Hell on Earth- the Complete Series Box Set

by Iain Rob Wright

  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 human-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.”

  “That's the thing about time,” said Rick, “It waits for no man. All we can do now is focus on our mission: find the gate and close it.”

  The trees rustled.

  A twig broke.

  Keith spun, hands up in fists. “Fuck it. They’re coming through the woods.”

  Heath raised his rifle, but Guy put his hand on the barrel and pushed it down. “We haven’t been spotted yet.”

  “Then what the hell do we do?”

  Guy watched the shapes in the distance, moving between trees. The demons were going to stumble right into them.

  No time to think.

  Pointless fighting.

  “We run!”

  The group sprinted back in the direction it came from, weaving through the trees. Guy’s mission to reach Alice was failing before it had even started, and Lord Amon's gate was getting further away.

  And Portsmouth's time had run out.

  Vamps

  After the fight in the car park, Vamps and his bros had needed to nurse their wounds. Night had fallen and brought more rain, which had made taking cover an even more urgent consideration. The bowling alley had called to them as if its large neon facade was still lit and blinking. The large unit possessed only a single glass window up front, and only a single fire door. A good place to hide out for the night.

  Vamps had led the way inside, his sword no longer flaming, yet it still throbbed with life, almost breathing. Holding it made Vamps feel lighter than air, yet powerful and not quite himself. Was the Irishman’s earlier jest a warning? Could he really lose himself to vengeance if he wasn't careful?

  “Oh, fuck yes!” said Mass. “Who’s for a game of pool?”

  Vamps grinned as Mass grabbed a pair of cues and tossed one to Aymun.

  Aymun didn't react and instead watched the cue sail past and land on the ground. “I do not know how to play, my friend.”

  Mass shook his head. “You’re useless, Ay. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you how to hustle.”

  The purple-baize pool table had Vamps’ name on it, but the first place he headed was the long, dark wood bar. Hard liquor lined its back shelves, but he fancied something more refreshing. While it would doubtlessly be warm, he craved beer—and beer he found in abundance. Several well-stocked fridges nestled beneath the bar. Vamps placed his sword on the bar and gathered up a bushel of the good stuff, bottles clinking as he piled them in his arms.

  “Bottom’s up, bitches,” he said upon returning to the pool table.

  Aymun waved a hand. “Not for me, thank you.”

  Mass took two beers and chewed off the lids with his back teeth. After taking his first hearty swig, he belched. “Shit, it’s been a while, huh? Need to get a buzz on like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Vamps understood all too well. It was good to take a load off finally and stop fighting for their lives. The beers were unlimited and the company good. He felt like a taut spring uncoiling.

  Aymun grabbed a fizzy orange from the bar and also brought back an ice bucket filled with snacks. The crisps and chocolate made Vamps think about the kid, Max, but Mass noticed and didn’t allow him to dwell. He threw him a cue. “You’re up, man. I’ll let you break.”

  Vamps caught the cue and grinned. He chalked up the tip and leant over the table. “Now, Aymun,” he advised. “You wanna get nice and low so you’re behind the cue ball. Then you just…” He fired the cue, launching the white little cannonball. Two reds and one yellow sank into the corner pockets. “Hit that son of a bitch like it fucked your mother!”

  Aymun chuckled. “Such an elegant teacher of the arts.”

  “Swagger is as much a part of this game as skill, yo. You wanna make this shit look easy to your opponent.”

  Mass took his turn and sent the cue ball leaping off the table. In anger, he kicked the table and sent every bal
l on the table two inches to the left. “Bollocks!”

  Vamps waved a thumb at Mass and smirked “See, Aymun? I put him off his game.”

  Mass retrieved the cue ball from beneath an X-Files pinball machine and placed it back on the baize. “Been a while, playa. Need to get my eye in.”

  “You ready to have a go, Aymun?” Vamps offered his cue.

  Aymun waved a hand. “I shall watch a little longer.”

  “Suit yourself. So, what did you used to do for fun back home? Terrorist shit, right?”

  Aymun pulled up a chair and sat down. “There was little in the way of fun back home. My people knew only suffering.”

  “Then they might have had half a chance when the gates turned up,” said Mass, leaning over the table and readying himself for another shot.

  “No man could prepare for such evil. We brothers and sisters have been too long distracted, fighting amongst ourselves. We did not realise the true threat that was coming.”

  Vamps saw the pain on Aymun’s face and wished then that he and Mass weren't so dismissive of what he'd been through. It had obviously been a lot; both before and after the gates had arrived. Vamps and Mass may have been gangsters, but Aymun had his own streets to survive. “Maybe this will change things for the better, Ay. Maybe once the dust settles, we'll be better to each other.”

  Aymun nodded, but didn’t seem to believe it. “I fear it is man’s nature to self-destruct. When I entered the gate, I walked through hallways filled with the damned. There is no Hell for any animal but man. We are the only species capable of being wicked. Evil is not a part of our nature—it is a cornerstone of our nature. I have killed. You both have killed. Men kill. We condemn ourselves.”

  Mass took another shot and potted a yellow. He straightened up before taking his next shot. “It’s our ability to be evil that makes it count when we're good though, right? Being human is a battle, man, but it’s what makes us strong. It’s what will help us win this war.”

  Aymun plucked at his beard and nearly smiled. “Perhaps you are right, my brother. I will take my shot now.”

  “Yeah, my playa!” said Vamps, whooping and handing over his cue.

  They stood back while Aymun made a clumsy attempt at potting a ball. At least he didn't foul.

  “Not a bad first attempt,” said Mass, swigging the rest of a beer.

  “It is a fun game. May I have another turn?”

  Vamps nodded. “Knock yourself out.”

  This time, Aymun potted a red in the centre pocket. He straightened up and beamed. “Good, yes?”

  Mass and Vamps both chuckled warmly and patted the Syrian on the back. “Well done,” said Vamps. “You know, you have a friendly face when you're not frowning like a bouncer.”

  “That is just my thinking face. I will try to think less.”

  “Eh, yeah… cool.”

  They started a new game—practice session was over. Mass played Aymun, with the winner to face Vamps.

  “So, tell us about Syria,” said Mass as he lined up his break.

  Aymun sat on a stool, sighed, and then gradually began. “A place of hardships, but as you say, people gain strength through their struggles. When I was a boy, Damascus was frightening because nothing ever changed. Rules were never to be broken, or the police would punish you cruelly. After the rebels rose up, it became a place of fear for other reasons. Death could fall from the sky at any moment. A quiet corridor could fall in on you from an indiscriminate bomb. Yet, in the last days of my country, there was hope. I saw the kindness God intended for us.”

  He linked his fingers together across his lap and glanced upwards as if picturing the story he was about to tell. “One day, I walked down a street. Once was a market street, but Assad’s forces reduce it to rubble. There I see a little old lady. I know her face, for she is wife of local baker. Every morning, she sell her husband’s bread, and today she does so in an empty, bombed-out street. No one else is around. I go to this lady, and I say, ‘Lady, this street is safe no longer. Why do you not go home?’ This lady look at me and tell me, ‘Sir, my home was right behind where you stand. Now is gone. My husband sleep there in his bed, tired from baking bread. He gone too when bombs fall. All I have left is bread he make.’”

  Vamps shook his head. “That's fucked up.”

  “That is not the point of story. I smile at this lady, and I say, I would like to buy some bread. But when I try to give her money, she shakes her head. ‘No, no sir,’ she say, ‘this bread is for free. People’s homes have been destroyed, and they have nothing. How can I ask for their money?’ I frown at her and tell her she does not even know which side of war I am on. I could be one of Assad’s men who blew up her home. She just look at me, pressing the bread into my arms. ‘My husband did not judge,’ she said, ‘so I will not either. All men fight to protect what is theirs. I give what I have for free so cycle can be broken. All that I have, I shall give, and so I will never be forced to fight for what is mine. I shall never have reason to kill.’”

  Aymun unlaced his fingers and let his palms rest on his knees. The simple gesture somehow made it clear he was done.

  Vamps wanted to fill the silence with words, for that was his way, but for once, he found himself silent. He thought about his own life, hanging around the streets with nothing to his name, but strutting around like he had it all. His reputation had been a facade, he realised—an imaginary possession because he had, nothing real. The old woman had been right, men fought over what they had and what they wanted. That was why the world got so screwed up. Humanity had developed through a constant struggle for possessions. Land, money, oil, power…

  “It was all bullshit, wasn’t it? I mean, life. The world. It was a joke.”

  Aymun nodded tenderly. “God gave us the freedom to work things out for ourselves, but we came up with the wrong answers. Life is a gift to be shared. Mankind is supposed to be a glorious, loving family, but instead, we allowed ourselves to become a species of individuals.”

  “What happened to the old lady?” asked Mass, clutching his cue against his chest and twiddling it between his palms.

  “She died a day later,” said Aymun. “The rebels that time. Her life was ruined by one side and ended by the other. When I find her body in the rubble, she had no more bread. She had given it all away. I placed a blanket over her and promised never to forget. I tell my brothers of her courage, and she lives on.”

  Vamps smiled. “Yeah, I like that.” He lifted his beer. “Here’s to the baker’s wife. I hope she has her family back in Heaven.”

  The three men clinked bottles and went back to playing pool. Vamps noticed that his sword was flickering on the bar, but he decided to ignore it. Tonight was for letting go of the fight. Tomorrow could be about killing. He placed the sword out of sight behind the bar, and then re-joined his brothers.

  His family.

  General Wickstaff

  The ground shook. Middle of the night, but Wickstaff was already fully dressed and only half asleep. She stood outside the command block, demanding to know what was happening. The floodlights glared, illuminating bodies rushing back and forth like headless ants. Despite the several thousand soldiers under her command, Wickstaff knew most by name, which was why she quickly reached out and grabbed the nearest corporal. “Tell me what’s happening, Dee.”

  “They’re coming,” the man said, looking everywhere but at her. “Christ, it’s actually happening. They’re out there. The demons—”

  Beneath their feet, the ground shook.

  Wickstaff cupped the back of the corporal's neck and pulled him close. “Calm down, Dee. Let’s not shit our knickers just yet. We have plans in place, remember? Head to the drill square and ring that bloody bell. You need me to tell you the signal?”

  He gawped at her, eyes twitching.

  “Dee! Do you know the bloody signal or not?”

  The corporal snapped back to reality and nodded frantically. “Seven peals followed by a five second pause, then anothe
r three peals.”

  “Good, lad. Now go!”

  The corporal raced off to ring the muster bell. The brass relic was ceremonial more than anything, but in the absence of reliable electricity, it had become the agreed upon alarm. Its pealing would let all of Portsmouth know full battle-stations were in effect, and the enemy was at the gates. Luckily, those gates had been forged from iron, as had several of the barricades blocking the main roads. One benefit of digging-in at an old naval port was the abundance of iron. The city's many museums played home to iron anchors, antique ship fixtures, and even the huge iron frames from a pair of 19th century warships. Men had gathered the scrap at a collection of choke-points at the city’s widest roads and thoroughfares, where the enemy could be funnelled into narrowed kill zones—spaces between rows of taller buildings where soldiers could fire down from both sides of the street. Several areas were also earmarked for bombardment from the warships in the docks. Once the bulk of the enemy forces inevitably passed into the city, she would call in the artillery to rain down death.

  She was prepared for this.

  She had this under control.

  There was no other way.

  A jeep skidded outside the command block and one of Wickstaff's lieutenants leant over and threw open the passenger door. Her chauffeur had arrived. Wickstaff nodded and got in. Her driver sped her over to the large sentry tower on the edge of the naval base. Fortifications extended another half-mile out into the city, but from this tower, she would be able to see what was coming their way. The guard tower's roof had been pulled down and replaced with a rickety platform accessed by a stepladder. It gave the tower another fifteen-feet of height compared to the original structure and allowed a sentry to see right to the outskirts of Portsmouth.

  Wickstaff nodded to a group of soldiers assembled at the bottom of the tower and then started her way up the ladder. The ground continued to shake with distant rumblings. How many thousands of clawed feet were bearing down on them? Did Portsmouth even stand a chance?