The Scarrans had landed. Troop carriers spat out legions of foot soldiers across the city. Dreadnoughts prowled overhead, blotting out the sun as they passed, their ominous presence a reminder of the awesome power of the invaders. Scenes of carnage and destruction were visible from every street corner: buildings with their insides ripped open, cars and buses overturned, dead bodies littering the now empty streets.
No one was foolish enough to venture out. The presence of roving bands of reptilian aliens a deterrent to even the bravest. Here and there, in basements hidden from view, small groups huddled around radios, talking and comforting each other. Fifty years ago, London had faced the might of the Luftwaffe, night after night of death and destruction, but the last twenty four hours surpassed even those months of bloody violence.
Similar scenes were being played out in every city across the globe. They came from nowhere. One moment it was a day like any other. People were going about their business, some sleeping, eating, or working, others loving and dying - just as they had done every day throughout human history. The next moment it was hell.
It all began at four in the afternoon, as the sun was shining on a beautiful summer's day. Japanese tourists were happily clicking away at everything foreign and English, business men and women were hailing taxis and talking hurriedly into mobile phones, and children with school bags slung casually over their shoulders were running for buses and entering underground stations. Then the shadow came. The sun disappeared and the city was dark, a dusky kind of twilight, unnatural. People stopped what they were doing, looking up to the sky. There was no panic, because this was London after all, a cosmopolitan city in the twenty first century, and panic is what happens after bombs go off, or ignorant people become confused. There was no confusion, not yet anyway. A dark stain covered half the sky, a long cylinder where the sun used to be. It was not natural. Jagged edges, circular shapes and flat surfaces were plainly visible on the surface of whatever the thing was.
The panic came then, to London. Everyone had seen Independence Day or The War of the Worlds. They knew what huge shapes in the sky meant, hanging over cities and blotting out the sun. Hollywood fantasies had become reality, and suddenly, they weren't fun any more. Like their grandparents before them, many ran for the underground stations, others hurried into the nearest building, while the brave and the foolish just stood and stared, as if not quite believing what they were seeing. This was no movie, and the tourists were not pointing and clicking away with their expensive cameras and big happy smiles. They ran just like everyone else.
Images flickered and came into focus on television screens in the windows of electrical shops across the city. A face from nightmares, white, angular, and snakelike, full of anger and rage filled every screen. Again, this was a scene that had been played out so many times in the popular media over the years - the evil aliens come to take us over. The creature opened its mouth and screamed only one word.
"CRICHTON!"
Openings appeared in the belly of the great beast towering over the city, and swarms of smaller craft dropped slowly and purposefully to the surface below. They made no attempt to find landing spots, simply flattening whatever lay beneath them. Buildings, cars, trees, and the foolish and brave bystanders, all were crushed as the ships of the invaders fell to Earth. And then the doors opened, and the nightmare truly began.
Creatures from the worst horror films, covered in scales and leather armour marched across the city, killing everything that moved. They entered buildings seeking out those smart enough to run for cover, dragged them into the open, and butchered them with their bare hands. The slaughter went on for hours, the butchery, the torture, and even the rapes, as women and men were toyed with, their gruesome ends delayed as the creatures took their time.
As night fell on a warm summers day, the invaders built fires and rested, tired no doubt from their days work. Like all good armies they settled down to rest for the night, and wait for the sun to rise on another day. There was much work to be done. This world had sent forth Crichton to torment them, and it would pay in blood for its presumption and arrogance.