The Gang of Four

Russell opened his eyes. Nothing had happened! He was still on the roof of the Whitehall building, the woman still gazing at him with expressions of mirth and madness. The Sponsor controller had been reduced to a black tar that dripped in globs from the woman’s hand.

  ‘Losers!’ exclaimed Michael.

  ‘What happened?’ Russell weakly asked.

  ‘Their Armageddon device keys onto species-distinct gene sequences. I took the liberty of hacking their armament software and replacing the unique human DNA with unique Sponsor DNA,’ the spider proudly replied. ‘They’ve just wiped their earthbound selves out!’

  Russell glanced furtively at the woman. She looked less deranged than before, but that smirk was still on show. She turned to the cat. ‘Over to you, Ducky.’

  Mr. Waterstone ignored everyone. Once again he was locked in a staring contest with that foolhardy seagull.

  ‘Sir!!’ yelled Michael, and the cat’s attention switched to the looming spaceship. The tube gun began to rumble and Russell felt an arm grab his; the woman dragged him forcibly away from the cat and threw him behind a protruding air-conditioning duct. The spider scurried about hither and thither looking for something to shelter under, eventually settling on the rear face of the stairwell.

  Mr. Waterstone let rip. The tube gun sent out a deafening and continuous sheet of white hot lava and pyroclast. It arced into the sky evaporating the clouds in its vicinity. After a few tens of seconds it impacted upon the hull of the Sentinel, first billowing out on contact but then it began to breech. Within seconds there came a massive flaring of white light that bathed all of London.

  Mr. Waterstone curtailed the eruption of the tube gun in a series of spluttering down steps, the last of which sprayed the contents of the gun over the local area. Volcanic ash began to settle over the roof and surrounding parts of central London.

  Michael was the first to emerge from his shelter. He hurried to his laptop and studied the data. Russell and the woman soon joined him, as did Mr. Waterstone – all were awaiting the next pronouncement:

  ‘It’s broken up; smashed to pieces. Twelve megaton blast – watch out for the shockwave, forty-five seconds…’

  On cue an enormous thunder clap sent the recently settled dust and other light debris back into the sky. It was all too much for the seagull which finally fucked off.

  Everyone seemed satisfied but then Michael suddenly shouted: ‘We have a survivor!!’

  The woman’s face swiftly turned to a scowl, ‘What manner of abomination is this!?’ she screamed.

  ‘It’s one of the hybrids, ma’am. Location: Finsbury Circus. Minimal Sponsor tissue, but he is dying. What should we do?’

  The woman turned to Russell and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. ‘Drive!’ she commanded.

  ***