Hell on Earth Trilogy: The Complete Apocalyptic Saga

by Iain Rob Wright

  “Clark, do you think they’re okay? They’re all on their own in a foreign country.”

  “It’s England, not Cambodia. They will be fine. They’re with the Army.”

  “Who have stopped responding to my calls.”

  “I’m sure they’re busy,” Clark snapped. “They have a country to defend.”

  “Okay.”

  He sighed. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m just worried about us. Soon as we get somewhere safe I will dedicate myself to getting a hold of the kids. For now, you need to think about your own safety.”

  “You’re right. I know you’re right.” She looked at the phone. It seemed to mock her by not ringing. “Damn it. Okay, let’s go.”

  Clark looked relieved. “I’ve already packed the car up. Grab whatever you need, because we might not be back for a while.”

  Nancy raced into the study. On the desk were several pictures. She had photographs of Alice and Kyle in her wallet, but wherever they ended up staying tonight would feel more like home with a picture in a frame. She looked at the various snapshots and tried to find the one she liked best. The one that leapt out at her was the one of her, Guy, and the kids at Busch Gardens in Tampa. It had been one of the best days ever, back before Guy had become captain of his own ship. After that he never seemed to be around very often anymore. She knew that Clark had never liked the photograph of them all, but she was actually with Clark, so it only felt right to have a picture of all the other people in her life she cared about, but were not here. She grabbed the frame and put it into her handbag, stuffing it down so that it wouldn’t fall out. Then she closed her eyes and prayed that there would be chance to take new pictures one day.

  She had no idea what was happening in the world, but it was horrifying. Being evacuated from her own home… A bad sign.

  “You ready?” Clark came up behind her. “I want to be on the highway in five minutes. Traffic is going to pen us in, so we need to get moving. We have no idea what’s coming this way.”

  A deep rumbling shook the house.

  “God, what is that, Clark?”

  “Grab your things.”

  They hurried out to the carport and were struck dumb by what they saw. An endless convoy of army vehicles trundled down the quiet residential street as if it were the centre of Baghdad circa 2003. Massive trucks rolled along behind monolithic tanks, and columns of weary soldiers marched along the side of the road trying to keep up. Their uniforms were dirty and many were bloody. Some men carried along their injured comrades, and one in two sported a bandage or stitches of their own. One of the tanks had a bent cannon.

  “It looks like they got a dustin’,” said Clark.

  “I think it was worse than that.”

  “Still want to stay here?” he asked her.

  “No, I’ve changed my mind. Get me out of here.”

  Nancy slid into the passenger seat while Clark took the wheel. They had to wait for some time for the army to pass through, but by the time it was gone, she was once again dreading what had happened to Kyle and Alice. If the US Army—the greatest fighting force in the world—had been bested so soundly, then what hope did England have? Clark had told her that their forces were equally as well trained as theirs, but still… Britain was no USA when it came to modern warfare. Or was she just being ignorantly patriotic? She hoped so.

  Once the army had gone, the street was haunted by their memory. Lawns were torn up and muddy, oil slicks covered the road, and the houses all lay empty. It felt to Nancy like they were the last people on earth. Somewhere down the end of the road, something would be coming their way—an army of monsters stripping the land of humanity like a swarm of bloodthirsty locusts. She and Clark would run for now, but eventually there would be nowhere to go.

  She had to find her kids. Alice and Kyle needed her.

  And if she couldn’t get to them, she just hoped that Guy could. She’d never needed her ex-husband as much as she did now.

  Hans

  German Airspace

  Hans banked his Tornado left and swooped down towards the city of Dusseldorf. The grey squares of industrial buildings, factories, and warehouses grew in size the lower he got. The gate was not big enough to spot through his cockpit windows yet, but he had its coordinates locked into his targeting systems. He was not carrying his normal payload of anti-aircraft missiles and air-to-ground munitions. His plane was carrying fire—lots of it. The incendiary missiles were leftovers from the first Gulf War. Today’s missions did not involve maximising human casualties. Modern munitions were designed to cause collateral damage—to take out buildings and bunkers, or the odd troop carrier. Having CNN or BBC footage of human beings burning to death after being covered in white phosphorus was not the way Germany wanted to be portrayed. Adolf Hitler was not yet erased from the world’s consciousness, and as such, Germany never got its hands bloody if there were alternatives. This time, there were no alternatives.

  This time Germany wanted to see its enemies burn.

  The gate had opened up in the city’s burgplatz—Castle Square. Named so for the castle that once stood there. The flat, open area perched next to the river Düssel, which was chock-a-block with attack boats—all of which were filled with armed soldiers. The sound of machine gun and assault rifle fire was like a swarm of hornets.

  Hans swooped down lower, the nose of his Tornado pointed almost vertically at the ground, but then he banked sideways and pulled up. As he jetted over the rooftops, he got his first glimpse of the gate. The area teemed with the misshapen, horrific bodies of demons. They looked like burned men and woman, which made the Bundestag’s plan to engulf them in flames seem slightly redundant. Kommandos on the ground, however, had reported that the demons did indeed die when set aflame. They had reduced an enemy force outside the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin to ashes, but had been forced to retreat when the demons kept on coming.

  So Hans’s job, along with three of his fellow pilots in their own Tornado’s was to engulf the entire site with white phosphorus—pretty much the nastiest substance you could drop on an enemy. When the substance was exposed to air it ignited. When it touched a person’s skin, it stuck while continuing to burn. In simple terms, white phosphorus would dissolve you while you screamed in the worst agony you could imagine. Even if you survived, you would likely die of kidney failure, or from the side effects that caused your lower jaw to rot away. It was a substance Hans had never dropped before, and had vowed never to do so. He had no qualms about it now.

  He called in to HQ and made sure the area was properly evacuated. The ground forces had retreated to the ships on the Düssel or into the armored troop carriers that blocked the main roads. The enemy was pinned in—contained to the area around the gate. Some got through into other parts of the city, but it was slow going for them. Now was the time to strike.

  Hans did a quick circle above the city, and then entered into his calculated approach. A flick of a switch primed his payload to release. All he had to do was reach the strike point on his intended trajectory and hit FIRE. The ball would be in the back of the net within seconds.

  He grunted into the radio. “Engaging enemy. T-minus ten till fire.”

  “Proceed as planned,” he received back.

  Hans kept his Tornado under his control. He could have let the plane automatically follow the flight plan entered into its systems, but he liked to have the final say at crunch time. There was no machine yet able to think on its feet, and when it came to releasing death on a target, being able to make a last-second alteration was vital. Not that he expected any reason to change his mind in this instance.

  As he sped towards the burgplatz once again, he saw the enemy teeming on the ground like ants. No, not like ants—like vermin. They were there to overrun and destroy, like a horde of rats inside a pantry. They would leave behind nothing but filth and remains. Unless they were dealt with like the pests they were.

  Hans removed the shield from the top of his flight stick, revealing the red FIRING but
ton beneath. He poised his thumb over it, waiting for the ideal firing solution. The flight computer told him it would be only three seconds away.

  Ping!

  The electronic targeting reticule went from red to green and it was time to press the button, but in the split second between his brain telling his thumb to press down and his thumb actually doing it, he saw something.

  He lifted his thumb away just in time.

  A mother and her child stood on top of a rooftop, waving their arms at his plane as it swooped towards them. They thought their salvation had arrived. The mother clutched her little boy in her arms and told him to wave his arms in time with her. The woman had a smile on her face so wide that he could see it from the air.

  She reminded Hans of his own wife and his own son, safely tucked away in their cottage in the hamlet of Genheim, two hundred miles from the nearest gate. But were they truly safe there? Were the demons below ever going to stop? How many of them would come through the gates?

  The only thing he could do to protect his family was to kill as many of the enemy as he could. He gave the mother and her little boy one last look, and then pressed FIRE.

  Death rained down on the city of Dusseldorf.

  Damien Banks

  Birmingham

  Damien Banks was an investment banker in the city. It was a job he hated—and most other people hated him for doing it. Bloody bankers—but the money was good and it pleased his father. Jan Banks was a hard man to please, but money seemed to do it. When he had made a fortune by building a vacuum cleaning empire, he had expected his layabout son to get off his butt and do the same. Damien had chosen banking because he lacked the imagination to make money through anything more creative. When his father had told him to make money, his mind had made the simple step right to banking, so he had studied economics and taken a job at a bank. It was strange, but he had always felt like he was meant for something greater. Being a banker was so—shit!

  It was because of his stuffy, suited role as a banker that left Damien so surprised by how well he was faring in the current crisis. Demons had attacked the city—and everywhere else, it seemed—but he was somehow unfazed by it all. He had left his office on Corporation Street and headed towards the new Grand Central Station where refugees were quickly being hustled underground. The army were engaging the enemy and flying glass and debris rained from the skies like snow, except this wasn’t winter; it was summer.

  People were screaming and moaning all around him, yelling into their phones for their loved ones, but he stood amongst it all calmly. He took it all in—the sobbing people huddled on the platforms, the frightened elderly sitting inside the idle trains—watching the pain and misery all around him and feeling every tear. He wanted to help. He needed to help.

  He hurried up to a police officer in a bright yellow coat and got his attention. “What can I do?” he asked.

  “Sir, you need to remain here and stay calm. The Army are dealing with it.”

  “I’m sure they are, but I would like to help. The more people taking action the better.”

  “Sir, you cannot get involved. Please go find somewhere to sit, until we know more.”

  Damien shook his head and sighed. Telling someone not to get involved when the city was under attack was the height of irony. They were all involved whether they liked it or not. He couldn’t just stand around and do nothing. People were hurt, and being hurt.

  He made towards the escalators, which were switched off but still made perfectly good stairs. As he took the metal steps, two at a time, the unhelpful police officer shouted after him. “Oi, you get yourself back here pronto.”

  “No can do,” he yelled back.

  The police officer stepped after him, but then looked back at the several thousand unruly civilians on the platforms behind him and thought better of it. He probably thought Damien was welcome to go get himself killed if he wanted.

  As he headed through the shopping centre and emerged onto the pedestrian ramp, he had to shield his eyes from the burning sun. It was a glorious day, but the smoke rising from the city’s tallest buildings ruined it. Helicopters flew overhead and soldiers ran between Corporation Street and New Street with groups of screaming civilians between them.

  “You need to go back into the train station,” one of the soldiers advised him, but didn’t seem like he was going to make an issue of it.

  Damien considered whether he was somehow odd, due to the fact he felt drawn to the danger in the city, rather than away from it. The gate had opened outside City Hall, which was a ten minute walk down a wide open street. Even from where he was stood, he could make out the fighting in the distance.

  Birmingham City under siege; it was a headline he never would have expected. No one could have expected it. Yet, somehow, he felt like he had been waiting for it. Lately he had been having the strangest dreams. Dreams of demons. Only they had been demons in the snow. And it hadn’t been him in the dreams fighting them—well, it had been him, but it was like a different version of him. The dreams had left him unsettled, like he had been waiting for something terrible to happen. He knew it was coming.

  This morning, terrible had arrived.

  He’d been in his office when he’d heard the chorus of screams. There had been flocks of people coming into the city all morning to see the strange black stone that had embedded itself in the fountain at the City Hall plaza, but Damien and his colleagues had just been getting on with their jobs. Banking never stopped, and one morning of distraction could cost a shitload of money. Damien did not lose money. He hated his job, but he made sure he kicked ass at it.

  So what the hell was he doing? He was marching into a warzone wearing an Armani suit.

  The closer he got to City Hall, the less and less he saw of the military. He should have been seeing more, but those he did see seemed to be moving away quickly, concerned only with getting civilians to safety rather than fighting the enemy.

  He found a small group of soldiers hanging out the doorway of a bank. They seemed to be regrouping. When they saw Damien heading towards them, their eyes went wide.

  “What the bleedin’ ‘ell you doin’ mate? Get out of here.”

  “I want to help,” he said, realising how stupid he sounded now. What place did he have being amongst the soldiers?

  The group’s sergeant stepped forward, a dark haired man with stubble and a flushed complexion—looked like a drinker. His nameplate read: Jobson. “People are dying out here, kid. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that.”

  “I have. That’s why I’m here. I want to help.”

  “You can’t help. You can only help yourself by getting out of here.”

  “Yeah, okay. This was stupid. I just feel wrong standing around doing nothing. People need help.”

  The soldier put out his hand. “My name is Harry. You are?”

  “Damien. Damien Banks.”

  “Well, Damien, I appreciate your courage. My advice would be to join the service. You obviously have the nut sack for it. Right now, though, you’re a civvie, and I can’t allow you to place yourself in danger. So get your arse in gear and get back to the safe zone. The train station is still holding, yes?”

  Damien nodded. “It’s fine.”

  “Good, then get mov-”

  “Help me!”

  The soldiers, and Damien, spun around to see a young woman sprinting towards them. She had a bloody-streaked face and her brown hair had been torn out in a clump. Right behind her was a vile creature that was worse even than Damien’s nightmares.

  “Help her!” he shouted.

  The soldier, Harry, brought up his rifle, and his men did the same. None of them fired though.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “We can’t get a sight on it. The girl is in the way.”

  Damien looked at the young woman and realised that the monster was right on her heels. It was too risky for the soldiers to take a shot. He realised then why he was there.

  He took o
ff in the direction of the terrified woman, running as fast as he could. The soldiers shouted after him, but there was no way he was being talked out of it.

  The closer he got to the demon, the uglier it was. It was more ape than man, with talons like swords on its arms. It was only a few steps behind the girl now. It was going to get her.

  The demon launched itself into the air and came down right on top of the woman. She yelled out, but her screams were cut short when her chin hit the pavement.

  The soldiers were still shouting, but as the woman tried to rise back up, she again blocked any clear shot on her attacker.

  The creature pinned her down with one of its claws and raised the other in the air. Then it slashed downwards at the woman’s neck.

  Damien launched himself at the creature just in time to stop it decapitating the defenceless woman. The thing was crazily strong, and it was like trying to ride a bull. He grabbed it around the neck and squeezed, but it continued to thrash. Breaking necks seemed so easy in the movies. Eventually it got free of his grip and got itself loose. Damien was left on his back while the thing spun to face him.

  “Oh bollocks.”

  The monster leapt at Damien.

  Damien lifted both legs and kicked out, catching his attacker in the stomach and holding him at bay. He gritted his teeth and kicked out with everything he had. It was enough to send the creature reeling backwards.

  And into enough space that the soldiers could open fire.

  Clatter clatter clatter.

  The demon spun and twisted, dancing the dance of death. It was all over in a few seconds. The demon lay dead on the floor. The young woman was safe. Damien was trying not to piss his pants.

  Harry came running up, scanning the area with his rifle. When he was satisfied that it was safe, he helped the woman to her feet. She was in bad shape, but nothing vital seemed to be injured. She was sobbing, but was also gushing with gratitude. When Damien got up off the floor, she went over and hugged him. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”