The Gates: An Apocalyptic Novel

by Iain Rob Wright

  “Come on!” he shouted at the skinny, brown cow fifteen yards ahead. He was met by frowns from the open car windows on either side of him. He respected cows as much as any Hindu, but sometimes you just have to get a move on.

  He edged his bicycle into a gap behind a bus, and then placed his foot up on the curb. The scent of a nearby snack bar made his mouth water. They were mixing up soup and ladling it out with bread to the morning commuters sitting outside. Monty was so certain that his job would be lost by the time he ever got to his building that he almost considered tossing his bike into the gutter and having some of the delicious-smelling broth; but Saira would never forgive him. With the baby on the way, he could not give in to impulse. He would have to take his telling off from his British born boss and beg to keep his job.

  There was a lot of angry honking up ahead, but Monty could not see through the fumes enough to peer down the road. So he leant over the curb and caught the attention of a man in a suit. “Hey, my friend. What is happening down the road?”

  The man shrugged. He was holding a cup of piping coffee and looked like he was ready to take a sip. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  Monty frowned. “Oh, fuck you too, my friend.”

  He caught the attention of somebody else, a boy wearing an Indian Cricket Team shirt. “Hello, son, do you know what all the honking is about?”

  The boy shrugged as well, but at least he was polite. “I don’t know, sir. I believe it might have something to do with the gate.”

  “But the gate is outside the city.”

  He nodded. “Yes sir, but something has happened. It opened up and something came through.”

  Monty shuddered. “”How do you know that?”

  The boy held up his mobile phone. “I get news updates. It said there’s a major incident happening at the Sikh camp right now.”

  Monty looked ahead and saw that several cars and bikes were breaking off and trying to turn around. Their radios had obviously informed them of the events up ahead.

  The first thing Monty thought was that this might just provide the perfect excuse for his lateness. The second was that he was heading right in the direction of whatever major incident was happening at the edge of the city.

  Should he turn back?

  What was he heading into?

  Before he had chance to decide, there was an explosion in the distance. At almost the exact same time, several helicopters swooped overhead. They looked like they belonged to the Indian Air Force. They were jungle green, and had guns hanging off stubby pairs of wings.

  The traffic up ahead snarled up. Cars barged into one another as they tried to turn into side streets or reverse. The bus in front of Monty began to back up.

  “Hey, hey, I am here!”

  Monty leapt onto the sidewalk, and just managed to drag his bicycle out of the way of the bus’s large back tyres in time to save it from being crushed. The bus rammed into a battered Mercedes and the driver got out to shout about it.

  There was a side street a little further ahead, so Monty hopped back up on his bike and pedalled for it. It was perilous riding on the path, but no more so than being amongst the grinding traffic that was continuing to turn on itself. At one point he almost collided with a stack of orange crates outside a grocers, but he skidded his back tyre and managed to miss it.

  When he saw the cow up ahead, he shook his head and laughed. The entire road was full of panicking people, but the cow still strolled along as if nothing was happening. Even when the gunfire started.

  It wasn’t just the distant machine guns of the helicopters that Monty heard; it was the antique war pistols that often passed hands in the local bars that made noise too. They sounded like fireworks every time one was fired.

  Monty took the side street, and was dismayed to find it as chaotic as the main road he was leaving. A police car was parked up on the curb, with a pair of police officers trying to maintain order. Their white-gloved hands were raised in the air, but nobody was listening.

  Monty pulled his bike up next to them. “What is going on?”

  One of the officers, a Sikh in a turban, gave an answer. “We’re under attack. The Sikh encampment has been attacked by something. The army are moving in. People are being told to evacuate, but there’s no way to get them all out of the city.”

  “It’s going to be a nightmare,” Monty agreed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Very little. We’re to help redirect traffic to the north of the city, but there’s just no way. You should get out of here, sir. There’s going to be a lot of damage.”

  Monty nodded. “Good luck.”

  The officer had already turned away to join his partner, who was arguing with the driver of a van. The old man was leaning out of his window and pointing his finger. The officer had lost his cool and was batting the finger out of his face.

  Monty got back on his pedals and continued down the sidewalk. He was heading towards the outskirts of the city now, and after a few hundred metres the pavement deteriorated into stony dirt. He changed gear and ignored the mild burning in his calves. The gunfire continued in the distance, and the only traffic he saw was heading away. Something bad was happening, and he had to get away too. He needed to get home to Saira. She and the baby could not be left in danger.

  He intended to get on the next street heading north, as currently he was heading east, towards the Sikh encampment. The feeling that something was going to jump out at him at any moment made his tummy froth. But nothing did jump out.

  The eateries and snack bars disappeared as he passed into an industrial section of the city. There were employees milling outside the various units, too nervous of losing their jobs to leave, but also too unnerved to concentrate on their tasks. The explosion had halted the city, but the gunfire was what truly frightened everyone. Mumbai might not be pretty, but it was peaceful compared to other cities in this part of the world. He wondered if the ISA had attacked, sick of India’s constant fraternisation with the West and opposition to Pakistan. The thought made him feel sick. He did not want his son or daughter growing up in a climate of fear.

  He kept on peddling, trying to find a street to take him north. He finally found one a hundred metres ahead, just past a lumberyard. His feet bore down on the pedals and he picked up speed.

  The blow to his face came from nowhere and tossed him straight off his bike. He hit the dirt hard and clutched at his face. His vision swam with stars and he felt blood coming from his nose. He moaned, rolled back and forth, then yelped as unkind hands dragged him to his feet.

  “What happened? I can’t see. My nose is broken.”

  “And so will be your knees if you don’t hand over everything you have.”

  Monty pulled his hands away from his face and saw the blurry images of several men. He was surrounded. “W-who are you?”

  “You want to die, man? You give us what you got. This isn’t your part of town, and you made a big mistake coming here.”

  Monty looked down at his shirt and trousers, and then up at the topless men that stood before him. He moaned. “You’re Dawar boys?”

  “I won’t tell you again, man. Give us your wallet and your watch.”

  Monty reached for his watch. The Dawar boys were a local gang, responsible for much of the low-level drug dealing in the area. They hung around the factories, selling to the underclasses. He had never encountered them face-to-face before. He handed over his watch, not even caring about it. “There’s been an attack,” he said. “I’m just trying to get out of the city.”

  “Good idea, man. You can leave, just not with your wallet.”

  “You are seriously robbing me?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “It looks like we all need to flee the city and instead you are wasting time trying to take what little I have.”

  The lead thug pulled a knife out of his waistband and thrust it under Monty’s chin. “One more word, fucker. Your wallet or you die.”

  Monty sighed.
He was not carrying much more than two thousand rupees, so he wasn’t going to risk his life for it. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet.

  He was just about to hand it over when something leapt out from a gap between a textiles warehouse and a storage unit.

  “What the fuck is that?” one of the thugs shouted.

  Monty’s jaw fell open. His hand froze in mid air, still clutching his wallet, but nobody was interested in his money any more. There was a monster coming towards them.

  The creature was hunched over like an ape, but had long talons like an eagle. There was no doubting its ferocity, as it sliced open a textile worker as she tried to get out of its way.

  “It came out the gate,” Monty shouted. “I told you the city was under attack. We need to flee.”

  The leader of the gang looked at him. “Yeah, you warned us. We need to get out of here”

  Monty nodded. “Yes.”

  “Buy us a head start, will you?”

  Monty was confused, but before he asked a question, he felt a sharp agony in his stomach. He looked down and saw that the thug had buried his knife up to the handle in his guts.

  The thugs took off while Monty fell into the road, clutching his stomach and trying to take a breath through the burning agony in his torso. The blood covered his hands in seconds, and his legs shook as if they were hollow.

  The creature saw Monty lying on the ground and seemed to smile. He crouched down and came towards him slowly, as if it were enjoying the sight of his fear and suffering.

  “P-please?” said Monty, but he knew it would do no good. He hoped this monster would never meet Saira and their unborn child, but he knew it was going to have him for sure. If there were any justice it would catch up to those thugs who stabbed him as well. They deserved the worst kind of hell for what they had done.

  As Monty bled on the ground, he noticed something at the end of the road. It was the skinny, brown cow, strolling along without a care in the world.

  Monty laughed.

  Nancy Granger

  Durham, Maine

  “Clark, I’m going out of my mind. I can’t leave here. What if they call? We need to stay by the phone.”

  “Nancy, we have to get out of here. They’re evacuating the entire area. Brunswick is gone. We’re going to be next.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Nancy, there is an army of monsters coming this way. I understand you want to wait and speak to Kyle and Alice, but you won’t be able to if you’re dead. We have to head for the evacuation centres. They say the south coast is safer.”

  Nancy put her face in her hands and tried not to cry. Everything that Clark was saying was true, but she felt wrong in leaving. Guy had told her to stay put, but that was when he had thought it was safe. With Brunswick in flames, Durham would be next. Most of the neighbours had already packed up their things and left. The Goldmans next door had piled half their belongings onto the roof rack of their Escalade before speeding off down the street.

  “Clark, do you think they’re okay? They’re all on their own in a foreign country.”

  “It’s England, not Cambodia. They will be fine. They’re with the Army.”

  “Who have stopped responding to my calls.”

  “I’m sure they’re busy,” Clark snapped. “They have a country to defend.”

  “Okay.”

  He sighed. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m just worried about us. Soon as we get somewhere safe I will dedicate myself to getting a hold of the kids. For now, you need to think about your own safety.”

  “You’re right. I know you’re right.” She looked at the phone. It seemed to mock her by not ringing. “Damn it. Okay, let’s go.”

  Clark looked relieved. “I’ve already packed the car up. Grab whatever you need, because we might not be back for a while.”

  Nancy raced into the study. On the desk were several pictures. She had photographs of Alice and Kyle in her wallet, but wherever they ended up staying tonight would feel more like home with a picture in a frame. She looked at the various snapshots and tried to find the one she liked best. The one that leapt out at her was the one of her, Guy, and the kids at Busch Gardens in Tampa. It had been one of the best days ever, back before Guy had become captain of his own ship. After that he never seemed to be around very often anymore. She knew that Clark had never liked the photograph of them all, but she was actually with Clark, so it only felt right to have a picture of all the other people in her life she cared about, but were not here. She grabbed the frame and put it into her handbag, stuffing it down so that it wouldn’t fall out. Then she closed her eyes and prayed that there would be chance to take new pictures one day.

  She had no idea what was happening in the world, but it was horrifying. Being evacuated from her own home… A bad sign.

  “You ready?” Clark came up behind her. “I want to be on the highway in five minutes. Traffic is going to pen us in, so we need to get moving. We have no idea what’s coming this way.”

  A deep rumbling shook the house.

  “God, what is that, Clark?”

  “Grab your things.”

  They hurried out to the carport and were struck dumb by what they saw. An endless convoy of army vehicles trundled down the quiet residential street as if it were the centre of Baghdad circa 2003. Massive trucks rolled along behind monolithic tanks, and columns of weary soldiers marched along the side of the road trying to keep up. Their uniforms were dirty and many were bloody. Some men carried along their injured comrades, and one in two sported a bandage or stitches of their own. One of the tanks had a bent cannon.

  “It looks like they got a dustin’,” said Clark.

  “I think it was worse than that.”

  “Still want to stay here?” he asked her.

  “No, I’ve changed my mind. Get me out of here.”

  Nancy slid into the passenger seat while Clark took the wheel. They had to wait for some time for the army to pass through, but by the time it was gone, she was once again dreading what had happened to Kyle and Alice. If the US Army—the greatest fighting force in the world—had been bested so soundly, then what hope did England have? Clark had told her that their forces were equally as well trained as theirs, but still… Britain was no USA when it came to modern warfare. Or was she just being ignorantly patriotic? She hoped so.

  Once the army had gone, the street was haunted by their memory. Lawns were torn up and muddy, oil slicks covered the road, and the houses all lay empty. It felt to Nancy like they were the last people on earth. Somewhere down the end of the road, something would be coming their way—an army of monsters stripping the land of humanity like a swarm of bloodthirsty locusts. She and Clark would run for now, but eventually there would be nowhere to go.

  She had to find her kids. Alice and Kyle needed her.

  And if she couldn’t get to them, she just hoped that Guy could. She’d never needed her ex-husband as much as she did now.

  Hans

  German Airspace

  Hans banked his Tornado left and swooped down towards the city of Dusseldorf. The grey squares of industrial buildings, factories, and warehouses grew in size the lower he got. The gate was not big enough to spot through his cockpit windows yet, but he had its coordinates locked into his targeting systems. He was not carrying his normal payload of anti-aircraft missiles and air-to-ground munitions. His plane was carrying fire—lots of it. The incendiary missiles were leftovers from the first Gulf War. Today’s missions did not involve maximising human casualties. Modern munitions were designed to cause collateral damage—to take out buildings and bunkers, or the odd troop carrier. Having CNN or BBC footage of human beings burning to death after being covered in white phosphorus was not the way Germany wanted to be portrayed. Adolf Hitler was not yet erased from the world’s consciousness, and as such, Germany never got its hands bloody if there were alternatives. This time, there were no alternatives.

  This time Germany wanted to see its enemies burn.
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  The gate had opened up in the city’s burgplatz—Castle Square. Named so for the castle that once stood there. The flat, open area perched next to the river Düssel, which was chock-a-block with attack boats—all of which were filled with armed soldiers. The sound of machine gun and assault rifle fire was like a swarm of hornets.

  Hans swooped down lower, the nose of his Tornado pointed almost vertically at the ground, but then he banked sideways and pulled up. As he jetted over the rooftops, he got his first glimpse of the gate. The area teemed with the misshapen, horrific bodies of demons. They looked like burned men and woman, which made the Bundestag’s plan to engulf them in flames seem slightly redundant. Kommandos on the ground, however, had reported that the demons did indeed die when set aflame. They had reduced an enemy force outside the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin to ashes, but had been forced to retreat when the demons kept on coming.

  So Hans’s job, along with three of his fellow pilots in their own Tornado’s was to engulf the entire site with white phosphorus—pretty much the nastiest substance you could drop on an enemy. When the substance was exposed to air it ignited. When it touched a person’s skin, it stuck while continuing to burn. In simple terms, white phosphorus would dissolve you while you screamed in the worst agony you could imagine. Even if you survived, you would likely die of kidney failure, or from the side effects that caused your lower jaw to rot away. It was a substance Hans had never dropped before, and had vowed never to do so. He had no qualms about it now.

  He called in to HQ and made sure the area was properly evacuated. The ground forces had retreated to the ships on the Düssel or into the armored troop carriers that blocked the main roads. The enemy was pinned in—contained to the area around the gate. Some got through into other parts of the city, but it was slow going for them. Now was the time to strike.

  Hans did a quick circle above the city, and then entered into his calculated approach. A flick of a switch primed his payload to release. All he had to do was reach the strike point on his intended trajectory and hit FIRE. The ball would be in the back of the net within seconds.