Hellspawn (Book 1)

by Fleet, Ricky

  “Honey, do you hear that barking?” Kurt asked, concentrating.

  Sarah was struggling to open her eyes; they were still bleary and blinking at the sudden change. The bark came again, but it was close.

  “Yes, I hear it. Where’s it coming from?” Sarah asked, sitting up.

  Kurt jumped out of bed and went to the small patch of glass, looked this way and that but couldn’t see anything. He left their room and went into the front bedroom and looked to the right and then to the left. There it was! A golden Labrador, its fur was dirty and matted with blood, as it moved around it favoured the front left paw and limped on the other. The dog was focussed on the end house with the killing table. It would bark furiously at it then run away as a zombie approached, after finding a safe spot it would then commence barking again.

  “Oh the poor thing, look at the way it’s limping, it can’t keep this up for long. Why is it barking at the house?” Sarah asked.

  “I have no idea.” Kurt was at a loss, there were no people in there and it wasn’t barking at the zombies specifically. There were many trying to get it that was being ignored, except when they got too close.

  “Dad, what’s going on?” Sam asked coming into the room.

  “There’s a dog out there barking at the end house,” Kurt explained, moving aside as Sam took a look through the gap.

  “We have to help him. He will get eaten if we leave him out there!” Sam looked horrified.

  “We can’t Sam.” Sarah tried to be diplomatic about it. “If we let him in, there is no way to tell if he is trained or whether he will endanger us. There is also the danger that we may get attacked if we open any doors. Look at how many of them there are.”

  Sam looked again and knew in his heart that she was right. There were over a hundred spread over the front gardens of their block now. The family had been able to sleep in relative comfort last night after killing the group of zombies in order to get to the mystery house.

  “We could always let him in one of the houses that is fairly clear of them.” Sam was desperate to help, but his parents just looked at him lovingly and shook their heads.

  “We just can’t risk it buddy,” Kurt said, commiserating with him and wishing they could help. The blood was not a good sign. They had no idea if animals were affected by the change.

  “KURT, COME HERE QUICKLY!” John yelled from the hallway.

  “What’s the matter? Have you heard the dog too?” Kurt enquired as he reached his father, who was looking up at the attic.

  “Can you smell that?” John asked, sniffing.

  Kurt stepped forward and in the air flows coming from the attic hatch he couldn’t mistake the smell of gas. “It’s gas! How is that possible, we have no water or electricity…” Kurt was completely at a loss, but then a thought hit him like a hammer blow. “SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!”

  “What?” John shouted as Kurt ran into the bathroom and returned with a large saucepan of water.

  “THE FIRE!”

  Kurt rushed past John and into the bedroom, throwing the contents into the fireplace, the fire exploded with steam as the water instantly boiled, a cloud of warm wet air and flecks of ash surrounded him. Their carpet was covered in filth that had sprayed from the opening and the air was thick with the residual smoke of the dying fire. John had followed him in and was coughing and waving his hand in the air, trying to clear it.

  “What are we going to do? We need to turn it off, now!” Kurt made for the ladder and climbed into the attic. Everyone was awake and concerned, wondering when it would ignite and consume them in a blazing maelstrom.

  “Shall we open the windows?” Sarah called after him urgently.

  Kurt had to think, the gas was building up minute by minute, the open windows would buy them some time but it would attract the dead. The explosion was their most pressing danger.

  “Do it baby, but try not to be seen.”

  John had joined him and they sniffed the air once more, sensing a heavier odour permeating from the hole that led to the killing table house. They hurried through, coughing at the acrid smell of the gas as it burned their throat. The hole that they had cut in the roof was allowing a lot of the gas to escape. It had obviously been building for many hours for it to spread down through three houses. The dog caught sight of them and barked, tail wagging. A zombie lurched forward and Kurt nearly screamed a warning, but the dog bolted to the side with ease. The undead creature fell flat on its face and left bits of skin on the tarmac where it had landed. The dog stopped, barked, and started to wag its tail again.

  “What the hell, do you think it smelled the gas and wanted to warn us?” Kurt looked at his dad quizzically.

  “If he hadn’t woken us, we may have been overwhelmed by it, or blown sky high before we had a chance to shut it off.” John looked down at the furred saviour. The mutt had sat down, no longer barking, almost as if it was getting comfortable to see what would happen to the humans next. The dog then cocked his head to one side, as if to say, ‘are you going to stand there all day or get moving?’

  Sarah, Sam and Braiden had joined them, carrying weapons.

  “What the hell are you doing? Get out of here!” Kurt ordered them.

  “Do you think it matters where we are if this blows?” Sarah asked him, sarcasm dripping. Kurt was going to argue, but she was right.

  “Dad, what do you think?” Kurt asked while taking his hammer and looking down through the attic hatch. The zombies were still mainly trapped on the lower floor, enthusiastically reaching towards their breakfast. It was clear at least two had made it upstairs and were reaching up at the hatch. They could see a tangle of broken bodies where the missing stairs were, limbs and heads still moving. They had probably used the piles of flesh as a step to reach the intact stair treads. Sam stepped forward and drew his arm back, a steel bearing sat in the pouch, and he aimed at the head of one of the corpses.

  “NO!” John shouted and caught Sam’s hand just before he made the shot. He carefully eased the stretched rubber back to the sling and lowered his arm.

  “Any spark will blow us to kingdom come, we can’t be sure it wouldn’t ricochet and cause an explosion,” Kurt explained.

  Sam’s face went white. He could have killed them all in his eagerness to shoot another zombie head. The rotting zombies were unfazed at their near brush with death, their moans and efforts to seize the survivors increased in ferocity. The hatch was well out of reach and they were in no immediate danger from them. The gas was ever present, the noxious smell overpowering. They could actually see a haze in the air as it rose through into the loft.

  “We will have to fight our way through them to get to the gas pipe,” Kurt told them; raising the spear that Sarah had passed him.

  “Be careful for God’s sake!” John cautioned, knowing that the pipe could also be the cause of a spark, but was easier to control.

  Kurt aimed carefully and thrust downwards catching the zombie in the cheek and tearing the jaw away in one blow. It fell to the floor in a splash of jelly like liquid. The zombie’s mouth was just a row of smashed upper teeth and a large hanging tongue, which slobbered and licked the air now that it was free of the oral cavity.

  “Jesus Christ!” John said. This new scene was a fresh nightmare that he was sure would revisit him in the darkness.

  Kurt steadied his arm and didn’t miss the second time, the spear smashed through the top of the head, burst through the roof of the mouth and pierced the tongue which was still trying to wriggle and move. A third had joined the fray as the cadaver died properly. They just didn’t know how many were on the upper floor. Descending onto the landing could be suicide by teeth. They hesitated and tried to think of a way to deal with this, frustration quickly grew to desperation as their minds came up blank. A fourth Hellspawn had now appeared.

  “I don’t know what to do!” Kurt admitted, defeat in his voice. Had it really come to this, surviving the dead only to be killed by an oversight? None of them had believed the gas w
ould still be running through the pipelines. Kurt sat down, despair taking him.

  “I can turn it off,” Braiden told them, standing by the hole.

  “We can’t get to it Braiden!” Kurt shouted at him, shaking his head, did he not listen to anything?

  “I know where the lever is. If I…” Braiden persisted.

  “YOU. CAN’T. FUCKING. GET. TO. IT!” Kurt had stood and was taking his anger out on the poor boy.

  Braiden welled up and his face reddened. Sarah had seen enough.

  “Shut up and listen to him! What the hell is the matter with you?” she shouted inches from Kurt’s face, the shock almost as bad as a physical blow. She then turned to Braiden, her voice low and soothing, “Sorry honey, what is your plan?” Sarah asked.

  “You won’t like it…” he said, wanting to elaborate but knowing they would say no.

  “No, let’s have it lad.” John had joined Sarah and Sam as they waited for his plan. Kurt was at the hatch, nursing his bruised ego.

  “Ok. Well. Umm, you will need to lower me on the table.” He waited for the shouts and accusations of being stupid. They didn’t manifest, they looked worried but were waiting for the rest of the plan.

  “When I am down, I just need to run inside the front door to the utility cupboard where Mr Taylor smashed the fuse. It’s just a lever by the meter in there, the same as in all of our homes. The zombies inside are looking up here and the ones outside are chasing the dog,” he continued, motioning at the events in the front of the house. An ever growing group were falling over each other to eat the poor animal that was weakening by the minute. The limp was nearly stopping him using the leg at all. “Then you pull me back up to safety.” He waited while they considered it.

  “You will be in grave danger. We won’t be able to help you down there.” Kurt had stepped forward. “I am so sorry for shouting at you buddy, that is a great plan, I wouldn’t have thought of it. I personally don’t want you to risk your life like that.”

  They knew they were out of time and options, any second the fridge back in their home could start up and cause an electrical spark that would ignite the gas. Even pulling the plug out could have caused the spark and the spontaneous combustion of them all.

  “Do we have a choice?” Braiden was right.

  They helped him to carefully climb on the table top. It was wet and rocked with the shifting weight. Braiden knelt down and clutched the rope for extra stability, his trusty pointed screwdriver in his right hand. They carefully untied the ropes and took the weight as best they could. This time, lowering the table had to be all in sync or he would topple off and break something. Laying there in agony, Braiden would watch while the zombies advanced to devour him. When all four ropes were loose, they let it down inch by slow inch. He was looking at them as he gradually dropped down past the roof height and out of sight with a final smile. They were grunting and sweating, their muscles screamed their pain and the temptation to let go and massage their aching hands was nearly all consuming. Suddenly the weight disappeared as the top came to rest on the pile of festering bodies that they had slain previously.

  Braiden picked a spot of grass and leapt from the table, landing nimbly and looking around. None had seen him yet; their attention was totally on the dog. He tried to move away but his foot was caught. Looking down, he saw a rotting hand had grabbed his trouser leg and it held fast. He tried to shake it loose but the fingers were locked tight. Panic gripped him and he suddenly realised how dangerous this was. A face looked at him from the mass of festering bodies, it was crushed and trapped but hadn’t been killed by the nail table. It had fallen with the weight of dead flesh and joined the mound. Braiden closed his eyes and took two deep breaths to calm himself. He knelt down and rammed the point of the screwdriver in through the right eye and into the brain of his captor. The grip loosened at once and he carefully peeled the fingers away, one by one. They were slimy and cold. He wiped the rotting juice from his own hand onto the sleeve of the carcass. Fighting back nausea, he stood and scouted once more before stepping around and looking in the front door.

  He moved in through the door, exaggerated the steps to make sure they were silent. The dead were only a few paces away. If he had taken eight good strides, he could have tapped them on the shoulder and said hello. Instead, he silently made his way forward and reached the door. He grasped the handle and pressed it down slowly. Watching the zombies, he gently eased the door open, but as it neared the last few inches the hinges squealed in protest. The corpses turned to face him, dozens of milky dripping eyes stared intently at their prey. They came for him.

  He felt his bowels threaten to loosen into his trousers, but instead of giving in and cowering in a ball as they ate him alive, he reached in and pulled the safety handle stopping the gas flow. They were three paces away when he turned and fled. Had any noticed him and blocked the way, he would have been torn apart, but his luck was holding. The dog was proving a troublesome target and some had given up, heading back towards the house. In the garden, Braiden dodged one as it grabbed at him and stabbed another through the temple that was directly between him and the waiting lift.

  They were shouting in fear for him as he scrambled up and onto the wooden top, his feet sinking into gloopy wetness and crunching in places. He tried to avoid looking at the shiny paste that coated his shoes and lower trouser legs as he held the rope for dear life. The zombies were surrounding him, they reached for his warm flesh but the pile was aiding him. He stood in the centre of the table and they were tripping over the outstretched arms, legs, and body parts of their fallen brethren. If they had been more agile, it wouldn’t have stopped them, but their lack of cognitive thought saved Braiden. He was being raised upwards, his heartbeat pounding within his chest, but slowing as he escaped danger. A flash caught his eye and he was amazed to see the dog run up the pile and leap for the table. It landed with body and front paws on the varnished surface, its legs frantically scrabbling for purchase, but it wasn’t to be. The dog slid backwards and its eyes locked onto Braiden’s as it lost its grip, a look of longing and trust as it fell. Braiden dropped to the edge on his belly and grabbed for the dog’s legs, catching them at the paws and causing the dog to yelp in pain. The table top swung wildly and he nearly slid straight off the side and into the hungry arms of the waiting dead. It was only quick thinking and luck that he splayed his legs out and caught the ropes with his toes. The dog was fairly heavy but he managed to get a better grip on the legs, and then finally the body. As he pulled it up, the agile dog climbed over his shoulder, raking Braiden’s skin. It was now safe on the platform at last.

  “I’m sorry boy, are you ok?” Braiden stroked the golden head and rubbed behind its ears. He had hurt the front legs, the dog was reluctant to put any weight on them, but it was better than the alternative. It pressed against him, nudged his hand with its head, wanting more attention.

  They reached the top, his family becoming visible and the discomfort on their faces caused him to reach for the timber boom, trying to lessen the strain on their bodies. The added weight of the dog was nearly too much for them and he could see they were being dragged forward. The dog seemed to sense the urgency too and jumped from the table, landing with another yelp of pain as its front leg hit the attic floor.

  Braiden was hanging onto the timber. “Let it go, I’ve got a good grip.”

  Reluctantly they counted down to one and let the table fall. The sound of impact was wet and squelched, the deadly table squashing the gathered zombies who would not feed this day. Braiden swung his legs up and shimmied down the wood, army training style. They reached for him, pulling him to safety and falling in a gasping, sweating, swearing heap. The dog limped over and licked at their faces, kissing them in its own way. Laughing mixed in with their panting; they hugged each other in their relief and joy. They pulled the Labrador close and hugged him too. The tail wagged with pleasure, hitting them in the face and causing more laughter.

  The family gathered their
thoughts and continued to pet the new addition to the group; however the dog’s exuberance was fading. The gas was dispersing through the roof and moment by moment, the air was becoming easier to breathe. It would be a while before it had all gone. They still had to remain wary of igniting the remaining vapour.

  “You were so brave!” Sarah complimented Braiden and hugged him.

  Kurt joined them and hugged them both, “I wanted to apologise again mate, you have worked a miracle today. I will cook you whatever you want for dinner.”

  Braiden laughed into their shoulders, “Thanks Mr T.”

  Braiden left Kurt and Sarah and knelt by the dog who had laid down, the exhaustion and pain finally overcoming the furred saviour. Braiden stroke its belly and the tail wagged feebly, then laid still.

  “He’s dying!” Braiden wailed.

  “I don’t think so. And it’s a she, look.” John pointed out. “Let’s get her home and feed her, she could probably do with a good meal and a sleep.”

  Braiden lifted her as if she would break into a million pieces and moved through the other attics, stepping with care, trying to minimise the dog’s pain. John had gone ahead and returned with a spare duvet.

  “Lay her on this Braiden. You can’t climb down the steps with her in your arms. Take the four corners and lower her to me gently,” John instructed.

  “No, you pass her down to me,” Braiden said and the look on his face brooked no argument.

  He laid the Labrador down with veneration, stroked her head once more and descended the ladder. John picked up the duvet and slowly lowered her into his waiting arms. Gloria helped him take the injured dog into the bedroom, where they laid her close to the fireplace, which would be lit again once the air had cleared. Braiden picked a can of tinned chicken chunks, pulled the ring on the lid and sat down beside the filth covered dog. He placed one piece at a time on his palm and offered them to her. Lacking the energy to raise her head from the duvet, she plucked them from his outstretched hand with her tongue and chewed gratefully. After only a few mouthfuls, she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep, cheeks fluttering with her breath.