Hellspawn (Book 6): Retribution Page 3

  “Shit, boss. My blisters have got blisters.” Tim moaned.

  “You can rest once we get the hotel secure. If we’re lucky, we might even come across some poor fucker wearing something sturdier. You’ll kill them and strip the boots.”

  “I don’t want to wear zombie shoes. That’s disgusting.”

  “Is it worse than being left behind and eaten when we get attacked?”

  “You wouldn’t leave me, would you?” asked Max.

  “Probably fucking not, and you’re a bastard for even making it an issue. Fuck, man. I told you not to wear them!”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  “Let’s get across the bridge and find a place to rest for a while. It’ll let the swelling go down a bit at least,” Matt grumbled. Idiots! He’d caught sight of the inappropriate footwear and decided to let it slide as a valuable lesson. What he hadn’t counted on was that the cold, combined with the churned up, uneven fields would cause an issue this severe in such a short space of time. If they had taken the road, it would have been plain sailing on flat ground. The whole idea of going cross country was to follow the river and check for any issues along the way which might hold them up. So far the water had been flowing beautifully with no obstructions.

  Hearing the grunts and groans from behind, Matt gave some thought to calling it off. It was the last thing he wanted, but the danger increased dramatically with each passing mile and the toll it took on the soft shoed feet. On his other shoulder was the voice of reason telling him to keep going. If needs be, he would take the charging battery from their dead hands and do the job himself. He wasn’t a fucking babysitter. Shutting out the miserable complaints, he thought about his wife and sons. Deep down he knew they were ok. It wasn’t just a hunch, it was instinct. He and Kirstie, his wife, had a bond stronger than love. When she was first diagnosed with the dreaded cancer, he had known it was coming. For several weeks, his own health had suffered. It was similar to the old saying of ‘coming out in sympathy’, the way a partner sometimes shares pregnancy cramps and sickness. In this case it was in tune to the growing tumour in her left kidney. He’d be at work when an agonising, shooting pain would cause him to clutch at his back. It was only a few weeks later when he mentioned it that Kirstie had confirmed her own pain. The rest, as they said, was history. But now he felt her… what was it? Her presence? He could feel… something. It didn’t extend to the boys, unfortunately, but if she was alive, then so were they. Once the prison was secure and the work complete to raid the town, he would think about sneaking out and heading north. A few weeks would see him in Scotland, then the search could begin properly. Clarissa would either need to come with him, or be placed with someone he could trust. That’s a short list.

  Max sighed with relief, the flat road beckoning his aching feet with promises of respite. “There’s the bridge.”

  Matt pulled him back. “Stay down! There’s a shit load of them wandering around.”

  “How do you want to play this, boss?” asked Andrew, trying to suck up.

  “I think it’s about time you lot earned your crust. I’m going to sit back and watch the fun.”

  “You’re not going to help?”

  “I killed twenty at the gates on my own. You bastards can handle a hundred.”

  Max and Paul shucked off the packs with the batteries and pulled out their hatchets. The other cons did the same, withdrawing knives, bats, bars, whatever they favoured for the task. Andrew sucked it up and followed, wielding a length of steel bar from the stripped cell blocks. Matt was going to call out a warning, but decided against it.

  “Fucking amateurs,” he muttered, standing up and following them to the road.

  Lining up, they called out to the undead who milled around the stationary vehicles. Funnelling through the narrow spaces, they came on in twos and threes.

  “Have this, you cunt!” Andrew shouted, swinging the bar. With a dull thonk, it crushed the skull and sent a shockwave back through the steel and through his fingers. Dropping the weapon, he cradled the tingling hand.

  “Wanker. You should’ve wrapped it,” said Matt, pulling him roughly out of the way. “The rest of you, finish them off!”

  Dulled by death, the creatures strode onwards to their end. In under five minutes, crushed and cleaved skulls dripped green tinged brain matter onto the battleground.

  “Toss the bodies. I want to set up a little barricade with the cars before we head off. It’ll make it easier to start building once we get the boats back and the tunnel made.”

  “You got it, boss,” Max said, wrestling a corpse to the stone wall.

  Splash after splash came from below. In short order, the river had a floating procession of zombies gradually making way to the ocean.

  “Shall we use the chargers to jump start them?” asked Max, pointing at the vehicles.

  “No, we push them. I don’t want to waste any of that juice on this. Check for the ones with keys, it’ll mean the steering isn’t locked and we can move them easier.”

  A cursory inspection revealed that nearly every vehicle still had keys dangling from the ignition.

  “Whoever these belonged to, they left in a hurry,” said Paul.

  “Chances are they didn’t get far. We probably just killed them, or they’re keeping us company at the prison.”

  “Jesus, it’s fucking mental when you think about it, isn’t it?” said Paul.

  “What?” asked Matt, steering a car and dragging it back down the road single handed.

  “Everyone’s dead. I mean, everyone. The whole world. That’s… what? A hundred million people?”

  “Nearly seven billion, you moron,” Max replied.

  Paul frowned. He never had been good with numbers. “Wait, is that more or less?”

  “You know what a million is, right?”

  Paul thought about it for a while. “A thousand thousands, yeah?”

  “That’s right. The amount of people on the planet are seven thousand million. Well, they were people, anyway. Now it’s seven billion zombies for the most part.”

  “Seven thousand million?” Paul stood in the road, mouth agape. He couldn’t comprehend the sheer scale of the number.

  “Are you going to help or just catch flies?” Matt snapped, manoeuvring a hatchback into position.

  “Sorry, boss. How the hell are we supposed to kill seven billion of them?”

  “We’re not, you tit. There’s only seventy million in the UK.”

  “That’s still quite a lot, isn’t it?”

  “Give the man a gold star!” chuckled Max.

  “Shut up! It’s not my fault I’m dumb!”

  Feeling guilty, Max relented. “I’m only kidding, bud. You know you’re a diamond in other ways. There’s no one in the prison who can nick a motor faster than you.”

  “It’s a shame he couldn’t get away as fast as he nicked them, or he wouldn’t have been locked up with us,” Matt teased, joining in the good natured banter. After the grief of the Hombre railyard run, he’d picked this group largely based upon their ability to get on with each other. They did their best to keep out of the gang violence and assorted aggravation inside the prison walls. That wasn’t to say they were cowards, only that they didn’t go looking for a fight.

  “How far out shall we make it?” asked Tim.

  Matt gathered them all and showed roughly where the construction would take place. “They want to build an arc with bricks and steel.”

  Paul nodded but his vacant eyes betrayed he was clueless.

  “Like this,” Matt continued. Starting at the left hand wall of the bridge, he walked while scuffing a half moon in the dust from one side of the road to the other.

  “Ahh, gotcha!” Paul said, smiling as it finally clicked.

  “So if we give them another ten foot,” Matt said, moving further out. “That will give them a decent barrier to work with. Plus it stops anything following us today as well.”

  “Good point,” Paul conceded.

 
; “I know it is. Let’s get to it!”

  The aches and pains weren’t so stark when moving around on the flat ground and the men worked without complaint. The crunch of tires on tarmac was the only accompaniment to their laboured breathing. The task wasn’t necessary, but why waste the opportunity while the coast was clear? Plenty of time still remained to make it to the marina hotel. Sweating buckets, the men surveyed their handywork with satisfaction. The cars were bumper to bumper, providing a solid obstacle to help the builders in the coming weeks. Claiming the spoils of the large town would be vital. Long term survival hinged on finding an abundant food source, especially the dry and canned food. Plans could be made to start growing food when the winter finally broke.

  Taking a well-earned smoke break, the prisoners listened to the rush of the river and the faint pandemonium of the dead. Turning his head slowly, Matt could identify two distinct groups, one at Ford, and one in the town ahead. He didn’t need to be an acoustical expert to know which was the bigger of the two.

  “Everyone ready?”

  Grinding out the smouldering butts, the men gathered their belongings and moved across the half empty bridge towards an uncertain afternoon.

  Chapter 6

  The lounge of the large, luxurious caravan was awash with drifting cigarette smoke. Sat around the edge on the plush, horseshoe shaped sofas were the heads of the most trusted Gypsy families in her community.

  Big John Docherty, famed bare knuckle boxer out of Wexford. Six foot eight and twenty stone, with slicked black hair and crooked nose. Sunken brown eyes twinkled with insanity as he drew on the hand rolled cigarette. His skin was heavily tanned from working outside, with the texture of aged leather.

  Lennie and Mikey Hampton sat to his right, Claire Hampton’s twin nephews on her brother’s side. Slightly smaller than Big John, but only by a couple of inches. They had been the senior enforcers of the drug enterprise in Ireland and the United Kingdom. If anyone skimmed or stepped out of line, they would punish the miscreant, often fatally. It ensured a smooth running operation.

  ‘Nan’ Keenan sipped on a steaming mug of tea. Matriarch of her own small group out of Cork, she was one of Claire’s closest friends. Small in stature, but large in influence, the closely cropped blonde hair accentuated a pair of cold blue eyes, and a sharp nose. Full, pouty lips stood in contrast to the sharp edges of her general features. Her boys, Albert and Bart were loyal, if not a little slow which is why they never attended the conferences. A lack of wits was made up by their brutality, however. She was jointly in charge of the prostitution network across vast swathes of Ireland.

  Andy Joyce, owner of twenty-two scrap metal recycling facilities, four heavy machinery suppliers, and a huge scaffolding contractor. Tall and wiry, with a clean shaven head and long, black beard. He chewed on an unlit cigar while the proceedings unfolded, saying it was rude to smoke in someone else’s home. The legitimate businesses were part of the extensive money laundering that was required for the more nefarious aspects of the clan’s activities.

  “Little Pat” Connor, named ironically because of his hefty bulk. He was fat, morbidly so, but he carried a powerful frame below the soft exterior and could fight with the best of them. His jolly face and easy smile hid a hair trigger for violence that had put many unwary pub goers into intensive care. His knowledge of, and fondness for all things narcotic, was why Claire had put him in charge of overseas procurement. Otherwise known as meeting the cartels, or Afghan warlords, and buying large quantities of cocaine and heroin. Sadly, the buyers had dried up a little since everyone had semi-died.

  And lastly, Frances Moonan, the UK head of the trafficking and prostitution network. Known for her expert work with a blade on any uncooperative whore, her once pretty face bore similar scarring from an argument twenty years ago with a rival family.

  “What’s the plan, Mrs Hampton?” asked Lennie.

  Claire blew on the contents of the coffee mug, deep in thought. Reaching out with her free hand, she stroked the hood of Patrick who was tied securely to a chair by her side. “I wanted to wait for your dad, but they’re off on other business with your uncles. In the meantime, Billy’s going to show you the prison tunnel and where that walking dead man left the generator.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Nothing at the moment. Just get a good idea of the area.”

  “What if we see him?”

  “Then all bets are off. Take him and anyone that’s with him.”

  “You’ve got it, Mrs Hampton.”

  “Take the horses and leave in the next hour. I want to know the lay of the land by lunchtime.”

  Everyone nodded and finished their tea and cigarettes. Watching them climb down the three steps of her trailer, Claire turned to her dead son who struggled in the chair. “We’ll get you some food later, don’t worry. Mother loves you.”

  **********

  Lennie watched as the huge ramp lowered across the zombie riddled chasm, thick chains rattling from the tower mounts. Trotting forward, the horses whinnied at the nearby threat, but a gentle kick hurried them across with a clatter of hooves on metal. Claire had forbidden any of the senior Gypsies to go, and only after a tense exchange had he managed to sway her and let him lead the expedition. The six men at his back were picked by the heads of each family for their loyalty and desire for bloody revenge.

  “We’re going to murder those fuckers!”

  “It’ll make the feud with the Barretts look like a dinner party.”

  “Aye, we will. But not until Mrs Hampton says so,” replied Lennie.

  “I wonder if they know what’s coming?”

  “I doubt it. They’re probably having a right laugh at offing a couple of our boys.”

  “Bastards!”

  “Calm yourself. They’ll get theirs in time. When Claire starts, they’ll wish the deaders had eaten them from the balls up.”

  Staying on the main roads, they guided the horses through the abandoned vehicles. Snorting in the frigid morning air, mist blew from the wide nostrils. Whinnying nervously, Lennie’s horse started to hesitate.

  “They can smell something,” warned Lennie, pulling gently on the reins.

  Looking around, the men watched the dense hedgerows for signs of movement.

  “There!” Lennie pointed seeing the foliage shift.

  “Do we kill them here?”

  “Nah, I don’t want to risk spooking the horses. Let’s draw them into one of the traps.”

  Trotting on, the large group of zombies burst out onto the road. The wilderness hadn’t been kind. Bumbling through the brooks and branches of the West Sussex countryside had left them devoid of clothing. Deep furrows in grey flesh oozed a green pus which trickled down what remained of their legs. The feet were nothing but bones and connective tissue. Most of the calves were gone right up to the knee. If they had an eye patch with a skull and crossbones, they might have passed for gruesome, naked, peg-legged pirates.

  “Stay slow, we want them to keep up with us.”

  Making for the open gate at the side of the road, deep tracks of the long dead farmer guided their way. Set within the wider depressions were the marks made by cars and excavators which had journeyed here during the first days of the apocalypse. Teams were tasked with digging huge pits, much like the protective barrier which surrounded the massive campsite. At least two hundred had been created by their last count, with over half being concealed by stripped branches and vegetation. The rest would be covered as time and manpower allowed. Guiding the horses safely past the trench, the Gypsies formed a line and waited as the zombies staggered into the field.

  “That’s it, come on, my lovelies!”

  By the time the last decaying creature had passed the gates, there were close to four hundred. It would be risky to extract the zombies and drop them in the campsite moat, Lennie thought. Probably best to just fill it in and crush the brains, then dig another pit a short distance further. Reaching for the meal only a few short pa
ces away, the thin cover broke under the weight. Unfulfilled, they dropped with a crunch of bones to the mud ten feet below. Unable to ignore the craving for flesh, they stumbled onwards, spilling over the rim like a putrescent waterfall. Less than a minute saw the pit half full, and the men spat in disgust before resuming their task.

  “How could they still walk after their legs were shredded?”

  “Fuck knows. How can they be alive in the first place?” replied Lennie.

  “Doesn’t Mrs Hampton have any idea?”

  “No, she just whispers something about dark magic, supernatural, broken veils. I can’t make head nor tail of it.”

  “But she saw it coming?”

  “Yeah, she did.”

  Lennie could remember the meeting as if it was yesterday. Disbelief and cautious mockery were the order of the day. Hands were slapped on tables in anger, and threats made about Claire pulling the plug on certain business deals. A couple of the Irish families had cut ties immediately, forcing their way out of the caravan. Another three had been more respectful, apologizing that they couldn’t go along with the crazy plan. Claire had wished them no ill will, offering them a portion of the drugs business which seemed to placate them. She knew they would likely never get to see a single pound in profit, but if this was the one occasion that her second sight was wrong, it would go some way to rebuilding trust.

  After the initial hullabaloo had faded, she tried to put into words what the vision had shown. A wave of dark power flowing over the world. Death and rebirth. The end of times. All a mad jumble of images and sounds that she couldn’t fully understand. The tea leaves gave no more clues as to the coming threat, other than they had to isolate themselves. Whereas some of the families had mocked, the others listened intently and followed without question. Her track record of seeing was too sound to be cast aside. A plot of land had been bought for cash at well over the asking price. The Joyce’s brought most of their machinery, and every single steel coupling and transom pole from the scaffolding business. When the digging commenced, the residents of the tiny village were up in arms, seeking court injunctions and orders to desist. Claire knew the time was near and bogged the challenges down with claims of harassment against the traveller community.