The Gates: An Apocalyptic Novel

by Iain Rob Wright

  BOOK SUMMARY

  What will you do when the world ends? That’s a question that needs answering quickly when the gates to Hell open up all over Earth. Taking place across the globe is an apocalypse like no other, as humanity finds itself at war against a smart and merciless foe. Follow the struggles of survival with several characters as things go from bad to worse. Humanity is dwindling.

  Guy Granger is a Coast Guard captain in search of his kids. Mina Magar is a photojournalist taking pictures of horror she could never have imagined. Rick Bastion is a fading pop star with his head in a bottle and little care about survival. Tony Cross is stuck on the Iraq-Syria border, but fighting insurgents is no longer a priority. There’s a much worse threat to world peace now. Follow them all as they try to stay alive.

  When the gates open, all Hell will break loose.

  “If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

  Winston Churchill

  “War does not determine who is right – only who is left.”

  Bertrand Russell

  “Fear is the most basic emotion we have, Fear is primal.”

  Max Brooks, World War Z

  PART ONE

  “Every war has its demons.”

  --Richard Engel

  ~ELIZABETH CREASY~

  Devonshire, England

  Elizabeth Creasy froze.

  The mother bird and her fluffy grey ducklings marched single-file from the hedge on one side of the road to the embankment on the other. When the mother noticed Elizabeth, and her agitated cocker spaniel, Boycie, she picked up speed. Her brood, in turn, picked up their speed—a cute little army marching on the double. Their feathery advance took them into the long grass where they promptly disappeared.

  Elizabeth grinned. “Oh, what a lovely day, Boycie.”

  Boycie looked up, tongue lolling out, but said nothing.

  It was indeed a lovely day. The greens were green, and the sky was as blue as a crystal ocean. If not for a slight thickness to the air heralding a possible storm, it was the perfect afternoon.

  Two years retired now and yet to become restless, Elizabeth’s daily jaunts through the fields and farms surrounding her home never failed to exhilarate her. After decades toiling in an office she’d all but forgotten the benefits of simple fresh air, and it’d been an invigorating experience reacquainting with the joyous beauty of nature. If only her beloved Dennis were still alive to enjoy it with her, but that was not to be. At fifty-eight, an aortic rupture had snatched her husband away while he drove his evening bus route. The ensuing low-speed crash had not injured anyone, but Elizabeth had been left a heart-broken widow. She lamented on the time they could have spent together—‘cuddling’ in bed all morning and spending the afternoon feeding ducks by the lake. Simple pleasures sure, but oh, the absolute best.

  She hadn’t been with a man since her beloved Dennis had passed, but Lord knows she had felt the need. Lately, she’d even been considering joining an online dating site just to get a man between her legs. Only so much batteries and plastic could do for a woman of her age—and Colin Firth wasn’t cutting it anymore. She needed a real man, with real man parts.

  Up ahead, the little knoll she enjoyed climbing came into view. Twelve months ago, the act of hiking up it would have assaulted her knees, but now she could assail it briskly. From atop she could gaze right across the rolling fields to the sleepy village of Crapstone where she kept a modest two-bedroom cottage. The house in Torquay she had shared with Dennis had been too painful to keep, so she’d sold up a year after his death to purchase the cosy home she and Boycie now lived in.

  At the bottom of the hill, she wheezed a little. The muggy weather made it harder to breathe and she was getting out of breath. Her daily hike would have to be a little more leisurely today. You could never be too careful at her age.

  “Come on, Boycie, up we go.”

  Obedient as always, her cocker spaniel started up the hill at an ambling pace matching her own, and together they trampled the thick, green grass as they progressed towards the top. Birds chirped, and the sunshine was so potent that it seemed to massage her shoulders with invisible hands.

  She started singing—“All things bright and beautiful…”

  Boycie barked.

  “Settle down, Boycie. I don’t want a duet.”

  Boycie barked again.

  “Now, now, Boycie, settle down.” The cocker spaniel hopped from paw to paw, floppy brown ears twitching. Elizabeth was about to scold him when she saw what had got him so worked up. “Hmm, that wasn’t there yesterday, was it, boy?”

  The smooth black stone was the size of a football, and out of place up on the lonely hill. No other rocks or boulders lay around, and certainly none that were jet-black like this one. It more resembled volcanic glass than anything that should be found in the English countryside. If not for the delicate grey veins snaking over its surface, it could have been an old-fashioned bowling ball, or one of those cartoon bombs with the fuses and ACME written on the side. The closer she got to it, the less smooth the stone appeared—like how a television picture degraded when you went right up to the screen.

  Boycie tugged on his lead, hard enough he almost yanked free of her grasp. She gave it a swift tug and brought the spaniel back to heel. “Behave, Boycie! What’s got into you?”

  The birds stopped chirping and the warmth of the sun disappeared, yet it was still so muggy that it was hard to take a breath. A distant roll of thunder, but not a single cloud hanging in the sky.

  Elizabeth’s eyes fixed on the strange black stone. The word ‘obsidian’ popped into her mind. She reached out to touch it, not knowing why other than something inside of her demanded it. Her fingertips were just about to make contact when Boycie bit her.

  “Damn it!”

  The leash slipped out of her grasp and Boycie fled, running down the hill full pelt like a greyhound chasing a rabbit.

  “Boycie, come back here!”

  “Damn it.” Her hand throbbed something terrible; a purplish-blue blotch forming where one long canine had crushed her skin. Boycie had never snapped at her like that before. Never. What had got into him?

  Then came more pain.

  Thwump thwump thwump…

  Elizabeth turned and clutched her forehead. The delicate grey veins on the stone’s surface had started to pulse and vibrate. It was calling out to her. She couldn’t help herself. She reached out.

  Pressed her fingertips against the stone.

  Ice cold. Like running her hand down the inside of a fridge.

  It felt… wrong. Unnatural.

  Elizabeth was just about to pull away when something seized her. Her fingertips fused against the stone’s icy surface. A powerful force snatched her mind and showed her unbelievable things. Distressing images seared themselves into her soul and boiled the blood in her veins.

  She saw horrors—exquisite tortures of the worst kind.

  A vast legion of monstrous creatures.

  She saw Hell.

  The pictures in Elizabeth’s mind were so wondrous and terrifying that her eyeballs melted inside her skull and leaked down her cheeks while her heart burst in her chest like a pin pricked balloon. When her sixty seven year old body slumped to the ground it was an empty husk and her days of ambling through fields were over—her retirement irrevocably ended.

  The cold black stone went back to sleep.

  ~RICK BASTION~

  Devonshire, England

  When Rick’s song came on the radio he winced and pulled out the plug. Few things upset him more than hearing his number 1 hit, Cross to Bear. It was fingernails on a blackboard, and its title had become more than a little apt. Its existence was his cross
to bear.

  Sitting in the kitchen of his vast country home, he poured himself another whiskey and switched on the wall-mounted television. Evening had not yet arrived, and the only programmes airing were a couple of convoluted quiz shows and a mock-court case with Judge Kettleby. Today, the gesticulating gavel-wielder heard a case about a stolen Xbox. Riveting stuff.

  Rick slid off his stool and took his whiskey into the living room, where he ambled over to the sleek black piano in the corner. Despite the melancholic feelings playing always stirred in him, he never lost affection for his beloved parlour grand. He’d saved six long years for it back in the days before he’d acquired his fortune. The sense of achievement of finally making enough money to buy the beautiful instrument had made him cherish it even more. Now he could buy a piano worth twice as much, but it wouldn’t mean half so much.

  Sitting down at the piano, Rick placed his whiskey on the coaster already on the shiny black lid. His fingers began to play automatically.

  House of the Rising Sun.

  Closing his eyes, he slipped away and became a vessel through which the music flowed. It was impossible not to smile against the haunting onslaught of well-played piano music. It was that feeling of peace and calm that he felt as he caressed the keys that had first attracted him to the music industry. Life contained so much misery, so if he was going to devote his life to something, it would be this—creating beauty with his fingertips.

  A bum note.

  He lifted both hands away from the keys in horror. The uninvited C Major had been unmistakable. His ears did not lie.

  The doorbell rang again.

  He sighed.

  He hadn’t played a bum note after all—someone had pressed the doorbell in the midst of his playing.

  He leapt up with a grunt. Unannounced visitors were not something he often received, thanks to the imposing iron gate that stood at the end of his long gravel driveway. He had no idea who would be calling on him now.

  The security panel in the entrance hallway illuminated and the CCTV-controlled video feed had activated. The LCD monitor showed a man outside, dressed in a suit and tie, despite the balmy weather.

  Rick activated the intercom and spoke into the microphone. “Who is it?”

  The suited gentleman spotted the CCTV camera and waved. “Don’t you recognise your own brother? That tiny bit of fame must have gone to your head.”

  Rick groaned. “Long time no see, Keith. Come on in.”

  What the hell was his brother doing here?

  He pressed the gate release and then went and unlocked the front door. He waited on the front step while a burgundy Range Rover crunched up his pebble driveway. It’d been an age since he and Keith had seen each other, so this unexpected visit was rather…unexpected.

  The Range Rover pulled up next to Rick’s imported Mustang in front of the property’s detached double garage where Keith switched off the engine and got out. He looked smug and proud for no reason, but that was ordinary for him. “Hello, brother,” he said.

  “Nice motor,” said Rick. “I remember you always wanted a Range.”

  “Best thing England ever made. Got her last year after a particularly lucrative month.” He patted the bonnet lovingly then shot a thumb at Rick’s sky-blue 2009 Mustang. “I don’t know how you can drive that foreign abomination.”

  “Seemed a good purchase at the time.” Truth was, Rick had never been much of a car fanatic and only got the American import because it felt like something rich people did. For the amount he drove it, it’d been a waste of money, but it was nice to look at and roared like a dragon on the highways.

  Keith didn’t wait to be invited. He stepped through the doorway into the entrance hall where he glanced around nosily. “Place is a little big for just you, isn’t it?”

  Rick glanced at his property and considered the truth of it. The Edwardian mansion, with its rough stone floors and gnarled mahogany beams, was perhaps a trifle grand for a single, essentially unemployed man, but it was also the only thing that reminded him of the success he’d once been. Win or lose, he’d made enough money to live in a massive house like this. He shrugged. “I like it here. Doesn’t feel so big after a while.”

  Keith nodded, but said nothing.

  They both went into the living room, which was modern compared to the rest of the lower floor which still retained its Edwardian charms. They gave each other an awkward hug.

  “It’s good to see you, Keith. Take a seat, I’ll get you a drink.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks. Marcy and I don’t much touch alcohol these days.”

  “Really? Good on you both.” Despite his brother’s refusal, Rick went and retrieved his whiskey from the piano and gulped it down, then poured himself a fresh measure from the bottle in the kitchen. Back in the living room, he found Keith spread out on the couch like it was his own.

  Rick perched on the other couch. “So, you really don’t drink?”

  “Well, you know how it is. We don’t want to raise Maxwell thinking that booze is an ordinary part of life.”

  “You mean like dad raised us?”

  “Oh, come on, Rick. Dad was never as horrid as you make him out.”

  “You’d gone to university by the time he was really bad. I was thirteen. I’m the one who got to see the bastard he turned into—I’m the one who got to watch him knock mum about.”

  Keith sighed. “Mum and dad’s marriage was nothing to do with us.”

  “Anyway,” Rick changed the subject, “how is Maxwell? He must be—what?—four by now?”

  “Four in October. He’ll be starting school soon, though I think he’s ready now. He’s so smart, Rick. I tell you, he’ll be Prime Minister one day.”

  “Must take after you. You’ve always been driven.”

  Keith looked smug, and Rick chided himself for kneading his brother’s ego. Rick could be King of the Universe and Keith wouldn’t give him the slightest congratulation, so why was he throwing his brother a bone? Rick still remembered the look of devastation on Keith’s face when he’d signed his record deal. No happiness, no pride in his younger brother’s accomplishments—just resentment and anger. Rick became the rich and successful brother, and Keith detested it. When it’d all inevitably gone down the pan, Keith’s transparent glee almost ended their relationship. Perhaps it should have, but Rick had allowed himself to fall back into the old routine—Keith turning up his nose at everything he did, and him trying to act like he didn’t notice.

  “So, why are you here, Keith? I haven’t seen you in over a year—since Tabitha got married.”

  “Tabby’s already divorced. I could have told you it was on the cards the moment they said their vows. He was a carpenter.”

  Rick frowned. “So?”

  “Just saying. Chap didn’t have much going on. Tabby wanted more.”

  “She told you that, did she?”

  Keith shrugged. “It was obvious.”

  “So why are you here?” Rick demanded. “Not to talk about our cousin’s divorce, I’m sure.”

  “Can’t I just drop by to see my little brother? I wanted to check in on you, make sure you hadn’t hanged yourself in this big empty mansion.”

  “Why would I hang myself?”

  “Because… Well, you know.”

  “What? Because I lost my record deal and haven’t been able to get another one? Or because they make funny videos on the Internet about how cheesy my one and only hit song was. Rick Astley called me the other day and thanked me for replacing him. Should I just hang myself?”

  “I never said that.”

  Rick knocked back his whiskey and went to get another one. “Maybe I’ll kill myself when my money runs out. Fortunately, I made a shitload of it, so that will probably never happen. Least I’m a stinking rich failure, huh?”

  “Rick, come on…”

  Rick stormed off into the kitchen. Once he’d poured himself a fresh drink, he placed his elbows on the counter and held his head in his hands. If Keit
h thought he was depressed, it was because he damn well was. Suicide, though, had never crossed his mind. As much as he hated the sour turn his life had taken, he had made it once. He’d been top of the charts and saw his face printed on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine. Most musicians only dreamt of getting a shot like he had, and whether it had lasted or not, Rick had been lucky. For that reason alone, he was proud. It was just difficult finding self-respect when you were a one-hit wonder. If a man made a fortune by selling a business and retiring at thirty, he was forever successful, but if a musician got rich off one song and then hung up his guitar, he was a joke—his short career became a punchline. People enjoyed watching celebrities fall—it was modern blood sport—and while Rick had been a celebrity for all of five minutes, he had fallen hard.

  “…grizzly scene discovered just outside the Devonshire village of Crapstone.”

  Keith walked into the kitchen. “Hey, Rick, I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  “Quiet a second. They’re talking about something that’s happened in Crapstone. That’s only a few miles from here.”

  Keith pulled up a stool next to Rick, and they both watched the television while the news report continued. There was a female reporter standing at the base of a grassy hill surrounded by police tape. Several men and women in latex gloves hurried around, working on something out of sight.

  “Atop this small hill, the body of pensioner, Elizabeth Creasy—a retired local businesswoman—was found dead; her eyes badly mutilated in what police are suspecting was a premeditated and personal attack.”

  Rick scrunched up his face. “Poor lady.”

  “She must have annoyed the wrong person,” said Keith.

  “Most bizarre,” the reporter continued, “is the presence of a bizarre object found beside the crime scene. A smooth black stone was discovered right next to Mrs Creasy’s body, but all attempts so far to collect it have failed. In fact, several attempts to interact with the stone have resulted in further casualties as two police officers, first to arrive at the scene, both suffered fatal injuries shortly upon touching the object in question. A team of geologists from the University of Exeter are now examining the stone, but their initial studies are yet to provide any insight into its nature. Police are hesitant to draw any conclusions, but this has been a strange and brutal attack in one of the country’s most idyllic locations. I’m Kimberly Wilkins, back to the studio.”