Hell On Earth Box Set | Books 1-6

by Wright, Iain Rob

  “No matter the cost, huh?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps that’s the difference with men like him. Perhaps seeing the big picture is what makes someone suited to lead.” He rubbed his brow and chuckled. “Christ, I only wanted a coffee and a chance to get to know you, Maddy. I didn’t realise it would be the start of an insurrection.”

  Maddy turned to him. “Why do you want to get to know me?”

  “Are you kidding? Most of the women I served with in the desert have more scars than me.”

  “I wear my scars on the inside.”

  “I sense that, but there’s still light in your eyes. Somehow your heart is still beating inside your chest.”

  “Isn’t yours?”

  “Barely. I’ve seen so much fighting and death this last year I can barely feel anything besides fear.”

  Maddy frowned. His face looked like cloth-covered oak. “You don’t look afraid to me.”

  “That’s the thing about fear, love. Endure enough of it and it gets under your skin and forms callouses. I used to fear getting shot or being taken prisoner by the Taliban. Then I feared the demons – feared them more than anything else. Now, it’s something else that keeps me from sleeping at night.”

  “What’s that?”

  Cross let the air out of his lungs and stared out at the ominous, unmoving shapes of the massive ships and tankers. “What if we win, Maddy? What if we beat the demons and have to go back to being human again? I’m not sure I remember how.”

  Maddy saw the fear he was referring to, and for half a second this battle-hardened warrior was a frightened five-year-old boy. Instinctively, she reached out and took his hand. “Then I guess, if that time comes, we’ll have to help each other.”

  Cross looked at her for a long moment. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something else.

  But distant gunfire spoke first.

  Mass took a breather by sitting on the stairs. He quickly realised that if he hadn’t sat down voluntarily, he would’ve collapsed. Blood from his throat covered every inch of him, and while most of it was from the initial wound, it had bled steadily over the last several hours. His hands trembled and his stomach sloshed uneasily.

  “I can help you with that,” said Cam. He was holding a bottle of water and a small plastic box. The water he handed to Mass, then he opened the box. Inside were some cotton reels and a needle. “It needs disinfecting and sewing up. It is very bad wound.”

  “Thank your mate with the hook for me.”

  Cam sighed. “Naseem used to be a good man. It pains me to have seen him fall to such ruthlessness.”

  Mass had accepted that Cam was inside the house with them, but he didn’t consider him a trustworthy ally. Harriet had admitted she knew little about him, but she did state he had never taken liberties with the women in the containers – one of only a few who hadn’t. That counted for something, Mass supposed. It was enough to give the guy a chance at least.

  “Who is Naseem?” asked Mass. “What’s his deal?”

  Cam took a packet of alcohol wipes from his pocket and tore them open with his teeth. “May I clean your wound?”

  Mass nodded and prepared for the pain to begin. He’d never been good with needles. The TB jab at school had given him nightmares for months.

  While he worked, Cam answered the question. “Naseem was a Muslim youth worker and I met him when he came to Nigeria. He helped the children in my village and it inspired me. The stories he told, of the lives we could lead if we threw aside fear and despair, were mesmerising. He taught us we did not have to accept poverty or oppression, and that our lives could be tools to build a better world. I, and a few others in my village, came to the UK to help spread the message of Islam. We petitioned the rich to help the poor.”

  Mass rolled his eyes. “You and me wouldn’t have got on, mate. I won’t even tell you about the time a Jehovah’s Witness knocked on my mate Ravy’s door. You ever seen a man covered in baked beans? Anyway, I’m not a big fan of religion.”

  Cam merely shrugged. “My intentions were good. I wanted to live a life Allah would deem worthy, to help others find a better path. Now, I’m unsure if Allah is real. Perhaps all that exists beyond this life is monsters.”

  “The only monsters we need to worry about are the ones outside this house. One of those monsters out there might be an old friend of mine, Vamps. He was the bravest guy I knew – my best friend – and he went to Hell to fight the enemy on their own turf. It was all for nothing, though, because here we are, still fighting for our shitty little lives.”

  “It is our nature. The ant avoids the spider. All things wish to live. Even those fiends outside.” Cam finished cleaning the wound and threaded the needle. “This will hurt.”

  Mass huffed. “Everything hurts. I still don’t understand why your man did this to me.”

  “Naseem has his reasons, but I long ago stopped understanding them. When the demons first attacked, Naseem had a pair of sons. One died early. The other was shot by a police officer who wanted our bus. It was packed with supplies. Naseem’s surviving son had been filling it with petrol when the police officer appeared and ordered him to hand over the keys. He refused, so the police officer shot him in the face.”

  “But he didn’t take the bus though,” said Mass. “I saw it parked in the barn.”

  “Yes, he did take it, but Naseem got it back. He tracked the police officer for three weeks, avoiding demons at every turn. There were only six of us back then, but we followed Naseem because we didn’t know what else to do. We also grieved for his son who had bravely refused to give up our supplies. Eventually, Naseem found the police officer hiding at this farmhouse. We expected Naseem to kill the man, but he did not. Instead, he burned the man’s hands and feet to a crisp before chaining him up in the barn. A week later, he burned the man’s eyes. One more week and he placed a tyre around the man and set fire to him. His suffering lasted three whole weeks.”

  “I found a group of bodies burned in tyres near here. Why did Naseem kill them? Why did he torture them?”

  “In Nigeria, Naseem saw the villagers execute a rapist in this way. The people you found burnt in the field were a group who tried to leave us. Naseem believes only a chosen few are supposed to survive this apocalypse, and that he has been chosen to lead them. Everyone else must die. Allah sent the demons here to wipe out the unrighteous, but after their failure, Naseem reclaimed their mission in the name of the righteous.”

  Mass rolled his eyes. “He thinks he’s Noah.”

  Cam shook his head sadly. “No, he does not. He thinks he is Christ. A saviour meant to rescue us from ourselves.”

  “And you all follow him!”

  “You saw what happened to those who did not. I no longer believe in Naseem, but the people here are still my friends. I could not abandon them.” His gaze lowered. “Now they are dead anyway.”

  Mass almost said sorry for the man’s loss, but stopped himself. “What about that bitch, Gemma? What’s her deal?”

  “She was a police officer.”

  Mass frowned. “Like the man who shot Naseem’s son?”

  “Yes, that was Gemma’s husband. When Naseem began torturing the man who shot his son, Gemma begged for mercy. She promised to do whatever Naseem asked – and she has done so ever since. Naseem’s most devout follower.”

  “This place is a cult. You see that, right?”

  Cam nodded. “I fear it is so, yes. I am sorry you found your way here. Naseem took your man when he stole your supplies because he wanted to know more about Portsmouth. He sees it as the new Sodom. They survive in defiance of Allah’s will.”

  Mass sighed. “Okay, enough. It’s all bullshit. It was bullshit before the end of the world and it’s bullshit now. Just get me patched up so I can fight.”

  Cam held up the needle. It glinted in the light of the candles Harriet had set up. Mass took a long swig of water and nodded. “Do it quick.”

  The pain was immense: a precise, white-hot agony,
a thousand tiny bee stings one after another. But it was still just pain. He was more than used to it. Once Cam was done, he stood up with clicking knees that betrayed his age. “Keep the wound clean. If you live.”

  “Yeah, if I live. Thanks.”

  “You are most welcome. I am sorry I tried to kill you.”

  Mass tested his legs and held onto the bannister as he stood. “You want to make it up to me, kill as many demons as you can.”

  “I will do so.”

  Mass patted Cam on the back and took a walk. The demons hadn’t attacked in over an hour, which had left everyone standing around anxiously, peering out windows and checking doors. He found Addy in the lounge, lining up shotgun shells on an oak coffee table. It was almost ritualistic how she straightened and positioned each one. “You okay, Ad?”

  “Right as rain.” She positioned another shell.

  Mass didn’t sit down on the sofa because he wasn’t sure he would get back up again. He’d never felt so weak, not since he’d been a sickly little kid with asthma trying not to get his ass beaten in Brixton. “I’m sorry about Gross,” he said. “Once we make it back to Portsmouth, we’ll have a drink in his name.”

  “I’m not going back to Portsmouth.” She kept her eyes on the shotgun shells. “I’m going to kill those animals outside and then I’m going to find that hook-handed bastard’s corpse and piss on it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then nothing. I do that and I’m done.”

  Mass sighed. He went to the room’s large boarded-up window and peered through the gap at the top. The demons were still out there – he could see their shadows dancing back and forth. Now and then the moon would strike a pair of eyes and light them up. Several demons fell in the battle earlier that night, but Mass suspected another dozen, at least, surrounded the house. It might not sound a lot, but in the darkness of night, and with everyone in the house growing weary, it was a demoralising threat. Not to mention that Vamps might be out there somewhere.

  What the hell happened to you, mate?

  Addy was certain it had been Vamps she’d seen, although apparently it hadn’t been him any more. Vamps was a demon now – possibly a demon more terrible than any other. Mass needed to see it with his own eyes though. He couldn’t give up on his friend until he knew there was no hope. “Addy, we will kill every last demon out there, I promise, but you need to promise me you won’t stop after that. There are more demons than this, and we all made a promise to each other that we would fight until the death to keep them at bay. Gross might be dead, but thousands of people at Portsmouth are still counting on us. I need you with me, Addy.”

  Addy didn’t answer. She kept on counting shells.

  Mass left the room to check on everyone else. Tox was in the kitchen, making a sheath out of a tea towel. He’d found a large chef’s knife and wanted to fix it to his belt. Mass chit-chatted for a minute then left him be. “Let me know when the killing starts back up,” was the last thing Tox muttered as Mass left.

  Harriet was bringing more ammunition and guns up from the basement. That left Smithy, who he’d seen go upstairs earlier. He had wanted to see what was happening outside from a higher viewpoint. Mass took a candle and went looking for him. He liked the lad. They were about the same age, yet Smithy had retained a sense of humour that Mass had completely lost. Perhaps it was because Smithy had survived on his own. He hadn’t lost as many people as Mass. They had both survived but in different ways. Mass liked knowing people could still be different. Not everyone was the same shattered soul. Two vases never broke the same.

  No sign of Smithy on the landing, so Mass checked the room where he’d had his throat slit. His blood still stained the carpet, but it was dry now – more black than red. The metallic scent of it coated the air. Other than the chair Gross had been tied to, the room was empty.

  A thud from further down the hall alerted him, and he ducked down, candle in one hand, shotgun in the other. “Smithy?” he whispered. “That you?”

  No answer other than a series of light thuds.

  “Shitting hell, here we go!” Mass crept down the hallway towards the noise. It hadn’t ceased, and he could still hear awkward fumbling – like someone trying to climb in through a window.

  Damn it.

  Mass had expected the demons to sneak in, eventually. He raced down the corridor and shouldered open the door at the end. Inside, he found a cramped bathroom. A small demon hung from a narrow rectangular window. It had made it through the opening but had somehow got its leg twisted between the frame and the window. It was flapping around like a wounded crow, grabbing at the sides of the bathtub and trying to right itself.

  Mass smirked and placed his finger against the trigger. “Nice try, dickhead.”

  “Me Dave!”

  Something struck Mass in the side just as he pulled the trigger. It sent his aim wide by a thumbnail, but it was enough to make him miss. The bullet buried itself in the tiles above the bath taps.

  “What the hell?” Mass spun around and pointed his shotgun at his attacker’s chest. It was Smithy. The lad was a heartbeat away from taking a hole through the lungs.

  “Don’t shoot.”

  “It’s a demon.”

  “No! I mean, yes, but don’t shoot, okay? He’s… he’s…”

  Mass shook his head in utter confusion. “He’s what?”

  Smithy went and helped the little demon get free from the window. “He’s my mate.”

  “Me Dave,” said the demon. “Please, may come in? Yes to enter?”

  Mass lowered his shotgun. “Start explaining.”

  Nine months. For nine months, Smithy had survived against impossible odds, but right here, in this bathroom, he had been sure Mass would shoot him dead. Somehow the big lad had managed not to pull the trigger – not even when Smithy had helped David out of the window and into the bathtub. What must it have looked like?

  “Start explaining,” said Mass, standing there with his thick forearms crossed and his shotgun thankfully propped against the door.

  Smithy moved in front of David, whether to protect him or hide him, he didn’t know. “He’s a good demon. He doesn’t kill humans. He can think for himself – on some occasions more than others, admittedly, but he’s not like the others.”

  David peered out from behind him and waved. “Hello, friend.”

  Mass waved back. “Um, hello.”

  Smithy got straight to what was important. “I think he used to run with some mates of yours. Aymun and Vamps?”

  Mass frowned. His gaze went between David and Smithy several times before he spoke. “This demon knew Aymun and Vamps? How? What happened to them after they went to Hell?”

  David crept out from behind Smithy. Smithy had an urge to keep the demon behind him, but Mass made no move for his shotgun. “Vamps and Aymun leave Hell. Crimolok go with. Is inside Vamps.”

  “Who in the blue hell is Crimolok?”

  “Red Lord. Not blue.”

  Smithy saw a minute shudder run through Mass’s shoulders. While the name Crimolok clearly meant nothing to the guy, mention of the Red Lord stirred something. “The Red Lord is the thing inside Vamps? The monster behind this entire shit show is inside my friend? The exterminator of mankind?”

  David nodded and grinned oddly. Smithy understood it was because he had been understood, not because he was glad of the situation. “Yes! Crimolok, God’s son. Brother of Lucifer and Michael. He is outside.”

  Mass raised both eyebrows. “For real?”

  “Yeah,” said Smithy. “Bit of a head fuck, right? Not every day you get to meet the destroyer of worlds.”

  “This is our chance,” said Mass, suddenly growing excited. “We kill him and this will all be over.”

  David eeked, then stared down at the grimy tiles with a shudder. “Vamps weak. Soon body give out and Crimolok free. Vamps close gate. Red Lord wake up.”

  Mass frowned and looked at Smithy. Smithy shrugged. “This is all stuff from before I met
Dave. I don’t really understand what he’s talking about. I get that it’s bad though.”

  Mass grabbed his shotgun. “Real bad. Come on, let’s get back downstairs. I need to put this Crimolok down.”

  “No,” said David. “Kill Vamps. Crimolok go Hell. Take control of demons again. No kill.”

  “You mean that killing him will free him? If that’s the case,” said Mass, “then why doesn’t he just top himself? Or get himself killed.”

  “Sin.”

  “What?”

  David gave a lopsided shrug. “Kill self go Hell. Yes?”

  Smithy was struggling to understand. It looked like Mass was too. “But you just said that Crimolok wants to get back to Hell.”

  “Yes, but all kill selves belong Devil. Devil judge. Own soul.”

  Smithy spoke again, trying to keep up. “But the Devil’s a bad guy, right? Wouldn’t he just release Crimolok?”

  Mass smirked and then chuckled. “Nah, he wouldn’t. I met the Devil once – he’s a good bloke.”

  Smithy realised he had clearly missed a lot surviving on his own. Why was it that everyone else seemed to talk about Hell and the Devil and other powerful creatures like it was all completely normal? Then he looked down at the little demon he had just called his ‘mate’ and realised that the definition of the word had changed.

  Suddenly there was noise downstairs, and it made them realise they were standing around chatting when they were still in a huge amount of danger. “Let’s discuss this over tea and crumpets later,” said Smithy.

  Mass nodded. “Where’s your weapon?”

  “Shit, I left it in the other room while I was looking out the windows. I’ll go get it.”

  “Do it fast,” said David, clutching his head. “He is coming.”

  Mass looked at Smithy for an explanation. Smithy sighed. “Yeah, he does that sometimes. It’s never good. I’ll meet you downstairs, mate.”

  Mass nodded and rushed off, leaving Smithy with David. He grabbed the demon and pulled him closer. “Come on, Dave.”

  David loped after him, in obvious pain as he clutched his head. It seemed like the closer Crimolok got, the harder it was for the little demon to think. He wondered if there was any chance of him turning violent if that influence grew too strong. It was a struggle to imagine the small creature being much of a threat, but he was still a demon.