Hell on Earth Trilogy: The Complete Apocalyptic Saga

by Iain Rob Wright

  “They have returned to us,” said Aymun, a huge smile on his face.

  “Fuck yeah,” said Mass. “You must have saved them when you killed Skeletor.”

  Vamps corrected his friend. “I didn't kill the demon. Richard did. He saved the kids, not me.”

  The flames on Vamp’s sword went out. They were safe.

  For now.

  Guy Granger

  “I’ve never seen one this close,” said Skip, shivering against the rain. His long white beard was sodden.

  Guy swallowed and wiped water from his face. It was difficult to see far in this downpour, but the massive gate lit up the dusky horizon like a beacon. “The one in New York was big, but not this big.”

  “They differ in size,” said Rick. “But they're all connected through some kind of grid, with power being diverted where it’s most needed. Now that we’re close to a gate, I can tap into the whole grid.”

  Guy frowned. “With your mind?”

  Rick shrugged, but it was a subtle gesture, seeing as how his shoulders were so narrow and weak. “Hey, I don’t understand it either. I can just sense things. The grid is currently shoving power to two main points, diverting it away from other gates. One of the focal points is that gate over there, and the other is—”

  “In Portsmouth,” said Guy. He sighed afterwards and looked back the way they came. Was Wickstaff holding out? Or was everyone already dead?

  “The gate in Portsmouth is open,” said Rick. “I can feel it. It’s big.”

  Everyone fell silent as they absorbed that information, and what it meant. It meant Portsmouth was probably gone. It made their mission pointless. But they still had to try.

  Guy had set up a scouting position on the roof of a large supermarket. They had scavenged supplies from inside and were taking a short rest before they made their assault. The gate, about a mile away, was what they had expected—large and surrounded by demons. At least ten times the number Guy had with him.

  But Guy's group had guns. And they had Rick. Rick, who looked as though he might drop dead any moment.

  Keith caught Guy’s eye, and the two of them shared an unspoken agreement: their lives were less important than the mission, and if they had to carry Rick to that gate, they would.

  It was almost time to go.

  “It’s getting dark,” said Rick. “If we are going to do this, we should do it now. Guy, you’re the military mind here. You need to own this.”

  Guy nodded. He was the only one capable of taking charge, whether he liked it or not. Relinquishing the Hatchet had not relinquished his responsibility it seemed.

  “Okay,” he said. “Final weapons check. I want us to get within fifty metres of the enemy before we engage. Once the enemy spots us, use your grenades, then form up into an advancing line. Step kneel fire, step kneel fire. Keep things slow, calm, and together. The enemy needs to be close to hurt us, so we keep our distance. There are more of them than us, but not more than we have bullets. If we keep our heads, we can cut the enemy apart like a surgeon removing a cancer. No emotions about this. It’s just a job that needs doing.”

  The motivational speech seemed to do its job. The soldiers and marines nodded and checked their weapons. The tactic of emotional detachment was the right way to go. This would be the first time these men had sought to engage the enemy out in the open. Fear would be their greatest enemy.

  They fought monsters.

  Guy gave them ten minutes to prepare, but no longer. Too much time to think would be a bad thing as anxiety could kill a soldier before the first shot got fired.

  The rain continued to fall.

  Time to go.

  “Move out men! Keep low and keep calm. The sun is behind us, which will cover our approach. But a cough or a sneeze will give us away. I want silence. Don't even scratch your balls.”

  The men formed a wide line, six feet between each of them.

  They started marching.

  Demons huddled around the distant gate like ants around a melting ice cream. How long before one of them spotted their advance? Too soon, and the men would be too far away to launch their grenades. That initial moment of surprise would be gone, along with Guy's best chance at inflicting mass casualties upon the enemy.

  The formation exited the shadow of the large supermarket and crossed the car park. At the edge, they stepped onto a grassy embankment. Then another road. Then a basketball court followed by a stretch of wasteland. Their boots clomped and echoed. Guy winced and prayed it didn’t announce them.

  Not yet. Just a little longer.

  The demons grew larger on the horizon. The massive gate propped up the darkening sky.

  Just a little longer.

  The march continued. Soldiers and marines held their rifles firmly, lifted the muzzles towards the enemy. Each man was eager to pull the trigger, to end the apprehensive state of pre-battle and begin the unthinking frenzy of battle. Their fear would evaporate once the first shot fired, and adrenaline would take its place. This tense moment, seconds before the fight began, was the worst. Every soldier wanted it to end—that rising urge to flee in the pit of their stomachs. A soldier always fought with himself before he fought with his enemy.

  Guy lifted his own rifle, placed his finger over the trigger. Almost there. Nearly. Just a few more seconds.

  More loud, marching footsteps. More ground made up on a still unaware enemy.

  The formation exited the wasteland and entered a plush green field. The sound of the gates buzzing became detectable, growing louder with every step closer. The sound of benign demon chatter grew in their eardrums. Curses and cackling.

  The line of men kept marching, their rifles pointing ever higher.

  Grenades were unclipped from belts.

  A demon screeched.

  Then all of them did.

  “Engage! Engage!” Guy pulled up his rifle and took a knee. He fired a three-round burst and then moved forward one step, kneeling and firing all over again.

  Grenades sailed through the sky, coming down fifty-metres ahead, right amongst the enemy. Demons flung to the ground as insides tore apart. Bullets dropped even more to the ground.

  “Let ‘em have it, lads!” Keith yelled and fired a handgun. As a civilian, he was meant to stay back, but he behaved the most fervently of all, like a drunken cowboy. His wild yells were infectious and persuaded the other men to yell too as they took down their enemy. Their collective roar gave them all confidence. Solidarity.

  The demons hadn't seen it coming.

  Guy would win this battle. Rick would close that gate.

  No more lying down for these monsters.

  The gate flashed.

  Something came through. Something huge.

  The angel was thirty-feet tall and wrapped in a pure-white bearskin. It stumbled at first as if disorientated, but then it spotted the humans and bellowed and stamped.

  “Andras,” said Rick, touching his fingertips against his temples. “He is Andras—a knight of Hell. I hear his name echoing though the hallways of Hell.”

  Guy had stopped firing, just staring up at the colossal beast. “Is he friendly?”

  “No!” Rick threw out both arms like a sorcerer and great jets of white flame shot forth from his fingertips. A dozen demons caught fire and fell to the floor roasting. Soldiers resumed their fire, reloading quickly, and pulling the trigger all the way. More demons fell.

  But the giant standing amongst their corpses was the real threat now.

  “Fire on the angel,” Guy shouted. “Everything you have.”

  Keith stepped forward and took the first shot. His handgun bucked three times. The angel didn't react. Even when every soldier opened fire, Andras looked down at them with indifference. Indifference bordering only on annoyance.

  “We can’t hurt it,” said Rick. “It’s tethered to the gate like Lord Amon. We need to close it first.”

  Keith appeared and looked Rick in the eye. “Then we have to get you closer, brother.” Then he
raced off towards the angel. Rick reached out to stop him, but was too slow and too weak.

  “W-What’s got into him?” Rick asked.

  “He’s trying to atone,” said Guy. “And live up to his rock-star brother.”

  Rick only frowned.

  Guy led a charge surrounding the angel, firing at all angles and trying to at least disorientate it. It worked, because Andras kicked out in all direction, missing the small group of ex-Hatchet crewmen creeping towards the gate with Rick. A smattering of demons still survived, but Rick swatted them aside easily with magic. He made it to the gate. Guy felt his stomach tense.

  “Look out!” Guy shouted a warning to a one of Wickstaff’s soldier’s but was too late. He was forced to watch as the man’s spine snapped beneath a huge stamping foot. Andras then crushed three more men with a massive swing of his arm. It was like trying to fight a mountain with the speed of a lion.

  Guy fired off a few rounds, but was forced to retreat. Andras ran toward him and almost trampled him. Instead, he missed Guy and caught Skip. The old man threw his arms in the air, but did not yell. His death was near silent—just the delicate crunch of bones turning to dust beneath Andras's giant foot. To add to the injury, the angel stood in place, reducing Skip’s body to liquid. Guy clenched his jaw so tightly a tooth cracked. The old sea dog deserved better. A death at sea, not ground into the dirt.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Guy shouted at the angel, then sprinted away. He headed for the gate where Rick was currently reaching out with his right arm. He had his eyes closed in some kind of trance.

  The gate began to flicker.

  Its translucent lens turned black.

  The gate was somehow fighting Rick, but it was losing—dying like a wart tied off at the stem.

  Then Rick began to shake. Blood seeped from both ears onto his collar.

  Guy turned back, saw Andras frozen in place, watching. Was the angel worried?

  “You’re doing it!” Keith shouted maniacally. “That’s it brother, do it! Keep—Shit!”

  Something flew out of the gate and struck Rick hard enough to launch him backwards.

  Demons poured out of the gate.

  Several soldiers fell to the sudden ambush, and only half could get their rifles up in time to defend.

  Guy fired off a shot and downed a burnt man, then ran to Rick, lying unconscious on the ground. A bone stuck out of his stomach, spat out of the gate like an arrow. The gate had defended itself. Their chance of closing it was over.

  Guy groaned.

  Movement in the distance.

  The sound of a vehicle coming to an abrupt stop.

  Guy saw a small group of men alighting a large white van. They quickly headed in the gate's direction. Guy leapt up, grabbed a hold of Rick’s wrist and started dragging him away. Andras was only metres away, but was distracted by the new arrivals.

  The newcomers were human, and apparently coming to help, but who were they? And what could they hope to do?

  One man was a soldier. He ran over to Guy and helped him pull Rick out of harm’s way.

  “Who are you?”

  “Corporal Martin, a man without an army, but it looks like you have a small one here.”

  “Getting smaller by the minute. We need to get away.”

  While they dragged Rick away, the remaining soldiers fought to survive.

  “Were you trying to close this gate?” the soldier asked. “How?”

  Guy shook his head. “Our secret weapon is bleeding out in our arms.”

  “This man was planning to jump into the gate?”

  “Something like that.”

  They reached the spot where the other newcomers waited. Besides two tough looking lads, there was a middle-aged police officer and a guy who looked like he’d stumbled right out of the desert.

  One of the lads held a long silver sword, and he nodded to Guy. “Looks like you could use help.”

  “Only in getting away from here. How did you find us?”

  The lad raised his sword, and to Guy’s absolute shock, it caught fire. “I had a feeling we should head this way. Guess this thing does talk to me after all.”

  “Y-your sword speaks to you?”

  “Long story,” said Corporal Martin. “We need to deal with that angel.”

  “How? It can’t be killed,” said the police officer. “Doesn’t someone have to give their life to close the gate? Even then...”

  “I will do it,” said Aymun. “I have done so before.”

  “No way,” said the lad with the sword. “I’ll do it. No one else dies on my watch. If anyone is gunna commit suicide by gate, it'll be me. I'll own this. It's on me.”

  The other kid shook his head hard. “Vamps, get it through your head that Max and Marcy weren’t your fault. You did everything you could for them.”

  “What?” Guy looked up and saw Keith rushing towards them. “Did you say Max and Marcy?”

  The kid with the sword nodded. “Yeah, a mother and her boy. We found them about a week ago.”

  Keith put his hand against his mouth. His eyes bulged.

  “Can we do this later,” said Guy, looking back towards the angel slaughtering its way towards them. The soldiers firing at it scattered as they each ran out of ammo. Some even ran for the hills. Guy didn't blame them.

  “I need to know where they are!” Keith yelled. “Where are Max and Marcy?”

  The lad with the sword swallowed, looked left and right like he wanted to be anywhere else. But then he focused on Keith and spoke in a soft tone.

  “I’m sorry, man. They’re gone.”

  “An angel killed them,” said the other lad, bigger with muscles. “We were trying to keep them safe, but we failed. I’m sorry. We got the angel that did it though.”

  Guy stared. “You killed an angel?”

  “Yeah. Took some doing, but yeah. My bro here has a magic sword.”

  “That is not a euphemism,” said the man dressed for the desert.

  “They’re dead. They're dead.” Keith kept saying the words over and over. After a while he turned and wandered off like he’d suddenly lost sight of the fact their lives were in danger.

  Guy heard a scream and turned around just in time to see the body of a soldier flying towards him. It landed on top of him like a sack of potatoes. Corporal Martin rolled the corpse away and pulled a dazed Guy back to his feet. “Come on!”

  “I got this,” said the lad with the sword, rushing off towards the massive angel like a fearless barbarian.

  The big lad went after him, shouting all the way. “Vamps, man. Wait up, I got your back.”

  “You should leave,” said the desert man to Guy. “Your people are hurt.”

  Guy looked at the fallen soldiers, and the Hatchet's marines who had served with him since this whole thing began. “My people are dead. I gave up on my daughter to be here...”

  Corporal Martin picked up a rifle from one of Guy’s dead soldiers. “We have civilians in our van back there. Wait for us there. Keep them safe if things go bad.”

  Guy shook his head. “No. There’s still something I can do here.”

  The middle-aged man, who had said nothing since arriving, stepped aside and let Guy past. From the look on the man's face, it was clear the fellow had been through some shit. Despite that, he nodded to Guy. Guy nodded back.

  The gate shimmered and spat more demons to the earth, but they came less frequently now. How many were back there, queued up in Hell’s hallways ready to leap through and destroy whatever stood in their path? Was there a finite number, or were the legions of Hell endless? Where did the demons go when you killed them? Did they go back and join the queue, an endless recycling of the damned?

  Guy stared at the gate and made up his mind. He would never see Alice again, but if she still lived, maybe he could give her a chance by doing something. The demons might be endless, but if the angels were not, then maybe taking one out would make a difference. Wickstaff might still be counting on him. So
he would leap through the gate and accept whatever came after. Strangely, his legs weren’t shaking as he took his first steps towards it, and the closer he got to the gate, the surer he became about what he needed to do. No more fighting to survive, just one last meaningful act. He had become a Coast Guard to protect people.

  Vamps and his friends danced around the angel, firing from rifles they found amongst the corpses. The angel was uninjured, but at least occupied.

  “Granger! You traitorous pig.”

  The voice sounded familiar, and it caused Guy to turn around with a frown on his face. The man he saw rushing towards him was oddly recognisable but not immediately placeable. The oddest thing of all was that he came from amongst the demons, moving between them without them paying him the slightest attention.

  Guy frowned, realisation setting in. “Lieutenant Hernandez? W-What are you—”

  “That’s Commander, to you, Granger.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to right a wrong. I find you guilty of abandoning your country in its darkest hour and impeding a senior officer of the US Navy. The punishment for treason is death.”

  Guy did not understand. He had met this man in the middle of the Atlantic, on a ship, amongst a crew. What was he doing here in England, alone, and with a crazed look in his eyes? What answer would make any sense?

  Hernandez lifted a revolver from his side and pulled the trigger.

  Guy spun a full circle before his legs finally deserted him. He slumped onto his back in slow motion and was unable to get up again. Every time he tried to rise, he lost track of which way the sky was. Hernandez stood over him and raised the revolver again. The black eye of its muzzle resembled the eyes of the demon. “Any last words, Granger?”

  Guy looked up at this strange, angry man he had met only once, and tried to understand what was happening, but all he could say was, “Sorry.”

  The word seemed to take Hernandez by surprise because the gun in his hand trembled for a moment. “An apology? What are you sorry for?”