Hellspawn (Book 7): Hellspawn Aftermath

by Fleet, Ricky

“When the apocalypse hits, not everyone out there is going to be friendly, dude. Hence your bald friends back there.”

  “We never hurt anyone. We kept to ourselves. Why?”

  Ian shrugged. “Evil has always been around. It’s just free to roam now.”

  “I’m going to kill them all.”

  “Worry about your people for now, dude. Revenge can wait for later.”

  “That’s if there is a later.”

  “You’ll be safe at my camp, I promise.”

  “How the hell did you build a camp in the woods?”

  “The compound was already there. We just… secured it after the shit hit the fan.”

  “Care to tell me about it?”

  Ian could see he wasn’t really interested in the tale, he just wanted an excuse to think of anything else other than nicotine withdrawals and loss.

  He began.

  **********

  Ian checked over the final work schedule for the coming fortnight. Everyone would be busy, that was a certainty. Managing the estate and public areas was always frantic between March and September. The fact that they were coming to the end of the season had no impact on the visitor numbers.

  Adding fresh grounds to the coffee maker, he set the machine to brew. As the heated water started to percolate, he turned his attention to the schedule once again. Ian Thomas Sr had been a stickler for the adage, check, check, and check again. The old man would likely be on the sun lounger on the Royal Caribbean cruise ship, alongside his mum right now, soaking up the Jamaican rays near Montego Bay. Time and time again he promised to accompany them one day, but he wouldn’t. Trapped on board a floating petri dish with thousands of strangers was Ian’s idea of Hell.

  “No thanks,” he shuddered inwardly.

  They weren’t due back in port for another ten days, but Ian checked the reminder on his phone for the eighth time, just in case.

  “Docking at eleven thirty. Disembarking by twelve thirty.”

  He would be in the carpark at twelve on the dot.

  Ian looked out of the warehouse window on the unbroken treeline surrounding their remote compound. The dark clouds in the grey sky were swelling, spoiling the view somewhat. But this was his Heaven. Empty, still, quiet. A rabbit hopped out from cover and seemed to stare directly up at him. Ian gave the furry critter a wave. The rabbit responded with a wrinkle of the nose before bouncing away.

  Heaven.

  “Ian, are you there?” asked Jasper over the radio.

  “Here, Jas. What’s up, dude?”

  “We’ve got some shady shit going down here. Are you still coming over?”

  “I’ve just put the coffee on for break. What’s up?”

  “Just get down here. And turn on the car radio.”

  “Will do. See you in ten.”

  “And Ian?”

  “Yeah, Jas?”

  “Bring some of the axes.”

  “Ok, dude. But why?” Ian let go of the transmit button and waited.

  Jasper didn’t answer.

  The team were on a maintenance job in the grounds of Wiggonholt Manor, one of the three stately homes that fell under their forestry contract. The lady of the house had complained that the bougainvillea in two of the public displays were dying. Ian thought she was full of shit, but when the boss calls, you answer. Soil samples were fine. It was just a few of the blooms were being lost to an unknown rot. The flower beds were still stunning. But for now, they would extract the dying flowers and plant fresh to tidy it up. Once the grounds closed in a few weeks, they would get to the bottom of the issue.

  Leaving the pot gurgling, Ian left their small office and headed to the tool lockup.

  “Why axes?” Ian muttered, taking four felling axes from the brackets.

  Leaving through the roller shutter, he ignored the quad and headed directly for the Land Rover. The exhilaration of hammering cross country on the machine would have to wait. Jasper was one of the most laid back people he knew, and Ian was the master. The edge in his friend’s voice was unmistakeable, and unheard of before the last transmission.

  “Jas, I’m on my way, dude.”

  The in car radio system remained silent, so Ian tried again on the handheld. Nothing.

  “Piece of fucking shit!” Ian spat, tossing the radio. It was decades out of date, but requests for a newer system were ignored. One of the senior managers had the temerity to send a snarky email telling him they should be willing to use their personal mobiles to stay in touch. Ian had sent a snarky email back in response explaining the concept of phone signal coverage in an area of woodland covering seven thousand acres with no local masts. The expletives hadn’t helped, resulting in a formal warning. Ian thought they were well placed and necessary.

  Turning the dial on the stereo, a local station came on playing banal pop music for mindless drones.

  “Give me The Fratellis any day,” he grumbled.

  Searching for another source, the one note caterwaul of Katy Perry gave way to a half hourly news broadcast.

  “A breaking news story is just coming to us from the local police commissioner. It appears large pockets of civil unrest are being reported across the country. Intelligence from GCHQ suggest this is not being orchestrated by any particular group or via an organised campaign on social media. Authorities have asked that all people return to their homes and stay off the streets. Remain indoors unless it is absolutely necessary. Police leave has been suspended while they bring the outbreak under control. The Prime Minister is currently chairing an emergency session of COBRA in Westminster. We’ll have more as we receive updates.”

  Is that what Jas was worried about? People kicking off? If anyone was threatening his crew, they would get the beating of their fucking life.

  Pressing the accelerator a little harder, the old vehicle picked up speed. The rutted tracks were unforgiving on the solid suspension, and Ian found himself bouncing around inside like a jack-in-the-box. Hitting a particularly deep divot, he bounced so high his head connected with the steel roof.

  “Fucking wanker!” he spat, massaging the growing lump on his scalp.

  Easing back on the throttle, he realised getting there in one piece was more important than gaining a few seconds and possibly wrapping himself around a tree trunk. Or completely flattening the top of his skull.

  Wild horses bolted as he sped past. Birds took to the skies. The unbroken forest passed in a green blur.

  “Jas, speak to me!”

  Silence from the radio.

  The song on the stereo cut away mid chorus.

  “We’ve just had word that the government has declared a state of emergency. All non-essential travel is now forbidden. Public transport, as well as domestic and international flights have been suspended. Take shelter where you can. Churches and public buildings have been deemed safe havens. The armed forces are being mobilised to support the eventual evacuation of population centres and aid the relief effort once the situation is brought under control. The government stresses that the decision to deploy the army has not been taken lightly. Their only concern is for the wellbeing of the public, and our frontline services. We’ve also got this short clip of the Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “Initial reports we were receiving from our officers were of people unwilling to comply with orders. They refused treatment by the ambulance services, even once restrained. Subsequent rumours of the rioters being… I don’t know how to say this without it sounding ridiculous… the rioters being dead, are, of course, completely false. Furthermore, the spread of this false information across social media will be fully investigated. Do not approach the rioters, who are nothing more than criminals who will face the full force of the law.”

  “That’s all we have currently,” finished the presenter.

  “Ian? Where are you?” crackled Jasper’s fraught voice.

  “Jas? I’m nearly there, dude. The southeast trail. Hold on!”

  Ian gunned it, holding on to the steering whee
l for dear life. The Land Rover rattled and complained from every rivet, but the sturdy work horse held together. Bursting through the open gate into the wide field, the ground improved dramatically, sparing his jarred bones from further discomfort. Half a mile away, the stunning manor house stood, steadfast and timeless.

  “Oh, fuck!” Ian hissed.

  The home was ablaze in the western wing. Is that what the axes were for? To break down doors and save those within?

  Ian floored it, diverting from the well-worn path, making a beeline straight across the meadow.

  As if in answer to the flames belching from a dozen windows, the heavens opened. The clear landscape disappeared into a hazy, liquescent meld of green, grey and orange. Switching the wipers on, they couldn’t cope against the sudden deluge. The scene opened up, then closed, then opened, flickering through the snapshots of growing devastation like an old slide projector.

  The already damp soil took on the rainfall and quickly became a quagmire that stole all traction from the Land Rover. Fishtailing, Ian wrestled to keep it in line. A boggy patch spun him a full one eighty and the engine coughed, then died. Twisting the ignition, it turned over and he shifted back into first. The wheels spun, churning deeper ruts, going nowhere.

  “Fuck you, you fucking fuck!” Ian yelled, punching the steering wheel.

  Jumping from the vehicle, the rain plastered his hair down in an instant. Thankfully, the ponytail held it in place, or he would be fighting the elements and his dripping, unruly locks. Grabbing the axes, he slammed the door, kicked the rear tyre in frustration, then started to forge towards the growing shouts at the back of the home.

  Two more windows exploded outwards, sucking in fresh oxygen like a drowning man.

  By the time Ian rounded the exquisitely pruned privet hedge, the whole west wing was a lost cause. Flames licked from beneath the tiles of the roof which would soon be collapsing inwards to add to the destruction. Ian’s boots were little more than clods of mud, and the water was running down through the neck of his raincoat, saturating him inside and out. He ran even harder, losing hunks of the soggy brown anchors to the path.

  The rear gardens were made up of four square flower beds set around the central fountain. Twin seasonal marquees were erected and joined to the east wing. One tied directly to the kitchen to provide a limited menu and a place to get out of the sun. The other was separated into six hubs with activities for the children ranging from colouring, to digging for fossils in sand. Jogging past the plastic coated fabric of the huge tent, Ian could just make out muffled fighting and cries of pain over the seething hiss of rain on the roof.

  “Jas? Where are you?”

  “Ian? I’m round here!”

  Ian came out into the gardens proper. People were hunkered over supine bodies, seeming to give first aid. Whatever had happened indoors had spilled outside. He looked around for the team, only seeing their three small tractors and the caged trailers for tools and cuttings.

  “Over here!”

  Jasper was crouching within the opposing oleander bushes, mostly hidden from sight. His unkempt grey hair was plastered to his head. The weathered age of his face had accelerated remarkably. From a rough looking fifties, he now looked eighty.

  “What the fuck’s going on, Jas?”

  “Hell, Ian. It’s Hell come to take us,” replied Jasper, terror stricken.

  “Snap out of it, Jas!” Ian ordered, tossing the weapons and dragging his friend from cover. “Where are the others?”

  “They ran inside when the first demons came. I got cut off. I hid.”

  “Demons? What the fuck are you talking about, dude?”

  “Them…” Jasper pointed at the visitors assisting the injured.

  “They’re helping, Jas!”

  “They’re… eating,” Jas shuddered, trying to back into the shrubbery.

  Ian held tight to his collar, but looked more closely at the gathered Samaritans. Rain, thick and unrelenting, washed over their hair and faces. One of the helpers rose from her crouched position, and Ian could see the clotted crimson before the fat droplets sluiced it away, dripping from her chin. She dove back in eagerly.

  “No…”

  “Yes,” confirmed Jasper.

  He pulled free of Ian, but not to hide this time. “We have to help them.” Picking up one of the axes, Jasper wiped the handle as best he could to get a grip.

  “What are they?” gasped Ian as the half eaten victim sat upright. The rain drenched gluttons lost interest now that their meal had become one of them. Standing up, they groaned and started to lumber towards the two men. The partially completed replanting in the flowerbeds was destroyed as they shambled onward. Pink blooms, already beaten under the ferocious rain, stood no chance against the ill-timed, awkward steps of the demons.

  “Be careful, Jas,” warned Ian as they drew near.

  “Die, demon” Jasper cried, burying his axe in the nearest woman’s chest.

  Ribs parted and her breasts bounced as she hit the floor, freed from her torn blouse by the blow. Jasper looked on in horror as she tried to sit up. The handle was too long and each time she moved, the wood hit the sopping mud and pushed her back down. Giving up, she rolled sideways, driving the blade deeper. Still, she ignored the awful wound.

  “Jas, keep moving, dude! They’re slow, we can outrun them.”

  Ian tossed him a second axe and started to jab at the monsters, utilising their lack of equilibrium to knock them over. In the distance, people and frantically revving engines screamed in unison as the visitors tried to flee from the public car park. Bulges appeared in the coated canvas of the marquees from the people fighting within. Blood streamed from below the pegged liner, giving the answer to who was victorious.

  “Are Melv and Norm definitely inside there?” Ian asked, clubbing another demon away with the blunt wedge of the axe. He wasn’t afraid. It was way past that. He was terrified, and wanted to be certain of their goal before committing. Getting trapped between a wall of fire and the cannibals wasn’t a good idea.

  “They wanted to help. They could see people at the windows.”

  Jasper pointed at the blackened openings which spewed dark smoke and tongues of soaring flame.

  “I don’t think they can be helped, dude. We need to get the others and get out of here.”

  “I’m ready,” said Jasper.

  Ian caught sight of the activities tent and turned away immediately. His mind couldn’t process the partly devoured children pushing through the door flaps, leaving small, bloody handprints on the glossy white. The adults were bad enough.

  A trio of demons met them at the food marquee entrance, midway through the hanging fabric. Ian held the axe sideways and barrelled forward, knocking them over like bowling pins. Dodging to the side to avoid their arms, Jasper followed suit. It was good to be out of the rain, but the concealing patter was weaker inside, and the sounds of tearing flesh and gurgling deaths were all around.

  “Dear God,” Jasper muttered.

  As an atheist, it was weird for him to talk of God and demons. Looking at the scene before them, Hell was the only explanation. Bloated, decomposing corpses slopped around, falling wetly onto whatever poor victim the more agile monsters held down. A mad painter had been let loose, his palette consisting only of varying shades of scarlet. The stench of rot, blood, and faeces fought with the clotted cream scones, winning decisively. A woman, bitten on the shoulder, stabbed desperately at the rear wall with a butter knife. Managing to puncture the strong material, she sawed fruitlessly at it with the blunt utensil until either exhaustion or shock caused her to collapse. The other demons were too consumed in their feasting to pay her any attention.

  “We can’t help them,” warned Ian. “Just stay out of their reach.”

  Moving rapidly between the human feasts, they headed around the trestle tables towards the tunnel that would lead them to the Manor’s kitchen.

  “She’s ok!” spat Jasper, coming to a halt. He looked at the th
rashing bodies, trying to find a route to the woman who had stood back up.

  “She’s not,” said Ian. Her eyes were white. The wound had stopped bleeding. She was one of them now.

  “Fiddlesticks,” muttered Jasper.

  It was the worst expletive Jasper would utter, which showed his level of distress.

  “Come on, dude. We need to find the others.”

  The servers were nowhere to be seen, most likely somewhere within the house. The cash register stood wide open, hundreds of pounds ripe for the taking. Ian closed it as he hurried past.

  Why did you do that, for fuck’s sake? he questioned. It was simple. Duty. Right and wrong. Even in the demon apocalypse.

  Steam and smoke eddied against the low ceiling of the joining tunnel, making them crouch lower to avoid the choking heat. Emerging into the kitchen, one of the chefs lumbered towards them, his hat still in place, his face missing. The lower half of the hygienic head covering was saturated with spilled blood, giving it a dipped, two tone effect.

  Ian considered leaping over the stainless steel counter, but the scattered food would probably cause him to slip. One mistake and the hefty cook would be eating again. Raising the axe overhead, he swung down, embedding the remaining pristine white of the hat into the top of his skull. As the man fell, the crimson leakage banished the last traces of white. Wrenching the weapon free, the chef stayed down.

  “I guess head wounds work?” Jasper suggested.

  “Idiot!” Ian snapped.

  “What did I do?” Jasper moaned, pained by the insult.

  “Not you, dude. Me! What monsters can only be killed by destroying the brain?”

  Jasper stared at him through streaming eyes. The smoke was getting thicker by the second. “How should I know?” Jas was a wanderer, like Ian. His interest in movies and fiction in general was non-existent. He preferred the wilderness and his own thoughts to the excitement of a car chase, or the shooting of guns. A slowly trickling stream in a deserted field, miles from human habitation, held far more allure than the ripe bosom of a mid-twenties starlet. His was a simple life.

  “Zombies, dude!”

  “Like from those films?” Jasper asked, following Ian out of the kitchen into the dining hall. He remembered seeing a poster in the eighties, something about the dead walking the earth. A half head, injured, like the rising sun. He was on shrooms at the time and it freaked him right out.