Hell on Earth- the Complete Series Box Set

by Iain Rob Wright

  She threw her arms out. “Then help me, you stubborn fool! Stop holding onto silly notions of power and entitlement and get the Hell on board. Don’t plot my downfall. Plot the enemy’s downfall.”

  John looked at his own men and saw them nodding. The woman spoke sense to them. The lowly always saw sense in demagogues. An evacuation must happen, or that gate would open and there'd be no survivors left to form a human settlement. He had to take control of this mess. And soon.

  “Inform me of everything, General, and you shall receive my advice. I won’t force you to take it, but you would be wise to consider it.”

  Wickstaff nodded curtly. “I’ll have offices set aside for you and your people. Welcome to Portsmouth, Prime Minister.”

  Welcome to Hell, thought John as he turned on his heel and went back to his Mercedes, because that’s what this place will become if I don’t wrestle it from that mad bitch’s grasp.

  Guy Granger

  “I still have to go,” said Guy, standing at Rick’s bedside. The blowback from the stone had left the man woozy, and he had been weak for the last few hours. He didn’t appear physically injured, but it had taken till now to come back fully to reality. Maddy stroked his brow and gave him sips of water, but other than Guy, everyone else was waiting outside.

  Rick blinked, one eyelid slower than the other. “You’ll still have my help, Guy. I'm coming.”

  “What?” said Maddy, pulling her hand away from his forehead and staring at him. “You can’t leave now. You’re hurt, and we don’t know when that gate will open.”

  “I’m fine, Maddy. It took the wind out of me, but I'm okay now. As for the gate, it’s too powerful for me to close. If it opens, there's nothing I can do.”

  “Why can’t you close the gate here?” asked Guy. He still wasn’t sure that Rick could close any gate, but he decided to take it as truth for now.

  Rick sat up to answer the question, much to Maddy’s disapproval. “It’s different somehow. More powerful.”

  “Then perhaps you should stay here,” suggested Guy.

  “No. The plan hasn’t changed. If we don’t weaken Lord Amon, then everyone here is doomed. The only good I can do is out there.”

  Guy had gotten so used to trusting his own people that the thought of relying on a stranger was tough to reconcile. It was Rick's condition, though, that truly unnerved him. He looked more ghoul than human. How much longer did he have?

  “You know, I can’t help feeling like we’ve met before,” said Guy, now that he'd taken a long look at Rick's face. “You look familiar.”

  Rick groaned as if that was the worst thing he could have heard. An odd reaction. “I just have one of those faces. Now, are you ready to go? Longer we wait, the bigger chance Maddy has of convincing me to stay.”

  “Yes, I’m ready. Just let me get my men together.”

  Guy headed out of the barracks and back towards the docks. He had left his scouting party on the Hatchet to load up on supplies while Tosco readied the larger part of the remaining crew to depart for home. A final segment of men and women would stay at Portsmouth. The large family that had sailed the Atlantic were breaking up.

  But when Guy made it back to his ship—or Tosco’s ship now—he was dismayed to find his contingent had reduced by two thirds.

  Tosco stood on the gangplank waiting for him. “The crew are anxious, Captain. They heard about the new gate.”

  “It’s not a gate yet.” Guy moved past the Lieutenant and boarded the Hatchet.

  “Well, regardless, the number of men intending to return home has increased, but I’m afraid that means less people for your hunt for Alice.”

  Guy stopped and looked Tosco in the eye. “Did you help convince them that joining you was in their best interests, Lieutenant?”

  Tosco’s eyes narrowed, and he bared his teeth. “I knew you would think that. No, Captain, I did nothing to dissuade anyone from going with you.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” said Skip, heading across the deck. He had a Remington Riot shotgun slung over his shoulder that looked more than his withered frame could handle. “Everyone on board wants to get as far away from that black stone as possible.”

  “You too, Skip?”

  “Heaven’s no. I’ll be right there beside you when you find your Alice. Other men too.”

  Guy turned to Tosco and sighed. “I'm sorry. I should have known better than to question you.”

  “No one is thinking clearly right now, Captain.”

  “How many men do we have left, Skip?”

  “Six sailors and two civilians.”

  Guy moaned. “Including you and me, that makes ten. Rick is still coming, and if Wickstaff comes through and lends more manpower, maybe we still have enough.”

  Tosco folded his arms.

  Guy folded his own arms in reply. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “You’re going to get them all killed. You might have twenty bodies if you are lucky. I’ve been speaking to the soldiers here on base, they say there’s fifty thousand demons scattered around Portsmouth, with more coming every minute. You’ll never make it where you’re going.”

  Guy wished he could argue his case, but Tosco was right. The chances of finding Alice—and finding her alive—were beyond slim. But what father would not try anyway? “Way I see it, Lieutenant, we’re all due to die in some fashion. The only thing we have power over now is how and why. That I have such a small amount of help is the very reason I will succeed. Smaller the group, less chance of the enemy spotting us.”

  Tosco let his arms drop to his sides and stood there motionless for a moment. Then he did something unexpected and snapped off a crisp salute. “I wish for your safe return, Captain. Alice's too. It has been an honour serving under you, and I hope to command the Hatchet in the way she deserves.”

  Guy returned the salute, then broke protocol and yanked Tosco into a hug. “You’ve always been built to lead, Commander Tosco. Do well.”

  Tosco was stiff at first, but then he put his arms around Guy and patted his back with real affection. When the men finally broke away, they maintained eye contact for a few moments, conveying their unspoken respect. Tosco and Guy had never been friends, but the younger man was courageous, and willing to die for his crew. The Hatchet deserved a leader like him.

  Skip gave Tosco a quick hug too. “I hope we all meet again someday.”

  Skip nodded. “When the world is ours again, lad.”

  “It’s time for me to leave, Commander,” said Guy. “Permission to gather my team and disembark?”

  Tosco saluted. “Permission granted, Captain. God speed.”

  Vamps

  Vamps and his crew had remained at Pizza Hut following their strange encounter with the Irishman. It had left them unsettled and unnerved so much that they had needed to collect themselves. So they stuck around for a while, digging out uncooked pizza bread that had turned blue with mould and wishing there was something fresh. Eventually, there would be nothing in the world left to eat. They had survived weeks on canned food and foil-sealed snacks, but everything else was spoiled. With no new food being produced, there was a finite supply.

  While Mass and Aymun filled plastic bottles with full fat Coke from the vat behind the self-serve machine, Vamps sat at a table staring at his sword—his ‘flaming’ sword that was the prior property of an angel of death. Somehow, he didn’t feel honoured to have been bestowed with it. All the angels could go back to Hell, good or bad, he didn’t care. None of them should be here. All they brought was death. Ravi, Gingerbread, Marcy, Max... So many lost.

  And it was only a matter of time until everyone was gone.

  He looked over at Mass, his last remaining friend. The guy was an ox, yet he would not have stepped on a bug before the end of the world. Now he was forced to fight for his life every day. What did the demons want? Was it really as simple as escaping Hell? Or was there something more? Why did they have to wipe out mankind? Lucas had suggested there was some larger w
ar going on—a war with God. Humanity was just the innocent victim caught in the middle.

  When has mankind ever been innocent?

  Screw it. He’d kill as many demons as he could, whatever the reason.

  “I’m the Angel of Death.”

  Mass looked over from the drinks station. “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was noise outside. Not so loud that it startled anyone, but loud enough that Vamps rose from his seat to take a look out of the window. The sword was automatically in his hand as if it were part of him.

  “What is it?” asked Mass, moving up beside him. Aymun was soon at his other side, the three of them now in a line.

  Vamps saw movement near the bowling alley, across the car park. His hand tightened around his sword. “It’s him.”

  The wounded angel stalked the shop fronts, smashing windows and looking inside. A dozen demons scurried about beneath it—worker ants finding prey for their queen. Was the angel searching for Vamps? Had killing Marcy and Max not been enough?

  It was me who killed them.

  But it was because of this creature.

  Vamps rushed for the exit.

  “Vamps, man. Stop! We have no ammo left and we’re outnumbered. Vamps!”

  Vamps didn’t listen. He burst out of the restaurant and stalked across the car park. His approach went unnoticed for several paces, but then the angel turned its head, singed hair flicking over its shoulders. It pointed a massive hand, and like a swarm of bees the demons charged. Vamps gritted his teeth, lowered his head, and prepared to meet them.

  “Vamps, man! Get the fuck back!”

  “This is folly,” shouted Aymun.

  But Vamps wasn’t listening. He raised the sword in front of him, and it began to throb, almost jumping loose from his hands.

  He gripped tighter. Preparing to swing.

  The first demon was one of the hunched over primates, and like the agile beast it resembled, it leapt at Vamps.

  Vamps swung his sword.

  The silver blade cut through the air, and halfway through its arc it turned to flame. The primate's torso sliced like warm butter and came apart in two pieces. The steaming flesh landed at Vamps feet and sizzled. He studied his sword with admiration. “Fuck yeah.”

  The next demons arrived en masse, and Vamps cut through them just as easily. He wielded the sword clumsily at first—having never used such a weapon—but slowly he settled into a rhythm, swiping left and right in looping arcs. Demon torsos came apart like slurry and each one he killed made his grin wider.

  “Vamps!”

  Vamps was sick of hearing Mass’s voice, so he tuned his friend out. All that mattered was killing demons. All that mattered was being the Angel of Death. He’d been born to violence. He’d been born for this.

  Vamps swung his sword in another spinning arc, having fun and enjoying the feel of hot silver slicing through flesh. Did he actually see fear in his enemy’s eyes? The demons approached more cautiously now, trying to surround him before attacking. But Vamps would not be surrounded. He spun and leapt, attacking all sides.

  “Vamps!”

  Spinning to catch a burnt man attempting to slash at his back, Vamps glanced back across the car park.

  How had he missed it? How had he lost sight of the angel?

  Because I was lost in the killing.

  Enchanted by the blood in my nostrils.

  The wounded angel stalked Mass and Aymun across the pavement, barging aside parked cars in its quest to crush them. Aymun caught a glancing blow and tumbled to the ground, hitting his head against a Volvo's protruding tow bar. He lay on the ground, unmoving.

  Vamps rushed to help his friends, but more demons appeared in his way. A burnt man grinned with broken teeth, shrivelled lips pulled back like a Pitbull's.

  Vamps snarled. “Go ahead… try me!”

  The burnt man lunged and Vamps decapitated it with one quick cut. He kicked the legs from under the next attacking demon and made a gap for himself to rush across the car park. Mass was pinned against a delivery van for the bed company, with the towering angel glaring down at him. The killing blow seemed to arrive in slow motion.

  Mass cowered, his courage drained.

  The angel reared back, clawed hands cutting the air.

  Aymun lay on the ground, unconscious, just a few feet away.

  Vamps screamed.

  “NO!”

  The blow was so powerful that the delivery van slid sideways on its tyres a full six feet.

  When it came to a stop, Mass was gone.

  “I FUCKING HATE YOU!” Vamps ran across the car park, raising the flaming sword above his head. The wounded angel turned to meet him.

  Vamps turned sideways, leapt, and then threw his sword with everything he had. Twenty years of anger and hate went into his throw—a lifetime of poverty and violence on the streets. The sword tumbled through the air, whirling end over end for an eternity. It left a trail of blackened air and the smell of burning in its wake.

  The wounded angel bellowed.

  The sword plunged into its chest.

  The angel stood frozen for a moment, eyes wide open. When it fell to its knees, it did so slowly, like treacle pouring from a cup. It clutched at the weapon hilt poking up from its chest, but its fingertips blackened and burned as they made contact. Finally, it opened its mouth, but no sound came out.

  “See you in Hell, bitch!”

  The angel tumbled forward onto the tarmac, expiring face down. Vamps turned and saw the remaining demons coming up behind him, but he was past caring. His last friend was gone. He prepared to fight with his bare hands, but realised the flaming sword was once again in his hands. He had thrown it, but it had found its way back to him.

  The demons stopped just as they had been about to set upon Vamps. They peered past him at their fallen master and faltered. As one, like a starter's pistol had fired, they turned and fled. For the first time since the apocalypse began, Vamps saw demons running in terror.

  The tables had turned.

  But at what cost?

  Vamps hurried towards where Mass had been standing. A massive dent distorted the side panel of the truck, but Mass was nowhere to be seen. Had he been obliterated? Shouldn't there be blood?

  “Shit, that was close.” Mass crawled out from beneath the crumpled truck. His forehead was bleeding, but he was okay. Vamps stumbled back and lost his legs completely. He dropped his sword to the ground and collapsed, panting. Crying.

  Mass clambered to his feet and pulled a face. “I froze, man. I almost let the thing swat me like a fly. Got my senses back just in time and ducked beneath the truck. Fucking thing dragged me across the ground on my face when that son-of-a-bitch hit it.” He looked down at the dead angel. “You did it, man. You killed a fuckin' angel.”

  Vamps couldn’t speak, he was sobbing so much. Sobbing like a bitch, but he didn’t care. “I-I-I thought you w-w-were…”

  Mass moved beside him and knelt. Then he wrapped his arms around him, and the two of them hugged it out—a long embrace that neither broke away from.

  “It’s okay, man.” Mass patted Vamps' back. “It’s all good.”

  “You almost died because of me. I ran off and forgot about you and Aymun. All I cared about was the fight.”

  Mass nodded. “You need to chill, man. You haven’t been right since—”

  “Since I let Marcy and Max die.”

  “Nah, you didn’t. That piece of shit on the ground killed them, and you know it. We’re all just doing our best to survive, and every death is on them, not us. You’re one of the good guys, Jamal. Don’t lose yourself to anger. Stay with me, man.”

  Vamps bumped his forehead against his friend’s, both of them still on the ground and hugging. “I hear you, bruv.”

  “Does anybody else hear ringing?”

  Mass and Vamps looked up to see Aymun staggering towards them. The guy seemingly refused to die.

  “I don’t hear anything,” said Mass.
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  Aymun nodded and slumped against the bed truck and trickled to the ground. “Oh good.”

  Vamps and Mass hurried to help their injured brother. It was just the three of them now, but they had each other’s back. They would survive. Even if it killed them.

  Richard Honeywell

  Finally being out in the world again after weeks holed up at the Slough Echo was not as freeing an experience as Richard would have thought. Death stained the landscape like graffiti. The demons had strung up humans from lampposts or impaled them on railings. Some of the bodies still twitched, but were beyond helping. Fire and buildings falling in on themselves blackened other parts of the landscape. Civilisation was dead. All that remained were echoes of humanity.

  Even the soldiers were mournful as the bus hurtled through the twisted shadows of the world. They flinched each time they sped by a group of wandering demons, or whenever the bus was forced to drive across a carpet of human viscera. If not for David’s confident, somewhat reckless driving, they might not have made it out of Slough. If a group of demons tried to get in their way, David ploughed right through them.

  But those continuous impacts had taken their toll. The bus's engine thunked and grumbled, and now and then the whole vehicle shuddered. Not to mention the needle of the fuel indicator plummeted.

  The tank had a leak.

  Knowing the bus ride was only a reprieve from fighting, Richard took a seat with his son. Dillon, like everyone else on board, was sullen. He stared at the floor, avoiding the horrific views from the windows on either side. This was no world for a child. It was almost cruel keeping Dillon alive, but what choice did Richard have? He was a father before anything else.

  “You okay, Dil?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. We’ll find someplace safe again soon. Safer than before.”

  “Will Alice’s daddy be there?”

  Richard glanced over at Alice. She was sitting near the rear of the bus with Carol. The old gal had her arm around the girl—giving as much comfort as she could. It didn’t stop Alice from weeping into her hands. The poor child had been so close to reuniting with her father, but their phone call cut mercilessly short.