“Yes, but it’s only temporary. If we close more gates, it could weaken him more.” Vamps reached out and put his hand inside the gate. The otherworldly lens shimmered and twisted, then popped out of existence as if it had never even been there. Gone.
Aymun gasped. “H-How?”
Vamps wiped the blood off his face with the back of his hand. “Crimolok was the one who opened the gates. He can close them too. As long as he is using me, I can use him.”
Aymun grinned. “You can close the gates at will?”
Vamps nodded wearily but then went rigid with pain. His face contorted, and his voice changed to a deep, rasping hiss. “It’s so good to be back.”
2
Mass stayed in Portsmouth long enough to catch a full night’s sleep and was back on the road the next morning. He only ever returned to refuel, rearm, and resupply, because his place was out on the road, reclaiming the land from demons. Saving people. His mission was the only thing that mattered. He was a warrior of the streets, leader of Field Team One. The Urban Vampires.
Mass had allowed half his team some downtime – leaving them behind at Portsmouth until the next mission – which left him with eleven men and a sergeant. Honeywell wasn’t a bad bloke, but he was an ex-copper and a little too ‘by the book’. That said, the older man was grieving the loss of his wife and son, and his burning anger was something Mass could use. Like him, Honeywell never took a break.
“You got us a route?” asked Mass, gripping the juddering steering wheel as their seven-tonne lorry drove along the weed-cracked roads. Honeywell sat next to him while six of the eleven men travelled in the back with the gear. The other five followed in a police-modified BMW X5. The lorry was the group’s mobile base, packed with supplies and ammunition, but the Beamer was no slouch. It had a huge boot and a winch for pulling debris out of the road, as well as an engine that would be at home under the bonnet of a Porsche. Few obstacles got in the way of the Urban Vampires.
Honeywell consulted his map – satnavs rarely worked these days – then looked at Mass. “We’re near the Wessex Downs. When we checked the outskirts a few days ago, it seemed quite easy going. We might make it through to Oxford by tonight if we keep going, but I think we should exercise caution.”
Mass grumbled. Honeywell was always pressing for restraint, wanting to reclaim each piece of land gradually. Mass preferred to push into the cities where there was a greater hope of finding people. The more souls they brought back to Portsmouth, the stronger they’d be when the next fight arrived. Despite their differences, Mass was mindful that Honeywell had both age and experience on his side. “Okay, Rich. What d’you reckon we should do?”
“We should focus on the Downs before moving further north. There’s a lot of land where demons could hide, and the last thing we want is to overstretch ourselves. We might push into Oxford only to find ourselves cut off from behind.”
If it was only him, Mass would’ve considered the risk acceptable – but it wasn’t just him. There were twelve men for whom he was responsible. Caution sucked, but he owed it to his team to play things safe. “Okay, Rich, I hear you. We’ll sweep the Downs before taking Oxford. We’ll probably find people camped out in the woods. Plenty ran for the hills when things got bad.”
“Exactly. Wherever we go we find survivors,” said Honeywell. “Miraculous, really, that people are so adaptable. Just a pity that for every one person we find alive, we have to wade through a hundred dead bodies to find them.”
To keep his mind from drifting into misery, Mass concentrated on the road. The way ahead was clear because they had hauled aside the wreckage and rubble in earlier days. Scavenger parties could now use the newly opened routes to bring back supplies to Portsmouth – but it wasn’t enough. Canned food and dried pasta couldn’t feed the thousands now living in the city, and new teams would soon have to be dispatched to establish rudimentary farms in the countryside and fishing fleets on the coast. People in Portsmouth would starve, but eventually they would get a handle on things. They would begin to rebuild civilisation. The Wessex Downs was perfect farming space for that future development and Honeywell was right to want to secure it.
Maybe one day I’ll stop fighting and grow potatoes. Ma would piss herself at the thought of that, but it would be honest work. Soil and sweat beats blood and death.
“Just keep following this road,” said Honeywell. “We can turn off in two miles.”
Mass shifted in his seat and nodded. Being cooped up inside the lorry made him claustrophobic. He wanted to be out in the fresh air, slicing the breeze with his machete and obliterating demon flesh with his Uzi. Travelling always gave him a horribly tense feeling in his gut, like he was dying to take a piss and shit at the same time.
And throw in a side order of puke.
“I heard a rumour back at base,” said Honeywell. “I was speaking with Diane, and, apparently, Maddy is scurrying around in a panic because of some incoming visitor.”
Mass glanced sideways at Honeywell. “A visitor? Who?”
“Some general from the Middle East. The most senior officer in the British Army.”
“There ain’t no British Army any more.”
Honeywell huffed and shook his head as if Mass was an annoying child. “In what was the British Army then. Anyway, Maddy worries that General Wickstaff might be relieved of duty. She was never officially a general from what I’ve heard, just a major who inherited command when there was no one else.”
Mass sneered at Honeywell, not liking what he was hearing one bit. “Wickstaff is the definition of general. Without her, we’d all be dead. She’s our leader.” He looked back at the road, grunting as he steered to avoid a half-rotten corpse staining the tarmac. “The only leader I’m willing to follow.”
Honeywell nodded, but said nothing else. His interactions with the general had been minimal compared to Mass’s. Perhaps that was why he didn’t see how vital Wickstaff was.
They travelled in silence for the next ten minutes until they reached a turning for the Downs. Mass rounded the truck onto a narrow country lane, and it didn’t take long before they reached a gravel car park set beside a vast stretch of nature. The way the rolling green vista suddenly appeared from nowhere was breathtaking.
Aside from a brick building containing some toilets and an overflowing bin, the car park was empty. A smashed-up vending machine lay empty and forlorn.
“The lorry won’t make it into those fields,” said Mass, peering out at the undulating hills and valleys. “We’ll set our base camp here. Sound good?”
Honeywell nodded and exited the lorry. Mass switched off the engine and joined him around the back just as the X5 parked. Eleven men exited the vehicles and got to work at once, and in less than an hour, the team had erected four large tents in a nearby field and a gun emplacement on top of the brick building. Gross, a young lad from Brighton, took first shift behind the LMG while his buddy, Tox, handed him a flask full of hot tea. The Urban Vampires were a family. There were no ranks among them, other than Mass and Honeywell being in charge. All else was equal. They were family.
The men armed themselves and stood to attention beside the tents. Mass checked his watch and saw it was still only mid-morning. They’d made good time. “Okay, lads. We’ll be on it all day, so take an hour to eat and get your minds right. I need three Vampires keeping watch, and we’ll swap out every twenty minutes.”
The men grinned. It had saddened them not to spend more time in Portsmouth, but an hour taking in the calm scenery might lift their spirits.
Honeywell took a flask of tea from the lorry and poured some for himself and Mass. Mass sipped from the plastic beaker with thanks and made sure to saviour it. There was a time he had thought he might never again get to enjoy something as simple as a cup of tea. If it hadn’t been for his best friend Vamps’ determination in the early days, Mass would’ve given up and died along with the millions of others in the UK – including his other friends, Ravy and Gingerbread.
He didn’t know what had become of Vamps, or those who went through the gate with him, but after they left, the demons changed. Their threat lessened. They became confused. Mass could only assume Vamps and his companions had done something. They had taken the fight to the enemy and struck a blow. Now Mass had to do his part. He had to honour the memory of his friend – the bravest mofo he’d ever known.
I hope you’re still kicking arse somewhere, mate. Kick one for me.
“I used to love it here,” said Honeywell, staring off at the distant hills. A smile warmed his face, but it was as sad as it was happy. “We used to bring Dillon all the time, let him run through the fields for hours. Ha! He was like a dog off the lead. The energy that boy had… My boy.”
Mass looked at Honeywell and saw the man’s sadness. It was like staring at the sun, too painful to endure, so he looked away as he spoke. “Tell you the truth, Rich, I never really saw anything growing up besides concrete. I might’ve realised there was more to life than getting a rep if my old man had taken me to places like this. Too late now.”
“Why is it? You’re here now, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, after the world ended.”
Honeywell turned sideways to face him. “Did it? This place is just as I remember. The demons might have taken many things, but not this. Enjoy it.”
Mass understood what he was saying. With the world in ruins, there was more reason than ever to stop and enjoy what remained, so he sucked in the crisp, clean air and stared off into the distance to enjoy the view. Yet, Mass knew that if he ever had come here as a child, he wouldn’t have appreciated it – not then. Now, he appreciated it with his entire soul. To be alive and see a patch of earth so untouched… a blessing. And if he had something to do with it, future generations of kids would not miss out as he had. “I’m sorry you lost your family, Rich. I would’ve liked to have met them.”
Honeywell gave a tight-lipped smile. “As much as it pains me, I’m glad Dillon isn’t here. He was far too innocent to have coped with the things we’ve had to deal with. This war isn’t over, Mass. We’ll never get back what we were. There’ll never be a place for innocent boys like my Dillon.”
Mass sighed, knowing Honeywell was right. As much as humanity had withstood its extinction, the land still teemed with monsters. People still died every day, and as long as there were still portals leading to Hell, the war would never end. This was a mere cessation of hostilities while both sides licked their wounds and restrategised. That’s why Mass was so eager to push on. The more land and people they reclaimed the less of a platform the enemy would have to launch future attacks – because the demons were still out there somewhere, remobilising, regrouping, and getting ready to wipe out what remained of mankind. Humanity needed to entrench itself as deeply as possible. This time they would be ready.
Fuck me, when did I start sounding like a soldier? This time last year, my only responsibilities were smoking weed and pulling birds.
Honeywell is right. We can never go back.
An hour passed and Mass assembled the men. The car park was isolated and quiet, so he left two men behind to guard base camp – Gross and Tusk. If they needed help they had signal flares, but the LMG atop the brick building was more than enough to handle any straggling demons that might find their way there.
Honeywell turned up the bass on his voice like a Bang & Olufsen stereo. “You all know the drill. Form a line and keep your eyes on the horizon. You see something, don’t shout, signal. Well, come on then! Move it, move it!”
Mass took up the line’s left. Honeywell took the centre. The fields were wide open for a mile around, which made an ambush unlikely. If an attack did come, they would see it early. Moving out in the open wasn’t ideal, but the odds were in their favour.
The fields sloped, forming an overgrown valley in the centre, the incline of which caused everyone to trot as gravity gave them a push. It was only a few minutes before one of them grabbed the body next to theirs, who grabbed the body next to theirs. The entire line halted and dropped into a crouch.
Had they spotted something already? So soon?
Mass studied the line until he saw Addy, the group’s only female, making hand gestures and indicating she had seen something ahead. Mass followed where she was pointing until he saw it too. A large shape in the valley, dark against the green and yellow grass. The shape didn’t move, but it was out of place in the field.
What is that?
Mass gave the hand signal to engage with caution and the line moved forward with their various weaponry at the ready. While Portsmouth had a military armoury – and several warships had donated small arms and munitions to the cause – most of the Urban Vampires wielded weapons taken from Portsmouth’s main police station – specifically its confiscation lockers. Shotguns and sporting pistols mostly. While every man and woman in the line had killed a demon with a knife or blunt instrument before, their shotguns made short work of most threats. They could have used the rapid-fire combat rifles from the armoury, but none of them were marksmen, or even professional soldiers. The Urban Vampires was home to the brave and broken; those who had achieved nothing in the old world but were passionate about fighting for the new. They did things up close and personal.
Mass couldn’t help himself as the line neared the dark shape ahead. He picked up speed and broke out on his own, taking point. Usually, Honeywell would have hissed at him to pull back, but the strange object in the grass was clearly not a threat. It was just something.
Mass caught a smoky whiff as he got closer and the shape began to discern itself. It wasn’t a single shape but several smaller objects lumped together. Charred bodies.
A funeral pyre.
The scene of a massacre.
Mass froze. Honeywell came up beside him, and then placed a hand over his nose. “Jesus Christ!”
Mass stared at the pyre in horror. Multiple blackened bodies were encased in what appeared to be rings of melted rubber. The substance had fused with their bones and made their skeletons appear inhuman, more alien.
“Tyres,” said Honeywell evenly. “Somebody shoved tyres over their heads and chests before setting fire to them.”
Mass screwed up his face in horror. “What? Why?”
Honeywell glanced around the fields as though he suddenly feared being ambushed. Once he settled, he shook his head and said, “There was a South African gang in London that used to execute their rivals this way. They call it necklacing. You shove a tyre soaked in petrol over a person’s shoulders to incapacitate them and then set light to it. It’s brutal. It’s sadistic. Christ, even now, we’re still finding reasons to kill ourselves. There must be a dozen bodies in this pile.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Mass, shaking his head and wondering if he needed to bend over and be sick. The smell horrified him most. It reminded him of freshly cooked chickens at the supermarket rotisserie – a smell that once made his mouth water. “People wouldn’t turn on each other like this. Not now. Not after everything.”
Honeywell shrugged and turned away, shaking his head in disgust.
Tox grunted and got Mass’s attention with his thick Scouse accent. “Boss, summin’s moving over there. You want me to kill it?”
“What? No!” Mass jolted and hurried away from the pyre, wincing as his boot crunched on a charred bone. There was indeed movement ahead, partially obscured by the long grass. A soft moan came from the same spot, so subtle it could’ve been the wind.
Honeywell barked a warning. “Mass, be careful.”
Mass waved a hand at him to be quiet. He had his Uzi at the ready, a weapon he’d found while searching the office of a Portsmouth strip joint. (He’d also found a shitload of blow but had left it right where it was. Growing up on the streets gave him a natural wariness of taking drugs that weren’t his). It soon became obvious that the movement was coming from a person crawling in the grass. Mass lowered his weapon and rushed to help.
H
oneywell shouted again. “Mass, get back!”
Mass skidded to a halt, horrified by what he saw. The woman’s face was so utterly charred on her left side that her eye had melted inside its socket. The burns covered her neck and spread across her shoulder and arm. Only half a tyre encased her, and when Mass searched the grass, he spotted the other half lying nearby. It had split apart, leaving the woman only half-burned to death. How long had she been like this? The pyre was cool. The fire had ceased burning at least twelve hours ago.
“H-Help me…” the woman moaned, her voice raspy and ruined.
Mass knelt beside her, the stench of her seared flesh making his eyes burn. “Who did this to you? Tell me and I’ll make them pay.”
“Deserved it…” Mass shook his head, but the woman hadn’t finished. “He said we deserved it.”
“No one deserves this. Who did this to you? Tell me!”
“The… The Reclamation.”
Mass frowned, wondering if he’d heard her correctly. “I-I don’t understand. Who did this to you? Where can I find him?”
“H-Help me.”
“I will, but I need to know what happened.”
“Help me… please.”
Honeywell spoke. “You can’t do anything for her, Mass. She’s suffering. It’s a miracle she made it this long.”
Mass waved him off. “Just a minute, Rich!” He looked back at the injured woman. “I can only help if you tell me what happened.”
The woman reached out weakly for Mass’s Uzi. For a moment, he thought she was trying to take it, but then her arm flopped back into the grass. “P-Please.”
Mass shook his head. He needed to know what monster had killed these people. Mankind was at war with a colossal enemy and needed every soul. If someone was out there killing people… It was more unforgivable than ever.
“Just try to concentrate,” said Mass. “I need you to tell me—”
Honeywell took a step forward, levelled his shotgun, and blew the woman’s head open. Then he glared at Mass and shook his head. “Enough!”
Hell On Earth Box Set | Books 1-6 Page 114
