The Remnant: The Annunaki And The Apocalypse - John Broughton

Speculative Evolution Science Fiction Novel With Ancient Aliens

The Remnant: The Annunaki And The Apocalypse by John Broughton

Book excerpt

Angel decided to continue organising his life, so he found a driving school in the morning and booked a series of lessons. The secretary at the school was keen to help such a good-looking young man and had him fill out the forms to obtain a provisional driving licence. His first lesson would be the following week on Tuesday at ten o’clock. She seemed to think it amusing that Angel had never driven before and made a sassy joke about him being a virgin. Since he didn’t react at all, she assumed that he was shy because of his youth. Not even Angel knew that his lack of reaction was due to the alien programming of his brain.

He paid attention to the models of cars that drove past and decided that his first car shouldn’t be flashy or too powerful. A small SUV would serve his purposes, but he was getting ahead of himself. First, he would have to pass his test. A bright red Nissan Qashqai caught his eye. That will do very nicely, he thought. The other footballers won’t be jealous.

But again, he was too far ahead of himself. His half-past two visit to Blundell Park didn’t go at all to plan. First, the gatekeeper refused to grant him admittance.

“Is the coach expecting you, mate?”

“I’ve come for a trial with the Reserve team.”

“So, you’ve got an appointment, then?”

“Well, no, not exactly, but—”

The gatekeeper was closing the door when Angel yanked it open.

“Here, what’s your game? I can’t let you in without an appointment; it’s more than my job’s worth.”

For one mad moment, Angel thought of forcing his way past the middle-aged man, whose flat cap covered a seriously receding hairline. Realising that such an action would earn him no favours, he said politely, “Sorry, I don’t know how things work here. How do I get a trial with the Reserves?”

The gatekeeper’s leathery face broke into a gap-toothed grin. “You can’t just turn up and ask for a trial, kid. You’ll need to be recommended by your coach. And even that’s no guarantee of getting one.

Angel’s heart sank. He didn’t have a coach; indeed, he’d never played for a team, but he knew he was the best. He couldn’t resist: “But, mister, I’m a special talent.”

“Aye, they all say that!” The man’s sarcastic grin was countered by such a look of abject misery that he felt sorry for the youth. His wheezing breath suggested a heavy smoker, as did his harsh voice.

“Tell you what, why don’t I ring through to Matt Varney? He’s the Reserves trainer.” He winked and added, “You wait there, there’s a good lad.”

Angel pressed an ear to the now-closed door and heard the man say, “Yeah, a special talent,” then his laugh turned into a bout of coughing. Straining to hear more and failing, Angel gave up and resigned himself to hoping and waiting. Several interminable minutes went by until, at last, the gate opened, and the wheezing voice suggested, “You’d better come in, then, mate. Matt’s on his way down, but be warned, he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. You mind your p’s and q’s, kiddo.”

“Yeah, alright, thanks.”

A man in a black tracksuit, wearing red and white baseball boots, jogged over to them. His nose, broken and reset badly, gave him a belligerent appearance, but Angel wasn’t about to judge him on appearances. Fortified by the gatekeeper’s warning, he said, “Mr Varney, thank you for your time. I know that coming without an appointment is irregular, but you see, I’ve only just got over from New Zealand, and I don’t have a team here. But everyone in Wellington said I was a special talent,” he boldly lied.

“What do they know? They play with funny-shaped balls down there.” The coach grinned at the gatekeeper, who obliged with a laugh at the joke, followed by a coughing fit.

“Let him be a lesson to you. Never be tempted to smoke, young fellow.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that! I don’t drink alcohol, either.”

“Good thinking, old son,” said the coach. “Well, do you have written references, at least?”

“Well, yeah, I do,” Angel lied again. “If you like, I can run home and get them. I just thought you’d like to see me in action.”

“I’m a busy man,” Varney glanced at his watch, “I’ve got training in twenty minutes. I can’t be picking up waifs and strays from the street and laying on special matches to test their quality. Go on, clear off, and get yourself into some local team. If you’re as good as you say you are, which I doubt, quite frankly, you’ll soon stand out. Then, maybe, I’ll give you a chance.” Matt Varney winked at the gatekeeper and said, “Make sure this bighead doesn’t loiter on private property.” He turned to walk away.

“Hey! You’re making a big mistake, Coach. I’m a better player than anyone in your first team. When they find out that you turned Angel Sirius away, you’ll cut a sorry figure.”

The busy coach stopped dead in his tracks and turned. “Angel Sirius, what kind of a name’s that, then? It’s not from the Nunsthorpe Estate, I’ll bet.”

For reasons unknown to Angel, this witty comment amused the heavy smoker because it set him off coughing again.

“No, I’m from Cleethorpes, Coach.”

“Oh, that’s convenient for you,” came the sarcastic reply, “so, when you’re our star first-teamer, you’ll be able to walk in for matches.”

“Well, I can run here in six minutes from the end of Davenport Drive.”

“Like hell you can! Nobody can run it that fast! You’re a boastful little erk, aren’t you?”

Angel stared hard at the coach with such a look of determination on his face that the man’s resolve wavered.

“What position do you play, Sirius? Have you got kit with you?” He stared meaningfully at Angel’s backpack.”

“Attacking midfield, and, yes, I have.”

“Come on, then, you’d better be as good as you say you are because I’m going to have Chopper Bradshaw mark you. He’ll soon cut you down to size.”

“Blimey, not Chopper!” the gatekeeper gasped. “You’d better look out, my lad, else you’ll leave here on crutches!”

“Thank you, Coach Varney.”

“Ha-ha! That’s a good one—no one’s ever thanked me for setting Chopper on them. Come on, this way!”

The coach led Angel into a noisy dressing room, where the banter and laughter had reached a deafening number of decibels.

“Shut up, the lot of you!” bellowed Varney. “Just ’cause you fluked a win over scummy Scunny doesn’t give you the right to carry on like demented banshees! Now, listen up, this here is Sirius—”

“Isn’t Sirius a star, boss?” a muscular player asked, before bending to straighten his shin pads.

“Aye, that’s what he says he is. It’s your job to prove that he is or isn’t the special talent he claims to be. Chopper, you’ll be marking him ’cause he’ll be in advanced midfield. Thirty minutes each way, six a side. Chopper, pick your five teammates; the rest are with Sirius. Well, don’t just stand there lad. Get your kit on.”

No sooner had Sirius laced up his boots than the coach handed out green bibs to Chopper’s team. “You lot can wear red.”

He threw the red bibs, one by one, to the eager hands of Angel’s companions. The youngster caught his and pulled it on in one deft movement, his heart thumping at the thought of showing everyone what he could do. A tall, well-built player came over to him with a friendly grin and a proffered hand. “I’m Kevin Walsh, striker. What’s your first name, Sirius?”

“Angel. Pleased to meet you.”

“Angel Sirius? That’s a name that sticks in the mind. Well, listen, Angel, you just slide the ball through a yard ahead of me, and I’ll stick in the net, right? I don’t want it tangling straight into my feet, got it? Not too far ahead, mind, else those dumb defenders will mop it up straight away. Oops, come on, that’s old man Varney blowing a fuse; we’re the last left. Good luck, mate!”

The match was only two minutes old when Angel received the ball in midfield. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chopper Bradshaw hurtling in then flying through the air, leg outstretched and studs up. If ever a leg-breaking tackle had been made on the Blundell Park turf, this was the archetype. The other players and the onlooking coach were impressed not so much by the evasion, as the way the midfielder jumped with the ball still under perfect control. Bradshaw slid harmlessly past, swearing death and destruction, and Angel was away, jinking past a defender and sliding an inch-perfect pass through to the dark-haired Walsh, who drove it high and hard into the net.

“I keep telling them, all I need is a decent midfielder behind me,” he said as he embraced Angel. “They’ve got me down as a crap striker.”

“That was a great goal, Kevin.”

“You can call me Kev. Let’s do it again!”

The new lad’s energy most impressed Coach Varney; the boy ran and ran, tackled back and always won the ball cleanly. Varney wondered whether he was scooting around the pitch on adrenaline. The second half would reveal all. In his long career as a coach, he’d seen it all before, enthusiasm fizzling out like a damp two-penny banger. As it was, the young fellow had undeniable talent, far too much for those around him, who the coach considered a right hopeless shower. Again, a thoughtful ball, switching to the other wing, ran wastefully into touch as the wing-back showed zero anticipation.

“This boy’s the real deal,” the coach muttered, glancing at his watch. “Maybe he isn’t just a boaster. Good job I gave him a chance. If he holds up in the second half, I’ll call him for the match on Saturday.”

He blew his whistle for a bad foul on Walsh just outside the penalty area, a little to the right, about twenty-five yards out. Sirius grabbed the ball and carried it over to place it where the coach indicated. Three tall defenders formed a barrier after Varney had made them retreat the correct distance. The yellow-shirted goalkeeper waved his large, gloved hand to position the wall better. Varney blew, Angel took three steps, and the ball streaked over the barrier and dipped viciously into the net past the bewildered goalkeeper. Green-bibbed players mobbed Angel; none of them had seen anything quite like that kick.

“Better than Beckham!” Walsh grinned. “Come on, lads, concentrate. We can win this!”

Angel felt happy and confident but had noticed the evil leer on Bradshaw’s face. Still, he didn’t expect to be tackled from behind whilst he was off the ball. He had just played a pass out to the right wing when Chopper, in a stunning display of footballing disloyalty, clattered into his right ankle. A player with a typical physique might have been side-lined for months. Angel didn’t want to draw too much attention to the abnormal strength of his flesh, which he intuitively recognised, so he rolled around clutching his ankle.

Walsh came over. “You alright, Angel?” He patted him on the head, turned to the coach. “That’s a straight red in anyone’s book, Coach.”

“I didn’t see it; I was watching you head that bloody good cross wide, Walshy. How did you see it, anyway? Have you got eyes in the back of your head?”

“It wasn’t a good cross; it was too high and too slow. What about our man?”

“Run over and fetch the doc, Walshy, there’s a good lad. As for you, Chopper, you bloody numbskull, I told you to mark him, not to break his ankle. We’re all in the same team here, even if we play against each other. Remember that! Are you alright, son?” The coach bent over Angel, concern in his eyes.

“I think I can stand, Coach.”

A firm hand pressed him down. “Not until the doc’s had a look at it. Ah, here he is!”

Several minutes of palpation and manipulation of the joint followed, before the medic pronounced, “There’s nothing wrong with the joint. He’s fine to play on.”

“Impossible!” Bradshaw, the old pro, muttered. “I fairly clattered into him. What’s he made of, iron? The cocky little jerk. I’ll show him!”

Luckily, no one heard him and the coach blew for half-time: 2-0 to the reds.

Angel thought it wise to limp off the pitch, but the injured gait was an act. He felt nothing in the ankle that Chopper had struck. The newcomer just knew that he was different from the rest of the players, but it was far too early to cause suspicion or resentment. So, he play-acted hobbling off. A lady had prepared a giant pot of tea for the squad. All the footballers gathered round to claim a cup of tea, except Angel, who drew out a small bottle of mineral water from his backpack. Nobody noticed or cared that he didn’t drink tea, so, having slaked his thirst, he slipped the bottle back out of sight.

“You can play a bit, Angel,” came a friendly voice. It was Kevin Walsh. “That was one hell of a free-kick. Where did you learn to dip the ball like that?”

“It just comes naturally.”

“Get away! You must practise for hours.”

He was about to swear that he didn’t, when he thought better of it. “Oh, yeah, well, practice makes perfect.” What would Kevin Walsh think if he knew that today was the first time that he had ever played a competitive football match? With his second-half performance, he would have to leave the coach with no choice but to sign him up.

As the midfielder half-heartedly listened to the banter flying around the dressing room, he decided to score two more goals and to set Kev up for another two. To do that, he would have to commit to as much running as he was capable of in half an hour.

The reds kicked off the second half, and the ball came straight back to him from Walsh. Angel lowered his head and ran straight at Bradshaw, who was determined to tackle him. With a bewildering sleight of his right foot, taking the ball to his left, a dip of a shoulder, and Bradshaw was tackling thin air. The same fate befell the last defender. Angel could easily have scored, but generously slipped the ball to Kevin Walsh so that all the striker had to do was tap the ball into the unguarded net. The goalkeeper, convinced that Sirius would shoot, committed to the wrong direction, leaving Walsh an easy task.

“You could have scored that, pal. Cheers!”

“You’re welcome, Kev. We have to show the management that we two are a winning combination.”

The tall striker gave him an appreciative look. In thirty-five minutes of football, he had already learned that this new phenomenon would do the rest if he made the right runs. As early as that first six-a-side game, Kevin Walsh began to dream of playing in the first team, alongside Angel Sirius, of course. By the end of the game, won 6-0 by the reds, with himself and Angel both celebrating hat-tricks, the dream appeared to Kevin more of a reality. His third goal had been a majestic, towering header from a perfect Sirius cross, but even that couldn’t compete with the stunning quality of the midfielder’s goals. Even Bradshaw had gone over to shake his hand at the final whistle, murmuring, “No hard feelings, Sirius.”

“None at all, mate,” said Angel, perversely grateful for the learning curve because he knew that in future, many a foul tackle awaited him from the likes of Chopper Bradshaw.

Book details

AUTHOR NAME: John Broughton

BOOK TITLE: The Remnant: The Annunaki And The Apocalypse

GENRE: Science Fiction

SUBGENRE: Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic Sci-Fi / Speculative Evolution Science Fiction / Alternative Evolution

PAGE COUNT: 262