Viktor Hacznia strikes againmature

The plane circled the city as the afternoon shoppers, arms laden with bags of Christmas delights for their loved ones wandered around the last few shops before they could carry no more. There were only five days left till the big day and as usual the television was encouraging the masses to spend, spend, spend.

Rick Winkler totted up the till as the last items whizzed off his shelf so he could close up early and head home before the gridlock. A few party revellers sang and danced past his shop, banging on the glass, yelling inaudible language at him as they staggered on to the next shop. He looked up and muttered something equally inaudible back to them while he locked up the till and fired the money into the night safe bags ready to go.

As he closed the shop up for the afternoon, he heard a low flying aeroplane and looked up. For weeks there had been an exclusion zone for any planes over the city, but there was one now and it wasn't Santa, his had been fired put of the sky mid December much to the horror of the children below who had been watching the spectacle and reading the advert behind the plane: Only 24 days till Christmas, be sure to buy all your toys at Wickets.

He watched as it circled the centre, flying in lower and lower and stared harder as he saw the green particles of dust falling from the skies like snow. It landed around and about him, in his hair, on his face, on his clothing. Within minutes it was burning, he tried to brush it off but it clung to his face and clothes, suffocating him, making him scream and fall to the ground.

As the last of the dust settled, the plane had gone and the streets were quiet. People lay across the city, their bags scattered with contents all around them. Nothing moved, not even the wildlife, that too had succumbed to the deadly green particles.

Pierce stood in the shop, his eyes like saucers, all the talk about deadly gases and alien attacks washed over him like a recurring bad dream. He held the radio close to his mouth and spoke into it in a low voice.

'It's happened, he's done it, he's finally bloody done it. Get the team; we need to evacuate the survivors.' He clipped the radio to his belt and ran for the fire doors, down and down he ran until he reached the basement. In the underground car park the team stood around the green army trucks, booted and suited and ready for action.

Their leader, a young man with more experience of life than his face gave him credit for, stared at the weapon in his hand. He was sitting on the bonnet of the jeep, his fingerless gloves holding a weapon that would have been better suited for an alien battle in space.

'Waiting for orders sir.' Pierce stood before him, like a willing servant or trained pet.

Miguel looked up, his short cropped hair hidden under a baseball cap; he wore black combat clothing and bore the scars of many a battle on alien soil. He looked at the motley crew before him, and chewed the inside of his mouth one last time.

'Organise the survivors into the trucks, those in the stores put on the masks. Wear the protective gear and make sure there are enough vaccines. Pierce, you come with me.'

'I never thought he'd do it sir.' A young soldier said as the crew made a move.

'You always knew it would be inevitable, Filey and quit calling me sir, the name's Miguel and don't you forget it.'