Hellspawn (Book 7): Hellspawn Aftermath

by Fleet, Ricky

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Author Bio

  Hellspawn Aftermath

  By Ricky Fleet

  ©2020 Ricky Fleet

  Published by Optimus Maximus Publishing, LLC in association with Dark Fleet Productions

  Edited by Christina Hargis Smith

  Cover art by Jeffrey Kosh Graphics

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  Electronic edition, license notes: This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-944732-49-3

  ISNB 10: 1-944732-49-3

  Dedication

  To my amazing wife, Carla, who faces down her troubles with the same grit and determination as any of the heroes in the Hellspawn world.

  Acknowledgement

  To all of my readers, friends, family, thank you for your support. To the best beta reader team ever, thank you for all your hard work in helping me publish the best books possible.

  Chapter 1

  Jason Rechtman opened his eyes to stare up at the beautifully clear sky. Not one square inch of the serene, pale blue heavens were marred by clouds. Even the usual criss-cross pattern of aircraft trails was absent. How lovely, he mused. I’ve got to show Clarissa and Sally. Trying to move, he found it impossible. His body felt strange, awkward, so he lay still and returned his attention skyward. I’ll tell them shortly. Where are they, anyway? They must be in the pool. It was their favourite place to spend time to get away from the heat of the Mauritian afternoon. Perhaps I should join them? A dip in the cool water would be just the remedy for his sluggishness. What on earth was I drinking last night, anyway? There was a local Mauritian rum that the bartender had recommended, he remembered that at least. Memories were foggy and disappeared as soon as he tried to focus on them. Whatever it was, it must have been bloody good. Ordinarily, the hangovers came with a splitting headache and sensitivity to light. This was something entirely different. He couldn’t feel anything. At all. Couldn’t hear anything either come to think of it. I’ll stick to lager tonight, he promised himself. Now get your ass up and in the pool. It’ll do you the world of good.

  “Just as soon as I can get up from the sun lounger,” he whispered.

  Attempting to sit, he felt beyond weak. Tensed abdominals only managed to arch his back slightly before he gave up again with a frustrated snort. Jesus, is this some kind of alcohol poisoning? Guilt twisted in his stomach at the thought of his reckless behaviour wrecking their summer vacation. I’ll make it up to them.

  “Get up!” he muttered, gritting his teeth.

  It was hopeless.

  A mild tingling sensation started to creep into his toes. The slow advance of feeling rose through his calves and into the knees. Pins and needles followed, the imagined warmth giving way to the painful bite of cold. Cold? How can that be? A floodgate burst, sending the discomforting chill through his entire body. The preternatural silence which Jason had been unaware of until that point gave way to a piercing whine deep within his ears. Someone was messing with a dial as the shriek grew and ebbed, like a hellish case of tinnitus.

  “What the heck?”

  Judging a swift roll sideways onto the pool patio area would be an easier, though painful, first step, Jason rocked himself to the left. In place of the five star resort hotel with their generous balconies, were the three floors of B wing. The glass on every cell window was either shattered completely, or exhibited a crazed spiderweb pattern. The comfortable lounger he lay upon was the frost hardened ground of the prison yard. The deafening whine in his ears changed to the deafening wails of the dying. Fighting the pain that was now coursing through his entire body, Jason rolled in the opposite direction. As the vast sky slowly passed and the true scene came into view, he wished he hadn’t. What had once been soaring, solid, Victorian brick walls, was now a smoke tinged view of the fields beyond. Hunks of shattered masonry lay all around, a large chunk buried in the hard ground only a foot away from his head. Forcing himself to his knees, Jason saw the ragged depression where the tunnel had been. He also saw the bodies.

  “Dear God.”

  More than a dozen inmates who were unlucky enough to be close to the blast were little more than unrecognisable slabs of bloodied meat. A dozen more were like Jason, battered and bruised, but alive. They cradled themselves on the ground, or stumbled around in shock. Pushing through the dust and smoke came more people. For a brief moment, the events of the past few weeks had been erased by the concussive blow. Coming close to standing up and running to their aid, the poor, injured souls forging through into the prison revealed themselves. Jason’s mind reeled as the memory of the apocalypse flooded back in. To a man they were all in a state of advanced decay. The liquids of rot were frozen solid on their peeling skin. Catching sunlight, frost glittered on the mouldering carcasses. A young boy stepped forward, a single brick deeply buried in his frail chest. Jason’s soul ached at the inhumanity. The others had all suffered damage from the explosion, but it was the child that tore at him. A twist of fate stole the small creature from his vision as it tumbled into the gaping hole.

  Clarissa? Was she dead too? No, Matt took her away. It all started to come back. The Gypsies. The warnings. Hombre escaping. Then Matt. Handing over Craig and Mike. The ultimatum to find the fugitives on pain of death. It looked like the Hamptons had chosen to do the deed themselves and cut out the middle man. Permanently.

  “Rechtman, help me!” begged a voice.

  Turning, Jason found Eddie Banks splayed out on the ground. Both legs were horribly shattered. The offending projectile of brickwork was sitting close by, a scrap of torn prison trousers caught on the mortar. Eddie’s mocking laughter rang out in Jason’s mind. The way he had urged Keeping on when the bastard regaled with tales of debauchery carried out on Jason’s wife. Moving towards the crippled man, Jason took hold of the imploring arms.

  “Thank you! Thank you so… Ouch! That fucking hurts!”

  Pulling on the limbs, Jason began dragging Eddie across the frigid, frost rimed grass.

  “Wait! What’re you doing?”

  Jason ignored the question and carried on shuffling back
wards, inch by inch, step by step.

  “Stop! Please!” Eddie begged.

  Staring at the terrified face, Jason smiled.

  “You can’t do this!”

  Hearing the vile sounds of tearing skin close by, Jason released his grip. Eddie tried desperately to cling on, but with a final yank, Jason pulled his hands clear and stepped away.

  “Enjoy,” he said, to the undead as well as the brutal prisoner who was now crying like a baby.

  The freshly dead of the prison were already surrounded, their tenderised flesh disappearing into eager, festering mouths. Rotten peg teeth tore and ravaged the unfeeling meat. Hands dug deeply into torso cavities, pulling out the choice organs within. A group of zombies competing unsuccessfully for the dwindling food broke away at the sounds of snivelling. Horrified by his own actions, Jason still held Eddie’s frantically pleading gaze as they fell on him. Justice, at last, he thought as sharp fingers peeled the face from Eddie’s screaming skull. Spared from the further dismemberment by the crush of corpses, Jason turned away.

  “You’re a fucking nutter!” cried another prisoner as he staggered past, giving the zombie feeder a wide berth. All colour drained from the man’s face as Jason took a single, menacing step in his direction. Issuing a choked yelp, he turned and ran, lest he be the next soul delivered to hell by the engineer.

  Carnage raged all around. Prisoners fought hand to hand with the undead, and lost. No amount of prison boxing training could prevail against foes that couldn’t feel the crushing blows. Crisp winter air carried the warm, coppery scents of blood and faeces. For the first time in months, Jason felt… nothing. No fear. No anxiety. Nothing. A corpse shuffled towards him, half her face cleaved off. The old wound caused her unsupported jaw to loll to the left, blackened drool pooling on her torn breast. The blade had opened the rest of her skull for inspection like an anatomy journal, without damaging the brain within. The same couldn’t be said for her right arm. A clean cut went deeply through her shoulder and collar bone, leaving the limb dangling uselessly. Her one remaining eye studied him, inhuman hunger evidenced by a roaming, scabbed tongue.

  In the old world, he’d shied away from the mere suggestion of watching horror films on date night. Sally would tease him mercilessly for his cowardice. Now, with a rotting, horrifically mutilated, half-naked corpse stumbling in his direction? Jason took her gently by the active, grasping limb and turned her back towards another prisoner who was gurgling frothy blood from an open throat. A further push sent her reeling onto the shuddering body.

  Another corpse caught sight of him and approached. Old Jason would have run screaming, probably voiding his bowels in the process. Unbelievably, new Jason crouched down and picked up a brick. Swatting aside the fleshless left arm, he slammed the flat face of the stone into the creature’s mottled grey forehead. Brittle skull crumpled inward, killing the thing instantly. Ramrod straight, it fell backwards at the feet of the next wave of horror advancing into the yard.

  I need to find Sally. I need to get her out of here.

  The terror induced psychosis of the past few months gave way to razor sharp focus. While everyone else lost their minds, Jason’s was unburdened for the first time.

  “I’m coming, love,” he said, forging on through the slaughterhouse.

  Chapter 2

  Inside the Baron’s Hall, the crowd had fallen silent at Kurt’s insistence. The general consensus among the remainder of Jasmine’s group was why risk going to the prison? Kurt dismissed their suggestion with a menacing glare and they slipped quietly away in shame. Several of the other, more dependable survivors, aired the same view.

  “I know you want to save everyone, mate,” Bob explained, “but even if you do manage to rescue them, it’ll mean dozens more mouths to feed.”

  “At least ninety if you save them all,” added Louise. The implication of her words hung in the smoke tinged air.

  Kurt knew her for a warrior and softened his tone in respect. “What else are we supposed to do?” he pleaded. “I know we don’t have enough food. I know we will probably starve by winter’s end. What I also know for certainty is that the bad guys outnumber us by a shit ton. All that the meek shall inherit the earth talk has been shown up for the bullshit it is. The brutal have inherited the earth. The killers. The lunatics. Violence is the only way of life we have now. I’m a killer. I’ve been brutal at times, as well. Some might even call me a lunatic.”

  “Sweetheart…” Sarah tried to interject.

  “No, it’s true, I know that. But, do you know what?” he continued, turning back to the group. “I also like to think I’ve managed to keep hold of a tiny shred of who I was before. When we took this place and found you all, I felt a glimmer of hope for the future. Granted, certain parties have stretched that belief to the limit, but the flame’s still just about flickering. Those people at the prison are good people! If I can help just a few of them, I’ll be tilting the odds a little bit in our favour. Does that make sense or have I just spouted a bunch of horse shit?”

  No one answered, lost in their own thoughts. Bob broke the silence with an imitation of a horse’s neigh.

  “Fuck you, Bob!” Kurt spluttered through the laughter that spread around the room.

  “Thanks for the offer, but you’re a bit too male for me, mate,” replied the handyman with a wink.

  “But seriously, do you get where I’m coming from? When this ends, and it will, I want to rebuild with people like you. The arseholes might still be alive too, but if we’re strong enough we can keep them at arm’s length to do their own thing. It’s not like the world’s going to be crowded any more, is it?”

  “It’s just a shame we had to be stranded here instead of a Caribbean island,” Bob grumbled, inclining his head towards the world renowned grey of the British weather.

  “I don’t know, we normally get a couple of days of summer before jumping straight back to winter,” Kurt replied. “That’s something to look forward to.”

  “We can stop off in Florida when you help me sail back to the States,” offered Denise.

  The soldiers looked at one another with raised eyebrows, unaware of the pact made between the couple.

  “Nah, the hurricanes are a bastard. I’ll get you home and then head on back.”

  Matt hobbled into the room, interrupting the banter, supported between Peter and Jodi. Anja followed behind, hand on the handle of her trusty axe. She seemed at ease. The man was proving to be an ally, not a threat.

  Kurt had taken Braiden to one side and asked if the Scotsman was known to him. In hindsight it seemed an extremely rude and generalised question. Braiden’s family were criminals, so they must know each other. However, the teenager hadn’t taken offence and answered in the negative. A further explanation from the young man revealed that the Scot was a good’un. It wasn’t purely a judgement based upon the selfless act of saving the child at great personal risk. Braiden was raised by the underworld. He was a child of villainy. During his formative years, when most children spent their weekends in front of the TV, young Braiden sat in darkened, smoky rooms. Robberies, extortion, drug dealing, murder. These were his cartoons.

  Kurt placed total faith in his assessment.

  “Thanks for joining us, Mr Hay. I can see how uncomfortable this is for you,” said Sarah.

  He smiled through the pain as best he could. “It’s nothing, lass. And call me Matt.”

  “Ok, Matt.”

  Holbeck looked to Kurt for permission, a sign of his respect for the incredible feats they had achieved on the open road. Kurt yielded the fireplace.

  “Mr Hay,” Holbeck began.

  “Matt,” he replied, grimacing as his guards lowered him onto an empty sofa.

  Several of the wider group moved away from him. After the failed assault with the truck, Kurt couldn’t blame them.

  “Matt. I know you couldn’t have missed the noise from about twenty minutes ago.”

  “Aye, I heard it,” he replied. Leaning forwards,
he closed his eyes and relished the radiant heat from the crackling log fire.

  “Do you know what it was?”

  Eyes snapping open, a haunted expression twisted his features. “If I were a betting man, I’d say the Gypsies have attacked the prison. They don’t care about life, or anything. They’re evil.”

  “I think you’d win that bet,” replied Holbeck.

  “Then why are we sitting here?” Matt gritted his teeth and stood up unaided. “I’m guessing you need a guide. I’m in.”

  “We wanted a few answers before we push out all gung ho.”

  “Ask as we walk, then,” he groaned, limping towards the exit. Peter and Jodi tried to assist but he shooed them away with a meaty hand. Each agonising step was a small atonement towards his life of crime. Besides, out in the world he would need to move under his own steam.

  Holbeck marched after him, troops in tow. Kurt followed behind with the core group, leaving the others to ponder the coming hours and what it meant for their ongoing survival.

  Chapter 3

  Meandering between the slow moving corpses, Jason morbidly noted their injuries. Even in shock, he knew it was a dangerous way of detaching himself from the danger. Still, he was unable to fully draw himself back to sanity.

  A stooped, elderly lady in a floral pattern dress. The rim of a posh hat had parted, gradually sliding down her head to embed itself deep within the grey brow. Two fingers on her left hand were missing, her only injury, indicating she was an early victim of the apocalypse.

  Another lady in full fitness gear; remnants of tight grey leggings and a bright red halter top hanging on the devoured frame. The efforts to keep in shape had doomed her to a far more brutal death. Jason pictured her racing away from danger, the five morning a week cardio regime saving her life as hell consumed the slovenly. Watching others turn from a lone bite or scratch, the pursuit grew from ten, to a hundred, to a thousand. Finally, exhausted by the inexhaustibility of the dead, she had fallen. The zombies left little but the torn clothing. Scalpless, faceless, breastless, skinless, fleshless. Only tendons and supernatural power kept her upright.