Hellspawn Dominion

by Ricky Fleet

  “I’ve left the key in the lock,” Angela said to Holbeck in the turret. “You never know when someone may need the place."

  “Good idea.”

  Looking to the shelter, she had bagged and tied it to keep moisture from penetrating the mechanisms. The house stood proudly, bearing the blood of battle on its walls. Angela’s arm reached from the window, giving a final wave to their beloved home.

  “When this is all over, I’ll help you move back in,” Holbeck offered.

  “You’re a darling, thank you.”

  “Don’t think I’m a saint. I’m getting Harkiss to lift all the boxes.”

  ***

  A radio transmission had been sent to inform Thorney of their imminent arrival before leaving the farm. The further loss of Langham had been met with sorrow, but the news of the survivors brought some comfort to their captain. She and Walker would receive a full military funeral with honours. Neither Holbeck or Hayward needed to mention the coffins would be empty.

  Bobbing across the broad stretch of water, the drivers kept a wary eye on the surface for any of the floating monsters. Whether it was luck or just the tides, nothing presented itself and they made excellent time. Waiting on the shoreline was practically every soldier on the base except those on guard duty or other essential posting. Jubilant cheers rang out from the crowd, welcoming their comrades home. The sergeant raised a hand in greeting and the troops erupted into chants of Holbeck, Holbeck, Holbeck!

  It was a bittersweet moment and, turning to look at Eldridge in the other vehicle, her face told the same story. Neither felt like conquerors and when the celebration started later, they would probably excuse themselves and pay quiet respect to their fallen brother and sister.

  Captain Hayward stepped forward as the Warthogs came to a standstill, the stones crunching beneath the wide tracks. “It’s good to see you, Sergeant. Damned fine work out there.”

  “Thank you, sir. We have some visitors you may like to meet.”

  Doors were flung open and the new arrivals gingerly stepped onto the beach. Like a breaking wave, the ecstatic soldiers rushed forward to say hello to the newcomers. Hands were shaken and backs patted in greeting. The children were hoisted onto shoulders and grinned madly as they were spun around. For the first time in months, the inescapable feeling of dread receded a little. New life had been brought to the barracks and each man and woman felt a renewed sense of purpose. They were no longer just waiting to die; they had a future to build for every little one who had made it to their sanctuary.

  CHAPTER 20

  With only a limited selection of modern blades at their disposal, it was decided to reclaim as many of the antique weapons as possible. Richard, a resident enthusiast, had joined them to explain the dangers of the swords which stood proudly on display. The variety was staggering and he detailed the age and use of each type for the uneducated. Short bladed steel with heavy leather handles. Long, elegant rapiers, ideal for piercing. Two handed behemoths which could cleave a man in two. Scimitars, imported from the middle east.

  The group stood in silence, fascinated by the history surrounding the lethal weapons. Some bore the deep nocks of past battles, but Richard explained that it was mostly just Hollywood perpetuating the myth of epic sword clashes. In reality, slamming forged steel against forged steel was frowned upon and the best way to parry was to use the flat edge, or even better, a shield.

  “It doesn’t look quite so exciting, though,” he admitted with a chuckle.

  “Which ones are going to be safe to use?” Kurt asked.

  “In my opinion, very few,” he replied honestly. “You must remember some of these are hundreds of years old and more likely to fall to bits instead of cutting into a skull. The ones from the shop are utterly useless as well. They are cheap imitations and not designed to be swung.”

  “Damn. I was hoping for an arsenal,” muttered Kurt. The survivors who had helped them take the castle must have been exceedingly fortunate to grab blades which had stood up to the punishment.

  “My advice? Let’s take a selection to the courtyard and test them against the trees. After a few swings, I can inspect them and see if they may be useful in a real fight.”

  “It can’t hurt to be careful. Until we can raid a hardware shop for some more machetes and hatchets we’ll just have to make do.”

  Richard pointed to Kurt’s belt and the war pick hanging there. “Those don’t suffer from the same issue. A lot of the maces, morning stars, and some axes are primarily made of solid steel. If a person can handle the weight, they can be quite devastating when used properly.”

  Winston stepped forward, mouth agape. A double-bladed battle axe was mounted by two hooks, impressive in its brutality. Looking towards Kurt, his eyes asked for permission. Sam, and to a lesser extent, Braiden, had vouched for him earlier in the day. He was just a victim of unfortunate circumstances. They had been ordered to remain on guard in his presence nonetheless. Braiden subtly touched the sharpened screwdriver to show he was prepared for any betrayal. The rotund lad would have no chance of swinging the weapon before being taken down. With a nod, his request was granted.

  Lifting it, he was mesmerized. “Now I feel like an orc warrior from World of Warcraft.” he whispered, hefting the weapon to judge the balance.

  “Nerd,” Sam teased and the younger members giggled.

  “I was always more partial to a blood elf priest personally,” remarked Pauline Ennis, one of the younger staff members.

  “Holy or Discipline?” Winston replied, grinning.

  Pauline rolled her eyes. “Shadow priest, of course. I’m no healer.”

  “Good choice,” he said, gazing between his prize and her eyes.

  “What the hell are you on about?” Braiden muttered.

  “Nerd stuff,” they replied in unison, before breaking into fits of laughter.

  The others shook their heads and started to load up the wheelbarrow. Several of the hilts fell off or crumbled at the first touch, which lent credence to Richard’s warnings. Jodi and Peter had both picked up a wickedly pointed morning star and gave them a few test swings.

  “These iron spikes would crush a skull easily,” Jodi explained, fingering the sharp tips.

  “It’s a bit heavier than your bat,” Peter replied, following the main group as they left the room.

  “I’m going to give it a try. The bat is good, but I’ve had a few times where it has just stunned them. With this, I know it will penetrate to their brain first swing which saves my energy.”

  “You’ll need to be precise, though.”

  “I’m going to have a practice after the others have blooded themselves. Care to join me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  DB helped Kurt to manhandle the fully laden barrow down the winding staircases, while the others carried two or three items each. Reaching the small group of trees, the weapons were tossed to the ground, clattering against each other.

  Stephen winced. “Must you really do this? Those antiques are a priceless part of this country’s history.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Kurt. “We need to be able to fight back as a whole group. Without these, half of us wouldn’t have a way of defending ourselves.”

  “But what about the guns? Surely, they’re keeping us safe,” he complained.

  Jonesy shook his head. “We’ve only got a few thousand rounds left. There are more zombies than that in this town alone. They’re too valuable to use except in an emergency.”

  “What about the bows and arrows?”

  “Three problems with that; Reclamation of the arrows outside the walls, the low number we have, and lastly, the lack of accuracy,” Stephanie added.

  “This is a disgrace. What’s the point of surviving if we have nothing to cherish? Our culture is the one thing the undead can’t destroy, unless we let them.”

  Kurt could see the curator was conflicted about what he saw as desecration of his legacy. Taking him to one side, he tried to reason with him. �
��Listen, I can understand your feelings, but we need to prepare people for any possible attack. What if I got Richard to do a preliminary check of each weapon and any that are obviously not going to withstand a strike, we carry back up and place them back on the display?”

  Stephen looked across at the expert. “Can you do that?”

  “I can only give my opinion based on what I’ve seen over the years. I may be able to save a few though.”

  After a moment of reflection, he replied, “I’ll be waiting inside. When you’re finished, can you please send someone to inform me and I’ll return the weapons left behind to their rightful places.”

  “We will,” confirmed Kurt.

  “Such a waste,” muttered Stephen as he departed.

  Shaking his head, Kurt turned back to the group. “Those of you with solid weapons can have at it straight away. Those who would prefer swords can stand to the side and wait for Richard to hand you something you’ll feel comfortable with. I’ve got to say it again; don’t try and be a hero with a weapon that’s too heavy. If you tire, you die, so select something that won’t exhaust you too quickly.”

  Winston, Jodi, Peter, and some of the survivors moved away to a thick trunked Birch tree. Swinging their chosen clubs through the air a few times, Peter and Jodi began hammering at the wood. The points embedded deeply into the grain, and the only way to remove them was to twist and wrench until they freed themselves.

  “What if that happens to a skull?” Peter wondered.

  “It won’t. The bone will crumble as it goes in and because of the taper on the steel it will come straight out again. It’s the density of the timber that’s the problem,” Jodi replied.

  “I suppose we can test it shortly on a real zombie and then see what happens.”

  Winston maintained a respectable distance while he limbered up. After the running debacle, he knew the value of stretching out and rotated his arms at the shoulder to warm them up. The morphine had dulled the pain in his forearm, but he knew he would be suffering for the fun later. Everyone had taken an interest and watched furtively as he got a feel for the long-hafted axe. The blade was dull and would need some attention, but for practice it was fine.

  “Stand back just in case I miss and take my own head off,” he warned.

  Keeping a firm grip on the weapon, he took a deep breath and swung it behind and then over his head with a yell of hatred. The curved blade hit with a thud, rending the bark and biting deeply. The upper branches shook from the force of his blow and drops of moisture rained from the dead leaves. A round of applause rung out in appreciation of his strength.

  Blushing, Winston took a bow. “Thank you, I’m here all week for your entertainment. Probably next week too, and the week after.”

  “Don’t push your luck!” Kurt chipped in with a sly grin.

  “It appears my show may be cancelled at some point, so make sure to get your fill of me while you can, folks!”

  Pulling the axe out, he swung it in a wide arc from behind his back like a baseball bat. Once again, the steel cut into the trunk with ease.

  “That’ll be really useful. Hack their legs away from under them and the rest of us can finish them off,” Braiden said from behind, startling Winston.

  “You trust me to fight with you?” Winston had seen the secret signal between father and son.

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” It was both a warning and an opportunity.

  “Meet us after we’ve killed the frozen ones at the gate. We’ve something to discuss with you. Then we can put it to the other students,” Sam added with a wink.

  “Let me guess, you want an in-depth discussion on the merits of World of Warcraft.”

  Braiden pulled out the screwdriver. “Did you want to get stabbed?”

  “Fine! Remain oblivious to the greatest game that’s ever existed.”

  “I think we’ll survive,” Braiden replied.

  At the sword inspection, Richard had picked two dozen which looked resilient enough to swing. The young and old picked their preference and spread out around the trunks.

  “The rapiers are meant as a thrusting sword,” Richard explained to those with the thin weapons. “Think of a fencer; that is how you must attack. A swing will just as likely lead to the blade shattering as a clean kill.”

  Without training, none of those wielding them could get anywhere near their point of focus. Holes pierced inches from the section of bark they were staring at, realistically meaning death if they had been facing a zombie. It quickly became apparent that they were too awkward with such a small target as the brain. Factoring in the adrenaline rush and subsequent tremors as a result, they were dropped in short order.

  “Try the scimitars and short swords,” advised Richard. “They can still stab, but the thick blades will allow you to slice too.”

  “There are only nine of them,” said Anja, one of the female staff. “And I think the two handers will be a bit too much for me.”

  Jonesy stepped forward. “Here, take my hatchet. It’s sharp enough to shave with.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.”

  “Everyone with a sword, please listen. Don’t attack with all your strength or the blades will be damaged because the trunk has no flexibility. Hit it just hard enough to cut, but feel for any movement in the hilts or anything else that feels off.”

  A few minutes later, and with everyone huffing and puffing in the crisp morning air, the testing was complete. Only one of the nine swords had broken from a previously unnoticed crack in the blade itself. Out of over forty people, two thirds were now armed with more than foul language. The children had taken a back seat from the proceedings for the most part. Having already faced the monsters in the winding corridors during the first battle, they felt comfortable with destroying them. Or as comfortable as possible when fighting a rotting, undead foe. Conversely, it was down to the adults to prove themselves now.

  “Is everyone ready?” Kurt shouted.

  “No, but it needs to be done,” replied Anja.

  “You’ll be fine,” Jonesy whispered to her.

  “Ok, move to the main entrance. Richard, would you mind fetching Stephen and helping him return the rest of these to the armoury?”

  “Not at all. I hope I’ve been helpful.”

  “Very much so. Thank you.”

  As the older gentleman headed back inside, the group made their way to the portcullis housing. Three of the students had raced off to the chain room, ready for the signal to raise the massive steel construction. Overnight, the youngsters had formed a human chain and poured hundreds of litres of water through the sprinkler system. Every zombie in the courtyard was frozen, icicles hanging from their fingertips and chins, rime covered skin glittering in the morning sun. A single row, numbering around fifteen corpses, had missed the drenching from their sheltered position against the steel latticework. Two more were run through, pinned against the stone floor, thrashing like speared fish. DB ended them with two swipes of his machete.

  “The rest of you stand back while we destroy the ones who’re still moving,” Kurt ordered.

  “Watch closely and see how we do it,” Gloria added.

  “Raise it!” Kurt yelled.

  Chains rattling, the gatekeepers obeyed. Inch by inch, the protective grille was hoisted until the unfrozen dead tumbled forward. Darting in and hacking down, the seasoned fighters butchered the creatures in seconds. Green blood started to flow over the bare stone towards them, causing the greenhorns to back away.

  “Who’s got the hooks?” Jonesy called and Holly stepped forward, handing them over.

  In the back of the huge larder, three old butcher’s meat hooks had been found. DB took one in each hand and thrust the points up beneath the ribcages of two of the zombies, dragging them clear of the archway. Kurt took the other and repeated the procedure until only a pool of emerald gore and skull fragments remained.

  “Did everyone make sure to wear the shoes we prepared last night?” Sarah
asked.

  “Yes,” replied Pauline, tapping her soles against the ground with a metallic clink. The rest of the group did likewise.

  Bob the repairman had found a few boxes of tiny, self-tapping screws which had been left over from the kitchen ductwork installation. Their length meant they were unable to pierce through the solid, rubber soles and the heads themselves gave excellent traction. Each shoe had been drilled with twenty of the rough, steel fixings to ensure no accidents occurred as the slayers moved further out onto the ice-covered stone.

  “Right, everyone needs to listen,” Kurt yelled, commanding their attention. “We’re only going to clear half of the area and leave the rest alone. At the moment, the ones frozen close to the drawbridge are holding back the larger horde outside. If we kill too many, they’ll swarm us.”

  “Then we let them defrost and repeat the process?” Pauline asked.

  “We’ve talked about it, and no. Once everyone has destroyed some of the zombies, we’re going to seal it back up and leave them be.”

  “But why?” asked Anja.

  Jonesy stepped forward to explain. “The prison has the same issue, but it works in their favour as well. Not only does it keep the hostages compliant, but it makes an infiltration that much harder. We can assume that at some point the prison inmates will try and breach our walls, which is why we’ll use the same tactic. I know it is awful listening to them day and night, but until we get some certainty about their intentions it’s for the best.”

  Kurt looked at the faces as they processed the information. “Because of our low number and the size of the walls…”

  “Not to mention our infamous rebels who have weakened us further,” added Gloria.

  “And them too,” Kurt agreed. “We’ve got to ensure we can cover as much ground as humanly possible within our limitations.”

  “What happens when we’re safe from the lunatics at the prison?”

  “We still remain vigilant. If anything, I was surprised to find survivors at both locations. It means there may well be a lot more people alive than I first thought. They may be friendly, they may not, but you can be damned sure we’ll be ready for anyone who tries to take this place,” growled Kurt.