Vamps pulled the MP5 sub-machine gun from the holster on his waist and tossed it to the ground. He raised the bloody baseball bat beside his head and tapped it against the peak of his cap. “I prefer this.”
Mass shook his head and exhaled.
Vamps grunted and started walking. Mass went to say something, but Aymun spoke first. “Let him go, my brother. His heart must find its own way to beat.”
Vamps sneered. What was their problem? Did they sympathise with the demons? Well, fuck that. Whether his friend liked it or not, he was going to rip apart every demon he stumbled upon. And if he ever saw that angel again…
Traffic snarled ahead, making it a good time to get off the road. Bunched up cars and lorries made too good a hiding place for demons, and while Vamps wanted to kill as many as he could, he wasn’t stupid. He hopped the barrier at the side of the road and pushed through a thorn bush. An old wooden fence, bordering a field, stood in their path. It was easily assailed.
Mass and Aymun followed him in silence. The rain had been falling for the last hour. The wet grass of the field was slippy and soaked their trouser cuffs.
“Looks like there’s restaurants and stuff over there,” said Mass, pointing to the far edge of the field where a pair of golden arches stood up high on a plinth. A giant pizza slice rose atop another.
“The people of this country eat many things,” said Aymun. “Burgers, pizzas, and more. You idolise food.”
Mass shrugged. “What’s wrong with that?”
“When you idolise something you give it too much worth. Half the world starves because they cannot eat. They starve while others eat three times what they need. Do you see the injustice of that fact? Your large muscles come at the expense of a starving child’s emaciated frame in Zambia or Eritrea.”
“Not my fault,” said Mass. “Besides, I don’t think it matters anymore. The whole world is equally fucked.”
“It matters because we are fighting to regain our world. What is the point if we re-establish old inequalities?”
“Things won’t ever go back to how they were,” said Vamps, sick of the chatter. “The world is dead. It ain’t coming back.”
“I pray not,” said Aymun.
They travelled the rest of the way in more silence until they reached the fence again. Part of the wooden barrier had collapsed, probably when a starving cow clattered through it to escape—funny how a cow could escape if it wanted, yet dozily remained in captivity. They passed through the broken section and stepped into a ditch by the side of the road. They found a trading park, typical on the outskirts of most towns. Half-a-dozen themed restaurants mingled with a few large retail outlets. Bring a credit card and you could grab a light lunch followed by a king-sized bed on four-years’ finance.
“Oh snap!” said Mass. “There’s a bowling alley.”
Vamps saw the colourful facade of three pins and a sparkling bowling ball. “Sweet, maybe they’ll have a bar inside.”
“You should not drink,” said Aymun. “We need our wits.”
Mass agreed with Vamps about the booze. “I’m tired of having my wits about me, Ay. Sometimes a guy needs a fuckin' break. Come on, we can check the place out and build a barricade. It’ll be safe as houses.”
“I like it,” said Vamps. “Where's the harm?”
Aymun relented. “As you wish, but I will not be partaking.”
“Oh yeah,” said Mass. “The Muslim thing.”
Aymun chuckled. “No, my brother. I am no longer a Muslim. I have seen what lies beyond this life and see that all religions are undeserving of their followers. God does not care if a man enjoys the fruits of the earth. He cares about a man’s heart. My heart is pure, and I will have my head remain also.”
“So, in plain words,” said Mass. “That's a no to getting shit-faced.”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Let's roll then,” said Vamps, heading across the car park. “I'll check the place out. Bit of luck, there’ll be demons to kill.”
“I wouldn’t be so eager to throw yourselves to the wolves, fella.”
Vamps, Mass, and Aymun spun around as one. They had no ammunition in their guns, but Mass and Aymun pointed their weapons anyway. Vamps held his bat over his head like a samurai sword.
Before them stood two men, one gaunt and wiry with messy brown hair, the other stocky with a shaved head. The gaunt man was the one speaking, and he did so with a jaunty Irish accent that almost seemed faked. Both the men stood casually outside Pizza Hut, like they were employees on a break or something.
“The fuck are you?” Vamps demanded, waggling his baseball bat in their faces.
The Irishman grinned. “Hey, fella, I was here first, so how bout you ease off on the caveman act.”
Vamps lowered the bat, but only slightly. “What are you hanging around here for? Are there other people around?”
“Alas, no, tis just me and my taciturn friend here.” The shaven-headed man stared at Vamps without blinking. He had an air of menace, a genuine hard man who didn’t need to waste time speaking bollocks.
Vamps narrowed his eyes. “And who might you and your friend be?”
“We’re not looking for trouble,” said Mass. “I'm Mass. This is Aymun, and this is Vamps.”
Vamps glared at his friend. “Why you chattin' with these motherfuckers?”
“Um, maybe because they’re human, and have done nothing to threaten us.”
“Indeed,” said the Irishman. “No threat are we. The name’s Lucas, and this handsome fella to my left is Damien. Say hello, Damien.”
Damien didn’t move a muscle—just continued to glare.
“Good to meet you, I guess,” said Vamps. “So, what’s the noise around here? Any demons?”
“Ah, plenty of those. Closer than you would think. But let’s not discuss mundanities. I’ve been waiting here for you, Jamal, lad.”
Vamps gripped his bat. “The hell you know my name?”
“I know many things. More than the likes of a thug like you.”
Mass frowned. “Hey man! Chill.”
“Why don't you be quiet, fella, before you pull a muscle. I'm talking to your boyfriend here.” He sneered at Vamps. “B'jaysus, how on earth has a cretin like you kept alive?”
“By fucking shit up.” Vamps swung the bat, but before it made contact, it turned to ash and blew away in the wind. Like a cobra, Damien grabbed Vamps' throat and threw him into his friends. All three men ended up on the floor, and when Vamps looked up, Damien was again leaning back against the wall.
Lucas leant over Vamps, his hand extended. “Sorry about that wee spot of rudeness there, fellas. Just needed to get your attention. Plus, I knew you wouldn’t calm down unless I let you take a swing and get it out o' yer system. If you’re still a tad disgruntled, you're free to take another swing. Just let me know when you're done.”
Vamps shook his head and swallowed. “Nah, man. We cool.”
Lucas danced a jig at that. “Delightful. Now, shall we head inside this fine eating establishment and have ourselves a beer? I hate to make new friends out here in the cold.”
Vamps brushed himself with his palms and got off the floor. Mass and Aymun did the same, but none spoke. They were all dumfounded—even Aymun, who had taken a vacation in Hell.
They followed Lucas into the Pizza Hut, passing through the heavy glass door. They were immediately met by a tropical heat that had no place being there. The room was dark, so the source of such warmth was unapparent.
“Forgive me,” said Lucas. “I hail from warmer climes.”
Mass frowned. “Aren't you from Ireland?”
“Not originally. Take a seat, fellas. I’ll get us a drink.” He clicked his fingers and the lights came on, and so did a television above the bar. Man Utd was playing Liverpool. Impossible.
“What the fuck are you?” said Vamps, backing towards the door, wishing he still had his baseball bat, for comfort if nothing else.
“I’m just being a good h
ost. The match is from last year as I’m afraid all the players are dead, except for John Terry. Cheeky bugger was playing away at a secret hideaway in the highlands. He’s having to spend the apocalypse with a chatty airhead half his age—and a third his intelligence.”
Vamps' jaw kept working, but he had no idea what to say. “I... w-what?”
Lucas chuckled. “Never mind.” He disappeared into the back and came back with an armful of bottled beer. As he set them on the table, he glanced at Damien and winked. “Takes you back, lad, don't it? Everyone sit down.”
Damien gave the merest hint of a smirk, but didn’t sit as requested. Instead, he moved over to the window and stared out like a sentry. Everyone else did as they were told. Lucas took a swig of one of the beers and plonked it down on the table. Vamps couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw the liquid refill itself back to the top of the neck. A useful trick if it was true.
Vamps battled the urge to leg it, but he forced himself to stay seated. “What are you? You’re one of them, ain’t you?”
Lucas took another swig before letting out a painful-sounding burp. “Aye, strictly speaking. But at heart I’m one o' you.”
“What do you want from us?”
“Not us…” Lucas leant forward, face to face with Vamps. He gave off an odd smell... like cookies. “I just want you, Jamal.”
The urge to run kept on increasing. It was getting harder and harder to stay.
“Why do you want me?”
“To give you something, lad. You seem set on a path of destruction, even before you shot that poor sprog in the chest.” Vamps reached his limit. The mention of what he had done to Max was enough to make him leap up and try to leave. Lucas put a hand on his arm and forced him to remain. “Hush there, lad. Hush. There used to be a good calling for souls like yours. A good friend of mine, Daniel, used to have such a role. Angels of death we used to call ‘em, but truthfully, they were beings of justice. God’s way of keeping order in his absence.”
Aymun frowned. “God is not absent.”
“You seen him lately, fella?”
Aymun sat back in his chair and gave no reply.
“Anyway, Daniel is a good lad. When this silly little war broke out, he tried to get involved and help you small folk. He made a great sacrifice that sent him back to the cage he'd only just escaped.” He took another sup of beer and then toasted the air with the bottle. “Christ, I wish I had an ounce of that lad’s bollocks. I owe him more than I could ever pay.”
“You’re not making any sense,” said Vamps. “Are you talking about angels? Like the ones walking around killing people?”
Lucas picked up his perpetually full beer again and sloshed it around like a drunken pirate. “Aye! I am talking about just that. Angels! Not just any flavour though. I’m talking about fallen angels. Hell was left in their care. Lucifer—or at least the current holder of the title was supposed to keep order—but a dirty fella by the name o' the Red Lord made a right pig’s ear of things while I was gone. These gates are not just gates. They are the seals keeping Hell and the Earth separate, powered by God’s willpower. But God’s willpower is powered by you.”
Vamps frowned. “Me?”
“No, not you personally, you daft apeth. By humanity. When he created the Adams and Eves, God placed part of himself inside them, to keep his power safe from Heavenly forces who might wish to take his throne. I tell you, Hell might be a tad shabby, but the politics and power plays in Heaven can drive a fella mad. Over time, that power passed to every little boy and girl ever born—diluting all the time. Who knew you would end up being such horny little beasts?”
“You’re losing me again,” said Vamps.
“I suspect I am, lad. Let’s just say, there is a war going on wider in scope than you realise. The war is not against mankind, but God’s power contained within you. If all of you die, God will be left powerless. And who knows what happens whenever a monarch is rendered powerless?”
Aymun leaned forwards. “Claimants to the throne make war.”
“Aye, go to the head of the class, you cuddly little terrorist.”
Aymun actually blushed.
“It might not bother humanity too much—on account of that you will all be dead—but if God falls, then the war of succession will get so bloody that the universe itself will end up like a Belfast brothel. There's a lot of sodomy involved, take my word for it.”
“So, we’re really done for then?” asked Mass. “This is too big a fight to win?”
Lucas rocked back on his chair and sloshed his beer some more. “Would you ever behave, big fella? Leave the talking to the adults.” He winked at Vamps. “You lot aren’t beaten yet, are you? There’s a resistance. There’s always a resistance, so long as someone plays the part of the Nazis. There’s this one world—a place where the dead walk around like a bunch of hungry drunks—where a veterinarian is kicking ass for mankind. In fact, she even gave Damien here a run for his money once. He’s still brooding about it. Another place where men and women fight a war against animals—you gotta laugh at that one. Point is, humanity never gives up. It always resists fate. In fact, this whole disaster started when one lonely soul convinced God himself to allow a do-over. It was at that moment the Great Adversaries made use of a loophole and got their hooks in the Earth. Anyway, I'm going off the topic. My point is that humanity resists. And on this earth, you three are part of that resistance. More than you know. That’s why I want to give you something.” He placed something heavy on the table with a thud. It was a long silver sword, covered in strange etchings.
The sword caught fire and incinerated the table.
“The fuck?” Vamps and the others leapt back from the table.
Lucas grabbed at the flaming sword several times, cursing each time it burnt his fingers, but eventually he was able to extinguish the flames and pick it up. “Bloody thing. Daniel never did show me how to work it.”
“That sword belonged to the angel, Daniel?” Aymun asked.
“Aye. It was his smiting stick, or whatnot. Fella never parted with it. Was a little weird to be honest. Anyway, it's great for vanquishing evil and all that. I’m surprised it even let me touch it. I suppose I really must have changed. Anyway, Vamps, lad. You want to take vengeance on the ugly feckers, at least go equipped for the job. Embrace the rage inside and become an angel of death. Humanity needs you.” Lucas looked at Aymun and Mass. “But so do your friends. This sword is powerful, and if you’re not careful, it will wield you, instead of you it.”
Vamps swallowed. “Really?”
“Nah, I’m just having you on. But it is really sharp so be careful. Vengeance can make a fella lose himself, and I would hate for that to happen to you. Here, take it. Tis yours.”
The lights in the restaurant flickered. Tentatively, Vamps stepped forward, worried that taking the sword would somehow hurl him down a rabbit's hole he would never get out of. Perhaps this whole thing was a trick, and the strange Irishman was here to kill them all.
“Be careful, man,” warned Mass.
Vamps glanced at his friend and nodded.
He grasped the sword and took it from Lucas.
Vamps lost his breath.
The sword felt light in his hand, yet powerful, like it could cut through diamond. It fizzed and crackled like a loose wire, and when he examined the fine etchings, they seemed to pulse and reorientate themselves.
“Use it well, grasshopper,” said Lucas in an offensive Japanese accent. “We never had a black angel of death before. About time, really.”
Vamps was about to reply, but the Irishman was gone. He didn’t so much disappear as just stopped existing in the first place. Like he’d never even been there.
Damien was still present in the room, and he peeled away from the window to face them. He let out a sigh and then said, “He does that.”
Then, in a blink, Damien was gone too. The room was once again dark and cold. The only proof either man had ever existed was the flickering silver
sword in Vamps’ hand.
Vamps lowered the weapon to his side and looked at his companions.
“Anyone else think that was really weird?”
10
JOHN WINDSOR
Things felt better now he was wearing a fresh suit. After pulling himself from the rubble of London, John Windsor had lost access to his usual wardrobe, but after finding a gentleman’s retailer in Woking, he'd re-outfitted himself in the manner to which he was acquainted. He was once again the Prime Minister of Great Britain. The reigns of this country were still his.
That was why his current destination was Portsmouth. The seat of Government had established itself there in the form of a Military Autocracy. That would not do. The United Kingdom was, and forever will be, a democracy headed by an elected Prime Minister. Whichever General had placed themselves in charge was going to receive a demotion. John Windsor, and only he, was head of state.
That a settlement even existed at Portsmouth was impressive. The sudden, unilateral takeover of the world by supernatural forces had been unstoppable. The world’s capital cities had fallen in days. London became a ruin within weeks, and most of the nation’s armed forces were abroad. What had taken root in Portsmouth was a bunch of naval recruits and soldiers on leave. Reports he'd been receiving of their numbers must surely be inflated. No way could there be substantial resistance at Portsmouth.
Windsor leant forward and took his glass of sherry from the small bar built into the centre of the long Mercedes ferrying him towards his destination. So wonderful to be free of the harping and bickering of his cabinet, his phone hadn’t rung in weeks. The nation was in a chrysalis, ready to be reborn with him as saviour. That he had negotiated a small settlement agreement with the demons was the sole reason humanity would survive. If not for him, extinction was inevitable.
“You're clear what is expected of you?” asked the ancient man in the seat beside him. Oscar Boruta eyed his glass of sherry disapprovingly, which only made John sip at it defiantly. Screw the old codger and his judgement. So what if he had been drinking a little during the past weeks? It was a stressful time.
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