The Gates: An Apocalyptic Novel

by Iain Rob Wright

  He grunted into the radio. “Engaging enemy. T-minus ten till fire.”

  “Proceed as planned,” he received back.

  Hans kept his Tornado under his control. He could have let the plane automatically follow the flight plan entered into its systems, but he liked to have the final say at crunch time. There was no machine yet able to think on its feet, and when it came to releasing death on a target, being able to make a last-second alteration was vital. Not that he expected any reason to change his mind in this instance.

  As he sped towards the burgplatz once again, he saw the enemy teeming on the ground like ants. No, not like ants—like vermin. They were there to overrun and destroy, like a horde of rats inside a pantry. They would leave behind nothing but filth and remains. Unless they were dealt with like the pests they were.

  Hans removed the shield from the top of his flight stick, revealing the red FIRING button beneath. He poised his thumb over it, waiting for the ideal firing solution. The flight computer told him it would be only three seconds away.

  3

  2

  1

  Ping!

  The electronic targeting reticule went from red to green and it was time to press the button, but in the split second between his brain telling his thumb to press down and his thumb actually doing it, he saw something.

  He lifted his thumb away just in time.

  A mother and her child stood on top of a rooftop, waving their arms at his plane as it swooped towards them. They thought their salvation had arrived. The mother clutched her little boy in her arms and told him to wave his arms in time with her. The woman had a smile on her face so wide that he could see it from the air.

  She reminded Hans of his own wife and his own son, safely tucked away in their cottage in the hamlet of Genheim, two hundred miles from the nearest gate. But were they truly safe there? Were the demons below ever going to stop? How many of them would come through the gates?

  The only thing he could do to protect his family was to kill as many of the enemy as he could. He gave the mother and her little boy one last look, and then pressed FIRE.

  Death rained down on the city of Dusseldorf.

  Damien Banks

  Birmingham

  Damien Banks was an investment banker in the city. It was a job he hated—and most other people hated him for doing it. Bloody bankers—but the money was good and it pleased his father. Jan Banks was a hard man to please, but money seemed to do it. When he had made a fortune by building a vacuum cleaning empire, he had expected his layabout son to get off his butt and do the same. Damien had chosen banking because he lacked the imagination to make money through anything more creative. When his father had told him to make money, his mind had made the simple step right to banking, so he had studied economics and taken a job at a bank. It was strange, but he had always felt like he was meant for something greater. Being a banker was so—shit!

  It was because of his stuffy, suited role as a banker that left Damien so surprised by how well he was faring in the current crisis. Demons had attacked the city—and everywhere else, it seemed—but he was somehow unfazed by it all. He had left his office on Corporation Street and headed towards the new Grand Central Station where refugees were quickly being hustled underground. The army were engaging the enemy and flying glass and debris rained from the skies like snow, except this wasn’t winter; it was summer.

  People were screaming and moaning all around him, yelling into their phones for their loved ones, but he stood amongst it all calmly. He took it all in—the sobbing people huddled on the platforms, the frightened elderly sitting inside the idle trains—watching the pain and misery all around him and feeling every tear. He wanted to help. He needed to help.

  He hurried up to a police officer in a bright yellow coat and got his attention. “What can I do?” he asked.

  “Sir, you need to remain here and stay calm. The Army are dealing with it.”

  “I’m sure they are, but I would like to help. The more people taking action the better.”

  “Sir, you cannot get involved. Please go find somewhere to sit, until we know more.”

  Damien shook his head and sighed. Telling someone not to get involved when the city was under attack was the height of irony. They were all involved whether they liked it or not. He couldn’t just stand around and do nothing. People were hurt, and being hurt.

  He made towards the escalators, which were switched off but still made perfectly good stairs. As he took the metal steps, two at a time, the unhelpful police officer shouted after him. “Oi, you get yourself back here pronto.”

  “No can do,” he yelled back.

  The police officer stepped after him, but then looked back at the several thousand unruly civilians on the platforms behind him and thought better of it. He probably thought Damien was welcome to go get himself killed if he wanted.

  As he headed through the shopping centre and emerged onto the pedestrian ramp, he had to shield his eyes from the burning sun. It was a glorious day, but the smoke rising from the city’s tallest buildings ruined it. Helicopters flew overhead and soldiers ran between Corporation Street and New Street with groups of screaming civilians between them.

  “You need to go back into the train station,” one of the soldiers advised him, but didn’t seem like he was going to make an issue of it.

  Damien considered whether he was somehow odd, due to the fact he felt drawn to the danger in the city, rather than away from it. The gate had opened outside City Hall, which was a ten minute walk down a wide open street. Even from where he was stood, he could make out the fighting in the distance.

  Birmingham City under siege; it was a headline he never would have expected. No one could have expected it. Yet, somehow, he felt like he had been waiting for it. Lately he had been having the strangest dreams. Dreams of demons. Only they had been demons in the snow. And it hadn’t been him in the dreams fighting them—well, it had been him, but it was like a different version of him. The dreams had left him unsettled, like he had been waiting for something terrible to happen. He knew it was coming.

  This morning, terrible had arrived.

  He’d been in his office when he’d heard the chorus of screams. There had been flocks of people coming into the city all morning to see the strange black stone that had embedded itself in the fountain at the City Hall plaza, but Damien and his colleagues had just been getting on with their jobs. Banking never stopped, and one morning of distraction could cost a shitload of money. Damien did not lose money. He hated his job, but he made sure he kicked ass at it.

  So what the hell was he doing? He was marching into a warzone wearing an Armani suit.

  The closer he got to City Hall, the less and less he saw of the military. He should have been seeing more, but those he did see seemed to be moving away quickly, concerned only with getting civilians to safety rather than fighting the enemy.

  He found a small group of soldiers hanging out the doorway of a bank. They seemed to be regrouping. When they saw Damien heading towards them, their eyes went wide.

  “What the bleedin’ ‘ell you doin’ mate? Get out of here.”

  “I want to help,” he said, realising how stupid he sounded now. What place did he have being amongst the soldiers?

  The group’s sergeant stepped forward, a dark haired man with stubble and a flushed complexion—looked like a drinker. His nameplate read: Jobson. “People are dying out here, kid. I don’t know if you’ve noticed that.”

  “I have. That’s why I’m here. I want to help.”

  “You can’t help. You can only help yourself by getting out of here.”

  “Yeah, okay. This was stupid. I just feel wrong standing around doing nothing. People need help.”

  The soldier put out his hand. “My name is Harry. You are?”

  “Damien. Damien Banks.”

  “Well, Damien, I appreciate your courage. My advice would be to join the service. You obviously have the nut sack for it. Right now, thoug
h, you’re a civvie, and I can’t allow you to place yourself in danger. So get your arse in gear and get back to the safe zone. The train station is still holding, yes?”

  Damien nodded. “It’s fine.”

  “Good, then get mov-”

  “Help me!”

  The soldiers, and Damien, spun around to see a young woman sprinting towards them. She had a bloody-streaked face and her brown hair had been torn out in a clump. Right behind her was a vile creature that was worse even than Damien’s nightmares.

  “Help her!” he shouted.

  The soldier, Harry, brought up his rifle, and his men did the same. None of them fired though.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “We can’t get a sight on it. The girl is in the way.”

  Damien looked at the young woman and realised that the monster was right on her heels. It was too risky for the soldiers to take a shot. He realised then why he was there.

  He took off in the direction of the terrified woman, running as fast as he could. The soldiers shouted after him, but there was no way he was being talked out of it.

  The closer he got to the demon, the uglier it was. It was more ape than man, with talons like swords on its arms. It was only a few steps behind the girl now. It was going to get her.

  The demon launched itself into the air and came down right on top of the woman. She yelled out, but her screams were cut short when her chin hit the pavement.

  The soldiers were still shouting, but as the woman tried to rise back up, she again blocked any clear shot on her attacker.

  The creature pinned her down with one of its claws and raised the other in the air. Then it slashed downwards at the woman’s neck.

  Damien launched himself at the creature just in time to stop it decapitating the defenceless woman. The thing was crazily strong, and it was like trying to ride a bull. He grabbed it around the neck and squeezed, but it continued to thrash. Breaking necks seemed so easy in the movies. Eventually it got free of his grip and got itself loose. Damien was left on his back while the thing spun to face him.

  “Oh bollocks.”

  The monster leapt at Damien.

  Damien lifted both legs and kicked out, catching his attacker in the stomach and holding him at bay. He gritted his teeth and kicked out with everything he had. It was enough to send the creature reeling backwards.

  And into enough space that the soldiers could open fire.

  Clatter clatter clatter.

  The demon spun and twisted, dancing the dance of death. It was all over in a few seconds. The demon lay dead on the floor. The young woman was safe. Damien was trying not to piss his pants.

  Harry came running up, scanning the area with his rifle. When he was satisfied that it was safe, he helped the woman to her feet. She was in bad shape, but nothing vital seemed to be injured. She was sobbing, but was also gushing with gratitude. When Damien got up off the floor, she went over and hugged him. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Glad I was here to help.”

  “You did good, kid,” said Harry. “I really do hope you join the service. You got the biggest balls I ever seen. You took that son-of-a-bitch on hand to hand.”

  “I had no choice,” he said.

  “Yes, you did,” said the girl. “You could have done nothing. Who are you?”

  “My name is Damien.”

  She hugged him again. “Thank you, Damien. My name is Steph.”

  “Steph, Damien. I know you both want to have your moment, but I think it’s time to leave.” Harry pointed towards the City Hall, to where more of the demons were coming around the corner. It was time to leave.

  “This thing has just got started, hasn’t it?” Damien asked the sergeant.

  Harry nodded his head. “Think this might just be our final Summer. Let’s make it one to remember.”

  The soldiers opened fire.

  Preview of Craig Saunders’ terrifying novel:

  Left to Darkness

  I.

  The Briefcase

  Kindness can be deceptive, like a steaming mug of coffee on a cold day. You never know how hot it's going to be until you pick it up.

  So, when the man sporting nothing but a pair of stained pants offered a cigarette to the man in a stinking coat from a charity bin, the man in the coat was understandably suspicious.

  It wouldn't be the first time someone had held out a kind hand, only to follow it through with a hard boot to the ribs. The man in the coat was a few teeth shy of a full mouthful. Scarred lips from a punch, a wheeze from the cold and neglect. He had a heavy limp - three youngsters had given him such a kicking one night about seven years before that they'd managed to break his thighbone. Him, an old man. Homeless, shit out of luck, stinking, yes. But a man, still. Always a man.

  The man in the coat was named Ed Bright. He was the man who would not bend.

  Ed sniffed unsuccessfully and wiped his dripping nose with his right hand. He wore a glove on the left and didn't want to get snot on it - the glove was nearly new.

  'No trick, Boss,' said the man in the underpants. He still held out the cigarette pack, like he could do it all day. Like it wasn't snowing up above their little perch in the shelter of the subway.

  Ed sniffed again.

  Bugger must be freezing, Ed thought. Shit, he was wearing a coat and three jumpers (if he remembered rightly) and he was still cold. Cold like the kind that you couldn't get out in a couple of hours sitting around a shop's heating vents. The sort of cold that wouldn't go until the first month of spring, and even then, your bones would remember it.

  Bones don't forget the cold so easily when you're an old man.

  He did really want a cigarette. He had a lighter, too. There was a bit of gas left and the flint was still sound.

  'Well...cheers, then.'

  Carefully, wary as always of the kind hand, Ed Bright took the proffered cigarette in his bare hand (snot hardening on his skin in the cold air already). He didn't look at the brand, because he didn't care. A cigarette was a cigarette, he figured. It didn't matter to him who made it.

  He fumbled in one of the large pockets of his stinky coat and brought out the disposable lighter of which he was so proud. With a nod to the man in underpants, Ed lit his cigarette and took that grateful first hit all the way down into his tattered lungs. He could feel the warm smoke, the tar, the nicotine...working their magic straight off. The kind of magic any junky feels after a fallow spell breaks.

  'Been a while,' said Ed Bright, warming to the stranger sitting with him, weathering the mid-winter cold...in his pants.

  Ed meant to ask about that. It just didn't seem polite, right now, while he was enjoying the man's cigarette.

  'Mind if I join you?'

  'Nope,' said Ed with a largely toothless smile. Ed hadn't shaved in a while, and when he smiled the corners of his moustache went into his mouth.

  Shifting around on his perch - a grubby briefcase that Ed had found and been using as a pillow - Ed watched the man tap out his own smoke and rolled it expertly across his knuckles before popping it into his mouth.

  The stranger flicked his own lighter at his own cigarette. Same brand as Ed's. Basically, an identical cigarette. Like might happen for rich people when their cigarettes came from the same packet. People with money smoked whole packets. They had a brand, rather than homeless people who smoked whatever was left on the ground outside shops and pubs, or in the wall-mounted ashtrays that adorned Britain's walls since the indoor smoking ban.

  Ed didn't notice where the stranger kept his cigarettes or lighter. He did wonder, for a moment. Not long enough to bother himself, though. And he was enjoying his smoke. A bit giddy from it, too, like a virgin smoker, even though he'd managed to scrounge up three butts the day before.

  Hasn't been that long, he thought. But he didn't let that strangely powerful hit he was getting from each puff of his cigarette bother him either. If anything, he felt pretty fucking grateful, all
told.

  'Please excuse my lack of attire,' said the stranger. A well-put together older man. One to whom the years had been a little kinder, maybe, than they had to Ed Bright, with his sandpaper skin and sawdust lungs.

  Ed shrugged in answer to the stranger's comment. He might have been curious as to the lack of attire a moment before, but oddly, he didn't seem to care anymore.

  He could do little more than shrug.

  And smile. He felt happy. Getting a hell of a buzz off a mere cigarette.

  Ed kind of swayed a little when he took the next hit. Reminded him of the rare times he'd picked up a roach, thinking it a butt, and smoked it. Similar hit, this, to those leftover drugs he found on occasion.

  Oh, thought Ed. Oh. Fuck.

  He threw the cigarette down as the first wave of sickness hit him.

  'What...what the fuck?' he managed. His head wasn't buzzing anymore with a harmless smokers' high, but thumping like a fucking great big drum.

  'Flunitrazepam, my friend,' said the stranger, merrily smoking his own cigarette without any sign of ill effect. 'Roofies? Rohypnol? Ringing a bell?'

  'You...cunt.'

  Each word Ed managed was slurred. Confused. The next time he tried to speak, he couldn't.

  'Tip was soaked in it. Warmth of the smoke released the vapours. Not a big dose, but you're undernourished, freezing, run-down and worn-the-fuck-out, aren't you, buddy?' The man in the underpants didn't sound happy, or sad. Just matter of fact.

  'Shsl...flu...'

  'I'd give up if I were you, Mr. Bright,' said the strange man with kindness.

  Ed didn't register the oddness of this man, this pusher, knowing his name. He coughed and followed through with a small spurt of foul vomit on his coat. Then, unceremoniously, slid to one side and cracked his head against the cold concrete of the subway's floor.

  Out, cold. Not dead, though. No, thought the stranger. Dead wouldn't do at all, would it?

  Gently, the man closed Ed's glazed and staring eyes. The stranger's fingers and hands were soft and clean.