Hellspawn (Book 7): Hellspawn Aftermath

by Fleet, Ricky

  Leading the procession of pitiful humanity towards the light, Holbeck’s doubts resurfaced. The people were so weak. They could barely walk after being confined in darkness for months, only to be brought out at the whims of lunatics to be abused and raped. Right there he decided that if they fell, he would fall with them. The others could go on, but he would stay until his last breath.

  “That’s it, come on,” urged Jason, shepherding the others.

  In spite of his frailty, the news of his daughter acted like a catalyst for a final burst of energy. One woman gasped at the bottom of the steps, then turned and tried to run.

  “Gabby, no. Mr Hay’s on our side. He was the one that saved my baby,” said Sally, holding her tight.

  “But he…” she started, breaking into heart rending sobs.

  “He was with Craig, yes. But he was never with Craig,” Jason explained. “He’s been trying to keep you all safe for longer than you know. It was Mr Hay that removed the children from the rape list.”

  “It was?” asked the lady. A glint of hope sparked in her eyes, and she looked down at her little girl who saw nothing except for whatever world she was inhabiting inside her own mind.

  “Folks, I’m really sorry, but we need to go. Right now,” warned Holbeck as tactfully as he could.

  Jason and Sally led the way, carrying a toddler each. Reaching the top of the stairs, Jason put the child down and crushed Matt in a bony embrace. The Scotsman’s cheeks reddened and he stared at the floor. Sally joined Jason, kissing Matt on each blushing cheek.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Matt grumbled inarticulately, refusing to meet their gaze.

  “You’re a hero,” said Jason, squeezing a muscular shoulder.

  Grunting, he turned away lest they see his overflowing eyes.

  Picking up the infants, Jason and Sally waited behind the soldiers who were watching the security wing carefully.

  Holbeck climbed the steps, apologising at each bump and nudge as he moved through those waiting. What had started as men shouting commands without any kind of plan or discipline was now utter bedlam. The undead had either found a way in, or they had forced their way in. Whichever it was, the cons were falling by the score. Screams and dying moans echoed down from every cell block.

  “Time to move. Matt, stay with the main group,” said Holbeck. Unclipping his bayonet pouch, he attached it to Matt’s belt. “Just in case,” he explained. “Harkiss and Petermann, you’re on point. Eldridge, you’re with Carpenter now. Ewington, move up front and centre and support. I’ll guard the rear. We go back exactly the way we came in.”

  “What if the prisoners attack us and try and take our guns, Sarge?” asked Ewington.

  “Protect yourself at all times. If they follow us, fine, I don’t blame them. If they try anything, drop them where they stand.”

  “Aye, Sarge,” he replied.

  “Squad, move out!”

  The two man teams moved fluidly through the block, the supporting gunner’s rifle aiming over the shoulder of the lead.

  “Contact right!” shouted Harkiss as zombies spilled from an overrun wing.

  Firing on semi-automatic, he and Petermann moved towards the threat. The open gate acted as a bottleneck of sorts, allowing them to focus their fire on the creatures who had made it through. Eldridge and Carpenter took up position on their right flank and started to pick targets.

  “Magazine!” cried Petermann.

  “Magazine,” yelled Harkiss.

  The two support gunners had conserved ammunition to cover the reload. Single shots blew out the back of skulls, covering those behind. Staggering on through the brains of their fallen, the grey skinned zombies were awash with crimson from those they had eaten. Some still chewed, the morsel too tough for their rotten teeth.

  “Carpenter, Ewington, take point! Head to the gauntlet!” ordered Holbeck. “The rest of you, follow!”

  Shying away from the shouts and the hellishly loud cracks of the rifles, the civilians did as instructed. Jason and Sally did their best to encourage the group, but fear was in danger of spilling over. Emptying another magazine, Holbeck saw the piled corpses were thick enough to buy them a few seconds.

  “Harkiss, Petermann, disengage! Move back to the front to support! Eldridge, you’re with me!”

  “Holy fuck, it’s the army!” shouted a prisoner, leading a group of ten men out from A wing. “Wait for us!”

  “Stay back!” warned Holbeck.

  “Or what?” snapped the man.

  A single shot to his chest knocked the man flat. He coughed once and then lay still. The other prisoners looked around frantically. They had cannibals behind, and crazed squaddies to the front.

  “Wait for us!” begged the paedophile, emerging from the segregation wing.

  One of the remaining ten turned around and punched the man in the gut. Staggering backwards, a blade protruded from his stomach. It hadn’t been a punch. The other kiddie fiddlers retreated back to the temporary safety of their dungeon.

  “Let us come with you,” begged another of the ten.

  Edging backwards, Holbeck aimed at the head of the murderer and fired again. His head snapped back, and a fine red mist coated the wall to his rear. Holbeck had no love for the molesters, but he couldn’t let the act go unpunished.

  “Fuck! Ok, we’ll leave you alone,” shouted the spokesman. Wondering where to turn, he clutched his head with both hands.

  “You’re not coming with us, but you can follow behind and keep the dead at bay. If you make a move that I don’t like, you join your friends. Understood?” Holbeck gave them a single second to mull the ultimatum. They were moving in half that time.

  Yells of contact from the point guards preceded more gunfire.

  “How many?” Holbeck yelled down the crowded hallway.

  “Manageable, Sarge! Just a few who followed us into the gauntlet. We’re clear,” answered Harkiss as the guns fell silent.

  “Good work! Keep moving.”

  Holbeck kept one eye on the open wings, and one on the entourage he’d gained. The next wing had also fallen, and a group of newly undead inmates shambled out through the security gate. Their prison uniforms were shredded, as were their limbs. Great chunks of flesh were missing from across their bodies.

  Holbeck took up a firing stance.

  “Leave them! We’ll take care of them!” offered the prisoner.

  Joining the column without answering, Holbeck watched the men work. They only had knives, with a few bats and bars thrown in. Attacking the zombies like a pack of wolves, the killing was over in short order. One of the younger men turned away, trying to hide his arm.

  “Show me!” ordered the leader.

  “No! I’m fine!” he replied. Sprinting away, he left drops of blood in his wake.

  “That’s what I thought.” Turning back to the escapees, he asked, “What’s your name?”

  “You don’t need names. Keep up your end and I’ll keep up mine.”

  “Ok, ok. That’s cool. I got no problem with you,” he said, arms raised in surrender. “I’m Jezz.”

  “Like I give a fuck,” said Holbeck.

  The last few women were making their way through the gauntlet holding area. Sporadic shots came from within, but still not in great enough numbers to warrant a change of formation.

  “You stay here while I get the civvies outside. I’ll shout once we’re in the open,” ordered Holbeck.

  Glancing back at the security centre, Jezz knew they had no alternative. The screams were gone. All that remained was the maddening shuffle of shoe on concrete. The undead were close.

  “Go! We’ve got you!”

  Holbeck lowered his gun to swing through the ply lined holding cell. Zombie corpses littered the floor, headwounds gaping. The captives, seemingly devoid of any fear of the undead, merely stepped over them. They might look disgusting. They might smell disgusting. But they could never look you in the eye, laughing while brutalising your most s
ensitive areas for their own sadistic pleasure. In some ways, the zombies were more humane than the monsters that dwelled within Ford Prison.

  “Ewington, how’re we looking?”

  “It’s fairly clear, Sarge! Kurt’s group must’ve kept them busy!”

  “Good.”

  Holbeck moved to address the civilians. Petermann was keeping a close eye on the prisoners at the entrance, but they weren’t making any moves apart from the occasional yell and the heavy thud of a bat on skull.

  “Folks, this is going to be the worst part. I need you to follow my troops and stay tight. We’ll be at the vehicles and out of here in no time. Don’t wander, and stay in formation. We’ll kill any threat, so don’t panic.”

  Holbeck may as well have been talking to a crowd of the zombies for all the response he got. Jason and Sally moved up and down the line, offering encouragement. Like robots, the survivors all turned as one and shambled after Ewington as he ducked through to the scaffolding.

  “Is there any coming back for them, Sarge?” whispered Petermann.

  “I have no idea,” Holbeck replied.

  Fortunately, the mental detachment still worked in their favour. Cries of contact, and magazine, coupled with the slaying of dozens more undead had no discernible effect. Wherever they had retreated to, they were safe.

  “Sarge, we’ve got some visitors in the prisoner cage,” Ewington called.

  The front ends of the Warthogs were surrounded by the dead. Quite what they were hoping to reach was anyone’s guess.

  “It’s Kurt and the others!” Ewington confirmed, spying them through the narrow gap.

  The bulk of the small horde was oblivious to the soldiers approach. A few were turning, but Ewington rushed forward and slid the bolt on the gate, trapping them inside.

  “Understood, Private. Kurt?”

  “We’re here!”

  “Move away from the back. We need to clear out our new friends and I don’t want anyone getting hit in the crossfire.”

  “Do you want us to deal with it? It won’t take five minutes to cut them down from the roof.”

  Looking at the gathering dead to the rear, Holbeck then checked the ammunition. Most of his troops only had one or two full magazines left. The eight remaining prison crew were slowly edging towards the soldiers, caught between a rock and a hard place.

  “No, we’re out of time. Stand back!”

  Ordering his troops into a line, they formed up as if they were a firing squad. In place of the blindfolded condemned were a gurgling throng of awfulness.

  “Fire!”

  Bullets punched through eyes. Scalps lifted as tops of heads were struck. Skulls crumpled and the Warthogs got a fresh green paint job. Holbeck wasn’t shooting. Between each crack, he listened. Then it came. The hiss of surprise from Sally. Before she could cry out in warning, Holbeck spun around and found Jezz and the others charging forward. Spraying the men with fully automatic fire, four hit the dirt hard. The others dived for cover, expecting to be finished off.

  “Clear,” shouted Ewington.

  “Get them inside the cage,” ordered Holbeck.

  Jezz was dead. One bullet had hit him in the centre of the throat, the other his heart. The other three clutched at their various wounds, wailing and bleeding.

  “All you had to do was wait,” said Holbeck.

  “We panicked! We’re sorry. Don’t shoot us!”

  “And now you’re down to four. Poor odds with what you’re facing, wouldn’t you say?” said Holbeck, slowly backing towards the holding area gate.

  “Don’t leave us! Please!”

  “There’re people in the gym. The fire exit is clear,” said Matt, pointing towards the clear door.

  “And what if they won’t let us in? We could be dead fucks for all they know!”

  Holbeck closed the gate and locked it. “Then you can wait there until we’re gone.” The undead were closing in fast, they would be forced to flee. If they had simply followed orders, he would have allowed them to take refuge in the cage while they loaded up. They hadn’t, and now it was too late.

  “Please!”

  Holbeck’s barrel directed them back to the gym. Cursing his black heart, they dodged the zombies and raced for the door. The three wounded prisoners gave their lives so their friends could get away. Slowly. Agonisingly. Holbeck looked away.

  Carpenter was already reversing the Warthog. Colliding with the second vehicle, the metalwork squealed in protest.

  “Sorry, Sarge,” she called.

  Ewington grimaced at the contact. When she was clear, he swung the articulated vehicle out wide to give everyone room.

  “How was it?” asked Kurt.

  “If we’d been an hour later, we’d have never got inside. The zombies had a few distractions.” The faltering gurgles of the shot prisoners emphasised his point. “How was it outside?”

  “Tough. We all need a wash.” The gore dripped from his clothing, armour, and weapon. He was a walking infection.

  Jason stepped towards the fearsome group. “Jodi?”

  She saw him, but the sunken features thwarted her efforts to recognise him for a second. “Jason?” she blurted when it clicked.

  “I’d hug you,” he laugh sobbed. “But you’re a little messy.”

  “You can do that later. I told you we’d be back for you.”

  “I’m sorry it took all this time, mate,” said Kurt.

  “It would’ve been suicide with the walls still standing. I guess in some ways, the Gypsies did us all a favour.”

  The four men beating at the sealed fire exit were finally surrounded and taken down. Their screams of pain washed off Holbeck like water from a duck’s back. “Not everyone.”

  “Any sign of our friends?” asked Holbeck.

  “If they were there, they didn’t bother us. I couldn’t see anyone,” replied Kurt.

  “Are they dead?” demanded Peter.

  Holbeck scowled at the man. “Are who dead?”

  “Mike and Craig. The Araters. Mike killed my… my friend.”

  “They’re not inside,” answered Jason. “The Gypsies took them earlier.”

  “So they’re still alive?” Peter raged. Running into the cage, he started to butcher the dead reaching through the steel. Paige was still unavenged. The theft of their burgeoning love unanswered. His normally mild manner was gone. His hate burned like the core of the sun.

  Holbeck looked to Kurt, bewildered by the outburst.

  “We lost someone special. It was Mike’s fault. Peter needed closure.”

  “Peter?” Jason said, joining the furious man.

  “What?” he snapped, completely out of breath.

  “If it helps, I don’t think they will have a good time of it. The travellers killed a whole prison in retaliation.”

  “It doesn’t help,” he growled. “I wanted to see them die. I needed to.”

  Kurt walked over, smiling at the engineer to thank him for his intervention. Grabbing Peter in a bearhug, he whispered, “They’re as good as dead. We’ve got a new group of people to take care of and I need you. Are you with us?”

  “I’m with you. It’s just I still see her face. Every night.”

  “Knowing who she was, do you think she would approve of your vengeance? Or would she smile and ask you to forgive them?”

  Peter looked at his boots. “Probably not.”

  “Probably not what?”

  “She wouldn’t like it,” he muttered.

  “Exactly. Remember her. Be a better person for her. Paige is all that was good in this world. I think keeping her memory alive is more fitting than enjoying death, don’t you?”

  “I guess,” Peter lied.

  Holbeck was almost finished with the seating arrangements. As with the holiday park, the children were sequestered in the safety of the transport cabs. Most of the adults sat atop the vehicle. Harkiss had tied ropes and looped them from side to side through the slatted armour. It gave them something to hold on to.
In their starved condition, he wouldn’t have been surprised to see them float away on the growing wind.

  “Looks like we’re on foot,” said Kurt.

  “You guys are tired. Take the lead and my drivers will keep pace with you. Don’t force it, we may still have to fight.”

  Kurt took one last look at the inside of the prison. Fires had started in some of the wings, the flames burning behind the barred windows. The gymnasium was surrounded, dooming the prisoners inside to a slow death or a reckless attempt to break free through an overrun facility. As he watched, dozens more zombies arrived, adding another layer to the undead.

  “Let’s get home, Sergeant. I need a cuppa.”

  Chapter 26

  Winston stretched in the shadows, trying to pull loose the knots in his arms and shoulders. The previous night’s activity had left him aching more than expected. Wielding the battle axe was exciting, and if he was honest with himself, a tiny bit arousing. He felt powerful, unstoppable.

  “Ouch, you bastard,” he winced as pain flared in his rotator cuff.

  So much for being unstoppable. He felt eighty. The weapon would be returned to the display case as soon as he arrived back at Arundel, to spend the remainder of its days as a source of medieval history. Until Winston couldn’t ignore the allure any longer and brought it back into action. It would be a few days, at least. Long enough for the memory of the aches to fade.

  “No pain, no gain,” he whispered, bending back each painful finger.

  The crippling pain in his hands was unexpected, until he considered how tight he’d been holding both weapons, and the sheer number of undead that fell to his blows. The jarring impacts against bone, as well as the accidental contact with harder surfaces added to the damage. Yawning, he leaned back and reached for the ceiling. It felt wonderful. Falling asleep had been easy. On three occasions, DB nudged him awake for snoring or talking in his sleep. The conversations, it transpired, were somewhat… intimate. Involving a certain young lady from back at the castle. What made it worse was that Winston had no recollection of the actual dream that generated the rude mumblings.

  “Just my luck.”