Hellspawn (Book 3): Hellspawn Sentinel

by Ricky Fleet

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lieutenant Baxter paced in the darkened room, lost in thought. The dull glow of the computer screens shed an eerie light on the scowling face and the only other man in the room felt sure he was alone with the Devil. The deteriorating mental state of their superior and his homicidal rages was the subject of hushed conversations across the whole barracks. Since the execution of Bennett and the soldier who had dared to criticize the lieutenant on the parade ground, the mood was close to breaking point. The fear of the gun was diminishing and it wouldn’t take much for the ill-treated troops to finally snap. Baxter could sense the hair trigger hostility as he prowled the corridors with his henchmen. Salutes were still given, but with a carefully disguised contempt. No longer delivered with speed, they almost saluted in a fashion akin to a slow clap of derision.

  “There! What was that?” Baxter shouted and loomed over the young soldier’s shoulder pointing at the screen.

  Such was the suddenness of the gesture, Private Morrow dropped the handheld controller he was using to direct the images on the monitors. Baxter glared and Morrow felt around in the darkness of the floor, until his fingers brushed the plastic casing and he was able to retrieve it.

  “Sorry, sir. I’ve got it now, no need to worry,” babbled Morrow under the scrutiny of the lieutenant’s cold gaze.

  “Do you think you might like to regain control before the multi-million-pound piece of equipment crashes?” asked Baxter, snidely.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Morrow replied and was terrified to see the unmanned aerial drone in freefall. The ground was rushing up to meet the plummeting machine at a staggering pace. His shaking hands were nearly his undoing and it was only luck that allowed him to regain control and bring it horizontal before it impacted. He let out a shaky, pent up breath and smiled weakly at the officer who was still scowling.

  “I asked you before you had a fit of hysterics, to check over there.” Baxter pointed to the north of Chichester. They had found the pile of smoldering remains of the apartment at the hospital and the zombie filled artillery craters on the outskirts of the city. The powerful camera followed the road until they discovered the blackened radius of the gas explosion.

  “What the hell happened here, sir?” asked the private with awe.

  “Zoom in, there.” Baxter pointed to the obvious epicenter of the blast and the metal walls of the huge cylinder were visible on the high definition images.

  “Was that one of our shells?” questioned Morrow with a confused frown.

  “Clever bastards,” growled the lieutenant with grudging respect. “They blew the Lavant gas supply, it’s how they got away.”

  Among the blackened, matchstick like stumps of burnt trees milled thousands of the dead. The heat had been sufficient to burn them but not to kill them. The zoomed image came across the multiple screens and the zombies skin was cracking and leaking green fluids onto the ground. They could no longer distinguish between male and female as the hair had been burned away, leaving the scalp split and skull showing, a contrast of blackened flesh against white bone.

  “Dear God in Heaven,” whispered Morrow at the macabre sight.

  “There is only one God you need to worry about. Me,” smiled Baxter. It was an awful rictus that looked demonic in the awkward lighting of the UAV control booth. His eyes seemed to glow with a faint red hue, but it could have been Morrows overactive imagination at the inhuman atrocities that Baxter had carried out.

  “Of course, sir,” the young soldier nodded and Baxter was placated.

  “Follow the road,” Baxter ordered and the pilot corrected the course and zoomed back out, glad that the hideous images were gone.

  The drone circled at ten thousand feet, observing the abandoned vehicles that looked like miniature child’s toys with the distance.

  “Look, see how they have pushed the cars out of the way to get past,” Baxter pointed out the trail and then his mood soured, “With my fucking Foxhounds!”

  “Sir, that must be the way they went. The roads into Lavant town are blocked solid and the only clear route is towards Boxgrove,” said Morrow, groveling with the information and praying the growing anger wouldn’t spill over.

  Baxter sighed and the tension went out of him in an instant, “Good work, Private. I will be checking on the guards at the main entrance now, keep me appraised of when you find more information.”

  “You can count on me, sir,” proclaimed Morrow.

  As the door closed quietly, the private set the drone to autopilot and placed the controller down on the console. He placed his head in his hands and let loose the terrified shivers that had been threatening to overwhelm him during his time with Baxter.

  “You coward, you are helping him to find your friends so he can kill them!” Morrow said to himself. Tears of fear and shame coated his cheeks. If he had half the bravery of DB, Jonesy, or Bennett he would crash the drone and to hell with the consequences. He regarded the small plastic device as if it was a viper ready to strike, filling him with venom. With a glum reluctance, he picked it up and resumed the search. It wasn’t a snake, but the mere act of holding it filled him with a poisonous self-loathing that was infinitely worse than a death by snake bite.

  The images rolled of the dead land.

  ***

  “Sir, any news?” Sergeant Filton asked as he followed his commanding officer.

  “Not yet, but it is only a matter of time,” replied Baxter.

  Sergeant Moseby looked across and frowned at his companion. They were nearly having to jog to keep up the pace with their superior as he headed for the parade ground to check on the guard posting at the front gate. They had discussed the rising tension and the insubordination of the troops when ordered to dismiss after Bennett’s execution. They were increasingly worried about the hateful looks they caught out of the corner of their eye and no longer heavily punished the culprits, hoping to garner some mercy for what was bubbling just beneath the surface. It wouldn’t work though; they had hurt too many people when the initial power had been given to them by Baxter. They had firmly nailed their flag to his mast and, for good or ill, they had made their decision.

  “Request permission to speak freely, sir,” asked Moseby, cautiously. His question could wind up with him tied to the post and shot.

  “Please do, sergeant, you know I value your council on the undead threat.” Baxter stopped and turned to face him, the stern gaze almost enough to still his tongue. Filton looked worried and was trying to get him to be quiet with surreptitious facial movements and shakes of the head.

  “Erm, it wasn’t about the dead, sir. I was just wondering if maybe we should try and build bridges with the troops, sir,” Moseby started, his mouth suddenly dry as Baxter cocked his head, studying him as a cat would study a tasty mouse.

  “What do you suggest, Sergeant?” Baxter asked, smiling coldly.

  “Well, sir… I was thinking we could postpone the coming executions,” Moseby said and swallowed hard.

  “And why on earth would I countenance delaying a just punishment for soldiers who have tried to commit desertion?” Baxter took a pace forward, crowding the subordinate.

  “I thought it may show your, um, leadership and compassion, sir,” Moseby offered. Filton closed his eyes and shook his head, sure that his friend has just doomed himself by questioning the officers command and motives.

  Baxter stared and time seemed to drag on into infinity, Moseby felt his stomach clench and bladder weaken, but eventually he answered, “I think I understand your motives. You fear your fellow soldiers, yes?”

  “They hate us more than the dead, sir,” whispered Moseby, confirming the fact. He waited for the shot or the order to be detained, awaiting his own turn at the post.

  “You know I didn’t ask for this, don’t you?” Baxter asked the men and they nodded enthusiastically at the change in the conversation. “To be a good leader is to make the hard calls, the unpopular decisions. That can sometimes mean punishing the few fo
r the deeds of the many. The executions are a way of controlling the masses, protecting them from themselves you could say.”

  “I understand, sir,” Filton agreed, although he wasn’t sure killing several soldiers a week was protecting anyone. He just wanted to put the conversation to bed and beat the shit out of his friend later for being such a moron.

  “I hope you do, because one day you may be put in a position where you have to be hated to get the job done. The executions will go ahead as planned. I will hear no more about the matter,” Baxter finished and strode off, leaving the men to count their blessings before swiftly catching up.

  They reached the new ‘gatehouse’; four heavily armored Viking vehicles that blocked the barracks side of the island access bridge. A makeshift staircase had been erected to allow easy access to the tops for patrol. Two soldiers paced back and forth on the armored roof while two more were always sat in the rotating gun turrets. Not a shot had been fired at the gathered crowd since the initial battle. It had been decided that the ammunition would be wasted and the fallen dead could have provided their own rotting staircase for the remaining horde of fifty thousand cadavers if the bodies piled.

  “Any change?” called up Baxter to a young, female recruit. She turned slowly and the response was delayed by a fraction of a second, a typical trait of one of his soldiers who hated the new regime.

  “No, sir. More arrive daily, I expect it’s the growing volume of their moans acting as a beacon to the others,” she replied. Her stare was too forthright and Baxter made a mental note to keep a close eye on this one. The other three guards were watching the exchange with interest.

  “What is your name, soldier?” he inquired.

  “Eldridge, sir. Private Beth Eldridge,” she replied. The way she uttered the words was almost challenging and Baxter was certain she would be trouble in the future.

  “Keep up the good work,” Baxter called to the four-person team, nodding.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, holding his gaze until he turned and walked away.

  “Filton, are they still staring?” Baxter asked as they marched away and the sergeant looked back over his shoulder.

  “Only Private Eldridge, sir. The others have resumed their lookout positions,” explained Filton, watching the young female look away slowly.

  “I want her watched from now on. There is trouble in her eyes and I want it nipped in the bud if she ever tries to make a move against us,” ordered the lieutenant.

  “As you wish, sir,” complied Filton and he ran off, seeking a couple of trusted eyes to start the watch.

  “Sergeant Mosely,” started Baxter, coming to a halt and looking directly at the soldier, “If you ever question my decisions again, you will join those awaiting the post. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mosely couldn’t speak. He had been so relieved that Baxter hadn’t exploded in a rage, that he assumed his question had been taken well. Nothing could be further from the truth and he merely nodded in terror.

  “Good.” Baxter traced a finger across the sergeant’s brow and it came away wet with nervous perspiration. He licked the wet tip and smiled. “Fear is a powerful force is it not? I hope my point is made.”

  Mosely stood frozen and the lieutenant walked away towards the communication building. As soon as the officer was out of sight, he vomited all over the icy ground.

  ***

  Two guards came to attention upon seeing Baxter and they offered crisp salutes which he returned.

  “How have they been?” he asked his men.

  “Quiet as mice. I think the last beating was enough to convince them that trying to get out was a bad idea,” the largest replied. He had a face that had seen many street fights before realizing in the Army he would have the opportunity to kill for money and not run the risk of imprisonment for his compulsions. A true thug, he was among the most trusted of Baxter’s coterie. The information contained within the communications room was too important for wider circulation among the troops, which was why it was kept under armed guard around the clock.

  “Good. It’s reassuring to know I can count on you,” Baxter said with sincerity to the man and then looked at his partner, “On both of you.”

  “Always, sir!” they said in unison and returned to their original position.

  The keypad bleeped as the code was entered and he pushed inside. The smell that wafted over him was awful; with only two of the communications experts left, they were confined to the twelve-foot square room at all times. This meant a lack of washing, and a toilet consisting of a bucket in the corner which was emptied every eight hours. The two prisoners stood up and saluted weakly. Working around the clock with only brief periods of sleep was talking its toll and Baxter would have to consider letting them get some air soon or they would break under the strain. A third and fourth recruit were being sought for training but no one had come forward. More drastic measures would need to be taken to find ‘volunteers’.

  “Good morning, gentlemen, how are you?” Baxter asked cheerfully, hoping to instill some positivity in the men.

  “Fine, sir,” answered Corporal Graff wearily. He had heavy dark patches under his eyes and he slumped back into the chair with exhaustion. The other private just about managed a salute, but the arm fell to his side as if it was made of lead. Something must be done soon, Baxter decided, or he would be deaf to the comings and goings of the command structure.

  “Update,” ordered Baxter, trying to ignore the rising stench of the morning excrement from the bucket.

  “We are being constantly hailed by HMS Dauntless. They know we are here from satellite reconnaissance and want to know why we are refusing to answer,” laid out the corporal nervously.

  “Maintain radio silence and continue scanning the frequencies to see if anyone has hidden a radio since the Bennett incident,” said Baxter, ignoring the communication request from his superiors. When the dead had overrun key facilities, the top brass had been evacuated to the floating fortress. They now directed the sparse remnants of the British Armed Forces from the safety of the destroyer.

  “But, sir, they are threatening to send a chopper to investigate. They are currently just off the coast of the Isle of Wight,” complained the second soldier.

  “It makes no difference. Dauntless can only hold one helicopter, they won’t risk it on the unknown. If they surprise me and they send it, we will just shoot it out of the sky,” replied the commander without concern. They were disgusted at how he casually described committing mass murder to protect his fiefdom, and looked at each other with shock.

  “And if they send one from another base?” questioned Graff, looking around at his superior.

  “The rest of the armed forces are in full retreat. Even if they could muster more than one, we will just say that the communications were damaged and we had no qualified engineers alive to repair it,” Baxter said menacingly. The threat that they would be killed to cover Baxter’s mutiny ensured their compliance.

  “Ok, sir,” whispered Graff.

  “So, there has been no chatter on any other frequency?” the Lieutenant got back on track.

  “Only some local pockets of survivors trying to connect with each other. They are gradually falling silent though, sir,” said the Private with sadness.

  Their silence meant they had probably fallen to the dead, or they were out of battery power for their CB radios and totally alone, which meant much the same thing. Baxter couldn’t have been less interested in the remaining survivors and he waved his hand dismissively for them to move on.

  “We have heard some sporadic communication that is allegedly from the government bunker under Whitehall, but it is gone now so we can’t confirm,” Graff added and Baxter was taken aback.

  “The government has survived?” he said quietly, pondering the ramifications. It would scupper his plans if the command and control structure was reinstated. He would be tried for treason and hanged for his supposed crimes, when all he had wanted was to see England rise fr
om the ashes of the apocalypse. They wouldn’t understand his motives or devotion to the greater good of humanity. The zombies were a gift from God, a cleansing plague to remove the weakest from society. Only the strong would survive, led by Baxter into a new age.

  “Are you ok, sir?” asked the private when Baxter became lost in the reverie of his vision.

  “Yes,” the lieutenant answered, momentarily confused at where he was, “Carry on. And if you hear anything else from the bunker, let me know immediately!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Baxter left them and was glad for the cleaner air of the corridor. Why did the ministers have to live? They weren’t the chosen! They were weak and deceptive, always lying to further their own selfish ends. Why wouldn’t they just lay down and die?

  The Foxhounds pulled up and stopped at the train station in Boxgrove. Jonesy climbed out and shouldered his rifle, aiming and firing at the small group of zombies that had left the gardens of the trackside homes. DB jumped down and covered the rear, picking off targets with quietened reports.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wow,” uttered Debbie at the devastation she bore witness to.

  Mike stood at the corner of the building they were hiding behind and observed it too, whistling at the spectacle. The sprawling train station was a larger hub that diverted services towards London and the northerly cities from the south of England. During the panic, several trains had been involved in a collision and the resulting crash had sent the fifty ton carriages barreling through the main pedestrian sky bridge supports that spanned aerially over the tracks. Any commuter who had been unfortunate enough to be switching platforms in the overhead tunnel had plunged fifty feet down. It had fallen lopsidedly, with one end settling onto the roof of the southern station building and the other crushing through the brickwork and hitting the ground. It reminded Debbie of an old hamster cage she had owned, with angled tunnels to provide amusement for the loveable rodent. As if the collapse hadn’t been deadly enough for the victims, the next train had sheared cleanly through the bottom of the glass and steel structure before derailing and ploughing through the main entrance and ticket offices. Fire had destroyed the northern station building and they could see the charred husks of people in the burned out carriages which had jumped the rails. Blackened skeletons of victims sat welded to the charred seats, their arms raised as if clawing at the consuming fire. Mike was thinking the poor bastards were lucky to avoid what came after.