Hellspawn (Book 4): Hellspawn Requiem

by Ricky Fleet

  “What do we do?” Declan asked.

  “Head back inside and see what’s going on. We’ll wait here and see if they have any more luck.”

  “Ok.”

  Standing in the shadows, they watched the repeated attempts which had no more success than the first. Hombre was growing angrier by the minute which was obvious from the growing pile of increasingly crushed cigarettes at his feet. A new face came running back to them from the tunnels.

  “Felix, where’s Declan gone?”

  “He’s at the back gates. We’ve tried everything we can to lure them away, even feeding them a tasty snack from the platform, but nothing’s worked. It’ll be suicide trying for the Morton Atkins yard so Craig says there are three options. Abandon the mission, bring a load of people and ferry it through the tunnel, or attempt to reach the back gates where they are at their weakest.”

  Hombre gave it some thought, but the last thing on his mind was wasting all their efforts.

  “I don’t trust the tunnel. The stuff we have to bring back is big and bulky and if someone knocks out a support we could all be buried.”

  “You want me to tell him to make ready on the back of the prison?”

  “Do it,” he nodded to Felix, then turned to his men, “Follow him back and clear a space for me. I’m going to take the track that runs parallel to the western wall and I expect the gate to be open when I get there. If you get me killed, I’m coming back and eating every one of you fuckers!”

  “We’ll send a signal around the wall when you have the best shot, ok?” Felix explained and raced off, closely followed by the others.

  Standing alone, Hombre felt at peace in spite of the coming danger. His own company was always preferable to the sycophants and undesirables inside the prison walls. At least the undesirables had the good sense to hide away when he was roaming the corridors. The kiss asses were a constant nuisance, begging for exciting stories of his exploits on the road before making their own bullshit tales up to try and impress him. The only people he truly valued as equals were Craig, Matt, and JR. Mike was already on his shit list and it would be a long time before he even trusted, let alone liked the man. Lost in his own thoughts, a piercing whistle brought him back to the present. On the wall a prisoner was waving and circling his thumb and forefinger to say it was ok.

  “Let’s do this.”

  Starting the truck, he shifted into gear and rolled clear of the concealing buildings. The dead heard the grumbling engine and left the wall by the hundreds. Thankfully, the gated road was closer and swinging wide, he twisted the wheel and drove through the wooden barrier. Watching the road for excessively large potholes he zigzagged past the builder’s yard and could see the faces on the wall screaming down into the horde to keep their attention. The heavily loaded vehicle was far more interesting than a voice and the zombies were quickly approaching the track, aided by the careful pace Hombre was driving the vehicle. So far, he had only lost a handful of bags and two kegs of beer, but he needed to pick up speed or run the risk of being surrounded. With each increase in speed the rutted ground toppled more of their spoils and he slowed down to protect the load.

  “Fuck it!”

  Nearing the corner the undead had met the road and splashes of green liquid sprayed onto the windscreen with each sickening impact. Slowing for the turn, his air brakes hissed like the snorting of a beast and the zombies fell under the wheels to be crushed. One hundred yards separated him from the massive gates and they creaked open on worn hinges.

  “Clever bastards,” he grinned as he neared the entrance. The monsters were occupied around the gate and as he watched, a body was tossed screaming from the walls to the grateful recipients below.

  Swinging around the huddle of festering dead and through the opening, he lost another ten bags and a box of spirits to the manoeuvre. Pulling to a stop, the heavy gates were swung closed and bolted and he reversed up to them to provide stability until the converging swarm dispersed. Small fights raged within the caged enclosure and Hombre jumped down, axes in hand.

  “Help me,” begged one of the guards who had closed the gate, desperately fending off a pair of undead

  Hombre charged over and shoulder barged the two zombies to the ground, quickly killing them with swipes of the ice axes.

  “Were you bitten?” Hombre called out as he reached another group.

  Eyes glazed in shock, the prisoner looked over himself and was amazed to find no mortal wounds, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then fucking fight!” Hombre yelled, hacking into the skulls of the thrashing dead.

  Their victim was already twitching from reanimation and could only struggle beneath the pinning weight of the fallen when he awoke. One swing embedded the blade to the hilt in the head and Hombre wrenched it free with a crunch of bone and splash of brain matter.

  “All clear?” Declan asked, carefully avoiding the bodies on the ground.

  “Yeah, they’re all dead,” Hombre replied, shaking his head, “What a fucking mess.”

  “At least we made it back in one piece.”

  Looking at Declan, he could only sigh, “But how many people did we lose for some wood and concrete? Ten? At this rate, we’ll all be dead before we can even build another tunnel.”

  “I guess you’re right. We didn’t plan this well enough.”

  “You can say that again. Who was it that got thrown from the wall?”

  “Lewis said he wanted to help,” Declan shrugged, lowering his gaze, “He helped.”

  “Fuck!” Hombre screamed into the sky, “I could’ve saved that pineapple for myself!”

  CHAPTER 21

  Craig surveyed the gathering and smiled to himself. Turning to Matt, he asked, “Who’s next?”

  “Reynolds from the tunnel crew.”

  “Paedophile?”

  “No,” Matt shook his bandaged head, “Fraud.”

  Beckoning him to approach, the man knelt in respect. Craig adored the attention even though he was fully aware he looked like a pretentious twat. The carefully crafted platform he was seated upon had come to him after watching a TV show with porn, political intrigue, and bloody betrayal. A throne had been erected by using a wooden chair and fixing machetes and knives to the frame. It didn’t have the same visual impact as the dragon smelted version in the show, but he loved it anyway. As the sun would glide through the sky, the rays would glint from blade to blade. During its first use, he had cut himself on a poorly inserted boning knife and still bore the scar on his thigh. The clotted blood of the architect was still tucked into the harder to reach corners of the welded steel. Shouts of apology were quickly silenced when the man was forcefully dragged against every razor-sharp protuberance, much to the amusement of the other prisoners.

  “What do you want?” Craig sighed with haughty disdain, mimicking a bored monarch.

  “Thank you for seeing me, sir,” grovelled the man, warily watching the bodyguards to Craig’s left and right.

  The ‘King’s Guard’ consisted of Matt Hay and three other burly men flanking ‘His Highness’, cradling loaded shotguns and rifles. Around the room, more of his men kept a watchful eye on proceedings with axes and blades which hadn’t been subsumed into the metallic monstrosity on the stage.

  “Your request,” Craig said, leaning forward and scowling with impatience, “Now!”

  “Well, I was wondering,” blustered the man, wishing he hadn’t drawn the short blade of grass which had set him on this dangerous path, “That maybe… Umm… We could get more rations and cut our working hours down a little?”

  A deathly silence fell on the converted gymnasium and the man’s gulp was audible in the hush.

  “What the fuck are you trying to say?” Craig’s face was darkening; a sure sign violence was imminent.

  Like a beast surrounded by predators, the man’s eyes flashed wildly around the room in fear. He hadn’t wanted this responsibility and now it would end up with him being severely hurt… or worse.

&n
bsp; “I… I…” he husked, words trapped in his throat.

  “Stop mumbling or I’ll fucking peel you!” Craig thundered and the man was close to fainting.

  “I… we... feel that we’re being unfairly treated. Every day another one of us dies from malnutrition or exhaustion.” Sighing the last, he slumped on his heels and waited for the gunshot or swish of blade that would end his life.

  Craig stood up and climbed down the steps, appraising the man with wide, furious eyes. Placing a heel on Reynold’s chest, he kicked out and sent the man sprawling. They had chosen their spokesman sensibly as any sex offender would already be on their way to the board. Calculation calmed Craig’s red hot fury and he motioned for Matt to join him.

  “What is the current regime with the diggers? I forget,” Craig whispered into Matt’s ear when he drew level.

  “They get about thirteen hundred calories a day according to chef, so basically starving. And that’s without the manual labour thrown in which consists of sixteen hours a day, seven days a week digging and humping mud,” explained Matt.

  Craig gave it some consideration and everyone waited patiently for the murderous response. It came as a great shock to the audience, not least the cowering victim, when Craig extended a hand and helped the man to his feet without a further beating.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Craig began, climbing the steps and seating himself again, “I’ll up your rations by a third.”

  Relief and gratitude flushed over the man’s face, “Oh, thank you. We-”

  “Was I finished?” Craig yelled, silencing the hollow simpering. “I’m also going to cut the working hours to fourteen, with a half day off once a week on a rotating basis.”

  Waiting for instruction or prompt from the gang, the man glanced around anxiously.

  “You’re not even going to say thank you?” Craig bellowed.

  “But… but I tried,” pleaded the man, “Thank you so much, Mr. Arater.”

  Craig was fully aware of the man’s previous attempt, but his volatile nature demanded mind games to keep the minions on their toes. When caught up in a rage, there was little anyone could do except get out of the way. Often, the mere possibility of one was enough to solicit the desired response and it was something he actively exploited to bend people to his will.

  “If I hear that my kindness slows down progress on the tunnels, you won’t like the punishment,” Craig warned.

  “It won’t, I…”

  “Get out of my sight!”

  Astonished that he had not only escaped with his life, but had even achieved a small concession, Reynolds hastily departed the gym hall.

  Matt leaned in close, “Was that wise, boss?”

  “We’ve already lost enough of the men. I don’t relish the idea of digging the tunnels myself, do you?”

  “Wouldn’t bother me. I like to keep busy.”

  “Yeah, I can tell,” Craig replied, nodding at Matt’s patched-up wounds.

  Ignoring the jibe, Matt continued, “I still don’t think it sends the right message. They will be getting close to the same food allowance as the rest of the prisoners at this rate. They won’t be happy to see nonces well-fed.”

  “Fuck them,” Craig sneered, “They would all be dead if it wasn’t for me. Besides, the last two raids netted us enough food to last through until January. We need longer, wider tunnels to get us clear of the walls to the south. That way we can bring back larger quantities, and a great deal faster too.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right,” Craig affirmed, “We’ve a lot of mouths to feed and the smaller, local shops are empty.”

  “You’re thinking of hitting a bigger store?”

  “Yeah. You saw the trouble Hombre had earlier with the truck. Unless we intend to lose ten men every time we set foot outside these walls, we need to keep a much lower profile.”

  Matt raised his undamaged eyebrow, “How many do you think we’ll lose storming the castle against people with automatic weapons? And that’s after we’ve fought our way through the thousands of zombies.”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Craig said with a wink, “I have a couple of ideas about that. We can talk about them later with Hombre. Who’s next?”

  “Bobby, the head chef.”

  “Ok.”

  “Send him in!” Matt hollered.

  The doors opened and Bobby sauntered in. He was a mid-level convict who had been imprisoned for money laundering. His restaurant had operated as a front for the local drug gangs and when the police finally caught up with him, he opted to serve his full sentence instead of betray his employers and their hidden money. It had ensured gratitude and respect from the associates of the enterprise who were already serving time. Craig found the man’s arrogance grating, but as the only other qualified chef aside from the one previously employed by the prison itself, they all needed him and he knew it. The small team he had assembled were coping well with the demands of so many mouths to feed and a limited cooking environment.

  “Morning, boss,” Bobby waved cheerfully as he walked up the aisle.

  “Morning, Bobby. What can I do for you today?”

  “A couple of things. The generator we have hooked up to the freezers is starting to act up.”

  “Act up how?”

  “When the genny’s idling, it’s starting to struggle or cut out. Amir says the carburettor is knackered, but we don’t have a spare that we can find.”

  “Shit,” Craig huffed.

  “You got that right. If it finally gives up and we lose power, all the food will defrost and be ruined in a day.”

  “Solution?”

  Bobby shrugged, “We need a new one.”

  “And I suppose you aren’t interested in going out to pick one up?”

  “I’d love to,” Bobby held his arms wide in a dramatic gesture, “But I’m just too important to risk.”

  “We could always replace you with the old chef,” Craig warned, “I’m sure he would be happy to get out of the cell for a few hours a day.”

  Bobby burst out laughing and held his sides, “I’m surprised you haven’t peeled him for the slop he used to serve us. Do you really want him to be in charge of the food again? I wouldn’t put it past him to poison everyone with how he’s been treated either.”

  Craig stared for a few moments in contemplation. Irritation grew into a simmering anger at the smug grin on the man’s face. Ultimately, they really did need his expertise and Craig acquiesced, “Ok. I’ll send a team out tomorrow to search the local farms.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  “What was the other thing?”

  “We’re running low on meat,” Bobby said quietly, the cheerful exterior gone.

  “Leave that with me,” Craig replied, “Expect a delivery tonight.”

  Unable to reply, he bowed as expected and left the room. A pall of fear and horror had settled over the gathering and Craig turned to Matt.

  “Who’s next?”

  “The Fowler brothers. Should I disappear?”

  “It’s probably for the best until everything settles down,” Craig agreed, “You’ve put me in a tight spot, you bloody fool.”

  “Couldn’t be helped,” Matt replied.

  “You can tell me all about it later, now head down to solitary and take care of Bobby’s problem.”

  With a nod, the Scotsman handed over the shotgun to another guard and was gone.

  “Come!”

  Echoes of the crashing doors bounced from the walls as the two men stormed in. Blades were readied and safeties switched off in preparation for any attack on their boss. Craig smiled and held his arms out in a welcome gesture but the glares of poison showed this wasn’t a cordial visit.

  “Fred, George, it’s good to see you. How can I help you today?” Craig maintained his smile as they marched towards him.

  Barrels were raised and the brothers were sighted by the loaded firearms. Their fury was held i
n abeyance by the threat and they halted at the line marked on the floor, before taking a single step closer in defiance. The guards curled their fingers on the trigger and a single pace further would result in them being gunned down without hesitation.

  “Gentlemen, why the long faces?”

  “You know full well why, Arater!” Fred proclaimed, pointing a meaty finger in accusation.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Craig replied, a look of bafflement on his face.

  “Your man Hay killed Keeping in the shower block and I want him peeled, today!” George growled.

  “You dare to come in here and bark orders at me?” Craig snarled. “I should kill you where you stand!”

  “Don’t threaten us,” Fred warned, “You made the rules in this fucking place and now you’ve got to enforce them!”

  Craig picked up his favourite machete which was perched against the throne, “I know the rules, but do you?” He waved the point of the blade at the men.

  George puffed his chest up, “Any man who attacks a senior member of this facility without permission from the wing bosses gets peeled,” he fired back. After years of operating on the toughest streets in Liverpool, he wasn’t afraid of the guns or the blades. They had been in tougher places than Ford prison.

  Craig clapped sarcastically, “Well done, you can read. But what else does it say?” Craig taunted.

  “What does it matter? The rules have been broken and the punishment is clear.”

  “We live in England, not some Middle-Eastern dictatorship. Accusations mean fuck all, I want evidence!” Craig roared, patience exhausted with their aggressive demeanour.

  “Everyone’s seen his busted face and cut arm. What else do you need?” Fred demanded.

  “He fell down the stairs of the administrative block. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  George’s eye twitched and his fists clenched, “You really think you’re going to kill one of my men and get away with it?”