September 21, 1997
Surrey, England

Adrian Dench jolted awake as the train shook. Blinking repeatedly to banish the sleep from his eyes, he let his head loll limply into the window, ignoring the slight pain that came with the bump as he surveyed the still-blurry Surrey countryside, or what wasn't obscured by the grey rain flowing down the windows and clouding the sodden fields. Part of him hoped he'd been asleep long enough to miss Woking entirely, but then a soft female voice came through the tannoy to gloat that they were about to stop in Brookwood. Last stop before returning to hell. Adrian had hoped he'd feel a little less resentful about having to come back once he'd gotten some sleep, but the flight to Farnborough had given him plenty of time to dwell. And to top it all off he had to pay out of his own pocket for a train, because his dad had been too fucking cheap to pick him up himself. Adrian glared at the rows of middle class brick houses as he mulled over it. University had been a blessing. No more family, no more late night rows, no more blame on him for everything that went wrong. Then he'd made sure to disappoint them a bit more by dropping out after his second year. He'd managed to cling onto living in Sheffield over the summer, but now he had to come back and leech for a bit. It'd probably be fine, but it was the fact that those people would be around him twenty four seven. His long suffering, heavy drinking mother he could barely cope with, but it was his dad, Graham, he dreaded seeing with a passion. A few months before leaving for Sheffield, Adrian had taken to calling him Graham, knowing how much it fucked him off. Graham had earnt it. His contempt for people whose education had advanced further than GCSEs was articulated constantly, and it became unbearable once Adrian began applying for university. He'd smacked Adrian once around the chops for calling him a "Little Englander prick." Now Adrian was crawling back. His exploits in the pursuit of decent education had failed, and no doubt plenty of gloating was in store. He had a brand new sprinkling of light acne along his lower jaw too, which no doubt would be pointed out regularly. His brown hair was also threatening to grow enough to cover his ears, but it was the acne Adrian worried about. It was why he'd avoided looking directly at any reflective surface for the last two weeks, and that included the train carriage's window.

As the train clunked to a stop at Brookwood, its dripping wet brown Victorian central building resembling an old boarding school, Adrian reached into his rucksack and scooped out a Stephen King book. He'd been trying to get back into reading after grounding to a halt in consumption a few years ago. He'd certainly have plenty of spare time to do so nowadays. The pages were cold, which made turning them feel vaguely uncomfortable, so Adrian procrastinated on it. In the meantime he rested the back of his head against the hard seat and in his mind threw around the idea of ditching his family altogether and moving in with a mate from college. Simon Devlin was a good bet, perhaps, though he was working constantly at the Beefeater Grill. In that case maybe he could put a good word in for him, get him a job. Or Fran Murray. They'd been friends since Year 8, and had almost certainly fucked at a party last year, but neither had ever wanted to be the first to bring it up. Or maybe she just forgot altogether, she was out of Adrian's league after all. Actually, that made it more likely that she'd just repressed it. There was a depressing thought. But no, Adrian would have to go "home" first or no doubt there'd be hell to pay. He didn't feel like reading anymore, so he carelessly dropped the Stephen King back into his green rucksack.

By the time the outdated diesel train pulled into Woking, the rain had stopped and there were some golden rays poking out from the grey clouds. Adrian stepped onto the wet platform, dragging his black case behind him and making for the street. There weren't many people on the streets, but Adrian quickly found that every time he encountered someone walking in the opposite direction it would be he, with the heavy case, who had to move out of the way and onto the road. Walking up High Street in the direction of Horsell Common, with its Costcutter and launderette and Chinese restaurant and pet shop, he came upon Meadway Drive, heading out to the right. Down there was Fran's house. He could do it. What difference would it make if he got home an hour later than he expected? Muttering "Fuck it" under his breath, he pulled the case in a new direction, a slightly elevated mood coming upon him. Fran's place was a small brick terrace, with a big front garden and driveway holding a white Alfa Romeo 164 which looked so flimsy Adrian could pull it apart with his bare hands. As he approached the door, he felt a slight twang of nerves but tried to shake it off. He banged on the door a handful of times then immediately realised there was an electric bell. Closing his eyes in a moment of frustration, he waited. Then the door opened, and there was Fran.

She wasn't exactly dressed up. It was three in the afternoon and she was still in blue polka dot pyjamas, her scarlet hair messy enough to imply she'd just gotten up and her face pale without makeup. Her not inconsiderable eyes widened further when she saw him.
"Oh my god," she squealed, more in surprise than delight.
"Hi," was all Adrian could manage, half-laughing as he did so. There followed a very brief, yet deeply painful, moment of silence.
"I guess you came home then?" she asked helpfully, forcing herself to smile as she tried to work out what to say. Adrian was struggling with very much the same thing, but had to make an effort.
"Apparently so…" he trailed off.
"Hey, sorry, come in, come in," Fran finally said, beckoning for Adrian to enter. Adrian followed her in and closed the door behind him, possibly a little too hard as the glass pane rattled when it hit. Fran half-ran upstairs and Adrian followed, a tad cautiously. Had he glanced at the copy of the Mail on Sunday lying on a small table beneath the hall mirror and ignored the headline about Tony Blair's "cash in on White House visit," he might have seen the black box in the bottom right of the front page about a wave of bright explosions spotted on the planet Mars.

Meanwhile, a few streets away Brian Brookfield was walking his black cocker spaniel, Harry, on the edge of Horsell Common. Brian was taking it slow, as he always did. Shrapnel at Tobruk had lodged deep into his left leg many decades ago, and had left him nearly immobilised at times. But the weather was improving and so were his spirits. The common always looked gorgeous just after the rain, especially with that fresh smell that came with it, and Harry always loved a good romp about. There was no pain in Brian's leg for once and he savoured it as he marched through the wet grass, which soaked much of his old brown boots. He strode in amongst the teams of fir trees, their leaves turning a rusty bronze as autumn gripped them. All was quiet besides the birds, the low panting of Harry, and the squelching wet leaves beneath Brian's feet. He walked ahead of Harry, who was busying himself foraging amongst the leaves, as he made his way to the sand pits. He'd walk along the edge of the sand and do a loop around and back to Woking. It wasn't far now, he could see the clearing leading onto the pits.

He wasn't sure what happened next. There was a flash, bright orange and white, followed by a colossal boom and a shockwave which whipped his entire body, throwing him onto his back with a thud as the trees all around had many of their leaves ripped off. The pain in Brian's leg came back. Slowly he raised his head, still lying down, and saw dust and smoke racing towards him from between the trees. It swept over him but wasn't particularly thick. Brian felt something wet on his temple and turned his head to see a concerned Harry, whimpering mournfully. Brian slowly reached for Harry's snout and stroked it gently to calm him. He gradually clambered to his feet, surprised that he was able to so easily. But the moment he put weight onto his left foot, pain shot through his calve unbearably and he nearly collapsed again. It was only with the support of a nearby tree that he stayed upright. Having gotten himself back up, Harry stared ahead towards the sand pits. He couldn't see them through the trees, but that bright flash of light was gone. His first thought was that a plane had crashed. The idea brought back an image from '41, watching a distant sand-coloured Messerschmitt spinning wildly out of control with its tail belching fire before disappearing over the horizon. He hadn't thought about that for a while. Shaking his head, he hobbled towards the source of what must have been an explosion of some shape or form. Navigating between the trees, shivering in the autumn breeze and more than a little apprehension, and nearly slipping when his foot met a smooth, empty green bottle, he reached the clearing in the trees.

There lay an enormous hole in the middle of the sand pits, with the sand and gravel having been violently thrown in all directions upon the surrounding heath to form huge heaps a fit man would have trouble climbing. To the east, the heather was consumed in roaring orange fire which licked this way and that. Brian was thankful that fate hadn't come upon his part of the common, or he'd have surely been turned to charcoal, or choked out by the fumes. Once he took his eyes away from the fire, he looked back to the great hole and saw what lay within. Whatever had caused the explosion must have hit the surface with enormous wallop, for it seemed like most of it was buried in the hole. It was some kind of great cylinder, caked in a thick, crusty kind of grey organic matter, the colour of old flesh drained of blood, with a diameter of about thirty metres. For a metre around the cylinder in all directions, the sand had been burned to shining glass which glittered in the daylight. Even from this distance, Brian could feel the heat radiating from the object as steam aggressively hissed off its body and from the sand all around, like geysers.

Brian stood motionless, staring as his chest heaved to recover his breath from the shock of the sight. Then he began to notice that chunks of the crusty matter on the cylinder were beginning to peel off and fall onto the sand beneath, revealing a smooth silver surface beneath, resembling stainless steel. Brian had seen enough. He turned and began marching in his characteristic way right back through the trees and towards Woking, having no intention whatsoever of getting closer. He'd had far too many scrapes in his life to act that recklessly, and if it didn't kill him then he wife would. His arms swinging and Harry trotting beside him, clearly relieved to be going in the other direction, Brian noticed a couple of people coming towards him curiously.
"'Scuse me," a spectacled woman asked hesitantly. "Did you see what made that bang?"
"Don't go near it, leave it," answered Brian gruffly, not making eye contact. The eyes of the two people followed him for a moment before they continued towards the sand pits.