Hell on Earth- the Complete Series Box Set

by Iain Rob Wright

  “There’s a coach in the ditch. Is it one of your vehicles?”

  Cullen peered into the ditch and then shook his head. “I’ve never seen it before. Mass set out in a van, not a bus.”

  “The intel we received about Mass said he was trapped inside a bus. I’m afraid this could be it.” He started down the embankment, wanting to check things out further. “We need to take a look.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Cullen, lowering his shotgun.

  At the bottom of the ditch, the two of them positioned themselves behind the overturned coach and began a whispered conversation while they peered inside the broken windows. No one was inside. No bodies.

  “How’re things going?” asked Cullen. “Still reckon there’s a price on your ’ead?”

  Tony sighed. “Used to be I could read a man in the time it took to lace up my boots. Lately though, I don’t know a fart from a flute. It disappoints me, after all we’ve been through, that men like Thomas can still make pawns of us all.”

  Cullen shrugged one shoulder and pulled a face. “The world has changed but people haven’t – maybe they never will. There’ll always be good guys and bad guys, and we have a part to play in which side wins.”

  “I’m glad you’ve got my back, Cullen. If this coach belonged to Mass and his team, we might be getting close. There’re no bodies inside, which means there’s still hope of finding Mass and his team alive. Let’s get back to the road. We’ll make camp and resume our search at dawn.”

  “Roger that, Colonel.”

  Cullen trudged up the embankment and Tony followed behind. He glanced back at the smashed-up coach several times, wondering what had become of the people who had been inside it.

  Crimolok senses fresh prey. Although he is a being above such petty emotions as joy or excitement, he is savouring the methodical, merciless hunt of mankind. His desire to rid the universe of humanity is coming to fruition, but there is no rush. To Crimolok, time is a glacier.

  A nest of humans festers nearby, their stink unmistakable. Already, his legions are drenched with death, deformed bodies covered in chunks of gore and filth. Their hunger is endless. With Crimolok’s tendrils deep inside their minds, they are bestial.

  Crimolok senses something else besides human meat. Something ancient – as ancient as he. The sickly scent of an adversary washes over him, a creature from the other place – the place where Crimolok was born at the beginning of time.

  Mass had never expected to ever take another breath outside again. He’d been certain of dying inside that dreary old cottage, but instead he’d been saved. Rick Bastion, once a cheesy one-hit pop star, had appeared and healed him like a modern-day Jesus. And Mass didn’t just feel healed, he felt renewed, as if brand new cells had replaced the old. He’d been reborn. The women were doing better, too, which was good to see. For all he knew, they could have been playthings for Nas and his sick followers since day one. He had to get them back to Portsmouth. They deserved to be safe.

  “Maria,” he said to the woman who’d become the unofficial spokesperson for the rescued females, “keep the ladies in the middle while we march. I’ll take the lead with Rick. Addy, Smithy, and Tox will take the rear. You’ll be safe.”

  Maria nodded, but who knew if she believed him or not. They had no weapons and no vehicle. If any more demons stalked the vicinity, they’d be forced to fight hand-to-hand – and he wasn’t sure they could pull off a miracle for a second time. While Mass felt renewed and energetic, everyone else was clearly fatigued. They’d eaten, but not enough. They’d slept, but not enough. And now they were back on the road, miles from safety.

  “We’ll go as far as we can make it today,” he told everyone, “and then find someplace to rest for the night. Any luck, we’ll reach Portsmouth by tomorrow evening.”

  “Luck is an empty notion,” said Rick, but everyone ignored him.

  The women smiled and exchanged glances with one another, while Addy and Tox closed their eyes as if imagining their return. Smithy chuckled. “Can’t wait to visit the arcades and get an ice cream. Hey, do they still have those grabber machines with the teddies? Shitting things are fixed if you ask me.”

  “Portsmouth’s changed a lot recently,” said Addy, “but the seagulls still steal your chips.”

  They formed up on the road and reached a steady pace. Their footsteps echoed quietly. Trees swayed on either side of them. It was getting colder as winter closed in, but today was mild bordering on pleasant. Growing up on the streets of London gave Mass an appreciation of everything green, and perhaps his happiest childhood memory was going to London Zoo with his mum. Until that point, he’d thought life was only paved and covered in graffiti. Regent’s Park had blown his mind. It pained him that he wouldn’t ever raise his own family and take them to a zoo. He’d lost things he hadn’t even realised he’d lost.

  We’ve all lost so much.

  He focused on the road ahead, but they didn’t make it half a mile before the group halted in the middle of the road.

  Smithy looked around with a confused look on his face. “Did anyone else feel that?”

  Mass had definitely felt something, like the ground itself had shifted beneath his feet. Even now he could sense a mild thrumming in the soles of his boots.

  The ground shook again. It wasn’t a full-on quake, more a subtle wavering. If they hadn’t been marching in silence, they might never have noticed.

  The ground shook a third time.

  “Okay,” said Smithy, “I feel like a T-Rex is about to burst out of the trees and fuck us up. The ground is shaking, right?”

  The ground shook again.

  Mass looked around, worried by the threat he didn’t see. “We don’t know what’s happening, but it doesn’t change what we need to do. Move!”

  They resumed marching, this time at a quicker pace, but the tremors kept on coming. In fact, they seemed to grow more intense. Was something getting closer? Something that had spewed forth from the giant gate Mass’s actions had summoned?

  The question answered itself.

  Maria was the one who screamed first. She pointed down the road behind them, to where the tarmac met the sky.

  Smithy’s eyes opened wide. “Holy shitting Cheerios!”

  Mass’s blood ran cold. This was all his fault. This was the consequence of his actions. The word ‘colossal’ came to mind. The beast on the horizon was massive, and it moved like something out of a CGI-dominated monster movie. It was impossible to comprehend. Beautiful and terrifying at the same time.

  “I-I read this thing about Godzilla once,” said Smithy, a hand over his mouth in an expression of shock. “It said gravity makes giant creatures impossible because they would be too heavy to move their own limbs. What a crock of shit. Look at that thing.”

  “It’s Crimolok,” said Rick in a voice devoid of emotion besides an underlying, loathsome hatred. “The fiend has escaped its mortal prison and arrived in its true form. We are not prepared for this confrontation.”

  “No shit,” said Smithy. “That thing’s ball sack could crush a Ford Fiesta. We need to get the hell out of here.”

  The magnitude of what Mass had done rooted him to the spot. How many people had he doomed, or at the very least endangered, with his actions? This monstrosity had arrived because of him. Because he had freed his friend Vamps.

  Was this what you were holding onto? This is the thing that was tearing you apart from the inside?

  The ground shook with every step the giant took. The trees swayed. Hedges rustled. Birds fled. Demons swarmed into view. The monster had brought an army.

  Smithy grabbed Mass by his biceps. “Come on, man. We need to get out of here. Must go faster, yeah?”

  The group got moving, each of them sprinting down the road despite their exhaustion. The ground shook like the surface of a drum. The wild screeching of murder-thirsty demons filled the air, getting closer. Portsmouth had never felt so far away.

  “Into the hedges,” shouted Ad
dy, hustling the women along. “We need to lose them.”

  Mass nodded. “Everyone, move!”

  The demons were three hundred metres away, but gaining fast. The primates at the front of the pack were too quick to outrun over long distances. Addy was right, their only chance was losing the demons in the hedges, but even that might not be enough. They were thin, merely a border between the road and adjacent fields. In the distance there seemed to be some kind of industrial yard, with cranes and heavy machinery, but they would never make it there in time.

  “Damn it!” Tox looked around frantically and picked up a fallen tree branch. It wouldn’t save his life, but at least he could go down swinging. The first demons broke through the hedges and entered the field, whipping up a whirlwind of twigs and crunching leaves.

  Mass started gathering the others. “Everyone, group together. Maria, get the women behind us.”

  “We’re fucked,” said Tox. “Every time it looks like we might catch a breather, things get worse.”

  “Keep calm,” said Rick.

  “And carry on,” said Smithy.

  Mass planted his feet and prepared to meet the enemy. “When has it ever been different, Tox? Life was a marathon with two broken legs and a bent neck before the demons even got here. I’ve been fighting my entire life.”

  “If the world has always been shitty,” said Smithy, “what’s the point of trying to save it?”

  Mass eyed the hedges, waiting for more enemies to emerge. “Because for every piece-of-shit drug dealer and gangbanger that used to be on the estate, there was a Mrs Gardner or a Mr Zebrowski.”

  Smithy raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t they Postman Pat characters?”

  “Mrs Gardner was my Year Nine English teacher, who sat with me during detention and finally taught me how to read like all the other kids. Mr Zebrowski was the window cleaner on our estate. Whenever he saw me getting my ass handed to me, he would step in and chase the fuckers off, even though he was just this skinny Polish dude that barely spoke any English. He taught me what bravery was – risking yourself to help someone when you could just as easily look away. Those are the people I’m fighting for, Smithy. You feel me?”

  Smithy nodded, serious for once. “Yeah, man, I feel you. For Mr Zebrowski, right?”

  Mass gave his friend a fist bump and prepared to meet his fate. The demons broke through the hedges, ferocious and unstoppable.

  Rick stepped forward and threw up a hand. A primate made a beeline for Tox, but then it folded in on itself, its malformed spine arching backwards and snapping. A plume of jet-black smoke erupted from its mouth and spiralled upwards, knocking aside branches and leaves like it had physical substance. Then Rick swept his arm horizontally and summoned a gale, sweeping everything up in its path. Half a dozen demons went tumbling through the air.

  Rick glanced back at his companions. “I shall hold them here while you make it back to the road and escape. It is unlikely to work, but I will do my best.”

  Smithy shook his head. “Man, you’re insane. You can’t fight them all on your—”

  Rick’s eyes crackled, and something akin to electricity flowed through them. “Go or die!”

  Another wave of demons crashed into the field. Rick threw out both hands, causing the demons to twist and transform into black vapour. Hundreds more came. Mass ordered everyone back to the road, giving Rick one last glance before bolting. The strange man was busy conducting a supernatural orchestra, hands directing back and forth.

  What the hell is he? He’s not human.

  I don’t even think he’s Rick.

  They were back on the road in seconds, while the demons continued swarming into the trees, not realising their prey had changed its course. Miraculously, the road was clear, and the only visible threat was the gigantic monstrosity stomping along the horizon. Its casualness was its weakness. If it hurried, it would’ve spotted their retreat.

  Mass urged everyone to run, and they didn’t need convincing. The road was long and straight, which was less ideal than a twisty one with branching paths. It meant that even after outdistancing Crimolok by a quarter-mile, they still weren’t in the clear.

  A primate spotted their retreat. It spilled out of the trees and back onto the road, its screeching alerting its brothers.

  “They’re coming,” said Tox. “They’re back on the road.”

  “Thanks for nothing, Rick,” said Tox. “Goddamn Harry Potter wannabe.”

  Addy shook her head resignedly. “Hey, at least we got to see a magic show before we died.”

  “I’d have preferred a lap dance,” said Smithy.

  Mass planted his feet and stopped running. “Maria, you and the women keep going. Soon as the road bends, try to get out of sight.”

  Maria thanked him and fled with the women. Once again, Mass stood shoulder to shoulder with his Urban Vampires, ready to do what they all knew needed to be done. Dying was part of the job.

  The massive creature on the horizon seemed to sense their location. It turned slightly, massive eyes gazing in their direction like unlit spotlights. The number of demons multiplied, spilling out of the trees in their dozens. They gathered rapidly, filling the road and creating a wall of gnashing teeth and ripping claws. Then, as one, they let out a bloodcurdling screech.

  Mass and the others covered their ears, trying to keep from being deafened. Perhaps it was intended to distract them, because at the same time the demons began their charge, rapidly closing the fifty metres of space left between them and their prey. Mass felt like a Roman legionary facing down hordes of barbarians – but Rome had fallen to ruin.

  Mass forced himself to stand his ground. His bladder loosened and he only just caught it in time. No doubt he would piss himself soon. He looked left and right, wondering if his companions were experiencing the same terror and numbness in their veins that he was. It made him proud that none of them ran. They faced the monsters together.

  The demons came in a deranged sprint. It was insane how much Mass hated them – far more than he’d ever hated the bastards who’d battered him as a kid on the estate. These were the monsters who had taken everything from him – his friends, Ravy, Gingerbread, and Vamps. Mass couldn’t believe he’d outlasted them all, and he would welcome his death if it meant seeing them again. He just wanted to take down as many demons as he could first.

  “Fuck this!” Mass broke away from his friends and charged the incoming enemy. He heard Tox shout after him, but then, to his surprise, his companions followed his lead. Suddenly, the four of them were charging down a hundred demons. It was Mass’s proudest moment and a great way to die.

  The world exploded. The sky turned red. A coppery scent grew into an unbearable stench.

  Mass threw himself at a primate but missed as it flew backwards out of his grasp. A flaming hole had erupted in the side of its head. Confused, Mass recovered and swung his fists, but his next target slumped to the ground before he could even make contact. More demons fell, not one at a time but in twos and threes. The vile horde wavered, gaps opening up in the onrushing multitude as bodies hit the road. Mass stood like a statue, covered in bloody mist and pieces of meat. For a moment, he thought God had rained thunderbolts from the sky. Then he recognised the mocking chatter of rifle fire and the angry bark of shotguns.

  “Soldiers,” said Smithy, putting a hand on Mass’s shoulder and yanking him out of the fray. “Mofos came out of nowhere like the shitting riders of Rohan.”

  Mass looked. Twenty, maybe thirty soldiers had lined up across the road. Professional and fearless, they fired their shotguns and rifles as quickly as they could, and they reloaded proficiently without the slightest of fumbles. Some men, those dressed in military fatigues, were complete strangers, but others Mass knew well. He briefly made eye contact with Cullen and the two of them nodded.

  The Urban Vampires had arrived – and they were packing heat.

  7

  General Thomas gave Colonel Cross a passing thought. Was he still out the
re, searching for that imbecilic thug with the ridiculous name, or was he dead in a ditch somewhere with a bullet in his head? No matter which, the troublesome colonel was out of the way. Either Tony would return alive and well, recommitted to what Thomas was trying to achieve – the liberation of Great Britain – or he would die out there and never be heard from again.

  The enemy was on the ropes. Wickstaff had defeated a great number of their foe, but it was Thomas’s duty to mop up what remained. Only a fool would allow their enemy time to regroup. Not that Thomas was naive enough to consider a scattered enemy an easy prospect – the Yanks had learned that lesson in Vietnam. Sometimes, letting two amassed armies fight it out to the death was worth the risk. To the victor go the spoils, as they say. The demons – if he must call them that – were disorganised, and deadly because of it. Unlike humans, an isolated group of demons did not lose hope or seek safety from battle. Each would die happily if it meant butchering a human first. Portsmouth could not sit idly by and await a death by a thousand cuts. Every day, patrols discovered the bloody remains of an incautious soldier or foolhardy civilian. Recently, the demons had even been so bold as to attack a supply team returning from a supermarket distribution centre south of Oxford. Those demons had been quickly dispatched, but two good soldiers had lost their lives. If Portsmouth continued to operate with an enemy on its doorstep, a war of attrition would ensue. Losses on both sides would be constant and devastating. That was why Thomas would do what the German Confederation had done in the Middle East and Eastern Europe. Defence would turn to attack.

  Time to hunt these bastards down once and for all.

  In the forty-eight hours since Colonel Cross had departed, Thomas had been making preparations. Portsmouth was under martial law, and every single citizen was either a trained soldier or a hardy survivor. While Wickstaff had lacked standards, her people were brave and motivated – he had to give the woman that. It was a necessary evil to include them in the battles ahead, unwise to leave them behind in Portsmouth while his more loyal men departed for war. It was a balancing act. On the one hand, too many of Wickstaff’s people at either Portsmouth or out in the field would threaten discipline and security. On the other hand, if he had to send men to their death in a fight against the demons, he would prefer it to be Wickstaff’s people. Eventually, he decided to leave five thousand loyal veterans behind to police and protect Portsmouth, while the other ten thousand would go to war. Of Wickstaff’s people, he took only five thousand and left behind ten thousand: the women, children, the weak, and the old. They would make good hostages if any kind of insurrection occurred in the field. He had tasked several dozen men with returning to Portsmouth upon his death to share the means and manner of such a tragedy. Any foul play, and Portsmouth would become a bloodbath.