Hellspawn (Book 7): Hellspawn Aftermath

by Fleet, Ricky

  “I’m a Burger King guy myself.”

  “I’ve always preferred KFC.”

  “At least we can all agree you’re both totally wrong,” Winston replied.

  “What about movies?” Sam asked after careful thought.

  “Action films,” said Braiden without hesitation. “Things like Jack Reacher and The Equalizer. I love how they stand up for people who can’t defend themselves.” As the words flooded out, he suddenly realised that he had always been the bad guy during his formative years. Sam was the helpless victim. There were no heroes, not in real life. Only onlookers who were too scared to get involved, or often encouraged the behaviour.

  Sam saw his face crumble and jumped in. “I liked them too. Now we’re the heroes, trying to help the innocent. It doesn’t matter who we were before, what we’re doing now is what counts.”

  Winston clocked the exchange and caught the unshed tears in Braiden’s eyes as he turned away. “I always liked horror. And comedy.”

  “We can tell,” Sam replied.

  “I can’t help it if I’m hilarious.”

  “In your own mind,” said Braiden.

  “Even the finest comedians have critics.”

  “They also have fans,” said Braiden.

  “Ooh, tough crowd.”

  “I did like Stepbrothers,” Braiden confessed.

  “Will Ferrell is my all-time favourite actor! I love his characters.”

  “Who’s the guy that seems to be in all his films?” asked Sam.

  “John C. Reilly. He works so well as support.”

  Sam turned to Braiden. “You’re John C. Reilly to my Will Ferrell.”

  “Fuck off. I’m the star of this show.”

  “You’re both bit parts to the brilliance that is Winston. Never forget your place.”

  Braiden pulled out his screwdriver and showed him the pointy end.

  “Ok, I can take the hint. I’ll be the nameless henchmen that doesn’t have any lines. I’m just here to get beaten up or killed.”

  “Nameless henchmen have a part to play in building up the main character. And by that, I mean me,” Braiden replied.

  “Or we could just all survive and be a trio of heroes.”

  “Like Charlie’s Angels,” Winston added.

  “Weren’t they all women?” scowled Braiden.

  “Give me a break, it’s the first trio I could think of,” Winston replied.

  “What about The Three Musketeers?” offered Sam.

  “We don’t have any muskets,” replied Braiden.

  “We’ve got the swords,” added Winston. “If you class machetes as swords.”

  Sam withdrew the blade, a mischievous glint in his eye. Winston did the same, pointing at Braiden’s as yet untouched weapon.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Just take out your chopper.”

  Braiden frowned and went to unzip his flies.

  “Not that chopper, you dickhead,” laughed Sam.

  “I know.” Braiden rolled his eyes and withdrew the blade. Holding it up, he looked around as if someone would witness his nerdiness. Sam and Winston joined him, the metal chiming gently.

  As one, they all quietly cried, “All for one, and one for all.”

  Chapter 10

  4 Hours Ago

  “Shit,” muttered Sam.

  “Double shit,” muttered Braiden.

  “Triple shit,” agreed Winston.

  “Let’s not go too far,” cautioned Sam.

  The sluggishly flowing River Arun passed before them. Hundreds of moons reflected on the rippling water as it made its way to the ocean to the south.

  “We could swim?” suggested Braiden.

  “I can barely feel my fingers as it is,” Winston complained, wiggling the digits in his glove. “I’m buggered if I’m voluntarily getting in the water.”

  “How about involuntarily?”

  Winston looked at Braiden. “If I go, I’m taking you with me.”

  “We can use you as a raft. We don’t all need to get wet.”

  Winston’s face dropped at the insult. “A fat joke. Good one,” he replied, quietly.

  “I wasn’t on about your weight, dickhead!” Braiden replied, punching him on the arm. “I was talking about the amount of layers you’re wearing!”

  “You’re like a blimp,” Sam teased, poking at the deep insulation.

  “I’ve only got two t-shirts, a sweatshirt, a jumper, and two coats on.”

  “And a thin set of women’s gloves?” Sam added, pointing at the pink mittens.

  “It’s all I could find without arousing suspicion,” Winston complained.

  “Of course,” Braiden conceded. “No one’s going to ask questions when you’re wearing those, are they?”

  “I didn’t wear them in the castle!”

  “Not even when you were alone?” Braiden was unconvinced.

  “Ok, maybe I tried them on for a bit alongside a nice dress and some high heels.”

  “And a wig?”

  Winston shook his head. “Couldn’t find one.”

  “We’ll check the houses we come across, Winstina.”

  “Why, thank you,” Winston replied in his best Southern Belle. “I must admit I’m not sold on the high heels, but the dress was certainly… freeing.”

  “I bet it was, weirdo,” Braiden chuckled.

  “Has the water stopped yet?” asked Sam, hopefully.

  The gently flowing river was still passing languidly by at the bottom of the sloping bank.

  “Fuck.”

  “I’m not going in there.” Winston declared.

  “I was only joking. We tried it on our way to the castle and it was a disaster.”

  “Peter nearly died.”

  Winston’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “He drowned. We brought him back.”

  “Technically, he brought himself back,” Sam added, remember the coughing and spluttering as they prepared to do CPR.

  Braiden shrugged. “Whatever. It was close.”

  “Too close,” Sam agreed.

  “At least he made it. Are we going to head left or right to find a bridge?”

  “We could look at the map?” suggested Sam.

  “I don’t think the moon’s bright enough to read it properly. Plus I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”

  “Really? I had you pegged for a scout for sure.”

  “Too many people. Too much exercise. Too much nature.”

  “I thought you liked nature. You were always breaking out of the nunnery.”

  “I liked that I was able to find snacks. The walking through nature was a means to an end.”

  “What did you do in your spare time then?”

  Sam looked at Braiden and they both said the words. “World of Warcraft!”

  “The best game that ever was or will be,” Winston replied, dropping to one knee and bowing his head to honour the memory.

  “Rise, Sir Prancealot,” chuckled Braiden, knighting him with the long bladed machete.

  “Thank you, my queen,” Winston replied.

  “I’m not the one wearing dresses and high heels.”

  “So you say. How do we know?” Winston posed.

  “You don’t. I make sure the door is locked and blocked first.”

  Winston nodded, knowingly. “I thought so. You’ve got the legs to pull off a skirt.”

  “Why thank you, young man,” Braiden cooed, fluttering a hand against his cheek.

  “With all that online time, I bet you spanked your monkey plenty too,” Sam teased.

  “They didn’t call me the hermit crab for nothing, you know,” Winston replied proudly.

  It took a second for the boys to conjure up the image of the crustacean; one small arm and one large arm. When it clicked they had to stifle their laughter in case it carried across the fields.

  “You’re one sick puppy,” Sam giggled.

  “I had one sock that was so hard I needed to crack it in half
,” Winston continued.

  “Eww, gross!” Sam spluttered through his mirth.

  “So did I,” Braiden admitted, bringing more merriment. “Until my dad found it and beat the shit out of me.”

  The words were as shocking as a full dive into the icy water below. Smiles disappeared, laughter ceased like a closed tap. Sam knew of the abuse, but Winston had been in the dark up to that point. The honesty of his brother’s admission proved to Sam that Braiden now fully trusted the other boy, otherwise he would have kept it a secret.

  “I’m so sorry you went through that,” Winston said.

  “It made me strong,” Braiden whispered, sniffing as a few stray tears trickled down his grimy cheeks.

  “My mum and dad never laid a hand on me. They just hated me in a different way.”

  Sam pulled them both in and held them tight. “We’re all the family we need now. I’ve got two awesome brothers, and you’ve both got a mum and dad that love you.”

  “Does that mean Kurt won’t trim bits of me with his axe?” Winston asked, voice muffled by the clothing pressed tight.

  “I give it a twenty percent chance he won’t carve you up like a Christmas turkey,” replied Sam.

  “It’s a chance. I’ll take it.”

  “Has the water stopped yet?” asked Braiden, pulling away.

  The mocking river continued to glide past towards the sea.

  “Arsehole,” Sam muttered.

  Winston pulled his pack tight and stood tall. “Executive decision, we’re going right. We follow it until we find a bridge.”

  “Lead on, Columbo,” replied Braiden, waving an arm.

  “I know you didn’t just mean Columbus,” Sam chortled.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “One’s a fifteenth century explorer, the other one’s a hard bitten, glass eyed, cigar chewing American detective.”

  Braiden scowled. “Huh?”

  “Just one more thing,” replied Winston.

  “What?” Braiden asked.

  “It was his famous punchline! The murderer would think they’d got away with it, but Columbo would slap his forehead as if he was a moron, turn around, and then say those words.”

  “Then you knew they were busted,” Sam added.

  “You’re both morons,” Braiden complained, walking away.

  Chapter 11

  3 hours Ago

  “That’s the lane,” Braiden whispered.

  “You’re sure?” Sam replied.

  “Yeah, she said it was just outside the village. Twin brick pillars, with a forked track. One goes into the fields,” Braiden indicated the muddy trail that led to a rusted iron gate. “And the other leads to three houses. The biggest one’s theirs.”

  “Let’s get moving then. What time is it?” asked Sam.

  Winston checked his watch in the cold moonlight. “Just coming up to half past five. That gives us plenty of time to make it back by lunchtime. If we can get back on the wall we might be able to convince them we kept Holly company.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” agreed Sam.

  “One problem,” Braiden interjected. “We need to find out what happened to Christina’s parents first.”

  “Ok, let’s do it.”

  Leaving the concealment of the abandoned cars, they raced across the road and took cover by the wide stone column. The lane itself was empty, but the drone of undead in a heightened state of agitation came rasping from nearby.

  “Ready?” Braiden asked.

  Shucking off their packs, they tucked them away in deeper shadows. Winston weighed up the benefits of taking the battle-axe, then decided against it. Close quarters in a home setting wasn’t ideal for such a large weapon. It would probably end up embedded in a block wall, with Winston trying to prise it free as the zombies bit his nuts off. Unsheathing the machete instead, they all proceeded down the tree lined drive. Shafts of moonlight lanced through the evergreen canopy, which they studiously avoided. Three sets of expensive wooden gates came into view. Two of which were closed, the electronic entry panels dark. The third, central pair, were broken away from the steel hinges. Shards of the shattered timber contained scraps of clothing and chunks of dried flesh.

  “Whatever it was, there were a lot of them. See how fucked the bars are.”

  The thick, square steel struts which had held the gates in place were twisted completely out of shape.

  “I think we’re going to see how many in a second,” Winston whispered.

  The drive snaked out of view to the left, but each step forward increased the volume of the dead.

  “That’s got to be a good sign?” Sam whispered in reply.

  “Something’s kept them here,” Braiden agreed, hopefully.

  “Niiiiiiiiice,” Winston whispered almost inaudibly as the house came into view.

  Dozens of zombies milled around among the shrubbery below the ground floor windows. Braiden scowled at the teen. “There’s loads of them. What’s nice about it?”

  “The house. It’s lush.”

  The house was indeed lush. Judging by the width, it would contain at least six bedrooms, notwithstanding how deeply it projected out onto the rear garden. Ivy trailed its way up trellising on the western wall. White glossed sash windows looked out over the ample driveway. Movement could be seen through every pane, both the partly broken of the lower floor and undamaged of the first. A quadruple garage lay to the left, both sets of doors fully open.

  “It looks empty. Let’s get inside and we can decide what to do next. I don’t like being out in the open,” whispered Sam.

  “We’ll follow you.”

  Using the darkness as an accomplice to their clandestine passage, they reached the garage without alerting the nearby horde. The dull drone of zombie communication and shuffling meandering were another useful tool in avoiding their ravenous attention. The crisp winter air took on the faint tinge of creosote, white spirit, and engines. Being out of the gentle, though frigid breeze, the temperature seemed to jump by several degrees. Winston took the opportunity to blow quietly through his hands, flexing the fingers to get the blood flowing. Sam was peering cautiously around the frame, thinking. Braiden was rapt on the silver beast before him.

  “It’s a brand new Mercedes AMG GT! Those things sell for like… Over a hundred grand,” he marvelled.

  “Looks like Dr Christina wasn’t the only successful one in the family. It’s a beaut,” Winston agreed.

  “The only way I could’ve afforded one of these is if I’d done a couple of bank jobs with my dad’s mates.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short!” Winston snapped. “You’re smart enough to have done whatever you want.”

  “I’m dumb. Everyone knows it.”

  “Pack that shit in. You’ve managed to survive when most other people are dead… kind of dead, anyway. That’s smart!”

  Braiden ignored the compliment and circled the car, trying to peer through the windows. The gloom prevented any appreciation of the luxurious interior, so he finally gave up. Catching sight of a labelled drawer below the work benches, he pulled it out. Various types of glove were neatly laid out in two compartments. On the left were thick gardening, rubber, and other workwear. On the right were cycling mitts in men’s and women’s sizes.

  “Winston, come here,” he whispered.

  “What’s up?”

  “Pop these on. They look a lot warmer than the one’s you’ve got on,” he replied, handing him a set of palm padded black cycling gloves. Slipping the thin, woollen ones off, Winston groaned in relief at the insulated softness of the new ones.

  “Thank you, mate. They’re great.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Braiden muttered, searching the racks for more treasures.

  Approaching Sam, Winston carefully peered past him at the milling zombies.

  “What do you think? Can we get in?”

  “I’ve counted about three hundred in and around the house. There’s bound to be more out of sight as well,” he whis
pered.

  “I think we can safely say that whoever’s inside is in the attic,” Winston added.

  There was a marked increase in the agitation of the undead on the first floor when compared to the ground floor. Arms reached to the ceilings, the fingertips short by inches. No light spilled from the soffit vents or between the roof tiles. Other than the gurgles of the dead, no noises gave away any sign of an occupant.

  “Is there any way we can get up there? Like how you did at your old house?”

  “We can check around the back, but I doubt it. Our houses were all joined together and I snuck in an empty one on the end and jumped roof to roof. That whole place is crawling.”

  “What do you think our chances are of taking them on directly?”

  “A few dozen, easy. A few hundred, we’re supper.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” said Winston, falling silent. How could they clear the house without drawing any locals straight down on themselves? Fire always worked, but the houses sat atop a small knoll which would allow the glow to carry for miles. A distraction? Possibly, but what?

  Unnoticed, Braiden had snuck away. He giggled in the darkness, causing them both to turn.

  “What’re you doing?” Sam gasped as a small light started blinking, quickly followed by two more. Then more. A familiar rattle of moving chain joined the low chuckling.

  Emerging from behind the car, Braiden had attached several safety lights to a mountain bike. “Get back inside!”

  “What the hell are you doing?” whispered Sam, furiously.

  “Cardio!” He grinned. Pedalling slowly forward, he rang the bell. “Ding, ding, ding, mother fuckers!”

  The undead loitering among the flowerbeds all turned in his direction. Several of those within earshot on the ground floor threw themselves over the windowsills and porch railing, landing heavily on the frost packed mud.

  “He’s crazy!” Winston whispered in Sam’s ear.

  “He’s Braiden,” Sam moaned, ducking back into the black shroud of the garage interior.

  Doing a lazy circle, Braiden chimed the ringer for all he was worth. More cadavers flooded through the broken windows and open front door. Half of those on the upper floor started to peel away from whatever was in the loft, heading towards what he assumed must be the stairs. A few managed to smash the glass, before swan diving onto their unfortunate brethren below. Two more circuits and it became too dangerous to continue. Those that were engaged were now intent on eating him, the others would need to be dealt with another way. Lowering the gears, he pulled a wheelie and pedalled furiously for the shattered entrance.