Here there be monsters….

“It still remains that 35,000 people from Britain alone must go. Since Scotland has now, rather conveniently, opted back into the union, may I suggest sacrificing some parts of Edinburgh?”
“It would be a just retaliation for being cowards the minute they are made to face their decisions.”
“Yes quite right, the other parts of the union must pay their dues!”
Raymond Ortiz sat there, disgruntled. Politics (capital P) was not his ‘thing’. British Politics really, really wasn’t. He was only there to establish the APF on foreign soil, not to divvy up the country between safe and dead.
He had not, infact, actually planned to be elected. Not one little bit. Yet the Alien Prevention Force had other ideas.
And here he was, sitting like a plebe amongst oleaginous politicians who would never take him seriously unless he exchanged his sneakers for dress shoes and donned a tie for summits about alien invasions.
They probably all knew, at the back of their cognizance, distorted by chilling, unfeeling logic, that he would rather be aiming a colossal firearm at the oncoming ‘issue’, with headphones drowning out the reverberations of their screams, as if he were a contemporary Mad Max with a Misfits soundtrack.
He was not cut out to detachedly carve up the population into hominids and sustenance.
The Jersey boy, the American Jersey- not the little blip just off the coast of this algid island- shivered, drawing his coat round him, as if the battered leather could shelter him from the chill of decisions he wanted no part of, as well as against the frigid air of the underground chamber.
The H.O.P. had abandoned Westminster the previous year, after the 4th alien attack that summer. And of ALL of the British Islands, THIS was what they came up with.
A lead encased M.O.D. underground facility, in the south of Scotland, of all places. Though, Ray did ponder, it was in the middle of nowhere, near what the Barman from last night’s pub, emphatically explained was the Second highest village in Scotland. Something Ray expected was a much debated local fist-fight, with many a grumble at the local officials and plenty a drunken dispute across the community.
He had already heard every local story, and he had only gone in for a whisky to drown his sorrows!
Thumping his feet onto the school-like table, that the H.O.P had ‘borrowed’ from Hollyrood, Ray calmly regarded the gasping officials, while they indignantly scowled at the foreigner’s cheek.
“How the empire falls,” he drawled with a sarcastic air. “Even your precious commonwealth are fighting but not you. “
“Fighting with what exactly? We have no budget for alien invasions!” A portly gentleman with hair as greasy as his attitude began. “We must simply do this as fairly as possible, to be honest…”
In a move come from many hours on the frontline, Raymond slalomed round seats of blustering MPs till his nose was an inch from the scum that, for Ray, optimised the British Government.
“Listen up! I may not have come straight from Eton but I have a better understanding of this mess than any of you put together!” Ray fumed.
“35,000 people. How many of your friends, your families? How many of yours will be the ones to be in the designated number?” Ray asked, eyes drifting over the politicians as he straightened up.
“None, right? You’ll evacuate them, no? You won’t be the ones standing by empty beds, packaging up clothes that are no longer used, clutching onto belongings as if they might bring back what was lost to those families. Except it won’t. Nothing will bring back the people you are prepared to sacrifice! They elected you to protect them. You owe them this fight. You owe them the chance to defend themselves.”
“Defend themselves with what, Mr Ortiz?” asked a previously silent man with a voice as silky as a spider’s web and twice as sticky.
“We have NO resources available, we are too busy trying not to allow the country to starve,” the PM stated, ignoring the muttered “take a wage cut then” emitting from the foul-mouthed American.
“We have NO army available for battle; we are only just able to defend ourselves from human invasion. We are outgunned. What do you propose? An army of peasants waving pitchforks and Xbox controllers? We are not going to win.”
“People need the chance to fight! They voted you in to protect them…” Ray began before being smoothly cut off by Prime Minister Rawstone.
“I understand your passion. Truly I do but your way of thinking is dangerous. Very dangerous. This is the way it must be. I was voted in to save a country. I’m doing it the best way I know how.”
The PM really did envy Raymond Ortiz. He really did. The freedom to do what was right must be a heady experience in the current climate, not a luxury afforded to the PM of Great Britain.
The American also confused him greatly; it was as if he had known him before. The dislike, manifesting as acute loathing, had struck him like lightning from the minute he clapped eyes on him, in the entrance of Buckingham Palace of all places. Then Raymond had only been the APF’s pet project, not a serious political threat.
Rawstone remembered with disgust, the Trans Am rolling up to the private car park, its driver bandana clad, wearing the largest aviator sunglasses in the existence of the world and the atrocity that was The Sex Pistols, God Save the Queen humming out of rolled down windows. Appalled he glanced over to the perplexed Royals, who were eagerly awaiting the arrival of their saviour, and watched their faces fall.
As Raymond Ortiz stepped out of the car, combats and leather jacket almost glistening in the rare summer sun, the PM felt the first wave of revulsion hit him. By the look of the American’s confrontational ambiance, he wasn’t too fond of any of them either.
It was a good job that Charlie-boy had abdicated as heir to the throne earlier that year, as William just about managed to laugh off the insult. Charlie would probably have just fed Ortiz to the corgis.
The PM could almost see the headlines now: “APF’s pet American has arse bitten by Royal corgis. God save the Queen!”
No as personally satisfying as that would have been, it was a good job it hadn’t happened. The British press were already skating on thin ice with the USA.
Switching his mind back to the task at present, the PM came up with a master plan. A stroke of genius if he did say so himself.
“We start dividing up the country. We can start with the unemployed and unskilled of Glasgow, Cardiff, Liverpool and Inverness. Then move onto those with recorded poor mental health and unskilled prisoners in Yorkshire, Northern Ireland and Fife. All in favour?”
Ray watched with bated breath and a heart filled with horror.
Just over half of the room raised their hands. He had lost. His legs began to tremble as he was forced to clutch onto the table to hold himself up. 35,000 people were going to die tomorrow.
Reaching deep within himself, he grasped at a strength he was not aware he possessed and straightened up, turning and marching from the chamber.
Navigating through the maze of tunnels, he pulled out the satellite phone and waited until he could see day light. Punching in the familiar number, he listened to the tone while his heart leapt in his throat.
“Better Living Industrial cleaners, Michael speaking. How may I assist?” came the familiar speech crackling through the handset.
“It’s me. The only hope for me is you. I need that Italian Ghoul. Are you up for everything it takes?” Raymond blurted out before his nerve failed him.
“We’ll meet again when both our cars collide,” the resigned voice murmured back. “I’ve lost my fear of falling.”
The code rolled off of Ray’s tongue, like a well-rehearsed poetry recital.
“Call G too. I’ll be the one to drive you home tonight.”
“Understood sir, have a lovely day,” Mikey murmured, the unspoken ‘Stay Safe’ reaching Ray through the broken phone connection.
The dialling tone shook Ray from his daze, he began to sprint up the sharp slope towards the pub where he had stayed, not even turning round to detonate the C4 that would condemn the British Government to the same fate they wished to inflict on their people.
As he approached the first houses, his eyes locked on the stormy grey irises of his assistant. In the silent way they often communicated, Ray conveyed the news they had feared. Their death sentence. She picked up the pace and ran alongside him, heading for Britain’s final hope.
The world’s final hope.
Skidding into the pub, they sprinted into the makeshift studio and his assistant slid straight into the control booth.
Their eyes locked as she held up five fingers. He needed to save her. Even if the rest of humanity was doomed, he needed to save her.
Five.
He stared at the camera and watched the lens echo the slanted, murky truth of their lives. It was real. It was happening. It was happening now.
Four.
There was no hope. None at all. Yet the need to try consumed Ray’s spirit. The need for fight not flight. The rudimentary, instinctual prerequisite to defend one’s home. To defend the Earth.
Three.
His eyes flickered back to the one woman who had filled his life so completely after tragedy and through so many trials. It wasn’t fair; they hadn’t had enough time…
Two.
Steeling himself, he straightened his back and thought about what he had to say.
One.
Milly smiled that smile at him, the one reserved for long nights in-between silk sheets and lazy morning breakfasts with family. For the first time since he left the bowels of the earth, he knew what it was he was fighting for.
LIVE.

“My name is Raymond Ortiz. I represent the Alien Prevention Force. Your government has chosen to sacrifice 35,000 of you. I present you with the alternative. Fight with us. Help is coming…”

Notes

Well I'd love an opinion. Good luck finding all the MCR references ;) Hope you liked it and leave a comment. A beta would always be appreciated.
Stay safe....
Emma