“No! No way. We can’t risk leading them back there. The children.”
Mike stared at her for a moment, his eyes bulbous and white. “Damn it, you’re right. Okay, let’s head to the shops across the road. Maybe we can barricade ourselves inside.”
The demons leapt the railings.
Mike shoved Stella in the back. “Go!”
Stella raced across the climbing frame and threw herself down the slide, nearly going head over heels at the bottom. Mike was right behind her and they rushed for the gate.
Demons filled the entire playground, more and more emerging from behind parked cars and alleyways. They hooted and screeched like taunting bullies. Their stink was awful.
Mike looked back and forth desperately. “They’re everywhere. Stella, I’m so sorry.”
Stella felt strangely numb. A demon moved in front of her, one eye missing and the other full of hate. There was no way to avoid this. No way out. “I’m glad I got to come here with you, Mike.”
“Hell of a first date, huh?”
“Don’t think there’ll be a second.” Stella reached out and took his hand, then closed her eyes and waited. “At least the children are safe.”
A crushing weight threw her to the ground. Strips of flesh were torn away from her body. Mike’s hand fell away from hers, leaving her alone in a writhing sea of monsters. The last thing she heard was distant screaming. The screaming of terrified children.
Being an estate agent had its perks. You got to wear a suit; you met lots of different people; and when the apocalypse arrived, you had keys to two dozen properties. Zolten – or Z as his colleagues had used to call him – chose to take cover inside a gated mansion in the heart of Warwickshire. Served by a single country road, the contemporary abode sat on the edge of a steep grassy hill, with a two-metre-high brick wall surrounding the front. A heavy iron gate kept out unwanted visitors. The security alarms and cameras stopped working as soon as the power grid had failed, but a panic room in the master bedroom sat behind a mechanical lock. The mansion was the safest place he had been able to think of when the demons had arrived. It had worked out perfectly.
Z was proud of the fact he had kept his head during those first days of panic, thinking rationally while everyone else was running around screaming. Rather than risk the chaos of the supermarkets, he had hit a handful of corner shops, emptying his account to buy as much pasta, tinned food, bottled water, and toilet rolls as he could shove in the cavernous boot of his beat-up Freelander. Then he had floored it to Samdean Cottage – although the word ‘cottage’ was a misnomer seeing as the original structure had been extended to add an additional four bedrooms, three new bathrooms, a billiards room, and twin garages. It had belonged to a Mr Paul Standing, but that man was now almost certainly dead.
During the first days of the apocalypse, Z had witnessed cars flying down the country road and had heard endless sirens in the distance, but it didn’t take long for the world to go quiet. He’d been alone for almost a year and was in no doubt about the effect on his sanity. Instead of silence, Z spoke to himself constantly, even making himself laugh with ridiculous jokes. His beard had grown so long that it touched his chest even when he was looking up. He knew he stank, but he didn’t care. Water no longer came out of the taps, so to have a wash he resorted to standing outside in the rain. The garden was full of buckets and containers used to capture drinking water, which saved his life seeing as how the bottled water had lasted less than two months. Food was becoming an issue; there were only stale crackers and two jars of honey left. Soon he would have no choice but to go out into the wild and see what he could find. He had seen no demons since the early days but assumed they were still out there somewhere. If mankind had survived, the power would have come back on. There would be cars on the road again. He would have heard those sirens.
Often Z saw rabbits, and even deer, from the upper windows of the house. He could try to hunt them, which would be safer than venturing into town, but he didn’t know where to start. His lack of survival skills would disappoint his father back home in Romania – if he still lived – for there, many men knew how to hunt. It was not uncommon to live off the land in Romania. In the UK, people were fat and lazy, and Z had happily become one of them.
And yet I am still alive, Papa. Are you?
Part of me hopes so.
Part of me does not.
Z had left Romania mostly to get away from his father, who was an unaffectionate man who cared more for his cattle than his son. While he respected his father’s toughness and willingness to apply himself to hard labour, it was not a life any young man dreamt of. No, Z had dreamt of fast cars and posh houses. He wanted to be a rich businessman, and property was where it was at. He had possessed no money so had got himself a job in real estate. Eventually, he planned to save enough to buy a first property of his own – a flat, most likely, in a nice area. Buy cheap and sell high, that was the name of the game. Look for the desperate sellers, the stupid seller, those with no idea where the market was headed. His agency’s clients were just pound signs to Z, and it was all practice for when he went it alone and made his fortune. Then his father would have had no choice but to marvel at his success.
And choke on it.
No chance of that now though. There were no more clients, no more banks, and no more use for money or fortune – only morning, noon, and night. Seconds ticking by on a clock. Nowadays, you measured success by survival. Every day Z got through in one piece was a win, separating him from those already dead. In the new world, he was a rich man just by being alive.
But am I really alive? Is this life? I thought about food and water, but I wish I’d brought books. I wish I’d brought anything that would help me pass this time. How much longer can I keep doing this?
“I might be the last man on Earth,” he said to himself, chuckling. “I finally have the big house, but there’s no one left to envy me.”
Z spent a few minutes staring out the back windows at the rolling fields sloping down behind the house. Part of him suddenly broke, like a spring snapping past the point of no return. “A-ți lua inima ’n dinți, Z. It is time to do something. I would rather die than stay here another year. Papa would despise my laziness. I must work.”
And just like that, Z packed a bag and walked out the front gate. He kept himself company by whistling as he strolled down the overgrown country road. Every second he failed to meet a demon gave him hope, while every second he failed to meet another person caused him despair. No matter what, however, he was free. Free in a way that big houses and fancy cars could not make him. He had no burdens beyond taking his next breath and his next step.
When he reached a restaurant called the Coach House at the end of the road, he envisioned finding it full of people. They would tell Z that everything was fine, and that he had been hiding out in Samdean Cottage for nothing. Then they would all share a good laugh. That wasn’t the punchline he discovered though. The punchline was the number of demons amassed in the Coach House’s car park. It was like they’d been waiting for him.
Z slowly put his bag down at his feet. He opened his arms wide and made sure all the demons saw him. “Okay, dracu, let’s negotiate. You want this, you’ll have to come in with your best offer.”
The demons sprinted at Z, making his bladder leak into his briefs. He wanted to run, but the only place to go back to was Samdean Cottage. Even if he could make it, he would rather die than hide out there any longer. He had come to the UK to live fast and die young, not to cower and starve.
The first demon was fast and tiny, possibly a child in a former life. Z threw a punch and almost knocked its rotten jaw off, then threw another hard right at a second demon, which only glanced off its forehead. When it attacked again, Z saw an undead woman with a missing eye. A third demon collided with him and bit a chunk out of his arm. Z didn’t allow himself to scream. He headbutted the demon and sent it sprawling onto its back. “Sare din lac in put,” he said, then translated out of
habit. “Out of the frying pan and into the fucking fire, no?”
The child demon lunged at Z’s legs, causing him to stumble. The undead one-eyed woman wrapped its arms around his shoulders and squeezed. He fought to break free but was unable to move his arms as the monster bit into his neck. Terror surged inside him as his blood spurted out. He couldn’t run from the fear, he could only use it. He snapped his arms free of the undead woman’s grasp and jammed a thumb into its remaining eye. It stumbled backwards, blind, and didn’t see it coming when Z booted its legs out from under it.
Next, he dealt with the child, dodging about and wrapping an arm around its throat. It was remarkably easy to twist its neck and snap its spine. Its frail body collapsed to the ground like a rag doll. That left only the third demon. This was the largest, an obvious male. Its burnt face oozed pus. The demon grabbed Z by the wrist and wrenched until something snapped. This time, the pain was enough to make Z cry out. His voice garbled, and he realised his throat was full of blood. His vision throbbed, colour coming and going, edges fuzzing. With his right wrist broken, Z couldn’t hit hard enough to take out the large demon, nor could he snap its neck. With no rational plan, he acted on impulse, lunging at the demon and sinking his teeth into its neck. Rancid flesh squelched between his teeth. Z tasted pus on his tongue but kept on biting, kept on chomping down with all his remaining strength. Eventually, he struck a cluster of fragile bones and crushed them one by one until the demon finally tore itself away. Its head lolled against its shoulder and it staggered like a drunk. Z tripped it to the ground and stamped on its skull, satisfied when it broke apart like a watermelon.
The blind woman snarled and lashed out at the empty air surrounding it. Z kicked it over and stamped its head to mush as well. Then he collapsed to the ground, panting and spluttering. His body had turned cold and it was hard to breathe, but he felt good. He studied the three dead demons, in awe of his own savagery. In this new world, he was indeed a very rich man.
Less than an hour later, Z’s fortune ran out as he bled to death where he lay.
2
All remaining Hell gates close, blinking out of existence across the globe in a single second. For many – those holed up some place or surviving as a militia – it spells victory. Men, women, and children cheer, believing the end of the world to finally be over. Demons caught by the shockwaves are obliterated. Others further away are left isolated and vulnerable. The threat to mankind’s existence has suddenly and inexplicably gone away.
Salvation has arrived.
But the joke is on mankind.
As those many thousands of gates close, a single one opens – a mammoth, sky-swallowing lens that spews forth a great demon army along with its magnificent leader.
Crimolok crashes onto wet ground, cloven feet carving through the earth. The tattered human vessel that held him prisoner lies nearby. The months of entrapment are mere seconds to a being such as Crimolok. Soon, he shall be the oldest creature in existence. The universe shall be his, corrupted and twisted in his image. No more mankind. No more Heaven and Earth. No more God.
Crimolok’s chattering hordes gather, the vilest of former humanity among them, the most twisted murderers and fiends. Mankind’s small victories have succeeded only in postponing its own inevitable destruction. Despite Crimolok’s infinite wisdom, he underestimated humanity’s desire to live. He had thought to destroy it en masse, but that only split the large rock into many pebbles. The proper action all along was to gather his minions like this and peel the flesh of mankind away one glistening strip at a time. Mankind will collapse beneath the weight of his crushing advance.
The end is coming, and it is I.
Crimolok sends forth his legions to purge God’s Earth of every scrap of life, to blot out the sun itself, and to bathe in the blood of chaos.
It shall be glorious.
General Thomas climbed onto the stage in the centre of Portsmouth’s dockland. Speaker systems had been set up throughout the city because the civvies needed to hear him as much as the servicemen. This was the moment Great Britain rose from the ashes. The rebirth of a proud, unmatched nation.
Colonel Cross lingered beside a microphone stand and stood to attention when his superior arrived. “General Thomas, everything is ready and awaiting you.”
“The speakers are live?”
“Your voice will reach the entire population of Portsmouth, sir. Thirty thousand people.”
“Thank you, Colonel. Dismissed.”
Colonel Cross saluted, turned on his heel, then briskly exited the stage. Thomas positioned himself behind the microphone, taking a moment to observe the crowd. These were his people. With that insubordinate female, Amanda Wickstaff, out of the way, there would be no civil war, no infighting or divided front. Portsmouth would face the enemy as one united people. There were only a few dissenters to worry about now.
The crowd directly in front of the stage represented Thomas’s most loyal forces – his officers and specialists. Further out were his regular forces, along with the soldiers who had served Portsmouth before his arrival. In the ruins of the city and the quieter parts of the docklands were the civilians. It was they who most needed to hear his words. Their weak hearts needed emboldening.
Thomas cleared his throat, leant forward, and began. “People of Portsmouth, this is General Thomas addressing you. Some of you do not know me well, but I would like to express my gratitude to every citizen of this remarkable city. I am grateful that you fought with tooth and nail to survive. I am grateful that you refused to give in to fear, that you were unyielding to the brutality and violence designed to cow you. Each of you is a warrior, and I call upon you now to keep that warrior spirit alive. Continue fighting. Continue refusing the enemy at every turn. Do that, and I promise you victory. Do that, and we shall one day stand triumphant. We hail from many different places, but today we stand as brothers and sisters of Great Britain.”
There was a brief cheer from the gathered forces, but it was not as loud as he’d hoped. While his long-standing troops were proudly British, those who had served under Wickstaff seemed to have shed their national identity. It would take some time to restore their patriotism, especially in those who hailed from foreign climes. Nonetheless, he was duty-bound to try. “Our enemy is wounded, and we must be merciless. We must show our foe the same savagery it showed to us. We must not relent. We must not stop. The fight can only end once our homeland is wholly liberated. There will be battles to come, I assure you, for the enemy will now do the only thing it can. It shall rally its remaining forces and attempt, one last time, to annihilate us. We must ready our daggers to plunge into the heart of that dying beast, and to do so we must stand together. No longer shall there be soldiers and civilians. From this day forward, we are all soldiers. All shall be trained. All shall receive their duties with courage and conviction. We must fight as one and for each other, or we shall surely die.”
Muffled dissent spread through the far edges of the crowd. That they even dared to consider the veracity of his words inflamed Thomas greatly. His heart pounded in his chest. “What I speak of is not optional. Portsmouth will become a well-oiled machine of war. Anyone impeding its efficiency shall find themselves unwelcome within its walls. Burdens will not be tolerated.”
“Murderer!” someone shouted.
“Long live General Wickstaff!” yelled another.
Thomas’s cheeks grew hot. He searched the crowd – whoever had shouted would be shot – but he couldn’t identify the offenders. The sheer number of bodies packed together ensured anonymity. His rage spilled out, but he forced himself to contain it. This was not the time for blunt force. “I understand the loss many of you are feeling. Amanda Wickstaff was a hero in the truest sense of the word. She fought alongside you, risking death and injury when she could have sat back and sent others to their deaths. She led Portsmouth to victory after victory in the absence of any established authority. No doubt she was the finest of women and the bravest of souls, bu
t she was also tired. Upon my arrival in Portsmouth, Amanda expressed her relief to me. She was grateful to hand over the mantel and rest. Unfortunately, she never got the chance. The enemy took her from us. Please know that I am not seeking to replace Amanda Wickstaff, only to protect what she has built. As long as Portsmouth stands, she will never be forgotten. She will be the first and most revered saint of our new world. Future generations shall praise her name. For those of you who resent me being here, please know that Amanda Wickstaff welcomed me. So I ask you – no, I beg of you – to please move forward and focus on our true enemy. Let’s wipe those demon bastards off the face of the Earth.” He hated to use the D word – it reeked of hysteria – but he knew the reaction it elicited in people. Their mutual hatred and fear of their enemy galvanised them and made them family. By using the word, he was one of them. He also hated having to indulge the hero worship of his ignorant predecessor, but it was a necessary evil. If Portsmouth had remained in Amanda Wickstaff’s charge, it would have become a mass grave. The woman had been soft, as all women were, and had cared about her people far too much. The only thing that mattered was the survival of the human race, and he, General Thomas, was the only person willing to lead with that sole purpose in mind.
Let people think me callous or uncaring. At least they will live.
Thomas’s words had the intended effect. The crowd directly in front of him pumped their fists and cheered. Those further afield – those struggling with past loyalties – seemed more supportive too. That was how easy it was to gain a man’s loyalty. Mere words could do it.
General Thomas turned and marched across the stage. He couldn’t help but notice the guilty flicker in Colonel Cross’s eyes as he passed the man. There had been many disappointments in the last few days, but Colonel Cross’s failure to apprehend General Wickstaff’s aide-de-camp, Maddy, was amongst the most grievous. The woman had gone missing, and the only way it could have happened was if somebody had helped her.
Hell On Earth Box Set | Books 1-6 Page 139