Hell on Earth Trilogy: The Complete Apocalyptic Saga

by Iain Rob Wright

  “Hello, Andras. How are you feeling?”

  Andras scowled, both eyes still useless and blind. “You think you can keep a Marquis of Hell prisoner?”

  David chuckled. “In a dirty broom closet, no less. Such audacity, I never thought I was capable of.”

  “I will gut you.”

  “Perhaps, but not now, and not today. Today, I get to be the one doing beastly things to human flesh.”

  “There is nothing you can do-”

  David pulled the steak knife out of his pocket and buried it in Andras’s collarbone, making him scream. While the pain was still fresh, he grabbed a bottle of bleach and emptied it onto the wound. “So fortunate you still have some feeling left. Makes this a lot more fun.”

  Andras squealed like a stuck pig.

  “You and I are going to become very well acquainted, Andras, dear boy. You’re going to tell me all about The Fallen and the dreadful monsters that serve them.”

  Andras grunted, got on top of his pain enough to curse and swear. “I will never!”

  David grabbed the steak knife and pulled it free, before burying it in Andras’ left ear. Once it slid in, he twisted it and sliced the flap of skin in two.

  Andras bellowed so loud that it made David flinch, but it was music to his ears, and he ended up grinning. “Another thing you need to know about humans, Andras: We don’t cope terribly well with pain. What was it you said? We’re all so weak and mushy. I am going to teach you all about pain, one scrap of skin at a time, and for every life that your abominable colleagues take, I will extract retribution on you. You might have come from Hell, but you have seen nothing yet. I’m going to be the biggest monster you’ve ever met.”

  David got to work, mastering the various ways to make a human being scream. Even if the demons conquered the world, this one would pay dearly. If mankind had a chance, they would have to lose a part of their humanity and become more like the monsters.

  Blood covered David within minutes, and he embraced it.

  ~Vamps~

  London, England

  “Yo, Vamps, I can’t do another day, man.”

  Vamps looked at his boy, Gingerbread, and shook his head. “You’ve seen what’s happening to our streets, Ginge. We don’t got no choice but to help out. Things are fucked up. People need us.”

  Gingerbread had grown pale, as he always did when he was tired. It made his red hair stand out even more, especially his beard. His expression was the same as Vamps five-year old nephew, Bradley, when he wanted sweets but got cabbage. “Vamp, man, we ain’t heroes. We gangsters.”

  “Yeah, we gangsters, and another gang is moving onto our turf.”

  Ravy joined the conversation. “They’re monsters. I never signed up to fight no monsters.”

  “Me either,” said Mass.

  Vamps turned to face him. “We never signed on for nothing. We were born and raised, yo. This fight came to us. We go out and we help, just like we did yesterday. We stopped some bird from getting raped. Do you not get that? She’s alive because of us.”

  Mass stood up from the floor and nodded. His grey hoodie was badly torn where he had fought with a demon. His MMA skills had come in handy and his strong arms had allowed him to throttle it until it was dead. “Vamps is right. I like how it feels… I mean, what’s going down is shit, but I liked the feeling when we helped people yesterday. I felt all respectable.”

  Ravy was the smallest of them all, and pretty useless in a fight, but he had done his part. “Fine, but eventually we gonna die. This ain’t the boys from West Ham, this is some serious shit.”

  “Way I see it,” said Vamps, “the chances of us dying are pretty high anyway. Least this way we take some of those ugly bitches down with us.” He looked at Gingerbread.

  Gingerbread sighed. “Alright, I’m in. What’s the plan?”

  Vamps grinned, glad that his boys were sound. “We go out and head towards the first scream we hear. Arm up, boys, today ain’t gonna be the day we die.”

  They grabbed their guns and knives and headed out of the Boots Megastore where they had holed up during the night. The fighting in the city had continued, but only in small pockets now. Before finding sanctuary, they had encountered a group of Chinese tourists in Leicester square. They were surrounded by hunched over demons and fighting back as best they could. One of them even knew Kung Fu, which had been amusing. The small Chinese man had been swooping and swirling amongst the demons like a ferret and breaking their arms and legs. Before they finally fell on top of him, he had killed at least a dozen. It had bought the rest of his companions some time—time enough for Vamps and the boys to come to the rescue.

  Vamps had led the vanguard, popping off shots from his granpop’s Browning. The boys had added fire from their own pieces and, in the matter of minutes, the fight was over. Their numbers had been growing less and less, not because they were dying, but because they seemed to be heading out of the city. Only a few smatterings had been left behind to terrorise survivors like the Chinese tourists.

  The city was quiet and cold, the dawn sunlight not enough to bring warmth. Dead bodies littered the streets and begun to smell. The scent of blood was not as strong as the scent of shit. Vamps had never seen a dead person before, but it seemed that they all shat their kegs before moving on. It wouldn’t be long before the streets were stinking with disease. He would have to get his boys out of there soon. Perhaps tonight they would head out and make for the coast.

  Right now though, they had to patrol the streets. When this war was over, and if they lived, they might just get some respect. No more being kept down by society because they were young and broke, and grew up in council-owned flats. They would be warriors, respected by all. When the shit went down, the upper classes were nowhere to be seen. There were no middle-class heroes in a ground war.

  “Hey,” Gingerbread pointed. “Something’s going on down there.”

  Vamps put a hand over his eyes to shield his sight from the rising sun. There was definitely movement. “Piccadilly Circus,” he muttered. “The place was clear last night when we passed through.”

  “It isn’t now,” said Ravvy. “There’s a bus coming.”

  Vamps frowned. “If there’s a working bus, why the hell isn’t it trying to bounce? They should be fleeing as fast as the wheels will take them.”

  They picked up their pace and hurried towards the bus. The brightly lit signs on the corner of Piccadilly Circus were scorched and blackened from a fire in the shop below.

  The bus up ahead stopped. It was not a city bus, but a plain white bus with darkened windows. The air brakes hissed and then the door folded open. A man in a grey suit exited and lit a cigarette.

  Vamps street senses acted up. There was something wrong about the bus driver. He was too calm, the way he stood in the street smoking like nothing had happened. There was a pile of torn-up bodies not ten feet away.

  “Hold back, yo.” Vamps put an arm up and slowed his boys down. He moved to the side of the street, sliding in and out of the alcoves to keep his approach hidden.

  Somebody else was getting off the bus. It was another man in a suit, this one younger than the other and stocky as a wrestler. He had long blonde hair like a young Hulk Hogan. In his hand he held a length of chain, and as he yanked on it the first in a line of handcuffed men and women spilled out of the bus. When the last prisoner stepped off, there was a line of a dozen of them.

  “Is it a prison bus?” Ravy asked.

  Vamps shook his head. “No way. Travelling prisoners wear matching uniforms to stop ‘em running and blendin’ in. I remembered when they moved me from Belmarsh to Brixton after some fuckers were trying to off me. They had me in this shitty grey tracksuit. Those people are wearing their own clothes.”

  “Then who are they?” Gingerbread asked.

  “Who are the dudes in suits?” Mass asked.

  “I dunno,” Vamps admitted. “Let’s crash over there and watch what happens.”

  They moved ove
r to a delivery van and stooped behind its large rear compartment. Vamps stuck out his head to see what was happening up ahead.

  The two suited gentlemen brought the line of prisoners into the middle of the road and then had them kneel down. At the same time, a sleek black Mercedes pulled out of a side street. It parked up and a chauffeur stepped out and opened up the rear door. Vamps covered his mouth when he saw who exited.

  “No freakin’ way!”

  Gingerbread frowned. “Who is it? You know that dude?”

  Vamps turned to his boys and nodded. “Yeah, man. That’s the fucking Prime Minister.”

  Mass whistled. “That skinny fucker is the PM? We should go over. If we help him, we’ll have it made, yo.”

  “Innit,” said Ravy.

  Vamps turned back to watch and was absolutely certain that the man was John Windsor the Prime Minister. He was wearing an open collar shirt and straight black trousers. His jet-black moustache was a dead giveaway.

  He walked up in front of the line of prisoners and began talking to their warden. The men and women all pleaded and begged when they saw their Prime Minister, but he acted as though they weren’t there. One woman sought to rise to her feet, but the chauffeur hurried over and kicked her kneecap. She screamed.

  “What the fuck, yo,” said Mass.

  Vamps clutched his Browning, making sure it was still there. “This shit smells wrong man. We need to go help.”

  “Yeah,” said Gingerbread. “We should go pop that stuck up motherfucker. He cut my nan’s benefits last year.”

  Vamps was just about to break cover and go sort shit out, but he leapt back down when he saw demons spilling into Piccadilly Circus.

  Mass looked like he was about to freak. “What the fuck, man? There’re hundreds of ‘em. We need to bolt.”

  Vamps agreed, but he couldn’t help but watch. The Prime Minister and his companions seemed unafraid, even as the line of prisoners screamed and begged. The demons surrounded them and Vamps could no longer see what was going on.”

  “I’m fucking off,” said Mass.

  Vamps nodded. “I’ll meet you at the Lyceum where we saw those rickshaws we can use. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Gingerbread frowned at him. “What are you talking about? We need to get out of here.”

  Vamps waved his hand. “Get the hell out of here, boys. I’ll be there. I promise.”

  They didn’t seem to like it, but the boys got going, leaving Vamps hiding behind the van. Once the others were around the corner and out of sight, Vamps turned and climbed up onto the vehicle’s roof.

  Once again he could see what was going on, and once again he did not like it. The demons were not attacking the PM, and in fact the PM seemed to be addressing them. One of the demons – a burned man at least a foot taller than the others and sporting singed dreadlocks stood directly in front of him and was nodding his head as if receiving orders.

  Then the strangest thing of all happened. The warden in charge of the prisoners handed over the chains to one of the demons who, instead of attacking, began leading them away. The demons filed away, back into the side streets, taking the sobbing men and women with them. The PM remained behind with his companions and seemed to be smiling. Vamps had been a dealer most his life, and he had just seen a deal go down for sure.

  But what the hell was the trade?

  And what the fuck was the PM doing out here trading the lives of innocent men and women. The anger associated with the questions made Vamps look down at his gun and think strongly about using it. But it would be suicide. The demons had only just left and the PM knew shit that made him dangerous. It was time to bounce.

  Vamps moved over to the edge of the van and was about to climb down when he heard a shout. It wasn’t his boys behind him. It was the chauffeur. He’d been spotted.

  With no time to waste, Vamps threw himself from the top of the van. As soon as he hit the pavement he felt the pain. His ankle folded sideways and electricity ran up to his knee.

  He picked himself up off the floor and began hobbling away. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the PM diving back inside his Mercedes. But his two companions were giving chase. With two good legs, they were faster than he was. The fact that he had a gun was not going to help, because he quickly realised that his pursuers had guns too, bigger ones.

  The only question now was who would get to him first—his boys, or the bad guys behind him. No way did he want to end up in chains like those people.

  Vamps had no clue what was happening, but he knew one thing for sure: shit just got worse.

  To continue the story right now, get Book 2: “LEGION” by clicking the link below

  START READING LEGION NOW!!!

  Collateral Damage

  “I’m not interested in playing the victim. I like stories about survivors.”

  --Laurie Holden

  Takao

  Tokyo, Japan

  Tokyo’s strange, glowing gate was one of the few worldwide that had emerged indoors. It sat right in front of JoyCity Plaza’s twenty-foot Gundam statue, and when it had first risen from the immovable black stone, it had knocked the giant mobile suit sideways to where it now rested drunkenly against the mall’s south escalators.

  Takao was inside Kiyoshis Playland, wearing out the Tekken 7 cabinet. He had his initials entered in 9 of the top 15 slots and he wasn’t going to rest until he had them all. Best of all, he was doing it with the character of King, the sluggish wrestler. Nobody had game like Takao did using King. Let the drones play as Kazuya or Paul—simple characters for simple minds, with slow thumbs. Last year his mission had been Street Fighter and Zangief; next year who knew?

  The toy store was empty, everyone wanting to be outside in the plaza where they could see the weird glowing gate. Takao figured it was aliens. They would probably all be zapped to oblivion by death rays within the next few hours, which was why he was so determined to leave behind his legacy and own the Tekken scoreboard. Let no one say that Takao Tenta left things unfinished.

  When the first screams began, they reached only the fringes of his mind. He was too engrossed in his ever-growing ultra-combo, to let in external stimuli, but he was eventually disturbed by the sense of movement behind him. The skin on his neck prickled.

  He made King perform a German suplex for the win, and then span around. What he saw surprised him. As he had suspected, some kind of creature had come through the gate and emerged into the shopping mall, but it wasn’t a little green man. It was something more akin to the fiends that Dante faced in Devil May Cry. It was a smouldering abomination. And it was killing people.

  Outside the Body Shop chain store, an old man in a winter Kimono beat at the creature with his wooden cane. The creature spun on him and slashed his wrinkled throat open with a claw like it was swatting a mosquito. The old man flopped to the floor, gargling on his own blood.

  It angered Takao. He had little time for the older generation—especially those who still hung on to the past and wore Kimonos outside of ceremonial occasions—but he strongly believed that everyone had a duty to take care of the elderly. This old man had faced the nightmarish creature, while everybody else had run. It was wrong. It was ignoble.

  Takao felt his fists clench and realised his palms were sweating. His palms often got wet when he was on a joystick marathon, but this was something different. This was adrenaline. The kind of feeling you only got in a real-life fight. It was exciting.

  More of the creatures spilled through the gate, leaping over the old man’s body. The crowd continued to flee, shaming themselves as they turned their backs on their murderers and fell face down on the floor as they were attacked. They needed to fight. Where was the indomitable spirit that Japan prided itself on? It had obviously only resided in the old man.

  And inside of Takao.

  He spun around and saw that the only person inside the toy store was the owner. The fat man was cowering behind a ten foot statue of Sonic the Hedgehog.

  “
Debu!” he shouted at the man. Fatso. “We need to fight.”

  “What?” the man said, as if Takao was crazy. “We need to hide. Those are monsters out there.”

  “Yes, monsters. Will we let monsters kill us all? No, we are Japanese. We will send them back to their pits. Come on.”

  “No.”

  “Debu! Then, I need a weapon. I will save your worthless life. I will be your hero.”

  The man was wide-eyed and barely listening, but he did give an answer. “At the back of the store. Take whatever you want.”

  Takao nodded. “I thank you.”

  He raced to the back of the store, the adrenaline in his bloodstream making him feel like Mario on a Power Star trip. He was so alive. What met him at the back of the store left him with a wide grin on his face.

  The dai-katana was as tall as he was, but he knew the tempered steel would be light as a feather—fragile as a tree branch. He knew how to use it. A youth in Japan was born with a deep respect for the sacred tool of the Samurai, and he had practised often as a child with a blunted blade given to him by his father, a lowly dock worker.

  He took the sword down with both hands and pulled it from its sheath. It caught the light and glinted with supernatural perfection. It was a thing of exquisite beauty, forged to bring instant and clean death.

  The screams outside continued.

  Takao left the back of the store, and by the time he reached the front, the demons had multiplied and one was already inside with him. It was stalking the fat proprietor, forcing him back against an old Sega Rally booth.

  The debu looked at Takao and pleaded. “Help me, boy.”

  Takao lifted the sword so that it rested horizontally away from his side. He narrowed his eyes. “I am no boy. I am Takao Tenta.”