Hell on Earth Trilogy: The Complete Apocalyptic Saga

by Iain Rob Wright

  Ravy looked at Vamps with desperation in his eyes. Vamps wished his boy could keep things a little cooler, but the situation was in play now. They needed to get rid of the gear, and they needed to do it now. Two-hundred quid was better than five years in the nick.

  But Vamps wasn’t about to let this wannabe Tony Montana take them for a bunch of mugs. This might be his manor, but Vamps was no victim. He clapped his hands together loudly, making the two thugs either side of Pusher flinch. “Sorry we couldn’t do business. Thanks for the time though, blud. Respect, yeah?”

  Pusher didn’t react. His eyes shifted to Vamps and stayed there. It was some time before he spoke. “You fuckin’ me around, blud?”

  “Nah, man.” Vamps opened his arms out to the side, trying to keep things light and non-threatening. “Just didn’t meet our price. Business, yeah?”

  “This is my fuckin’ manor. I name the price, and you fucking take it.”

  Damn it. Shit is about to go down. This fucker is looking for a fight.

  If Vamps showed the slightest bit of nerve, the situation was lost. Respect was a cold war, and the moment the other guy thought you were weaker, the violence started. Vamps took a step forward, chest out, chin up. “Hand me back the product, yo. You want it, the price is five-hundred.”

  Pusher glared at him, the slash on the side of his face quivering as his jaw locked. A standoff ensued, and it was some time before the other guy eventually moved towards Vamps. He offered out the packet, but when Vamps went to take it, he pulled it back again.

  “Actually,” said Pusher. “Think I have a new price for you. I’m going to take this off your hands for free, and you mugs are gunna fuck off out of my patch before you get your skulls caved in.”

  Vamps realised that the boys from the bar had entered behind him. They were boxed in by at least nine guys. A couple brandished snooker cues. Mass started hulking up, bunching his muscles and preparing to fight, and Vamps figured his big friend could take out at least three by himself. Maybe Vamps could take another three. But Ravy and Ginge would get hurt.

  Vamps moved his hand into his pocket and gripped his grandfather’s Browning. The pistol would shift the power back to them, but it wasn’t a move to make lightly. If just one of the other men in the room had a gun of their own hidden, things would turn into a shootout—and you couldn’t predict what would happen when bullets flew. Also, aside from Pusher, who deserved a bullet, Vamps didn’t know a thing about any of the other guys. For all he knew, they were decent lads just showing some front.

  No, too risky. Vamps moved his hand back out of his pocket. If it were only him, then he might escalate things, but he didn’t want to take risks with his friends’ lives. They all walked here in one piece, and that was how they would leave.

  “All right, we’re leaving,” said Vamps. It hurt him to lose so much face, but it would be stupid to fight when they were at a disadvantage. He’d lost count of the number of guys he’d seen go down because of their egos. Backing down was smart, even if the taste it left was piss and shit.

  Pusher grinned like a ghoul. “Smart boy. I see you round here again, I won’t let you leave.”

  Ravy sucked at his teeth. “Man, this is fuck—”

  Vamps snapped his fingers. “I said we’re leaving, yo, so let’s bounce.”

  Everyone was silent as they left, boys on both sides. Eyeballs screwed into Vamps and his friends as they headed back out into the pub and towards the exit.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” Pusher shouted after them to an audience of laughter.

  Vamps paused, stopped walking and clenched his fists.

  The laughter stopped. The air froze.

  “Come on, man,” Ginge whispered to him. “This ain’t worth it.”

  “It’s my fault,” said Mass. “The guy mugged me off!”

  “It’s just money,” said Ravy. “Let’s go.”

  “You lads got something to say?” Pusher shouted after them.

  Vamps looked at the door in front of him, took a deep breath, and left.

  But he would be back.

  The street outside bustled. When they entered the pub less than fifteen minutes ago, the roads and paths were deserted, but now people were everywhere, spilling out of local businesses and flats. Many people headed for their cars if they owned one.

  Vamps grabbed a kid who should’ve been at school as he tried to rush past. “Hey, blud, what’s going on?”

  “It’s the freaking end of the world!” came the kid’s reply. “We’re under attack!”

  The kid tried to rush off again, but Vamps held him in place. “What do you mean? Under attack by who?”

  “By monsters. They came out of the gate.”

  “The gate?”

  “The stone,” he cried. “The stone on Oxford Street. It opened. We all need to get the hell away from here.”

  Oxford Street was not far away, which was obviously why the streets had erupted into panic. Car horns blared like a chorus of angry ducks. A dickhead in a Mini Cooper sideswiped a battered Mazda as he went up on the pavement to get around. The Mazda gave chase, its driver hanging out his window and shaking a fist. A black Cocker Spaniel ran around without an owner, stopping briefly to cock its leg over a steel bike railing. A cat perched atop a wall and hissed at it.

  “This ain’t good,” said Ginge. When Vamps turned to him, he was holding up his phone which was now playing a video. It was a news report from Oxford Street—and it was live.

  Vamps, Mass, and Ravy gathered around Ginge’s phone as scenes of chaos played out. Above the strange black stone in the middle of Oxford Street, a strange, shimmering gate had appeared. Things piled out of it in a steady stream. Monsters. They looked like men but horribly burned. Some hunched over with vicious talons at the end of their arms, but most were smouldering corpses. As soon as the creatures landed on the tarmac though, they set about the nearest person and tore them to shreds. Blood filled the air like mist from a sprinkler. Even the camera lens filming was red-hazed. It was hard to get a good look at the invaders, for they moved so quickly, but eventually one came towards the camera. Its eyes swirled with black oil. Blood stained its broken teeth.

  Then the camera clattered to the ground, settling on a skewed view of the curb with a hundred feet fleeing.

  “We need to get out of here,” said Ravy.

  A window broke nearby as if to punctuate his point.

  “And go where?” asked Vamps. “Those stones are everywhere. If the one in Oxford Street opened up some kind of gate, I bet the other ones did too. The news this morning said hundreds had been identified.”

  Ravy hopped from foot to foot anxiously. “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying there might not be anywhere to run.”

  Even Mass looked nervous now. A thick vein bulged in his trunk of a neck “You really want to stick around?”

  Vamps thought about it and shook his head. “Nah, man. I ain’t crazy. Just feels wrong running from our home, you know? If we don’t defend it, who will?”

  The sound of a door slamming spun them around. When Vamps saw who was coming out of the pub, he grabbed his boys and pulled them behind a nearby bus stop. The bricks stank of piss.

  “It’s that prick,” said Mass. “We should go do him while he hasn’t got all his backup.”

  Vamps watched Pusher barrel out of the Grey Goose with only two of his meat heads. It would be a good opportunity to roll the fucker, but… No. It wasn’t enough.

  “That bitch has something that belongs to us,” said Vamps with a snarl.

  Ravy raised an eyebrow. “The coke?”

  “Nah, man. Five-hundred quid. I walked out of there with the intention of getting it back later, and this might be our chance. Everything is about to turn to shit. The law ain’t gonna care about us rolling a low life dealer for half-a-grand.”

  Mass smacked his fist into his palm. “Let’s go get it done.”

  Vamps held back his muscled friend. �
�Not yet. Let’s see where he’s going first.”

  Mass frowned. “Why?”

  “Because it ain’t enough to just take what he owes us. The piece of shit needs to learn a lesson. If there’s a chance to take him down a peg, we do it.”

  “You’re stone cold,” said Mass with a grin.

  “Nah, man. I never wronged no one who didn’t wrong me first, you know that. We gave him a chance to get a bargain, but he was too greedy to take it. Got no time for people who only think about themselves. We’re going to show him where that attitude gets you.”

  “Let’s show him we ain’t a bunch of fuckin’ mugs,” said Mass.

  Ravy nodded. “I really need my money back, so yeah, let’s do it.”

  Ginge sighed. “Ah, man, this is gunna suck. Fine, okay, but only because I don’t want to see Ravy get shafted. I just need to get something to eat first.”

  “Fuck sake, buster,” said Mass. “You never stop filling your gob.”

  “I have a thyroid problem.”

  “Like hell you do.”

  “He does,” said Ravy. “I went the doctors with him once.”

  “Come on,” said Vamps, ushering them in the direction Pusher had gone. The dealer was hurrying along the pavement towards one of the low rises that housed people together like ants in a nest. Vamps knew because he lived in one exactly the same. They had been built recently as part of a refurb of the estate, but the way the buildings all faced in on one another made the whole area isolated from the outside.

  “You reckon this is where his gaff is?” Ravy asked in a whisper, even though they were outside and there was noise coming from everywhere. Police cars and fire engines blared in every direction.

  “Maybe,” said Vamps. “Let’s keep back so he doesn’t spot us.”

  But there was little chance of Pusher spotting them because he was talking loudly on a mobile phone and hurrying along at a jog. His two meat heads stuck close enough that all they could hear was him.

  Vamps and the boys followed at a distance, but were forced to get closer once Pusher headed into the stairwells. It would be easy to lose the dealer if he slipped onto one of the floors and into a flat, and it was only his frantic voice on the phone that gave any chance of staying on his trail.

  “He’s panicking about something,” said Mass. “Having a right flap.”

  “He’s probably been screwing people over a little too often,” said Ravy. “Maybe someone’s coming for him.”

  Mass nodded. “Yeah, us.”

  “Maybe someone he knows is in Oxford Street,” said Vamps, sympathetic at the thought. The guy was a crook, but it was hard not to be in a place like Brixton. Not every scumbag started out as one, but living in shit turned as many men to fungus as it did to flowers.

  The sound of a fire door opening—squeaking hinges—made Vamps shove out an arm. “Hold up. I think he headed in. Next floor up.”

  Mass smacked his fist again. “We got the prick. There can only be three or four flats to a floor. Nowhere he can run once we find him.”

  Vamps peered down the centre column of the stairwell, eyed the concrete below. He hadn’t been counting, but he figured they were six or seven floors up. Pusher really would have nowhere to run.

  Vamps kept his voice low. “All right. Mass and me will handle things, but Ginge and Ravy, you got our backs, yeah?”

  “Of course,” said Ravy.

  “Then let’s go give this guy an education.”

  Vamps took the next flight of steps two at a time, fists clenched. Mass was right behind him, and Ravy a step behind that. Ginge was halfway down, panting and wheezing. They opened the fire door and spilled into the landing. They knew which flat to go to because Pusher’s meat heads were standing right outside it. Maybe they weren’t trusted enough to come inside. They saw Vamps and Mass coming towards them, and at first didn’t seem to recognise or understand, but once they realized they were about to get rolled, they panicked and started throwing punches.

  Mass ducked the first punch and whipped around behind the guy. He locked in a rear naked choke and pulled back so hard that the guy’s feet dangled off the ground. Vamps took care of the other guy, raising his left forearm to block a punch and landing a vicious right hand of his own. The guy dropped to his knees, blood gushing between his fingers from a broken nose. The sound he made was like a cat in heat. Mass let go of his man, who slumped to the floor unconscious. The calm expression on his face made it seem like he had just dropped off a bag of rubbish. Knocking guys unconscious was no big thing to Mass.

  The door to the flat was ajar. Vamps put a finger to his lips, and they all kept quiet—the only sound the rattling wheeze of Ginge’s chest.

  Vamps nudged open the door with his shoulder and crept into the hallway. A bout of screaming caused him to stop, but he realised it was coming from a floor below and carried on. The floor was cheap laminate—badly laid—and it squeaked with every step. If it were not for the sound of the television blaring in the next room, it would have been obvious that someone was inside the flat, but as Vamps made it into the living room, Pusher was still shouting into his phone, oblivious. With his free hand, he rooted around inside a chest of drawers.

  Vamps stepped into the middle of the room, cutting off the dealer’s escape. “Hey, motherfucker.”

  Pusher spun, but Vamps had already pulled out his grandfather’s Browning and pointed it at his face.

  “The fuck you doing in my gaff?”

  “Come to take back what’s ours, blud. You screwed with the wrong gangsters.”

  It was obvious Pusher was concerned—in Brixton, a gun in your face was not an empty threat—but he remained calm, and even smiled. “Just the way of the street, innit? You want your drugs back, fair dos, but know that it don’t end here, boy. You don’t crash my fucking gaff and get away with it. Where are Dwayne and Goldy?”

  “Sleeping,” said Mass. “You bout to take a big long nap of your own if you don’t hand over the cash.”

  “You want the money? For that bag of crap you tried to sell me? I’ve snorted better washing powder.”

  Ravy stepped around the coffee table in the centre of the small room. “What you talking about?”

  “I mean you should leave the drug game to people who know what the fuck they’re doing. Shit you tried to sell me was so cut down it wouldn’t get a baby high. I did you a favour.”

  “You’re a liar. Limpy Laz and me go way back.”

  Pusher let out a spluttering laugh. “Limpy Laz? You’d have to be a right mug to buy off him.”

  “Enough!” said Vamps, waving the pistol to get Pusher’s focus. “I ain’t here to debate the quality of the product. It was good enough for you to steal, so I think you’re full of shit. You’re going to stand here like a good little boy while we turn your gaff over for whatever’s worth taking. You think you can rob us? Well, guess what—your ass is about to get robbed.”

  “You’ll regret this. You won’t be able to show you face on the entire fucking estate! I’ll have you fucking shot, blud, you get me? I’ll have you buried in Max Roach Park.”

  “You ain’t the one with the gun, blud.” Vamps took a step closer, showing he wasn’t afraid. “I should plug you right now and be done with it. I’m tired of your fucking noise.”

  Sirens blared outside. The possible sound of an explosion across the Thames.

  Pusher was panting. However tough he was acting, part of him must have expected Vamps to pull the trigger. Vamps had never pulled the trigger before—and he didn’t want to now—but this was Brixton. Shit happened in Brixton.

  Mass tossed the room, shoving aside sofa cushions and checking down the sides. Ginge and Ravy took his lead and started rooting around too.

  Vamps headed to the chest of drawers that Scarface had been rifling through. “Step away. I wanna see what had you in such a panic.”

  Pusher’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t do this, blud. Last warning.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” Vamps p
ulled open one of the drawers far enough that it almost fell out of the unit. Inside was mostly junk letters, but at the bottom was a white envelope—a fat envelope. “Looky what we have here.”

  Pusher had stopped talking—probably realised it was doing him no good—and only stood and glared at Vamps now as he opened the envelope and peered inside at the cash. There must have been a few grand, easy.

  Mass had stopped searching the sofa and looked up to see what Vamps had found. “Nice! Guess we call that interest.”

  “The fuck you do,” said Pusher. “You take your five-hundred and piss off!”

  Vamps grinned. “No need to be sore. Just business, blud. Way of the street, innit?”

  “Daddy? What’s happening outside?”

  A little boy entered the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. When Pusher saw him, his face dropped in horror. He looked at Vamps, almost pleadingly. “Everything’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s just talking to his friends about something.”

  Vamps lowered his gun. It might have been foolish, but seeing a child made him do so instinctively. The streets were tough, but there were still rules. He moved the pistol behind his thigh where the little boy wouldn’t see it. “Hey, little man. My name is Vamps. I’m a friend of your daddy’s.”

  The little boy looked like his father—same dark brown eyes and shaved head. When he looked at Vamps, he didn’t seem afraid—a Brixton boy in the making. “Why is your name that?”

  “Because of my teeth. See?” Vamps bared his golden fangs—an upgrade required after a couple of Angell town boys had smashed his head against a curb.

  The little boy giggled. “Cool.”

  “Come on, man,” said Mass. “Let’s take the envelope and bounce. We done here.”

  Vamps nodded, eyeballed Pusher. “Yeah, man, we done.”

  “Can we all go and get ice cream, Daddy?” the little boy asked. “I want to see what’s happening outside.”

  Pusher smiled at his son. “Yeah, sweetheart, but just you and me. These guys are leaving.” He nodded at Vamps and whispered, “Just go, man.”