Author: Bill Cox
“They’re spraying again out there.”
I look out the window. On the horizon I can see a sickly yellow fog, with small black dots flying languidly overhead. Behind that there is an orange haze, otherworldly, not quite right.
“Do you think we’ll have to move out?” Sarah asks.
I turn to look at her. The thought of leaving our home is like a knife to the heart. So much of our lives, our souls, our memories, have been invested in this place. The thought of losing it is almost more than I can bear. I look out into our garden and think of Little Jo’s ashes scattered among the Fuchsias and the Primulas and it’s all I can do not to cry.
“They say that they’re using a new chemical this time, so they’re hopeful,” she continues.
We hold hands and look out the living room window into the distance. Far away, but closer than yesterday, a new world is approaching.
****
Two days later a man from the government’s Emergency Response Ministry turns up at the door. Behind him are two armed Police officers, a not-so-subtle hint to not make a fuss. He hands over the compulsory relocation notice. We have forty-eight hours to pack and secure the house.
“I really don’t want to go,” Sarah says, tears in her eyes.
We look outside. Some miles away, another form of life, carried here from space, advances remorselessly. An aggressive panspermia, oblivious to the wants or needs of the life that’s already here.
****
On our last night we sit outside. An orange glow lights the western sky. It’s not the setting sun.
We watch the stars come out. Every now and then a meteor flares across the sky.
I think back to the incident, three months ago. A large meteor impact in the north of Scotland. The astonishment that it carried life with it, the celebration muted once we understood how virulent this new life was.
“On the news they said that they’re preparing to use radioactive substances to stop the spread,” Sarah whispers.
We both know what that means. Even if they’re successful, the land will be poisoned. We’ll never be able to go home again.
****
The next day, we wait for the evacuation transport to arrive, but it never appears. We try to tune into the government information channel on TV but there’s no signal.
A lethargy overcomes us and we sleep through the day. I wake later on, but Sarah’s still asleep. I try to rouse her but I can’t. Her skin seems to be changing, becoming rigid, almost like plastic.
We focused on the wrong thing, of course; on the relentless advance of the alien ecology on the ground. We didn’t think about the microscopic spores spreading in the air, the infinitesimal cells leaching into the water table.
Survival of the fittest applies not just to individuals or species, but also to entire biospheres. Ours is being overwritten, a new, more aggressive biosphere propagating itself from the remnants of the old.
I imagine I can feel it in my bloodstream, changing things, rewriting my DNA. I think about Sarah, our house, our beautiful daughter and about how all our memories will be erased from existence, just like the leukaemia did to our little Jo.
When this process is complete something else will be here in my place. I will be gone, my memories no more.
The past, though, that can’t be erased or overwritten. We were here. We loved and were loved. Nothing can change that.
It will have to be enough.