It's raining frogs

“Mummy, look!”

Vicky glanced at the tv screen.

“No way,” she mouthed.

“Oh, dammit.”

Her cup of cocoa landed at her feet, the milky brown liquid soaking into her socks.

“What is that, mummy?”

“Um, I’m not sure, honey.”

What was it? A bony arm dangled across the screen. Vicky leaned forward, staring. She reached for Skye, pulling the 10-year-old close while fumbling for the remote and turning up the sound.

They both pulled back when the body belonging to the bony arm came into view. A scaly green creature with big, bulbous eyes and a wide grinning mouth. Like a frog but one all stretched out on a dissection board.

This green creature was alive and kicking, teetering on long bendy legs. The camera panned out and now Vicky could see the creature was surrounded by police wearing chunky vests and pointing guns. They looked nervous. The police in turn were surrounded by a crush of media, and a rhythmic chop of helicopter blades came from above, echoing in the descending gloom of Trafalgar Square as night fell.

The screen split in half and into view came the familiar chiseled jaw and swept-back dark hair of born and bred Cockney Rob (Roberto) Garcia clutching a mike. Garcia still held the title of Britain’s sexiest man, at least according to Fancy Me Nude! magazine readers, of which Vicky occasionally indulged. The other half of the screen showed the creature wobbling then crouching amidst at least a dozen black uniforms.

“As I was saying, we ain’t sure just what this is…oh, shi…ite, wait a minute, what’s it doing? Here, look out…”

The creature leapt at one of the officers and hurried shots rang out. Vicky watched, mouth agape, as it dove then rolled into a ball and bounced over the crowd out of sight.

***

Stunned silence, then pandemonium. Sirens wailed and the police and media swiveled as a pack to charge after the creature, Rob Garcia bringing up the rear.

Vicky and Skye sat rooted to the couch, white-faced, their hands interlocked. Five then 10 minutes passed before Garcia ran back into view, his hair now tousled, like he’d just got up.

He pulled at his tie, squawked and coughed, and when he spoke his voice was fast and erratic, like kids in a primary school tumbling over each other at playtime.

“Rob Garcia here for the BBC, I don’t know how to tell you this but London is raining strange green, um, lizard things, beings, I suppose you’d call them, at least four have landed in the last few minutes that I have witnessed with my own eyes.”

Garcia fiddled with his ear. “We are getting reports, as I speak, of dozens of these things dropping over the city.”

Skye whimpered and nuzzled closer to Vicky.

“… dozens of them, I say. What they are is anyone’s guess. They look a bit like frogs but they’re, um, obviously not frogs. What they are is anyone’s… yes, I said that already, didn’t I?”

Garcia drew a breath, settled himself, tried to smile but grimaced, then spoke in almost his usual reassuring deep baritone.

“So far, ladies and gentlemen, we don’t know what they are. We are trying to get some comments from the Police but so far the Police have said diddly squat – oh, wait a minute, it appears we are receiving a statement right now from the London Metropolitan Police.”

Garcia paused, tilting his head.

“Okay, folks, I have some news. The Police say they have no bleedin’ idea what these things are. Okay, yes, so the Police are handling this along with MI5 with the Armed Forces on standby. No, no, not on standby, that’s changed. The Armed Forces are taking control soon and will be leading the situation. And sooner rather than later, people. We are getting reports these things are dropping all around the country, turning up as far away as Northern Ireland, and, yes, we have reports of several of ‘em in Southend and they are incoming over Cornwall, too.”

Skye tugged at Vicky’s arm.

“Mummy, that’s us. We’re in Cornwall.”

***

Half an hour later Garcia was still rabbiting on but not imparting anything new. Skye was wrapped up in her fluffy pink dressing gown. The toast and raspberry jam seemed to be doing the trick in calming her. Vicky chewed her lip and yearned for a cigarette. She checked her phone. Still no service. Weird. And still no sign of Jimmy coming home from the pub.

“…we don’t want to alarm you but there are some issues we need to discuss,” Police Commissioner Mike Burlington was saying. Rob Garcia held the mike to the officer’s face, his own face haggard and shadowy, as if stubble was already growing. He was a far cry from his usual suave and shiny self. Behind the men, soldiers in green fatigues were darting about with nets in front of The Thames where the media were now camped, some of the reporters holding umbrellas.

“We have managed to apprehend three of these, er, things,” Burlington said. “Turns out they’re nasty little fuc…, I mean, buggers. They’re fast and slippery. Like, literally slippery. Hard to catch. They’re secreting an unpleasant, well, slime would be the word. Several of my officers have erupted into boils after coming into contact with said slime. It’s not pretty.”

Garcia: “There’s one now on top of Big Ben.”

The camera moved across to the landmark clock tower which showed 7.37pm and a green spiderman-type shape silhouetted against a cloudy, dark sky. The camera zoomed in. The creature clung to the clock face by spindly toes, spread out its arms like a kite then let go and floated down, dripping slime as it went.

“Eew,” said Garcia, producing an umbrella. “Advisable not to get slimed, isn’t that right, Commissioner?”

“Yes. One hundred percent. I would suggest full raincoat attire with a hood if anyone does have to go out, and I would strongly advise they do not go out if they can possibly avoid it.”

Green fatigues dashed in front of the camera waving nets then disappeared. The police officer furrowed his brow and Garcia’s camera slowly took in the Thames, the wide black river lit up by roving search lights.

“Oh bollocks,” said Burlington, forgetting he was being recorded. “Oh, my ffing lord.”

Hundreds of pulsating blobs of green jelly were bobbing on the water.

Garcia’s voice: “What the bleedin’ hell are they doing? Are they spawning?”

The camera panned upwards. Vicky and Skye sat transfixed as green slime fell out of the sky and splashed into the river. When the camera panned back to the water, the green blobs were growing gawky arms and legs. Vicky shivered. They almost looked human. A strange chattering noise wafted up from the river, like hundreds of pairs of false teeth clacking all at once. Sudden human shrieks came from the riverside before the camera jerked then went dead.

***

Vicky looked at her watch – 1.30am. Skye was asleep on the couch and Vicky must have nodded off, too. The tv was showing a hospital room with Rob Garcia propped up in bed. She could tell it was Garcia by the dark hair, though most of his handsome face was hidden behind bandages. He looked like a mummy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the delay,” he said, “but we were unfortunately slimed. As you can probably see, I have become largely a big pustule. Dan, my camera guy, is almost as bad so we’ve put the camera on a tripod and I’m going to try to fill you in. A lot’s happened. St T’s Hospital staff have been amazing, given the place is packed to the gunnels with blistering reporters, cops and army personnel. They don’t half smell, too.”

Garcia licked his swollen lips.

“I’m sorry to say Commissioner Burlington is in a bad way. He tried to shield me, silly, brave fella, and took the brunt of the slime. These frog things can fly, I’m afraid, and we’re pretty sure when they dive-bombed us they was intentionally targeting us.”

He dropped his voice to a whisper. “We think they’re aliens folks, that last week’s damaging meteor showers may have been, in actual fact, a terrible retribution for the recent unwarranted and internationally condemned mineral exploration of Mars undertaken by you know who.”

Vicky glanced at Skye but though her daughter was muttering and moving uneasily, she was still asleep.

“There’s more bad news, folks,” said Garcia. “They’re everywhere. We’ve had numerous – and I mean numerous – reports, from Australia to Kathmandu, about this frog-like invasion. The US President has loosed the heavy artillery on them to no effect. They’re too fast, and they seem to be able to morph into different shapes. The President has destroyed much of the Capital and is now talking nukes.”

Garcia shook his head.

“Watch out, people. Be careful. These things are dangerous. They can imitate other things; animals, people. Don’t open your doors.”

A nurse in a light blue uniform swished past the camera. “How are you feeeeling, deeeaaarrrr?” The nurse had a strange rattling voice, almost like false teeth clacking.

Vicky jumped at the rap on the door. Thank God, Jimmy was home. “Baabbee, are you up? I forgot my keeey.”