re almost –”
That
short whine, followed by another voice, cursing. He increased his speed, the
glow getting larger, though he still couldn’t see what it was. Glancing upward
he counted ten lights, so he knew it was about a hundred metres to go. A figure
of 12.4 seconds flashed into his head, from younger days. Gunfire erupted from
behind him, more shouting, more of that grating whine. He burst into a sprint.
More screams. Seven lights to go. Wind from an explosion behind him nearly
threw him off his feet, and he realised he didn’t know his own name, who he
was, who was behind him, and who or what was behind them. The only thing that
mattered was running, reaching that glow. His chest felt like it had a brace
around it, making it harder to breathe. The air was also getting thicker, and
he battened down an urge to cough. He pumped his arms harder, fingers pointing
dead straight, stabbing the air. Five lights to go. Several pairs of footsteps
were close behind him. The whining noise, and a scrabbled fall. Two pairs of
footsteps now, one slowing, turning.
“Okay,
take this you motherf –”
The
desperate cry was buried under a sound like a jet engine, cut off by that
whine. One pair of footsteps. Three lights to go. He could see the source of
the glow now, a hatch opening into a small cushioned cell. It looked sturdy.
Two lights.
“Run
Mr. President, you’re almost there!”
He
nearly fell at those words, but the whine and a gurgled cry kept him going. One
light. He felt he could almost touch the hatch. Pain exploded in his right
thigh, stopping it from working; whoever they were, they wanted him alive. But
he kicked off hard with his left foot and, using his momentum, crash-rolled
towards sanctuary, hurling himself through the hatch, his right shoulder slamming
into the cushioned interior. A clunk shut off all external noise as the hatch
sealed automatically, followed by a female voice.
“Welcome
aboard Mr. President. Emergency evac in progress.”
The
single-occupant escape sphere spat away from the corridor. Trembling and
grimacing from the burn on his leg, gasping for his breath, he moved to the
hatch porthole, only to see that he was in space, had been on one of the new
star cruiser models, but it was in bad shape with ripped, blackened metal all
over its hull. A pulsing, fluorescent blue mass was attached to the fore-section
of the ship; it clearly didn’t belong there, reminding him of a leech. He
tapped the porthole viewer to maximum zoom, focusing on the exit to the corridor.
Twisted and dismembered corpses flushed into space. But one shape stood at the
entrance, a giant, square-headed beast on three spindly legs. He couldn’t make
out eyes, but he was sure it was staring at his escape pod, maybe his face at
the porthole, even at this distance.
The
sphere banked hard to port, and he saw Earth. He slumped onto his knees. Thousands
of gelatinous blue amoeba-like ships circled Earth, which was being consumed by
rivers of fire, its crust gashed open. It would boil in its own lava.He turned away,
sat on the floor with his back to the hatch. President. President of what? But
his mind switched to the men who had died trying to save him. They could just
as well have saved themselves, they might have been more useful alive than he
would ever be. He had the feeling he wasn’t a religious man, but he pressed his
palms together and uttered a short prayer for their souls, and all the others
on Earth.
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