The mid-afternoon English sky. I can't help but fall in love with its beauty to the eye of man. The wispiness of clouds white as foam and the everlasting blue that fools those into thinking it's art. It's wonderful, absolutely friggin' wonderful, especially as a sight that has become rare and is becoming rarer seemingly every year, if not every month or week. That statement to some is extreme, but with what has happened to the world, it's not as strong of a stance to make as many like to state. It's the truth whether they like it or not. The sheeple cannot handle the truth, and it's sad. If only they weren't so daft and passive, we wouldn't even have half of the problems we're facing now. In other words, the world would be less shit.

Oh well. The world is going to end, and I'm the only one in England that understands what it actually means. Most of the discussion online is just people thinking it's related to Halloween. Many alternate takes, especially from the conspiratorial realm, they ignore, downplay or ridicule. Should I try saving humanity at this point? Looking at the countdown from my smartphone—an outdated but valuable piece of tech that is much less tracked and has some privacy—it seems I have roughly fifty hours left. However, being on this hill covered with the greenest of grass, I may take my time somewhat. The world can wait for their blonde hair, blue-eyed savio—

A chemtrail. 

They're at it again. Just when I thought they were easing up on this bull crap. It's not fading away. This means it's certainty not a contrail.

"But Davy, it's just water vapor from a plane. You're looking too deeply into it. Take a breather, bro."

Nonsense like that is the reason why I am a loner. And with how devoid the countryside is of people, it makes it a lot easier to avoid stuff like socialising and friends. Not a fan of them when so many are lost. As long as I have my hippie van that I believe was made in the late 1960's and my laptop that can remain anonymous as I surf the internet, I'm good.

I run to the bottom of the hill where I parked my van so I can start up the engine and drive. My hands remain at the wheel until I come upon a sign stating '5KM to Hurlinton Village'.

Huh. Never heard about this place before. Maybe I forgot that I visited this place sometime in the place. England is not the biggest country or island, but it's far from the smallest. There are a lot of towns and villages scattered about, but with a global population decline and immigration to the big cities like Leeds, Liverpool, and of course London, they have become abandoned.

After about an hour of travelling, I arrive. Hurlinton seems quaint with its cottage houses, plentiful trees and shrubbery, and a natural well. The last part works up my saliva. I'm thirsty.

With all the water I brought already depleted from the months I've spent on the road, I can satisfy my developing need for water.

I peer into the well. The water level is low. That's a bit worrying, but the infrastructure comprising the well seems to be sturdy, but what about the rope? I tug at the bucket tied to the rope several times to ensure it doesn't snap easily. Once I note how well it still holds up, I grab the lever to begin lowering it. Each crank permeates a sense of melodic rhythm that made the work pleasurable. I wanted to hear more of it. It speeds up. The cranks go faster and faster, thereby creating a hurried rhythm I cannot get enough of. This sweet tune distracts me from the rising bucket that's coming in quick.

It reaches the top, unable to stop, making the rope bend and turn violently. Water jolts out the bucket, forcing me to grab it to preserve what remains.

That was close. Almost thought I lost every drop. I didn't. It's half full. I check to see if there are any leaves, grass, bugs or twigs in it. There looks to be none. I do so again. The same result comes up. There is not a twig, bug, or anything else that is compromising me from drinking it right now, so I do.

It tastes rancid.

I spit it out with shock and disgust. Foolish me. I should've been more careful. Illnesses like diarrhoea could have crippled me because of my mistake. I wipe my mouth with my shirt before going to the back of the van for a metal pot, a bag of wood shavings, sticks, and the most important pair when starting a fire: flint and steel.

It doesn't take long to get it going. With the fire stable and burning well, I take up the pot and go to the well to fill it up. As my steady cranks bring the bucket closer to the top, I feel something peculiar. It gets me to turn. I scan the patch of forest to my left to see nothing out of the ordinary. My cranks resume, and as I grab it to begin pouring the water into the pot, the sensation returns.

My neck pivots to still see nothing. The bushes and trees do not seem to be disturbed. I must be losing it. I'm not dehydrated. It's too soon for an affliction like dehydration to set in. About four hours have passed since I last drank water. Plus, I'm not lost in the middle of a desert where mirages are deceiving me, so I think I'm fine. I go back to what I'm doing, but I put a pause to that.

A series of crunches drag my eyes to the forest. My hand races to the holster at my waist as I keep focus and say, "Whoever you are, get out here before I shoot you."

No response.

"I said get out!" I pull out my handgun and fire it into the air.

I hear whimpers. It's not human, that's for sure. They're more akin to a dog.

I run after it, hoping to catch it. There are a fair number of places to hide, so I take my time. I kick up piles of leaves, look behind trees and peek into bushes, but this proves futile. I go back to the well to continue filling up my pot. Strangely, the pot is not where I left it. However, I have a suspicion where it is. I glance into the well and there it was upside down. It must have fallen over the edge of the well where I was filling it up after the paranoia distracted me. That isn't a big deal. I have multiple pots back in the van.

I take out and fill up another one before putting it on the fire. It begins to boil after a few minutes. It's almost ready. I get my cup in preparation for the moment I can drink it. Once it reaches the appropriate time it needs to kill off any bacteria and germs while boiling, I take it off the fire to let it cool on the ground. After about ten minutes, I test it with my index finger so that it isn't hot for my tongue. It's lukewarm. I can drink freely.

My cup dips into it to scoop up a good amount and overwhelms my mouth with how refreshing it is. It tastes much better compared to before. A soothing warmth builds as cup after cup swims down my throat. It feels so therapeutic.

Regardless of my peace and comfort, the sky puts that to a halt. Flashes and rumbles appear above me, getting my head to raise in order to see the two grace a growing swarm of grey clouds.

This is bad. I have to get to shelter quick. When rain wets my hair, I am prone to getting sick. Even with vitamin C, D and zinc on hand, I don't want to be held back by sneezing, a runny nose, body aches and a fever. I love being healthy—it's a privilege in such a sick world. And as a loner, I don't have anyone to take care of me if it becomes particularly bad. This is why any likely rain must be avoided.

I move to get all my stuff inside as fast as possible, but then a drop hits my cheek. The rain begins falling strongly. I throw whatever I had in my hands in the van and run to a nearby porch of a dull-looking cobblestone house. The pitter-patter quickly becomes loud enough that it drowns most other sounds. Even my thoughts can't escape it. This makes me feel grateful I found protection in time. This quantity of rain would have drenched me in seconds.

Then a gust of wind slams into the side of my face. This gust becomes a sustained breeze that howls as it sprinkles droplets all over me. My current shelter is no longer suitable. I have to get inside. Luckily, the search for a way in is short. There's a window nearby that's ajar and within the perimeter of the porch. Seeing this, I go to work to get in. My efforts in pulling it vertically put me under intense strain, but it soon eases as it pops open. I then slip inside to meet dust and clutter in what looks like a living room in low light. Flicking the power switches do nothing to improve this. There's no electricity in the house. I won't dare to attempt kickstarting the power through the control panel because I don't have the skillset to do it. At least there's no wind blowing towards me.

After an hour, the outside seems as gloomy as ever. And also as wet as ever. That chemtrail from earlier must have been the cause of this. It's a part of the reptilians' geoengineering program. They can create and strengthen hurricanes, tornados, snow, sleet and much more by spraying the atmosphere with their planes. Over the decades, they have used this to facilitate population control and subjugation. Those bastards piss me off to no end! I wish all of them can die right now for what they've done.

I temper myself. There's no need to be angry. It will all be no more. Trying to wake up humanity is pointless. We deserve it for allowing them to get this far. My sadness turns to boredom. I still can't go outside due to the rain still falling heavily, so I'm stuck. This prompts some digging around for something to do, but most of the items I find are too broken or old to make use of them. I eventually come upon a desk with some drawers where I discover a book. Wiping off the layer of dust with my hand, it reveals a diary.

My fingers run through the pages of text before stopping at a random paragraph. It was written in a distinct form of cursive, but more than legible. :

Last night was the strangest night of my life. I was sleeping when a bright light woke me up from outside. I looked out and I saw something hovering well from my window. Peering through it, I realise that it has windows as well. And weirdest of all, a person, a being, a thing... whatever it was, it stared back at me before flying off. I don't want to sound like one of those loonies, but I may have just seen aliens. Having a good night's sleep is now out of the question. I can't afford to.

If they dare come back, I want to see them with my own eyes. Who knows what they are or what they'll do...

Who wrote this? Haven't heard talk about aliens for a while. I check the front and back covers but there's no name. Opening it up and examining the first page showcases an owner.

Property of Selene Carrington-Trough.

Selene? So a female wrote this. How old was she then?

I pace through the dairy for her age. On the thirty-fifth page, my eyes stop. My eyes analyse the digits. It reads that she is 27 years old.

I giggle.

An adult woman had a diary the same age as me? If she's still alive, she must be well older than me; probably in her thirties or forties at the moment.

I'll keep this. It's an interesting read.

Her writings are engrossing. There is a sense of wonder I gain from them—not because they have that inherent quality, but because learning about the daily life of a woman from a somewhat simpler, less horrible time is interesting.

But a thud from above offloads her words from my thoughts.

It then becomes two. Then four. Then ten. Then innumerate. They're constant. The sound of what seems to be stone against a mere cobblestone home rises, eventually entrenching every direction without yield.

Then the sound of glass breaking prompts me up the stairs. I fling each door of each room nearly off its hinges to find the origin. It had to be a window breaking. And if a window was broken, does that indicate that who or whatever I assumed was spying on me is the culprit?

My questioning spurs me to a room occupied by a wardrobe, a large bed devoid of coverings, a standing mirror, and peeling walls of paint. It's in here I discover that it wasn't stone that smashed a hole, but a fist-sized chunk of ice.

One second it was raining and now it switched to this other form of precipitation. This shift is much too sudden for it to line up with regular countryside weather. The cause has to be the chemtrail from earlier. They're so destructive to the environment. But one chemtrail, or to be more accurate, a stratospheric aerosol injection, could never be that effective in changing rain to ice. Dozens, if not hundreds of these unnatural stretches of clouds, are needed to cause this. They obviously blanketed the skies while I was driving like always. It has to be that they're probably suspicious of me.

I pull myself from the window, staying far from them to avoid being hit by a random piece of hail. But a cry got me outside. I get downstairs and go through the window that originally got me in this house to see a dog with black and grey fur and a red collar bleeding from the side as the heavy hail bludgeons it to silence. Turning a little to my right, I notice my van has suffered some damage with a shattered rear glass pane and some dents to its exterior. However, I do not spend time choosing who to save. I squirm into the house, knock the dust out of a cushion, and rush back out with it as protection for my head.

The ice falls, and I barely feel it. It bounces off with little harm. But when I get to the animal, the problem of bringing it to shelter stumps me. Both of my hands had to remain on the cushion to properly uphold it or else it will not stay in place and dragging it at its leg or tail to the porch may worsen its injuries. I need a plan C, and quick. The dog might be dead by now with what it has sustained.

In this moment of crisis, it comes to me.

I race to my van and jump inside. The broken glass is unable to cut or pierce me because of the cushion I had with me; it protects my thighs and buttocks from harm as I sit on it while reversing the van towards the dog. The side mirrors were broken off and sticking my head out would lead to my head being cracked open, so I become dependent on my rearview mirror for guidance. I adjust it until the dog becomes visible and mash the gas when I feel comfortable that I will not run over him. My tires go backwards and stop right over where the animal lay. They did not flatten it. I know it. But to be sure, I'll have to check. That... will take a while. The hail isn't getting heavier nor lighter, but the force in which it's falling will mean I will be here until it's safe.

AN HOUR LATER

I get out and glance underneath the van. The dog doesn't seem to be any worse than when I attempted to rescue it. I was unsure if it was alive despite preventing the dog from more harm. Taking a look at the collar informs me of the owner and the address, and with this, I realize that he is from the town next door.

How convenient. However, my van fails to start. It took too much damage to continue.

There have to be some old cars lying around for me to use. I can't leave the dog here without returning it to its original owner. This pushes me to search for one. Unfortunately, of the few cars available, there aren't any cars that are functioning. Despite this, I find a good substitute: a bike. It has little rust, the tires are still firm and the pedals are relatively fine after applying some lubricant that's close by.

With it being in a decent enough state, I ride the indigo-blue, flame-stickered bike to the next town for some assistance. That town has a few people still residing in it. But before I do, I go to check on it before I leave. But, to my surprise, they aren't there—neither the dog nor my van.

I become confused. A search for them leads to an impromptu look at the sky. The dissipating dark clouds and penetrating sunlight are nice, but a flying saucer? Holy shit! It's just floating there with indifference. My hand inches towards my gun. If it abducts me, I'll fight.

But it flies off.

"Damn it! Get back here, you, you... aliens..."

Holy friggin' hell, I just met aliens. Or it could be us, who knows? The Secret Space Program and things like Area 51 exist, but it's most likely aliens. I'm quite certain about that. From the forums and articles I have read, reptilians do not operate flying saucers. So if that's the case, who could it be? But I have more important issues to think about. So I'll come back to that later. Just have to keep tabs on the alien question.

Well, then. I should get to Rocksvale, the neighbouring town. Chasing after aliens isn't sensible when I only have a bike.

It takes fifteen minutes to get to the new town. While sparsely populated, there are human beings here, unlike Hurlington.

I ask the residents for a person named Hughie Lexon—the name of the dog's owner as stated on the collar—and they directed me to the only guy that genuinely knows about him or his dog. This brings me to a wooden home that's rather small but covered with flowers and many other ornamental plants.

I notice a man ploughing dirt on his front lawn next to rows of corn, pumpkins and squash. I call out to him and he takes off his hat and squints at me.

"Who are you?" The old, lanky man in overalls wipes the sweat off his face with his sleeve.

"I came here to talk about Hugie Lexon and his dog."

"You found it?" He rushes toward me as fast as possible for an elderly person.

"Yeah, I did. Until they were kidnapped by aliens." I feel lucky the people here are conspiracy theorists. In most other communities, that would be a hard thing to say even if rural people are more open to these types of topics.

"Those flying saucers have been zipping about these parts for decades."

I tell him how they took my van as well and that it did not bother to hide, unlike other E.T sightings.

"The fact they're showing themselves off means that the end is near. Humanity is on its last legs."

I agree with him before saying that humanity doesn't deserve to be saved—that we're too stupid, reckless and blind to the truth.

He agrees. It matters little if a meteor strikes the planet, nukes destroy it, or aliens invade. We're doomed regardless.

The old man folds his arms behind his back. "You must be tired. Do you want a glass of water?"

I accept and follow him indoors, but when I come to the porch to sit with him after filling my glass, the van and the dog float slowly to the ground.

"They brought them back. That's unusual." The old man seems dazed.

I chug down the water and run out to the garden with the greatest of haste to discover it right above me.

It makes a series of unintelligible beeps in various lights before flying away once again.

Whatever tech those aliens have, it must be incredible. The dog and the van are as if they were never harmed.

I don't know what's going on with them (the aliens), but I have forty-five or so hours before everything goes to shit, so let me enjoy it while I still can.

Make sure to like, follow, share, comment and place this book in your Wattpad library like always. It's great motivation as a writer.