Meanwhile, on Earth, the catastrophe had expanded exponentially. Angus had calculated that at least half of the human beings on mainland Britain had completely lost their minds - or rather had them swapped - with animals (he could only speculate at this point).

He wondered if, in some arid area near Ghana there was a congregation of Zebras, Elephants and Tigers wondering whether to have tea and watch reruns of The Bill - or, at least, getting eaten very quickly by other predators, due to their completely absent survival skills. Though he would have thought he would have heard about it by now if that were the case - since, remarkably, it seemed that the fallout was limited only to mainland Britain, so live broadcasts from BBC’s satellite branches in other continents were still viewable - though, for obvious reasons, they all seemed to be concentrating their reporting on the ghastly things happening in England. In any case, ground zero in South London was a complete and utter basket case.

The carnage was absolutely horrifying. Planes fell out of the air, factories exploded and the nuclear energy reactors that powered the country were going into meltdown left right and centre. The most abject terror, however, was reserved for those whose minds hadn’t left them at all. Those who had to watch on as their friends, co-workers and family members either injure themselves mortally doing something completely routine or - much worse - get savaged by packs of bearded university students stalking around like black pumas.

Even those whose loved ones were inhabited by a relatively benign animal, like an armadillo-type thing - well they simply weirded everyone out, and had to be locked in a room or kept out in the garden whenever they had anyone over for tea. Carer’s fatigue, in this case, however, was as bright an outcome one could expect from such a catastrophe.

There were people trotting about on their haunches and their arms out like wings, pecking at bushes, relishing the moment when they located some sort of bug or worm on which to feast (which, of course, they would very quickly throw up, having precious stomachs not used to such bushy and unprocessed fare). There were some who had taken to wriggling like a snake on the ground (but not getting very far), and there were ones who acted like cavemen, walking about spearing other people and roasting them on spits in village centres.

If something like this had happened in the United States, at least most people would have a gun - but Britons, being the stalwart harm-prevention socialists that they are - were sitting ducks, as it were (particularly those who had resorted to sitting like ducks - and there were plenty of those, too).

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

For centuries, the time-honoured and previously modestly reliable British reaction to an approaching person brandishing a spear was a simple, yet stern talking to, and if that didn’t work, calling 999. But emergency services were, of course, now run entirely by people acting like chimps (and boars, and other strange things that don’t bear description) and the remaining workers there who were in possession of their own minds were entirely unable to help - partly because every single person in Britain was calling them all at once - and partly because they were generally all quivering in broom closets, rocking back and forth humming ‘God Save the King’ - but mainly because the roads were entirely clogged-up with the world’s last and most violent traffic jam.

Angus wasn’t entirely sure of where to start. Surely, since his machine was what got everyone into this mess, he would be the best qualified to get them out of it. But Dr. Angus McBairn wasn’t well-suited to braving the various hazards and pitfalls involved in navigating a dangerous apocalypse. He was almost certain of that fact, since he’d watched all three thousand episodes of The Walking Dead, and had remarked to himself on many occasions that if something like that were ever to happen - that in any sort of apocalyptic event, he would most certainly be one of the first to go.

Grist for the mill - that’s old Angus McBairn.

Cannon Fodder.

Chum for the sharks.

A piddling extra in the cast of the world ending.

Angus, you see, simply didn’t have the constitution for all the slashing, running, climbing and hiding that the heroes in these types of shows needed to be good at, partially because he had inherited his mother’s tight hamstrings (when attempting to touch his toes he could barely get beyond his knees) and mostly because he was a clinical-grade wimp.

If he were to figure a way out of this mess, he would need backup of the thoroughly masculine, macho type, preferably well versed in survival tactics, and most importantly with access to a large supply of impressive weaponry.

Thankfully, he knew of such a person. His name was Quinton Barber; a 6”6 Australian archaeologist he went to Oxford with.

They weren’t exactly friends per se, but had become somewhat friendly.

Quinton was for all intents and purposes a handsome brute more inclined towards rugby, drinking gallons of beer with no noticeable effect and inspiring heated passion in the minds of other people’s girlfriends. But he also had an inquiring mind and a fondness for chess.

Chess, as it happened, was a game that Angus quite fond of, too - since he was a nerd, and that’s what nerds do. It was at Chess Club in the Oxford refectory that Angus met this thick burlap of a man and even command a bit of begrudging respect from him, since he was rather a bit better at the game than Quinton.