The Bright Side.

Peter Smith has just found out he has a month left to live due to a lethal brain tumour.
He has also just found out that in less than a month, the human race will become extinct and that he has been chosen to be one of six humans to survive the approaching apocalypse. And who has saved him? E.I.P.F, the Earth Inhabitant Protection Front, a group of intergalactic environmentalists who want to save just one species.
And so, whilst also keeping his deadly secret from the aliens, Peter embarks on a quest to rally the chosen survivors, whilst avoiding Government Agents, the secret services, Satanists, Velociraptors, and a manic depressive Tyrannosaurus .


19. Chapter 19

 “Mr Seamus,” Mr Valentine said slowly and deliberately, his voice ever so slightly cracking with anger. “I am sure, even a man as fantastically dimwitted as yourself, has not failed to noticed that the entire world, allow me to repeat myself, the entire world, is in disarray!” the slight rise in his voice revealed the true tempest swirling beneath the official's veneer of pompousness. Hank fiddled nervously with his yellow Stetson, “Yes sir, I had noticed.” he said meekly, the wrath of a small man was even worse than the wrath of a big one, the big men just knew how to punch, the small men knew how to bite. “Do you know why the entire world is in disarray?” Mr Valentine asked, his left eye twitching violently. “Well -”

“It's because some Limy bastard told them the world was ending!” Valentine shrieked.

“I'm surprised people believed them.” Hargraves offered.

“They had a meteorologist and a decorated soldier, of course people are going to believe them!” Valentine snapped, “And they knew because of you Mr Seamus.”

“I didn't tell anyone!”

“No. But because of your insufferable inefficiency in capturing the aliens, they managed to kidnap six human beings! Including one of your own staff! And people noticed! People noticed that aliens are travelling to earth!”

“Well -”

“And you didn't even find out what part they play in the apocalypse!” Valentine screeched, a strand of hair pinging from its greased down prison. “No sir, no we didn't.”

“Because of you, the human race will become extinct.”

“Steady on sir!” Hargraves said stepping forward, “Mr Seamus may be an incompetent when it comes to his job, but you can't blame the end of the world on him!”

Hank smiled warmly, “Thanks son, that means a lot.”

“You idiots.” Valentine hissed, his eyes narrowing, “Of course the human race was going to survive! We've had this in place for years and years, a reputable bank named Icarus built a programme called Eden, it's an underworld subterranean designed for one hundred and sixty humans to survive. We were planning on relocating the top world leaders there and their families.”

“Why can't you?”

Valentine's eyes twitched to the point of staying closed for several seconds. “Why not? Because there are riots going on outside every office of leaders across the world! We can't get any of the politicians out to transport them to Eden!”


“Because of your blundering and constant failures, the last hope of mankind, has gone!”

“What if the six people taken by the aliens are being transported across the galaxy to survive and continue the human race?” Hargraves suggested, Hank nodded, a glimmer of hope flaming inside his chest. It was automatically put down to heart burn when he saw the look of revulsion crawl across Valentine's face. “What is this? Star Trek?” he sneered, “No! Those humans have been taken as some sort of feast for some monster or other. That is simple.” he jumped to his feet with a start. “Now Mr Hank Seamus, by order from the President, locked inside his panic room, you are fired from your position.”

Jack leant forward, “Who will be taking over?”

Mr Valentine sneered, “No one you damn fool!” he hissed, “With two days left for the human race, we're not going to replace one blundering fool with another, now are we?”

With a final withering hiss, Mr Valentine turned on his heel and sped from the office. Seamus slumped into his chair, he had shamed both America and his father. He had failed in his most important mission, and now he was nothing more than a civilian with top secret information that he could sell to any country in the world for a mint. “What do we do now sir?” Hargraves asked.

Seamus sighed and put his hat back on and pulled out a tooth pick, placing into his mouth. “Ain't nothing we can do.” he muttered, “We just sit here, and wait to die.”

“Oh.” Jack said, a sense of dread creeping over him. After a passing of several minutes, he tapped his ex-superior on the shoulder, “Yeah?” Seamus grunted.

“Erm, about sitting here?”


“Is it all right if I go to the toilet first?”

“Sure thing.”

“Thank you sir.”

Hank watched Hargraves scurry from the office grasping his stomach with a small frown. So this was what he was reduced to, waiting for death in a small office in a building in a location he was prohibited from revealing. He opened his desk drawer and removed from its depths a picture frame, containing a black and white photo of his father. His face cast in the familiar, perpetual frown. He remembered every achievement his father had made as director of Area 52, and he was suddenly filled with a sense of pride. It was at that moment that he rose to his feet, pushing his chair back until it scraped against the wall behind. He frowned at the door and spat his tooth pick out. “Damn it!” he hissed, “For the love of the US of A, I'm going to do something!”


Edward Potter, the last British Prime Minister, stood with his back to his office, staring out his window at the madness that beheld the streets. He sighed wearily as the junior MP read off the list, “We have rioting and looting in Trafalgar square, Covent Garden, Euston, Lewisham, Norwich, Colchester, Chichester, Liverpool, Blackpool, Hampstead, Swansea, Mersea, Brighton -”

“Maybe,” Potter said desperately, “it might be quicker to tell me where rioting and looting, is not happening?”

The MP nodded and flicked threw his pages of notes, Potter cringed as the rustling of pages continued for several torturous seconds. “Basingstoke.” the MP finally said.

“So, for a whole week, this entire country has been racked by riots, looting, protests and generally, people really making it their priority to be a public nuisance?” Potter asked.

“Yes sir.” the MP said simply.

The Prime Minister sagged into his desk chair and waved the MP out, “You may go.” he said quietly. With no sense of dignity, the young man hurried out of the office, dropping the huge list onto a coffee table on his path to the exit. “Why mother?” Potter murmured, “Why did you urge me to tell the public about this?”

Mrs Potter stroked her two corgis behind their erect ears and stared at her son, then shrugged. “It was the sensible thing to do.” she said simply.

The Prime Minister stared at his mother is amazement, words almost failed him. He pointed a trembling finger at the window. “That out there, is the furthest from sensible, I have ever seen!”

As if offering evidence, a brink barged its way through the glass window and thudded to the carpet in a rain of glass. “It's madness out there!”

“The people are doing what they enjoy, that's the important thing.” she stared at Edward's aghast expression, then rolled her eyes. “The history of mankind is satisfyingly simple.” she stated as if explaining to an ignorant six year old, “Man likes nothing more than three things, looting, raping and pillaging. They would much rather spend their final hours getting back to basics then wasting away their lives in some dreary office building.”

“The world ends on Saturday.” Edward said, that's tomorrow, his smug thoughts offered, quite enjoying the presence of anxiety, he was always game for a laugh his other emotions felt. His mother merely shrugged again. “Fine, they get to escape the trivialities of watching a football game or complaining that there's nothing on television.” she sighed and stood up, approaching Edward, “Oh Eddie,” she cooed, “there's nothing you can do. Man's basic instinct is to spread misery among his fellow beings. Besides, in less than forty-eight hours, no one will care any more.” she clapped Potter on the shoulder in a manner anything other than motherly, and swept to the door, her corgis at her heels. “Where are you going?” Potter asked.

Mrs Potter frowned, “Why Eddie?” she said with a smile, “You don't expect me to miss the fun do you?” with a small smile, she then left the Last Prime Minister of Great Britain, to his misery.

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