Hellspawn (Book 3): Hellspawn Sentinel

by Ricky Fleet

  “Get to the door, we fight them there!” Mike bellowed and quickly scurried the last twenty feet to the flat, solid platform of the roof access doorway.

  The trap worked as he had hoped and the first to reach the hacked roof fell through. Similar to films he had seen where people were fool enough to walk out onto frozen lakes, one misplaced step and they were swallowed whole. The zombies that hit the floor below sent up a sickening crunch of sound as they split apart, splashing their rotten green blood everywhere. Out of the eight that had avoided the first pitfall under the staircase, only three survived for the coming battle.

  “Get ready!” Mike ordered and Debbie was frantically trying to shuck her backpack off to give her more freedom of movement. The straps had caught on her life preserver and she was caught off balance as the first zombie reached them. Mike swung the hatchet and only managed to cleave a chunk of face away before it fell on Debbie. The other two were intent on Mike, and by trying to hit the one who threatened Debbie, he left himself open. They hit him fully and drove him back against the door with a crash.

  “Help me!” screamed Debbie as she looked into the incomplete face of the rotting female. The blackened teeth snapped shut, trying to bite her fighting hands. Green tinged drool dribbled from the open mouth and the breath stunk of rancid flesh and blood.

  Mike ignored the plea, only concerned with preserving his own life. Drawing his head back until it hit the door, he threw a vicious headbutt at the male monster, laying open the skin of its forehead and causing it to stumble backwards. The third zombie held on tight and was only inches from taking a bite from Mike’s exposed neck. With a roar of revulsion, he grabbed it by the throat and crotch and hefted it overhead, before tossing it over the wall and the waiting carpark below. Like lightning, he embedded the small axe into the back of the head of Debbie’s attacker and left it buried as he pushed the other cadaver away again. It fell backwards and landed on the roof hard, cracks radiating outwards and growing until the asbestos crumbled under the weight. The body fell, arms still reaching for Mike as he watched. It impacted the foyer floor and the festering arms and legs exploded from the trunk, spraying viscera and blood everywhere.

  “Get it off!” shrieked Debbie under the weight of the dead creature. The twisted backpack and the weight of the figure gave her no room to unburden herself. Mike held up a finger, asking her for a moment while he tried to stop the shaking from the adrenaline surge.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? Get this bitch off!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Staring down at Debbie as she glared and spat her demands, Mike turned around and sat on the back of the dead zombie. The added weight compressed her chest and the screams were cut off instantly. She desperately tried to draw breath, but it was impossible.

  “I can see why the others were going to leave you behind. I’ve told you to keep your mouth shut, you cunt. Those shouts will bring everything in the area down on us and I still need to try and get away,” he told her.

  Looking down, Debbie’s eyes were rolling and her face had gone a dark shade of purple from the suffocating weight. Her arms and legs were twitching in spasm as she died. All he needed to do was stay put for a few more minutes and he would have peace and quiet. Closing his eyes, he listened to the silence but it was short lived. The groans of the dead approaching the station reaffirmed her value as a convenient source of meat should he need it and, reluctantly, he stood up and pulled the putrescent body off. Debbie was still and her chest no longer rose and fell with the rhythm of her inhalations.

  “Now don’t be so melodramatic, I was only sat on you for a little while,” Mike chastised Debbie’s body, “Fucking typical, always after attention.”

  Mike knelt down and slapped her cheeks, trying to rouse her unsuccessfully. Feeling her neck, the faint pulse was detectable, fluttering weakly. Aggressively, he tilted her head back and pinched her nostrils, blowing two breaths deeply into her starved lungs. The chest rose and fell as her body expelled the air with no visible improvement.

  “Don’t take the piss,” Mike said and repeated the process.

  Debbie coughed and drew in a heaving gasp. She started to choke and was in danger of convulsing so Mike turned her onto her side and rubbed her back through the worst of the fit.

  “That’s it, you’re fine,” Mike stroked her forehead, ignoring the looks of fear and anger that she regarded him with.

  More zombies tried to navigate the shattered roof, but none made it past the existing pitfalls. Just to be certain, Mike destroyed a wide section surrounding their position. A human, with full use of their faculties could potentially balance and make it across the wooden roof trusses. Mobile corpses, who by some means had been given basic motor function to allow them to hunt the living, weren’t so lucky.

  “Sit up, rest against the wall,” Mike said and helped her upright. The worst of the pain in her lungs had disappeared and she started to cry, her fear of Mike matching her infatuation.

  “You tried to kill me,” she whispered, worried he would attack her again but compelled to get the words out.

  “Don’t be silly, I just needed you to be quiet,” he smiled at her like a father who was trying to explain to a toddler the error of their ways.

  “You could have just asked me,” she complained, lowering her gaze.

  “When do you ever listen when you are having a bitch fit?” he asked, kneeling beside her and stroking her hair that was matted with zombie dribble.

  “I…” she started, then fell silent when she accepted he was right. Her tantrums were always an issue and couldn’t be controlled.

  “Hey. Don’t be mad, your craziness is what attracted me to you in the first place. I loved the fact you didn’t give a shit what others felt,” Mike was in full charm mode, trying to get her back on side so she would continue their journey.

  “Really? Most people hate my bitchiness,” her inherent need for acceptance was soaking up the praise like desiccated earth.

  “Of course. You have a strong personality, like me. We are meant to rule this new world, not those fucking cowards we left behind.” Mike was caught up in the fantasy of the power he would wield, those he would control and the world that would become his dominion.

  “We will rule it together!” she declared with conviction, believing the implausible scenario. Only six billion shambling monsters stood in the way of their grand plan to become the dark emperor and empress of planet Earth.

  “Of course,” Mike helped her to her feet, “But first we need to get inside, can you feel how cold it is getting?”

  “I hadn’t noticed with all the shit we have been through,” she admitted. The clouds had gathered and icy winds swirled around them, stirring their clothes. The first flakes of snow accompanied the gust and they looked at each other, then the single door. The coming storm could be fatal if they were on the roof for the settling snow and plunging temperatures. Mike put his ear to the door, trying to judge if any threat lurked beyond.

  “I can’t hear anything,” he said to Debbie, “Get ready, just in case.”

  She raised her hatchet and Mike raised a boot, kicking out at the door. The lock cracked under the pressure and a second kick drove the door back into the stairwell, carrying a sliver of door frame with it. The access platform was empty and the shadowed void beckoned them with its promise of shelter. The stinging ice particles lashed their skin and the growing banshee howl of the wind pushed them into the opening. Mike looked down the spiral steel staircase and the dull light only served to illuminate the first corner. The light cut through and he traced it down the plastic clad bannister rail. Slimy green handprints were visible along the whole length.

  “They have been in here, stay quiet,” Mike cautioned.

  “Can you see any of them?” Debbie asked and shuddered as a faint moan rose towards them.

  Mike put a finger to his lips and shook his head. The beam created spotlights of illumination, but no zombies appeared to be with them. The no
ise had probably echoed up from the open doorway at the bottom, which cast a murky pool of light on the floor below.

  “Shit, why did I have to kick the door open?” Mike asked himself. Anything close enough could have heard the reverberation and would be coming to investigate. Praying their luck would hold, he watched the light intently for any falling shadow that would mean company. Minutes passed and the noise of the shrieking wind may have masked the crash of the upper door.

  “I think we are ok,” Debbie said, hopefully.

  “Come on,” Mike whispered and descended, rounding the first bend of the staircase and nearly falling over the corpse at their feet.

  The bloodied skeleton was pressed into a corner where the victim had tried to take cover. Shreds of clothing lay in strips around the body as the teeth had delved to the fleshier parts beneath. Only a sturdy utility belt remained around the pelvic bone, filled with tools. The man or woman had obviously been a maintenance worker who had tried to flee the zombies. Driven mad by the agony of being eaten alive, one skeletal hand clutched the end of a screwdriver which had then been stabbed through its left eye. In spite of their growing desensitization to the suffering of others, the horrific suicide would haunt their dreams. Imagining themselves cowering as the teeth tore chunks of flesh away, watching as the hungry zombies swallowed and dived in for more. The glinting point of the screwdriver and the salvation it offered as it moved in towards the soft eyeball.

  At ground level the open door had a set of keys hanging from the lock with dried blood encrusting the metal. It must have belonged to the rail worker who had tried to escape the ravenous horde. Snow was falling through the holes in the broken roof and zombies staggered within the station building, stepping around their pulped brethren. Behind them stood another door, smeared with handprints from the frenzied worker as they tried to seek refuge. The door was firmly locked as Mike pressed the handle and tried pushing.

  “Maybe the keys open that door?” Debbie whispered.

  “It’s worth a try,” he answered and reluctantly moved out from the concealing shadows.

  He withdrew the keychain carefully, closing his hand around the loose bunch to still the jangling noise. Leaning back into the darkness, he slowly pulled the door closed and latched it, before inserting the key and locking it. Debbie switched the torch on and used it to help Mike find the right key from the fob. After four tries the lock disengaged and they pushed through, revealing an office which also doubled as a store for the smaller materials for station repairs; lightbulbs, paint, and various latches for the hundreds of doors and windows throughout the building. One other door sat at the back of the room and Mike knelt down, looking through the keyhole. A freezing breeze blew through the thin slit and made his eye water, but he had seen the carpark that lay beyond.

  “We have our way out when the storm dies down,” he explained. He opted to avoid detailing the dozens of walking corpses, they would be a problem for another day.

  “Thank God. I didn’t fancy the idea of leaving through the main station, there were so many,” Debbie said over her shoulder as she locked the office door, further securing their safety.

  A fresh gust buffeted the rear door, shaking it in the frame. The night was going to be below freezing and they had been fortuitous in raiding the camping shop for supplies. The sleeping bags they had selected were designed for harsher environments than the station office and came complete with hood to protect the head. Pushing chairs and desks out of the way, they laid out the sponge roll mats and then placed the down lined bags on top.

  “Do you think we should share body heat? It’s going to be a long night,” whispered Debbie, biting her lower lip. The attempted murder was forgotten for now, overridden by her carnal desires.

  “I think the survival of humanity depends on it,” Mike agreed with a leer.

  The storm intensified, battering the building with white flurries. Inside, the damaged lovers reached levels of depraved lust, the cold all but forgotten.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Private Morrow sat in the darkened booth, expanding his search grid eastward to track DB and Jonesy. He felt lost and afraid, desperate to find a trace of the men to report to his superior, but equally hopeful he would find nothing. He was certain that if he found them his fear would ensure compliance, the tight knots in the pit of his stomach left little doubt. The possibility of corporal punishment should he fail was an option he craved, despite the pain. At least it meant he would be spared the hatred of his fellow soldiers.

  “Please stay hidden, please stay hidden,” he whispered repeatedly to the darkness.

  The endless farmsteads provided a hundred places to hide and the thermal imaging showed that four of the homes were still occupied. Surrounded on all sides by the dead, still they remained alive which meant they were well defended. The sheer numbers left little doubt that the mini sieges had been going on longer than his friends had been on foot. Each location was marked and referenced for perusal by Baxter on his rounds.

  “Keep on hanging in there,” Morrow said to the plucky survivors on the screen.

  The landscape passed below, more fields and another village. Switching to thermal again he was left disappointed. His searches had so far been fruitless when scanning the more densely populated areas, and with each fly past he felt a small part of himself die. Never married himself, at least he didn’t have to deal with the horror of losing children to the plague. His parents lived in London, one of the first cities to fall and he was under no illusion they wouldn’t be among the millions of dead shambling in the capital’s streets. His attention was lost in the memories of his parents and he almost missed the abnormality on the main screen. The Watchkeeper drone turned around and crossed the railway tracks again and Morrow didn’t know if it was important or not. The three carriage train was still, with no heat signatures anywhere near it.

  “What are you looking at?” Morrow asked himself. It had been years since he had used British Rail, but he was sure they were normally in four car sections. He had seen the destruction at Chichester station and ran the mental picture through his mind of the numbers, both on the track, and those that had crashed through the building itself.

  “Think… think,” he muttered, “One, two, three, four. And four off the tracks on the other side.”

  He assumed a circling flight pattern which allowed the autopilot to be switched on, giving him full control of the camera. Zooming in, the spray of zombie blood was unmistakable on the light grey stone ballast. It was too far to have come from the other three carriages and the row of tidy stone burial mounds were further proof people had been through here.

  “Please let it be someone else,” he prayed to himself and resumed control of the craft aiming it towards Ford.

  A smoke trail drifted in to the picture and it drew Morrow in, finally revealing the blazing carriage perched atop the main bridge towards Angmering. Corpses streamed toward the lure in tight procession but kept falling into the water before it could be reached. The fire belched from the shattered windows which told Morrow it was a recent occurrence. The black smoke was being driven into a frenzy before disappearing completely in the violent winds. The UAS craft was beginning to feel the turbulence and the visuals from the onboard camera were making it difficult to survey the scene.

  Picking up the radio, Morrow pressed to transmit, “HQ this is Hawkeye, over.”

  “Go ahead, Hawkeye, over,” came the tinny response.

  “My bird is taking a hammering, what’s going on? Over.”

  “Sorry, Hawkeye, there is a storm about to hit along the south coast of England. Get your bird home. Over.”

  “Thanks for the warning, over,” replied Morrow sarcastically.

  “No problem, out,” answered the operator, ignoring the tone.

  “Fucking hell!” Morrow shouted and kicked out at his control station.

  The screens flickered with the impact and he immediately relented, stroking the cold plastic, “Sorry, I’m sorr
y. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  It was the mission and the constant sense of dread on the base that had frayed his nerves. A good meal and eight hours’ sleep would be just the medicine he needed, maybe a couple of beers if the store would release them.

  “Holy shit,” whispered Morrow as he caught sight of the two Foxhounds. One looked as if it was overturned and he could see a group of people surrounding the vehicle. On the path to the yard it had crashed from, dozens of dead had broken off from the train to investigate the noise.

  “Run, you bastards, run,” Morrow begged at the screen, willing his thoughts to reach the survivors by telepathic means. No sign presented itself, no movement or glance skyward at the attempted psychic message. The picture jumped again and he turned his craft westward, saluting the jumbled images and praying that they would endure. It wouldn’t be acceptable to lose the multi-million pound piece of equipment, even though he hadn’t been forewarned of the storm. Excitement at his friends’ safety metamorphosed into the dry mouthed anxiety he had feared. The swift flight caused no issues and the Watchkeeper touched down safely on the landing strip.

  “HQ, this is Hawkeye, the bird is back in the nest, over.”

  “We saw her land, Hawkeye; Tomlinson is on his way to retrieve her. Get some chow, over,” came the reply.

  The thought of food curdled his stomach and his chest ached with the stress. The sound of heavy boots marching down the corridor increased the apprehension tenfold until he thought he may pass out from the rapid fluttering of his heart. The door opened and Baxter marched in unannounced.

  “Good afternoon, Private,” he said.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Morrow croaked weakly.

  “Report.”