“What the fuck are you doing?”
“There’s sufficient suffering in the world without letting it linger. She needed you to help her and you refused.”
“I didn’t refuse, you sodding idiot. I was trying to help her.”
“Well, you were failing. I’m sorry if you don’t see that.”
Mass wiped the woman’s blood from his face and stomped away. He would get the person responsible for this, and Honeywell wouldn’t be able to put a stop to the suffering that followed.
“What the…? Dog shit! You have got to be dicking me?” Smithy lifted his foot and grimaced as the stench slid inside his nostrils. He’d survived the end of the world, but dog shit was still the worst.
What did this dog eat? A goddamn burrito!
In a temper, Smithy wiped his tatty Reebok against the kerb. He took it personally. Not much happened during a typical day, so something like this was enough to ruin his mood all week. The day he stood in dog shit would forever occupy a space in his mind beside ‘that day he cut his lip trying to drink out of a broken beer bottle’ or ‘that day he sprained his ankle trying to climb a roof’. The good days included such things as ‘found an entire box of Peperami’ and ‘found a porno mag under a bed’. There were far fewer good days than bad.
The demons had never showed interest in stray dogs – only people – which was why packs of them now roamed the landscape like starving hooligans. In the early days of the apocalypse any breed was a rarity, but it was clear now that the hounds had only been hiding until starvation left them with no choice but to re-emerge. Nowadays, they rooted through bins and dug their way through empty kitchens as if the world was theirs. Now and then, one would take a nip at Smithy, but he was always happy to reply with his ice hockey stick. He’d taken it, along with his once-white Reeboks, from a sports shop many months ago.
Smithy’s tummy rumbled. While trainers and hockey sticks were easy to find, food was getting scarce. Most of it was rotten or spoiled. He was rapidly losing weight, but luckily he’d been three stone too heavy to start with. He was far from skinny, but hunger was a growing concern. Starvation, for the first time in his life, was a possible reality.
God, deliver me a kebab with hot sauce and jalapeños, and a bottle of Lucozade to wash it down.
He didn’t know the name of the town he was in – it was easy to wander these days without paying much attention – but it was just like most others. A row of shops lay ahead and formed the high street, but they all had smashed-in windows. Torn-up bodies littered the pavements, along with boisterous weeds and fading litter. During the summer, the bodies would’ve hummed with flies and stink, but the recent winter had frozen their rotting flesh and sent the flies and the smells away. Now the corpses were stale and greasy like oily cardboard. Smithy wore a scarf across his face most of the time, but he didn’t know for sure if the bodies were pestilent. Eventually, he supposed, they would become harmless bone and dust.
If only he could find some living people. Not the odd stranger here and there, but a town full of hardy survivors with cool nicknames like ‘Dutch’ or ‘Ryker’. He constantly envisaged rounding the next bend and finding a working farm with armed soldiers on the walls and a tank guarding the heavily fortified entrance. Surely some part of civilisation had survived.
The bloody strays have managed it! I can still smell shit on my Reeboks.
Eight months had passed since the gates first opened, but it seemed like a decade. Smithy knew it had been less than a year because of the gold Seiko around his wrist – an eighteenth birthday present from his old man. It had both the time and the date, and it was the only thing he owned of any importance. Keeping the calendar alive seemed important.
Eight months.
Eight months since I watched a footie match. Eight months since I had a Sunday roast.
Eight months since I had a sodding shag.
How much longer can I do this?
Loneliness had never been an issue in Smithy’s former life. He’d been a qualified web designer with his own fledgling business and two younger brothers. He was popular – the life of the party – and while he’d had no girlfriend when the gates had opened, a long list of conquests filled his past. Life had been good. Not amazing, but good. Now he was a ghost haunting a dead world, digging through trash with stray dogs.
At the last count, Smithy had killed fourteen demons. In the early months of the apocalypse, the monsters had travelled in packs, but a while ago things had changed. Now they wandered in dazed stupors, seeming not to know where they were or what they were doing. Some didn’t even attack when they saw you – they just mumbled and fidgeted like lost children. On the odd occasions when he couldn’t avoid a fight, his advantage came from the fact that demons rarely thought to arm themselves. It was simple to take them out with a claw hammer or the sharpened butt-end of his ice hockey stick. There was something sad about putting them down, almost like he was giving them mercy.
Christ, he was lonely. To have a companion would be great, but whenever he found other survivors, they were half-starving and mad. Just a few days ago, he’d come across a skinny woman chewing on a tree branch. Perhaps she thought the bark would give her sustenance. She hadn’t spotted Smithy, so he’d snuck away without saying hello. He needed a survival buddy, not a burden. He could barely feed himself.
But he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about that woman since. She’d survived as long as he had, so perhaps she knew a thing or two. Maybe he should have said hello.
Yeah, right. We could have gone halfsies on some bark. Sorry, but I’ll pass. Give me a Big Mac any day.
Christ, I’ll never get to eat another Big Mac. Not even the gherkin. I’d even take a Filet-O-Fish at this point.
Smithy felt close to tears. The previous him would have been embarrassed, but when you lived each day in complete solitude, it actually helped to have a cry. It was cathartic. The lads weren’t there to laugh at him, so what was the harm? No sobs escaped him then though, only a voiceless trickle of tears. The chilly nip at his cheeks was rousing. Emotion was the only thing that reminded him he was still human in a world full of monsters, beasts and corpses.
When he stepped in another slopping pile of dog shit, his tears turned to curses. “Oh, you have got to be joking me? My Dog’s Trust membership is hereby revoked. Jeez, it smells like day-old curry. That dog needs a vet.”
Disgusted, Smithy started wiping his stinking Reebok against the kerb again, when he heard a shuffling sound to his right. It was a surprise to see a demon standing right there in the doorway of a charity shop, and at first he didn’t even realise it was one. Only the blistered flesh of its cheeks showed it was undead – or whatever.
Smithy gripped his hockey stick in both hands and rushed at the demon, but he skidded to a stop when it pointed a finger at him and growled. “You come near me with that, blud, and I’ll make you eat it, you get me?”
Smithy frowned. He’d heard demons talk before, in varying degrees of fluency, but none so clear as this. “W-Who are you?”
“I’m Frankie Walker, innit? I’m looking for my little bro. You seen ’im?”
“I, um…” Smithy cleared his throat. “What’s his name?”
“Davey. Blonde, short, nothing impressive, but he’s my blood. I need to find him, you get me?”
“Yeah, I, um, get you. Sorry, I haven’t seen anyone. Is he… Is he dead like you?”
The demon – or was it a zombie? – shrugged awkwardly. One of his shoulders seemed to pop in and out of place. “Dunno, blud. Waited for him in the other place, but he never came. Don’t remember how I ended up there, but Davey wouldn’t turn his back on me. He’s my little bro, innit?”
Smithy swallowed a lump in his throat. This sudden, unexpected conversation had left him off-balance. “Oh, um, well, maybe he didn’t end up in Hell then. That’s good, right?”
The demon suddenly changed. His oily face contorted and his bony hands bunched into fists. A knuckle broke
through the skin. “The fuck you on about? I weren’t in Hell, was I! Why would I be in Hell? Was just some other place.”
Smithy gripped his hockey stick and looked left and right, wary of more demons appearing from shopfronts and alleyways. “Easy! I don’t know where you’ve sodding been, do I? Was just making conversation. But you are, you know, dead or whatever?”
The demon stopped being angry and sighed. “I dunno, mate. It’s a proper head fuck. I remember hanging with my crew, smoking bud and chillin’ like normal. I remember being banged up in the nick for a while too. Other than that though… It’s all blurry. There ain’t no memories of how I went from my old life to… this.” He motioned to his body, rotting away beneath a black T-shirt and jeans. “You asked me if I’m dead, but it don’t feel like it. I’m still me, yeah, but it’s weird. Like I’m wearing my body instead of it actually being part of me. And there’s this tugging… like I’m supposed to be somewhere else.”
Smithy lowered his hockey stick and relaxed. This demon – as with all demons – was obviously dangerous, but it wasn’t a mindless monster like most of the rest. “I’m sorry, man. That sounds horrible. Did you, did you come through one of those gates?”
The demon ran a hand over its moulting scalp and coughed. The sound was like wasps escaping a drainpipe. “Last I remember is waking up in a pile of corpses. There were these soldiers putting bullets in anything that moved, so I got up and did one. Trust me, I’m gunna go back one day and take ’em all out. Fucking murderers. You reckon they killed Davey? He might have been with me in Portsmouth. If they hurt him…”
Smithy raised an eyebrow. “You were in Portsmouth? There were soldiers there?”
The demon kicked at the ground with a pair of heavy tan work boots. “Pussies with guns, innit? I’d like to see how hard they are without ’em.”
“But you were in Portsmouth, right?”
“Yeah, blud. There were signs that said Portsmouth everywhere, innit? The pile of corpses I woke up in was by the sea. There were boats. Dunno where I am now though. Lost track a while back.”
Smithy chewed his lip and lost himself for a moment. So there were still soldiers around? Still some remnant of humanity? Was Portsmouth a safe place? The type of place he had been dreaming of finding?
“You need to help me find my little bro.”
Smithy flinched as he realised the demon had walked right up to him, close enough that the odour was dizzying. The stench was worse than the dog shit.
Smithy took a step back. “I, um, I have to get going. You’ll find your brother, though, I’m sure.”
“Got better things to do, ’ave ya?” The demon waved a rotting arm, indicating the ruined town around them. A mud-caked border collie slunk out from behind a tipped-over wheelie bin and appeared to watch them for a while before heading into an alleyway next to Argos.
Smithy raised his hockey stick but was startled when Frankie lashed out and snapped it in two. Both pieces clunked against the pavement. The demon was strong. Angry. “Whoa, what the hell, man?”
The demon was trembling with rage, but it stayed rooted to the spot, almost like it was trying to calm itself down. After a few moments passed, it put its hands up. “Look, I’m sorry. My temper is… It’s a little up and down right now. I just need to find my little bro. Davey needs me. Please, man, can you help me? I don’t know where to start.”
Smithy nodded – partly because he was afraid to tell this thing no, but partly because he felt sorry for it. “It’s Frankie, right?”
“Yeah, blud. What’s your name?” The demon offered a hand. Mindful not to show his revulsion, Smithy reached out and took it. Oily skin soaked his palm.
“I’m Smithy.”
“Good to meet you, Smithy. You seem like a good bloke, innit? You’ll help me, yeah?”
Smithy gave a thin-lipped smile, wishing he’d chosen to make friends with the woman chewing on bark and not this shambling corpse. Nothing about this seemed like a good idea, but he had to admit it was nice having company. “Yeah,” he said, “looks like I’ll be helping you, Frankie. Let’s go find your brother.”
Maddy paced her office, unable to do anything but wait. She knew that at any moment someone would barge in and announce the worst news – that some stuffy old general, once probably weeks away from retirement, had arrived. While Wickstaff might not have taken command conventionally, Portsmouth was hers. She had fought for it. She had won it. The spoils of war belonged to the victor. Maddy feared for her place in the world if it wasn’t by Wickstaff’s side.
From what Maddy had heard, General Thomas had helped liberate a large chunk of the Middle East and Eastern Europe, so he was someone to be respected. That didn’t mean he could just waltz into Portsmouth at a moment’s notice though. Rationally, Maddy knew Thomas was coming home to help. After securing the Middle East – and the stability of the new German Confederation – Thomas was clearly turning his focus to where it would matter most. Perhaps he should be received as a hero for that.
And not as an unwanted guest.
Wickstaff had reclaimed less than ten per cent of the United Kingdom, but people still hailed her as the great saviour. It was good PR, but built on sand – Wickstaff had confided as much. One more combined, focused assault by the demons would topple Portsmouth, and only luck had seen it prevail this long. Most of their larger munitions were spent, and a majority of Portsmouth’s professional soldiers had died in the Great Battle. Luck had followed luck, however, and the demons had scattered and become confused after Portsmouth defeated the fallen angels. But if they found a new leader to guide them, war would reignite.
Maddy yelped as her office door flew open and Diane burst into the room. She gawped at Maddy with wide, excited eyes. “You told me to come get you as soon as he arrived.”
Maddy nodded, willing her stomach not to lurch into her throat. Wickstaff had said it would give the wrong impression to meet General Thomas at the docks herself, so she had handed the duty of greeting him to Maddy. The stuffy old relic would have to wait before being brought to Wickstaff at her convenience. They couldn’t treat him like a VIP in front of the troops until they understood his intentions.
He probably won’t like it.
Maddy had survived a demonic war and worked her way into becoming a general’s aide-de-camp, but interpersonal conflict made her fall to pieces. It was why she had lost almost every argument when she’d been married. She would usually give in rather than continue fighting. The thought of getting in the middle of two manoeuvring generals was making her nauseous.
But Wickstaff was relying on her.
“Thank you, Diane,” said Maddy. “Which berth did General Thomas sail into?”
Diane shook her head grimly. “All of them.”
Deciding not to ask questions and instead just get the ball rolling, Maddy hurried out of her office inside the port authority building and exited onto the docks. What she saw took her breath away. General Thomas had not arrived by ship. He had arrived by fleet. Twenty warships filled the horizon alongside dozens of smaller craft, twice the number of Portsmouth’s own navy. Several vessels had passed through the blockade and now sat at the quays. All flew the Union Jack proudly. In contrast, Portsmouth no longer flew flags. National pride seemed outdated after what had happened during the last year. They were no longer tribes from across the world – they were the living united against the damned. Apparently, not so for General Thomas and his forces.
It was easy enough to spot the general. The uniformed old man stood on the dock with two dozen well-presented soldiers milling around him. Again, in stark contrast to Portsmouth’s forces, who wore whatever clothing wasn’t ripped or covered in blood. Despite the differences, Portsmouth was unimpressed. The guards conducted their duties with only a cursory glance at the newcomers. Many held weapons at the ready as they stood at their posts, but others merely gazed at the massive fleet that had suddenly arrived on their doorstep.
Maddy straightened up her should
ers and marched across the tarmac. General Thomas acted as though he didn’t see her, right until she was nearly standing on his shoes. Then, suddenly, he feigned surprise, raising both of his fuzzy grey eyebrows at her. “Oh, are you finally here to receive me? I’ve been standing in this cold for twenty minutes.”
Maddy forced a smile, and she noticed that the day was not chilly, but mild bordering on warm. The sun was high in the sky. “I’m sorry, General. I just got word of your arrival.”
General Thomas lifted his nose and sniffed. “I’m assuming you’re not General Wickstaff, but forgive me for not knowing how to address you, you’re not wearing your uniform.”
Maddy chuckled. “Oh, no, I’m not a soldier. My name is Maddy. I’m General Wickstaff’s aide.”
“Are you telling me a civilian greets me? What kind of insult is this?”
“What? No, it’s just… I’m not quite sure what you…”
The old man stomped one of his large feet and folded his narrow arms across his shallow chest. “I come here to meet a fellow officer and they can’t even be bothered to come and greet me themselves.”
Suddenly there was the sound of running footsteps and Commander Tosco came hurrying across the tarmac. “General Thomas, sir, I do apologise. I was conducting a briefing with the junior officers and it overran. You made good time.” He snapped off a crisp salute. “I am Commander Tosco, General Wickstaff sent me to greet you. The tardiness is entirely my error.” He looked at Maddy and gave her a barely detectable nod. Had he overheard the frosty exchange and rushed to help? Or was he politicking, something he had a reputation for? He’d taken his current command from his dead superior, Commander Granger. The man’s daughter had become his ward.
General Thomas squinted at Tosco and curled his furry upper lip with a tut. “You’re an American?”
“I am indeed, sir. United States Coast Guard, as it happens, but Portsmouth is my new home. I fought here alongside some of the bravest men and women I’ve ever met.”
Hell On Earth Box Set | Books 1-6 Page 115