Hell On Earth Box Set | Books 1-6

by Wright, Iain Rob

  They started down the creaky wooden staircase but, despite the noise, no one came. Even when they reached the downstairs reception, the house remained empty.

  “I don’t like this,” said Mass. “Where are all the guys from last night?”

  Gross fingered the bloody cuts on his face. “Gone, I hope. That hook-handed bastard is a nutcase.”

  “We’re all nutcases now. It’s the only way to survive.”

  They passed into the dining room and Mass noted the pack of cards stacked neatly on the table. Half-melted candles took up several surfaces, and candles were not something you abandoned. They were too useful. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was deserted too. Mass made straight for the drawer beside the sink and searched for the biggest knife he could find. He handed Gross a steak knife and took a slightly longer paring knife for himself. They were more than capable of killing someone with the blades, but it wasn’t ideal. Where were the guns they’d been carrying? Honeywell’s shotgun?

  Gross raised an eyebrow. “Maybe they went to the shops.”

  Mass moved towards the back door and tried to peer out, but the windows were boarded up. “Did you hear any LMG fire last night? I didn’t hear Addy engage, but I was unconscious. Did you hear any gunfire?”

  “I heard nothing after they caught you.”

  “Then Addy could still be out on the hill, or heading back to get help.”

  “Or they caught her,” said Gross angrily, which caused his slashed mouth to spread. He fingered his wounds and winced. “If they hurt her…”

  Mass grabbed his friend by the back of the head and looked at him. “She’s fine, Gross. I know it. If they had come for her, she would have fired that LMG. She would have… Hey, why didn’t you get a shot off back at the car park? You only sent up a flair.”

  “Because I was an idiot. I heard a woman screaming for help so I jumped down from the roof and headed to the road. Tusk tried to stop me but ended up chasing after me. We found a blonde woman lying at the side of the road, clutching her ankle. I thought she’d fallen, but as soon as I made it over there to help, a bunch of guys exploded out of the hedges with shotguns and pistols. I had no choice but to drop my weapon. Tusk couldn’t do anything or they would have gunned him down too. Next thing we know, they’re bundling us onto a coach. I managed to pop a flare, but they beat Tusk half to death for it so I behaved from then on. Wish I hadn’t sent up that flare. If you guys hadn’t come they wouldn’t have ambushed everyone. I think it was only our supplies they were interested in, but they know how to handle themselves.”

  Mass nodded. “They got it all. Fuck knows how many people they’ve robbed in the past, how many survivors they’ve killed. We found a bunch of people in the fields, burned alive.”

  “We need to stop these fuckers. We can’t be killing ourselves any more. We’re barely hanging on as it is.”

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  They headed to the back door, and it opened easily. Mass almost felt like he was being allowed to escape. It was possible his captors assumed he was dead, as it was still a surprise to him that he wasn’t. If he’d been a cat, he would have used up several lives not bleeding to death. As he yanked on the door handle and stepped outside, he wondered if he had enough lives to get him out of this.

  The weather lately had been mild, but this morning was chilly. The day was young, and a gloomy grey clung to the rolling fields surrounding the farm. A dozen people knelt on blankets in the gravelly courtyard, but they didn’t notice Mass and Gross exiting. Only one man faced them, and he grinned a brown-toothed smile. “Ah, you have joined us for morning prayer,” he said. “Your piety is to be commended.”

  The kneeling men looked back and then jumped to their feet. Several pulled handguns from the folds of their clothing while others only scowled. None of them spoke, yet all acted in unison. A well-trained group of survivors.

  The hook-handed man stepped forward, showing no fear of their knives. He studied the bandages around Mass’s throat and appeared impressed. “You survived your wounds. Allah wishes you to live.”

  “Fuck Allah.”

  “Yeah,” said Gross, “and your mother.”

  “Words are not weapons,” said the hook-handed man. “You waste breath assuming they have power. Actions are what define a man.”

  “Then I’ll fuck your mother personally,” said Gross.

  “We’re leaving,” said Mass, “and unless you want trouble from Portsmouth, you’ll let us go about our business.”

  “Your Babylon is no threat. The things I fear are beyond your comprehension, so cease your posturing. If you attempt violence, you shall be shot. If you attempt to flee, you shall be shot. You are my prisoners, but I do not need bars to hold you.”

  Mass frowned. “What, so we’re like minimum security inmates? You’ll give us the run of the garden so long as we eat our meals and go to bed on time. Why? Why bother capturing us?”

  “Because you are warriors, and warriors deserve to choose their fates.”

  “Sorted then. We choose to leave.”

  The hook-handed man smirked. His odour was foul, even from three feet away. “Yes, you have that option, but as I said, if you flee you shall be shot. Nonetheless, the choice is yours.”

  “So what then?” Gross demanded. Fresh blood trickled from his cut cheeks. “What the fuck do you people want?”

  The hook-handed man turned, so he was addressing his people as he talked. “To reclaim the Earth. To start again. To finish what the demons started. Allah’s second great flood. The flood of flesh and blood.”

  His people cheered and prayed. A lot of noise.

  “The Reclamation,” said Mass. “That’s what you people call yourselves, isn’t it?”

  The hook-handed man turned back to face Mass fully. “No, the Reclamation is the name of our mission. Allow me to demonstrate our glorious purpose to you first hand. Come.”

  Mass and Gross looked at one another. They didn’t move.

  The hook-handed man sighed. “Come with me or die here. Once again, your choice.”

  A staccato of clicks as weapons cocked. Mass studied the crowd briefly and saw the two men who had been playing poker. No women were present, and only a third of the men were white. Had they been praying to Mecca? Did they still believe in that rubbish? God – or Allah – wasn’t listening; didn’t they get it?

  Mass gave Gross a nudge, and the two of them followed the hook-handed man, who led them around the side of the building and into a paddock beyond. Instead of horses, the small fenced-off paddock was filled with graves. A fresh one had been dug. A blanket-covered body lay next to it.

  “The man you killed last night,” the hook-handed man explained. “He shall receive his reward in the next life, as will all those who dedicate themselves to the mission.”

  Mass still didn’t get it. “The mission to do what? Side with the demons?”

  “The demons are not our allies. They are a mere device. A punishment upon the wicked delivered by the wicked. Our mission is simply to prevent interference in Allah’s will.”

  “Interference? People trying not to die is an offence to you? You’re an idiot.”

  The man sneered, flashing his crumbling brown teeth. “If the last year has shown us anything, it is that we are all idiots. We know nothing but our own sin and have been sentenced for it. Only a few will receive the duty of living on and reforming the Holy Kingdom. That is why—”

  Mass cut the guy off with a yawn. He then shook his head like he was fighting to stay awake. “I know you said words don’t have power, mate, but yours are putting me to sleep. You’re just another religious nut – full of the same old shit. Power is the only thing you’re interested in, and you want people to follow you so you don’t have to admit what a worthless bag of shit you are.” Despite the hook-handed man’s assertion that insults couldn’t harm him, Mass detected a hint of irritation on his face. His rheumy left eye twitched. Mass smirked and kept on. “I can smell your e
go from here, mate. It’s as big as your cock is small.”

  The hook-handed man breathed out and forced a smile to his face. “Soon we shall see what you are made of. Let us pray it is more than hollow words.”

  Gross elbowed Mass and whispered, “You’re going to get us killed.”

  “We’re dead, anyway. Might as well have a little fun.”

  Gross sighed.

  They headed through the paddock and into a hedge-lined field. Another half-dozen strangers milled about, but Gemma was the only woman. She held a deadly 12-gauge that must have once been military issue. When she saw Mass and Gross arrive, she waved a hand smugly as if they were old friends.

  A trio of steel shipping containers took up most of the small field and had been converted into living space. Sad-looking women sat inside on plastic chairs or on the floor, performing various tasks like sewing or cleaning. Many of them sported bruised cheeks and arms. Mass’s biceps tensed and his fists clenched by themselves. Gemma and the men outside the containers had weapons – obviously there to guard the women. If he tried anything, they would shoot him, but it still took everything not to grab the hook-handed bastard by the throat.

  Gross exchanged a look with Mass suggesting he was as sickened as he was. The sight of the beaten women made Mass think about Addy. There was no evidence she’d been captured, but where was she?

  Are you out there, Addy? If you are, I hope you have a plan.

  Cows, pigs, donkeys, and sheep nosed at the grass in the adjoining fields, but the thing that captured Mass’s attention next was a line of three people kneeling by the nearby fences. Bags covered their heads, and a massive hole had been dug out in front of them the size of a small swimming pool. A single guard stood behind them with a ball-peen hammer.

  Gemma came to greet the hook-handed man. “As-salāmu ’alaykum.”

  The hook-handed man nodded. “Wa ’alaykumu s-salām. You deserve a rest after last night’s struggles, Gemma. Your passion encourages us all.”

  “I serve the Reclamation with my every breath.”

  “Are the offerings ready?”

  “Yes, they are ready to be reclaimed.”

  “Excellent.”

  Mass eyeballed Gemma and considered the ways he could kill her before catching a bullet. Shoving his paring knife into her eye was the leading option. It was absurd that they had allowed him to keep his weapon, and he had even forgotten he was holding it. Should he go down fighting? Yes. Every time, yes. The question was when to start fighting.

  The three men kneeling on the other side of the hole had their hoods removed. As Mass had feared, it was Tox and the two men who had gone with him to follow Gemma yesterday. With their eyes cast downwards, they began to moan.

  Mass stepped forward to see what was inside the pit, and was shocked by what he saw. It was filled with demons. The kind that resembled twisted chimpanzees. The deadliest of all the infernal creatures on Earth.

  “Let my people go,” Mass demanded.

  “I found them unconscious in this very field,” said the hook-handed man, pointing to the demons. “It was at that moment I understood what Allah demanded of me. These beasts were sent to me by him, for I was to become a shepherd. Mankind has grown beyond its limits and must be pared back, but in our arrogance we resisted the cull. People fought back, refused to give up. The demons were sent as a cleansing tide, but mankind found hiding spots among the rock pools. The demons alone were not enough to complete Allah’s task. They needed assistance.”

  Mass sneered. “You’re off your head, mate. Why are these idiots even following you? Zippy and Bungle speak more sense than you.”

  “They follow me because they have faith. Faith that we are destined to rebuild Allah’s kingdom. A righteous place full of beauty and devotion. I was the first to go into this pit after the demons woke up.” He lifted his hook and loosened the straps holding it in place, revealing an unsightly stump. The flesh was puckered and badly knitted, but the wound patterns resembled bite marks. “I left a hand in this pit, but I gained a most holy mission. I am to test the sinners and lead the righteous.”

  “You’re testing people by throwing them in a pit full of monsters,” said Mass, staring down at the writhing mass of pale, pock-marked flesh. “Very fucking holy. It’s murder, and you’ll pay for it. You can have faith in that.”

  The hook-handed man stepped closer, looking Mass right in the eye. He was close enough now to stab, but Mass couldn’t summon his arm to do the deed. He wasn’t done listening. “People thought God was kind and forgiving, but that only proves their arrogance. God is the most almighty of beings and we are mere ants beneath His feet. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  Sensing the talking was over, Mass reached for the hook-handed man and decided now was the time to stab him in the face. He took a step forward.

  “Wrong move.” Gemma fired her shotgun.

  Gross crumpled to the grass.

  Mass stopped reaching out and gawped at the bloody hole in Gross’s chest. “You fuckers! You fucking monsters! I’ll kill y—”

  The hook-handed man swiped his hook through the air and struck Mass in the temple with the blunt side. He fell to the ground beside Gross, his vision exploding with stars.

  The hook-handed man walked away, barking orders. “Throw them in.”

  7

  Smithy knew it was early, which was why he tried hard to go back to sleep. Dawn had just arrived, which meant he had got two or three hours sleep max. After last night’s ordeal, he needed more than that. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t nod off. The birds were in full chorus and he could even hear the mooing of cows. Most annoyingly, the little demon next to him snored like a motherfucker.

  “Hey, Dave! Wake up.”

  David opened his eyes immediately. Impressive, considering how deeply he’d been sleeping. “He is near.”

  “What?”

  The demon hopped up into a crouch. “Crimolok is near. Buzzing in head, sending war cry to kill.”

  Smithy rubbed the fuzziness from his eyes. “That don’t sound good. If you can hear him, other demons can too, right?”

  David nodded. His demonic eyes were somehow sad and vulnerable – a pit bull with the heart of a poodle. “Must go. Quickly.”

  “All right, Dave, I hear you. Is there time to check the farm for food? Do we have that long?”

  David squinted as if accessing the inside of his own brain. “Small time.”

  “We best hurry then. Nothing like a cold morning on two hours’ sleep to make an empty stomach feel worse.” Smithy kicked the musty horse blankets away and shuffled on his butt along the hay. The rotting fodder turned to mush between his fingers, but he managed to descend without sinking or breaking his wrists. David, light as a feather, scampered down with ease, although Smithy noticed the demon had left an ear behind in the hay. It fell off as though it’d been attached with putty. Knowing little about demonic health-matters, Smithy left the grisly fact unmentioned.

  The door to the barn was ajar, allowing in a slice of daylight that illuminated a thin wedge on the concrete floor. When a shadow moved across the gap, Smithy froze, but he failed to stop himself from swearing. “Shit!”

  The shadow outside paused, blotting out the wedge of light on the ground. David crouched, not readying to attack but cowering. Smithy realised he was cowering too. After last night, he had nothing left in the tank. If Frankie and Crimolok found him, then so be it.

  The barn door flew open and two strangers rushed inside pointing shotguns. Smithy wheeled backwards, hands out in front of his face. “Don’t shoot! Jesus, I think I pissed myself.”

  One of the strangers, a female, snarled at him. “Say your prayers, because I am most definitely going to fucking shoot you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because your people have taken my people hostage. Because that bitch Gemma killed my friends. And because I think I’m getting my fucking period.”

  Smithy stared into the shotgun’s angry mouth,
waiting for it to roar fire and death, but it didn’t. Perhaps there was still time to beg for his life. “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about, I swear.”

  “This not right,” said David. “We do not know you peoples.”

  The woman glanced at David and her mouth fell open. The man standing beside her gasped. He held his shotgun awkwardly as if he only had one functioning hand. As he stared at David, it looked like he might pull the trigger. “That’s one of them,” he muttered. “A demon.”

  “Demon, yes,” said David. “Please, not hold against. Am friendly. Smithy sleep with me all night. He is good.”

  Smithy winced. “Choose better words, man.”

  The women thrust the shotgun at Smithy as though it was a pitchfork. “What the hell is this?” she snapped. “Some kind of interspecies relationship?”

  “Demon and human same species,” said David. “Just… different.”

  Smithy sighed. He put a hand out to David and realised he was about to vouch for a demon. “He’s friendly. He was with some other guy last night when I was being attacked by demons. They saved me.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and he looked around the barn. “Where is this other guy?”

  “Crimolok kill friend Aymun,” said David. “Was brave warrior.”

  The woman flinched. “Did you… did you say Aymun?”

  “Yes. Aymun and Vamps. We travel many months. Family.”

  The two strangers looked at each other. Then the woman turned her gaze back to David. Smithy tried to figure out what was happening, but he only grew more confused.

  “Vamps?” said the woman. “Black guy? Gold fangs?”

  “Yes! Shiny teeth!”

  “And you definitely said Aymun? Araby-looking guy who speaks like he knows the answer to every question before you’ve even asked it?”

  David wrinkled his stumpy nose at Smithy and grunted. “I do not know this word, Araby.”

  “That’s because it’s not a word.”

  David turned back to the woman and shrugged. “Aymun was a… Syrian.”

  The woman lowered her shotgun and shook her head as if she couldn’t believe it. “I was at Portsmouth with Vamps. I fought alongside him. After I survived the battle, I joined a unit named in his honour.”