Hell on Earth Trilogy: The Complete Apocalyptic Saga

by Iain Rob Wright

  After a while, Corporal Martin spoke from the front. “There’s a farmhouse ahead. We should check it for supplies.”

  “Is that wise?” asked David.

  “It’s what we will have to do while we’re on the road. Who knows how long we'll have to feed ourselves?”

  “I agree,” said Richard, although apprehensively. “We might find other survivors too.”

  “More the merrier,” said Carol.

  “Not necessarily,” said David. “We thought Andras was a survivor. Turned out he was one of them.”

  Corporal Martin shifted his rifle to the other shoulder. “He’s right. We won’t turn people away, but any newcomers need to be closely watched.”

  “Maybe we can test them,” said Richard. “Make them hold something made of iron.”

  “Do we have anything?” David asked.

  “No.”

  “Then be on the lookout.”

  “Maybe there’ll be something at the house,” said Corporal Martin.

  They reached a fence at the edge of the field and climbed over one by one in a long line. As soon as he was over, Dillon raced off towards an abandoned green tractor. Richard called after him. “Dillon! We need to make sure this place is safe.”

  Dillon nodded sullenly and came back.

  Corporal Martin and his men swept the property, circling the various outbuildings. Their search eventually caused a stir.

  “What the Hell is that?” asked Carol, eyes wide.

  Richard chuckled. “Sounds like chickens.”

  Richard took Dillon and Alice around the back of the farmhouse where a couple of soldiers stood with their hands on their hips. A family of chickens clucked about their feet. A huge bag of bird feed lay propped against the back wall of the house—it had been pecked open, and the seed fell out gradually through the small hole. The fat chickens had been eating like kings.

  Corporal Martin stood watching the fowl like he didn't know what to do. When he saw Richard and the kids, he nodded. “This is a lucky find, right?”

  Richard pulled a face. “You want to… you know?”

  “We have to. Can’t turn down the meat.”

  Alice petted one of the birds, which seemed very happy about it. They were tame, milling around merrily and undisturbed. “Don’t kill them.”

  Dillon glanced up at his dad and pouted. “Yeah, don’t kill them.”

  Corporal Martin was looking at Richard too. “Want to take the kids somewhere else?”

  “Sure. Come on, you two.”

  “No,” said Dillon, pulling away. “The chickens haven’t done anything. Why do they have to die?”

  “So we can eat,” said Corporal Martin.

  Richard put a hand up. Corporal Martin had his job and Richard had his. His hand went to Dillon’s shoulder as he spoke to him. “You’ve eaten chicken before, Dil, right? You know we use them for food.”

  “That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before the monsters started killing us. It’s horrible. If we kill the chickens, we're the same as the monsters. Why are we allowed to just kill animals?”

  Richard sighed. The demons killing people was no different to people killing animals—except animals didn’t think and feel like humans.

  “Dillon, if we run out of food we'll die. You want that?”

  He shrugged.

  “It isn’t like that yet,” said Alice. “We aren’t hungry yet.” She knelt and patted another bird on the head. “Let's just leave them.”

  Richard put his hands on his hips and sighed. Corporal Martin shook his head, but Richard gave it a shot. “Maybe Alice is right. Things aren’t that bad yet.”

  Corporal Martin rolled his eyes as if Richard was the biggest kid of all. “So, we should wait until things are desperate before we start looking after ourselves? There are thirty of us, Richard. Food will run out fast. And I mean fast. Sorry, but we have no choice. This is how we need to travel.”

  Richard grunted, but nodded his agreement. The soldier was right, his pragmatism unburdened by having a son to care for. Time to bite the bullet. Richard looked at Dillon and tried to resist the pleading look on his face. “I’m sorry, Dil.”

  Dillon stamped his foot and ran off. Alice hurried after him. The Down Syndrome made it hard for Dillon to handle his emotions, and it had taken a lifetime of Richard and Jen helping to manage them, but now Dillon’s safe and loving environment was gone. Only the hard truths of bleak existence remained, and it made Richard want to scream at the Heavens.

  Corporal Martin nodded off to the side. “We haven’t checked that building yet. You best go after them. Your son’s making too much noise.”

  “You might be in charge of most things, Corporal, but when it comes to my son, keep your mouth shut, okay?” Richard turned and went after Dillon, with Corporal Martin calling after him in a placating tone. But Richard’s entire body tensed, and he wasn’t in the mood for rational discussion.

  Dillon had run off towards an old barn. The tin roof was corroded and listing to the left, and the whole thing could slide off at any moment. “Dillon, can you come here, please?”

  Silence.

  Richard picked up his pace.

  Alice screamed.

  There was no door on the near side of the barn, so Richard sprinted around to where he found a wide-open section. A tractor trailer poked halfway out, and he almost slammed right into it as he entered the shaded interior. Movement at the back caught his eye, near a stacked pile of rotten hay bales.

  Dillon and Alice were both screaming now.

  “What is it?” Corporal Martin rushed in behind Richard. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Dillon? Dillon, come to me.”

  Dillon appeared from behind the hay bales and came rushing over. Richard gathered his boy to his side, but Alice continued screaming. He had no choice but to abandon Dillon and rush deeper into the barn.

  Alice was frozen in place at the back, staring at the ground and screaming in terror. Richard saw the mess on the floor and had to fight the urge to scream too. Side by side, lay the ruined corpses of two children—a girl and a boy. The boy clutched a dirty teddy bear in his tiny hand. The girl wore a tartan skirt and thick white tights. Their heads had come apart like dropped cantaloupes, victims of the shotgun that lay nearby. Mum and dad hung from the rafters by their necks, contorted expressions on their grey faces—bloodshot eyes bulging. It was a scene out of a horror movie, and Dillon and Alice had stumbled right into it.

  “Alice,” said Richard firmly while stepping forward gently. “Alice, come over to me, sweetheart.”

  “Why did they do this?” she asked. “They shot their children!”

  Richard glanced at the two tiny corpses but kept his focus on Alice. “People do terrible things when they're afraid, Alice. They weren’t bad people, they just couldn’t cope.”

  Alice shook her head at Richard. Tears magnified her eyes. “That didn’t give them the right to kill their children. Parents are supposed to protect their kids. They're supposed to keep them safe.” Her voice was turning into a shout. “Maybe if parents did their jobs, my brother would still be alive, and I wouldn't be lost!”

  Richard hurried forwards and gathered the trembling girl into his arms. She fought him like a beast, but he was still the adult here, and he kept a hold of her until her struggles and cries ceased. “We will find your father, sweetheart,” he said. “Then you can tell him everything you’re feeling. Until then, I will keep you safe, okay?”

  “Me too,” said Dillon, rushing up to join the impromptu cuddle.

  Alice sobbed. “I don’t want anyone else to die.”

  “Nobody else is going to die,” said Corporal Martin, pulling them away from the grisly scene in the barn. “And that includes the chickens. We’ll find something else to eat, okay?”

  The kids grinned, and Richard looked at the soldier and nodded his thanks.

  Corporal Martin nodded back, but didn't look happy.


  Hernandez

  Commander Hernandez gazed upon England’s south coast, wishing he could reach out and crush it in his fist. The craven traitor, Captain Granger, filled his lungs with air somewhere here, seeking refuge. The world was at war, but Granger cared only about himself. If not for the impertinent Coast Guard's interference, Hernandez would still hold command of his ship and crew. Instead, events the traitor set in motion had left Hernandez marooned on a fishing boat with a gaggle of stinking Englishmen. Granger needed to be stopped before his selfishness dragged more good men to their downfalls.

  “Right, mate, we got you here, so now we’re off, yeah?”

  Hernandez nodded at the stinking trawler's skipper—sick and tired of observing rotting fish morsels in the filthy wretch's beard. “I gave my word, and I shall keep it. Drop me ashore.”

  The skipper began to turn away, but changed his mind and frowned. “You really reckon you’ll find the geezer you’re looking for?”

  Hernandez clenched his fists. “The man owes me a debt, and if it takes my entire life to do so, I will collect.”

  “Okay dokay. We’ll be ashore in ten.”

  “Good man.” Hernandez turned back to look at the shore. To think he'd imagined the British sophisticated. They were more Oliver Twist than Queen Elizabeth. Unwashed oafs. It made him wonder how Britain, at large, fared. Had the apocalypse consumed this country, or had it put up a fight? His fishermen companions spoke of a Resistance, but it hadn't convinced them to take their chances on land.

  The scenery filling his view, he'd been informed, was called Dorset, and it seemed quiet—deserted. Granger sought his daughter somewhere in this land, but the girl might be anywhere. The only lead Hernandez possessed was Portsmouth. That was where the fishermen claimed the UK Resistance existed. There were people gathered there. So maybe that was where Granger was headed.

  Yet, Hernandez didn’t want to overplay his hand. If Granger was at Portsmouth, he would be well defended. Better Hernandez approach from afar and check the lay of the land. The trawler's skipper suggested a small marina here in Dorset, at a place called Poole. The journey from there to Portsmouth could be made on foot within a day. Things could be tough going, so Hernandez gave himself three days. Three days to find and kill the man who had ruined him.

  The boat bumped against the docks, and Hernandez leapt out onto foreign soil. He neither said goodbye nor thank you to the native fishermen at his back. His focus was solely on what lay ahead.

  Revenge.

  Lord Amon

  Lord Amon towered over his amassing army. To annihilate humanity, it had been necessary to attack on a thousand fronts at once—the primary need for so many gates to be opened—but now that the task was all but completed, the focus re-shifted. No longer did the Children of Darkness need to blanket the Earth in a quest to exterminate—most of its seven billion insects were trodden. So the Children converged instead, ready to strike at the few remaining human gatherings.

  He, Lord Amon, would destroy one of humanity's most troublesome holdouts.

  Portsmouth.

  The word had fallen from the mouths of a thousand tortured humans as their innards unravelled before them. A human army in Portsmouth, with ships and planes and soldiers.

  An army.

  And so it would be...

  A glorious battle to seal mankind's extinction.

  Lord Amon savoured the prospect.

  So eager to begin, he had closed a hundred gates and diverted their energy into activating a new seal—one right in the midst of the human Resistance. Even now, he could sense the new gate opening like the bud of a great, odorous flower. Soon, the malignant jaws would open, and Hell’s last remaining forces would pour through to finish the rout—bellowing cavalry mopping up those too stupid to lie down. The Red Lord himself would be watching the events to follow, and Lord Amon would please him immensely. The battle's brutality would be legendary—even amongst the ancient souls of the Abyss.

  Nothing could stop the Red Lord’s plans. Not even Lucifer—the real Lucifer—wherever he was hiding. A thousand worlds like this one, all toppling one by one, like disease-ravaged pines.

  Soon, God will be as impotent as the humans he cherishes. To think I, Lord Amon, once had to kneel at the Creator’s feet before delivering the gift of a child to a whore.

  Gabriel.

  The name was faeces in his mouth.

  I am Lord Amon: Regent of Hell. The Red Lord's most faithful.

  The creatures at his feet scurried, sensing his fury. Further away, twisted beasts from the lower level stumbled about playfully like monkeys. The Children were thirsty for blood. Hungry for slaughter.

  Soon would run a great red river—the herald of a new dawn.

  A glorious kingdom.

  A world without humanity.

  Guy granger

  The roads were blocked—and too exposed—so Guy set off from Portsmouth on foot. Demons swarmed the landscape, according to Wickstaff’s scouts, so keeping to the countryside and travelling at night was the smart choice. As it turned out, Guy recruited only nine men and women from the Hatchet, but another six bodies from General Wickstaff’s personnel had bolstered his party. The final count also included Skip, Rick, and his brother, Keith. Twenty-one bodies in total, each armed with a fully loaded SA-80 combat rifle, or some other weapon of choice. The British soldiers also kept two grenades apiece. The party's odds were abysmal, but at least they weren’t toothless.

  Wickstaff had given Guy another of her oily handshakes before leaving, wishing him “the very best of luck, old chap!” It had been the briefest of goodbyes—nothing like the prolonged agony of leaving the Hatchet. That so few of the crew chose to follow him hurt, yet he couldn’t ignore the good sense behind their decision. The true fight would take place at Portsmouth. What Guy was doing—leaving to find Alice—was selfish. But he was a father, and that came before all else. No choice in the matter.

  So call me selfish if you must.

  One British soldier, a young lad named Heath, had gone to scout ahead. He hurried back now, exiting the tree line between a gathering of swaying elm trees. The rainfall covered the rushed sounds of his footsteps, but it did not disguise the grave look on his face.

  “What is it?” asked Guy, emerging from beneath the draped arms of a willow.

  The lad shook his head. “Not good, Boss. There must be two-hundred shitskins past these woods. We can skirt around ‘em, but it’ll be touch and go. They might spot us.”

  Rick overheard and came over. “We’re likely to encounter demons whichever direction we go. They're heading back the way we came—towards Portsmouth.”

  “Preparing for battle,” said Guy. “Maybe you should all go back.”

  “Portsmouth is screwed,” said Keith, pushing up from a tree he leant on. His chin sagged and wobbled as he spoke as if he'd recently been much fatter. “Good thing we’re heading away from there, if you ask me.”

  The soldier, Heath, sneered. “My friends are at Portsmouth, and I’m stuck here protecting you.”

  “Don’t need protecting,” said Keith before adding, with relish, “Sonny Jim.”

  Guy grunted and put up a hand. “No squabbles, please. It's soaking wet and about as cold as I can stand. You all agreed to this mission, but you can go back if you want.”

  Heath looked away, chewing his lip.

  Keith shrugged.

  Rick cleared his throat. “Best thing we can do for Portsmouth is close Lord Amon’s gate. Heath, take us up to the tree line where you marked the demons. We should see for ourselves.”

  Heath nodded and headed back towards the elms. It was a good ten minutes before he got them to the edge of the woods, and what they saw was worse than what the soldier had told them. Guy glanced out from behind the wide body of an ancient oak tree and estimated at least two-hundred gathered demons separated by species—for want of a better word. The burnt men stood on one flank, the primates on another. In the middle were the more huma
n-looking demons, the ones who taunted and sneered as they eviscerated you. What Heath omitted from his report was the huge, towering beast driving the enemy army forwards. In the dying light, the angel looked like a mirage.

  “That wasn't there earlier,” said Heath weakly.

  “Lord Amon,” said Rick in a hushed voice. “There's a hierarchy amongst the demons, and that big bugger is indisputably the most senior prick in these parts. Take a good hard look at him, fellas, because he is the enemy general dedicated to our extinction. Don't fear the reaper, fear that.”

  Guy studied the angel—a beast formed as a beautiful man—as it strode amongst its minions like an arrogant warlord. Did it have an agenda? Did it think and feel like a man? Or was Lord Amon as much a savage monster as the demons at his feet?

  The question got answered when Guy saw the human viscera hanging around the angel's neck. Lopped off feet, hands, heads, and genitals, strung together by ropey intestines. The latest in chic-Hellish fashion. Instinctively, his hand found its way to his mouth.

  How do you kill something like that?

  Guy could not abandon his quest to reach Alice, but now he gazed upon the face of his true enemy, he had a new mission as well. If it was the last thing he did, he would get Rick to that gate. Then Wickstaff could shove a missile right up this angel's ass.

  It rained, the pitter-patter amplified by droplets hitting the tree canopy. Other than that, the woods filled with silence as the group of humans watched the scene beyond.

  Lord Amon threw out an arm and bellowed. The enemy army picked up speed, marching at the double.

  “What’s happening?” Keith stumbled back amongst the trees. “What are they doing?”

  “Attacking,” said Rick.

  “Not us, though,” said Guy. “Portsmouth.”

  “We need to get back and warn them,” said Heath.

  Rick wiped rain from his face and then blinked. “We’d never make it in time. Portsmouth is ready. It's all down to Wickstaff now.”

  Heath chewed his lip bloody and clutched at his rifle. “I thought we had more time.”