Hellspawn (Book 6): Retribution Read online

  Leading them on, he kept low and used the larger rocking vessels as cover to approach the main entrance. The glass of the security booth sitting between the two lanes was coated with a liberal spattering of coagulated brown residue. Hearing a commotion, Matt ordered everyone to stay put as he approached. The unmistakeable gnashing of teeth were coming from inside the tiny office. Slowly rising, Matt peered through a small, unstained patch of glass. Seeing there was no threat from what lay inside, he waved the others over.

  “Poor bastard,” whispered Andrew as he moved past the door towards the gate.

  Shreds of tattered uniform were strewn across the road outside. Inside lay the guard, stripped of clothes and limbs. The damage was horrific. Both arms and legs were gone. Ragged teeth marks at the hips and shoulder joints showed where they had been chewed off. The empty torso was topped with a remarkably undamaged head and face that snapped in hunger as they stared. Lacking lungs, the usual groaning was absent.

  “Aye, poor bastard indeed,” said Matt, driving the point of his claymore through the slimy, grey forehead.

  Dragging the gates across, they made a high pitched keening from the years of immobilisation. The awful din carried on the still air and was swiftly answered by the locals.

  “Fuck! Get it locked quick, Paul!”

  Looping the chain, he tied it off and snapped a padlock in place. Rushing back to take cover with the others, they watched as the dead wandered into view.

  “Stay quiet and don’t move a muscle,” Matt whispered.

  Unable to locate the source of the sudden noise, the zombies bumbled around aimlessly for a couple of minutes. None out of the hundred or so on the main road made any attempt to move towards the marina. A further five minutes passed, and the investigation was over. Shambling off towards goodness knew what, the road cleared.

  “That was lucky,” muttered Tim.

  “After the shit we’ve had out here, I think a bit of luck was the least we could ask for,” Matt replied.

  The short walk to the hotel took them away from the boats and into what had once been a beautifully kept landscaped area. The road curved upwards towards the columned entrance canopy, lined by flowerbeds that were now rotten with the out of season carcasses of dead blossoms. The lawns, as with everywhere else, were thriving without a sharp blade to keep them in check. Passing abandoned cars, the men gasped and marvelled at the expensive models that would never be parked by the absent valet. A Maserati, two Bentleys, and a Porsche were lined up alongside Audis, Mercedes, and BMWs.

  “There’s got to be two million pounds worth of cars here,” said Tim, stroking the sleek hood of the black GranCabrio.

  “And they’re the ones that aren’t parked below.”

  “What’re they all doing here?”

  “Fuck knows,” said Matt. “Some kind of event, maybe?”

  “When we’ve killed the dead fucks, I’m nicking one of these.”

  “Without petrol you’re going to struggle to get it moving.”

  “Who said anything about it moving? I’d be happy to just sit in the driver’s seat and make vroom noises.”

  “Simple things please simple minds,” said Matt.

  “What’s pleasing a rock band got to do with sitting in a car?” asked Paul.

  “Not Simple Minds the band! Simple minds as in… Fuck it, never mind.” Matt closed his mouth and blew the growing vexation through his nostrils in twin plumes of annoyed mist.

  “What?” Paul demanded as the prisoners turned away.

  “Nothing,” sighed Matt. “Stick your head inside the main reception, lad. See what kind of resistance we’re going to find.”

  Frowning at the reaction to his sensible question, he gave the others the finger and hurried between the high end cars. The gleaming paint jobs lay beneath a thin film of windblown muck. Wiping a hand across the bodywork as he passed, the grime disappeared, revealing the dazzling sheen of the expensive coatings below. Nodding in approval, he turned away and jogged to the entrance. Matt watched disbelievingly as the young thief pushed at the doors which were clearly marked ‘Pull’. Scratching his head, he pushed at them again, creating a loud rattle.

  “God help us,” Tim whispered in disbelief.

  “Pull them, you fucking numpty!” Matt called out.

  Pulling at the polished chrome handles, the doors swung wide. “Why didn’t it just say that then?” he called back, missing the startlingly obvious bronze plates with the gold lettering saying ‘Pull’ attached to the glass.

  “Shall we just leave him for the zombies?” suggested Tim.

  “That would be unfair on the zombies,” replied Matt.

  “Could you imagine Paul as a zombie? They’re dumb as shit anyway, but being dead would make him even worse.”

  “Now that’s a thought. What if feeding him to them made them considerably more stupid?” Max suggested.

  “Like an infection of moron?” Matt pondered the possibility.

  “Yeah.”

  “It could work. We’d need to work out how to give it to the rest of the six billion though.”

  “That’s where the problem lies.”

  “Once he’s turned, we could always just round up Paul and his band of imbeciles. It would be like an undead version of The Three Stooges. You know, a bit of slapstick comedy.”

  “It could be a little light relief now the gauntlet is on hold.”

  “I’ll run it by Craig,” joked Matt, returning his attention to the main doors.

  A heavy clash of steel being yanked against the surrounding frame caused groans of incredulity from the men.

  “God give me strength,” moaned Matt, holding his head in his hands.

  Paul finally pushed and sheepishly stuck his head out through the entrance. “It’s all clear now.”

  “Now?” asked Tim.

  “Let’s go and see.”

  Paul held the door open for them as they bustled out of the freezing and into the mere frigid. Laying in a heap on the black and white tiled floor were eight zombies, all freshly slain.

  “Paul, why didn’t you call us?”

  “I figured if I handled this on my own you’d stop picking on me for being dumb,” he replied, lowering his head.

  “You melon!” Matt grumbled, pulling him into a bear hug. “You don’t need to be Albert Einstein to be a good’un. You may not win any prizes for smarts, but you’re as sound as they come.”

  “We’re only taking the piss, mate,” said Max. “We don’t mean anything by it.”

  “I know. It just doesn’t feel good.”

  Matt dragged him over to the plush leather sofas of the waiting area. Pushing him into the seat, he pulled out the bottle of expensive whisky and handed it over. “You get a couple of shots. Don’t drink the whole bottle.”

  “Hang on, we’ve got to clear the rest of the hotel,” Paul blustered, making to stand.

  Matt pushed him back down. “You’ve earned a break, lad. We’ll do the next bit.”

  “Just keep your eyes and ears open, mate,” added Max, attaching the chain around the handles of the entrance.

  “Are you sure?”

  “We’re sure. Now sit tight,” Matt replied with a friendly wink.

  Joining the others at the marble reception desk, they looked around the lobby and started to plan.

  “We have two choices,” said Matt, pointing around the room. “We can clear the whole hotel from top to bottom, and fuck knows how long that’ll take. Or we can seal off the ground floor and try to block off the rest. It’s not as if these things are capable of sneaking up on anything.”

  A set of dark stained wooden doors to the right were marked ‘Conference Hall’. To the left was a hallway leading to the restaurant, kitchen, and the ground floor bedrooms. A set of red carpeted stairs behind Paul led up to the first and second floor of the hotel.

  “If we block those off and put some glass on top, we’ll have an early warning if any of the guests come down to join us.”
/>   “Why don’t we just do the banging trick again? That way we know anything that’s close enough to hear will already be dead. Again.”

  “Ok, we’ll do that. In the meantime, we clear the ground floor slowly and quietly. I don’t want Paul getting eaten while we’re out of sight.”

  “Agreed.”

  Pointing to the conference room, Tim and Max stood to either side of the doorway. As one, they carefully pulled the doors back and the stink of rotten food hit them like a runaway truck. Taking slow breaths through his mouth, Matt could still taste the traces of decay. Peering inside, the stage was set up with a massive projector screen pulled down. The lectern had been knocked over in the first hours of the melee. Ten rows of twenty chairs were complete in places, but scattered in others. Whoever had been in here had tried to use the metal legs as weapons. Judging by the darker stains amongst the already dark carpet, they had failed. Six trestle tables were lined up under the windows, filled with plates and bowls of mouldering food.

  “So that’s what it was,” muttered Tim, pointing out a stand in the corner.

  UK Premium Yachts was printed on a pull out stand, depicting an exorbitantly expensive pleasure craft twice as long as the one they had sought refuge on.

  “How many shall we buy?” asked Max.

  Matt fingered through the glossy magazine listings. “All of them. It’s not as if they’re going to check our credit rating any more is it?”

  “I’ll take one of the hundred million Russian oligarchs yachts. They’re like a floating palace,” said Andrew.

  “I think you’d have to go to London for that. I expect there’s a few more of the dead fucks wandering around our capital than this town.”

  “Can you imagine?” muttered Tim, picturing the scene in his mind. “Millions of the things, as far as the eye can see. It’s insane.”

  “I expect we’ll be fighting them at some point,” said Max.

  “Won’t they all just rot away though?”

  “God knows. They don’t seem to have gotten any worse recently. Either it’s the cold, or they’ve stopped rotting.”

  “So they could be wandering around forever? We need to head north to Scotland where there aren’t so many.”

  “Don’t even think about it! I don’t want you southerners fucking up my country, dead or alive,” grumbled Matt.

  One of the positives of living in Scotland was the per capita population per square mile was much lower than the rest of the United Kingdom. Coupled with the stunning castles, unforgiving landscapes, and rolling glens, it was an apocalypse survivalists dream. Except for the rain and cold. The wind was no joke, cutting through you like a surgeon’s scalpel. Matt adored it, though. It was in his blood. His very soul rejoiced at the verdant greens, the dark browns of the peat bogs, the greys of the soaring mountains. In time, Scotland could prove to be a bastion for the living, and a fortress against the dead.

  “There’s nothing here,” said Andrew, peeking out from behind the stage curtains.

  “Well that’s something at least. I wonder where they all went?”

  “There were a load of handprints on the glass at the entrance. They might’ve just wandered off when the food ran out.”

  “So they’re already smarter than Paul?” said Tim with a grin.

  “Enough!” Matt fired back. “Leave him be.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  “If they did get drawn away, lucky us. At least we have less to worry about before we bed down for the night.”

  “Shall we clear the restaurant now?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Exiting the stinking conference hall, they waved to Paul who was merrily reading through a fashion magazine. Sipping from a mug, he toasted them as they passed.

  “Where’d you get the cup from?” asked Max.

  “In my bag. It’s my lucky mug.”

  “Aren’t you worried about dropping it? What if it gets broken?”

  “I’ll get another one.”

  “But you’d lose the luck.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t,” he scoffed as if the idea was preposterous.

  “Just don’t,” warned Matt when Max made to respond. “Let’s move.”

  Matt felt bad for thinking it, but an old saying sprang into his mind. What was it they said? Never argue with a fool; they would drag you down to their level and beat you with experience. Poor lad. It wasn’t his fault he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.

  “Can you hear that?” Tim whispered, holding an arm out to stop the others.

  A monotonous thudding could be heard from the end of the corridor. Walking cautiously forward, they came to the junction and listened intently.

  “It’s coming from the bedrooms,” said Matt.

  A sign on the wall had an arrow pointing left with room numbers, and an arrow pointing right showing the restaurant and bar. Turning left, the men prepared their weapons as the first doors on either side came into view. The slow, deliberate blows on the other side of the first door were muffled by the thickness of the solid wood. An unlit key card reader was attached to the chrome handle.

  “Try that one,” Matt whispered, nodding at the opposing door. “Just a crack.”

  Tim moved across and pushed the lever down. The latch disengaged and the door opened a fraction before he pulled it closed again. “They’re all open. Without power they must all default back to unlocked.”

  “It makes sense from a safety perspective,” said Max.

  “So what do we do?” asked Tim. “They can’t get out, but I’m not thrilled about matey here knowing there’s fresh meat on offer.”

  “We kill them,” said Matt, dropping the handle and shoulder barging the door.

  The suited executive flew backwards from the unexpected blow, landing atop ruffled bedcovers. Wasting no time, Matt hacked at the face which was already split down the middle from the sharp corner of the door. Painting the duvet a murky emerald, Matt wiped his blade and quickly scanned the bathroom and wardrobe.

  “Do the same for every room,” he ordered, picking up one of the goose down pillows which had escaped the spray.

  One by one the doors were thrown or kicked open. A short lived scuffle or swish of blade as it met skull were the only sounds as Matt caressed the luxuriously soft item.

  “Get a room you two,” Tim chuckled as he re-joined the Scot.

  “I will be later, I can assure you of that, lad,” he replied, pressing the softness to his head

  Max came back and entered the room. “That’s the last of them. The only other thing in this wing is a storage closet and a fire escape. We’re in the clear.”

  “How many were there?”

  The men counted amongst themselves and came up with nine.

  “Damn. Imagine just sitting in your room as the world fell apart, waiting to die.”

  “Sure seems a bad way to go,” muttered Andrew.

  “Time for the main event, ladies and gents,” exclaimed Matt, leading them back to the arrowed sign. “I’ll take the lead. I don’t think we’ll find much in the way of zombies, but it’s where we’ll find the booze. There may even be some grub in the kitchen.”

  “I could go for that,” sighed Max. His mouth watered at the mere thought of a dietary change. Hell, even a bag of bar peanuts would be worth getting excited over.

  “Ready?”

  “Whenever you are, boss.”

  Pushing through the swing doors, the prisoners were ready for a battle. What they faced was a completely untouched landscape of neatly arranged cutlery, folded napkins, and silence.

  “Where the hell is everybody?” Matt muttered to himself.

  “Outside?”

  “They must be.”

  “Kitchen?”

  Matt nodded. “Check it.”

  Tim and Andrew manoeuvred through the tables to the waiters entrance. Peering through the small, round window, they seemed unconcerned and pushed through. Returning a few moments later, they held their arms wide in a
n I have no idea gesture.

  “Never look a gift horse in the mouth, lads. Let’s see what prizes we’ve won,” said Matt, heading for the hanging bottles of liquor.

  Lifting the bar hatch, the prisoners started to collect the beer, wine, and spirits. Knocking off a cap each, they toasted their success with a brew that was chilled by the season instead of the fridge. Tim made to take one to Paul but tripped over and dropped the bottle which shattered against a shelf.

  “Careful, you’ve only had a sip,” teased Max as Tim started to regain his feet.

  Matt was trapped in a slow motion movie. The arm that shot out to drag his man clear moved with the speed of thick molasses. No matter how much he willed it, time refused to comply and seemed to toy with him, slowing him further.

  Tim was rising groggily, trying to shake off the shock of the stunning impact. As he got to his knees, their eyes met for a split second. Confused at the look of unbridled fear on Matt’s approaching face, he attempted to stand but something held fast to his leg. Turning to berate whoever was messing around, he gaped in horror at the rotting hand which was securely fastened around the ankle. The cellar door swung up and over, crashing to the bar floor with the sound of a gunshot. Max spun around, only able to see the head of the first zombie in the gloom. Aiming the torch into the black pit, he pressed the button and the spear of light banished the darkness. Bowels loosening at the sight, he wished he hadn’t turned it on. Countless dead faces gazed up at him. The poor fuckers had taken shelter in the basement until starvation or injury triggered a chain reaction of infection.

  “Help me,” begged Tim. Holding out a hand, his eyes pleaded for mercy.

  Still slowed by the unknowable cosmic powers ranged against him, Matt lunged. Their fingertips touched for the briefest of fleeting moments. Dragged away by a dozen hands, the screaming prisoner disappeared into the cellar as if he was an unwary insect snatched by a lurking trapdoor spider.

  “Move!” screamed Matt, spinning on his heels.

  Matt’s narrow escape from the Grim Reaper at the river was paid in blood. The balance was restored, and time sped up as the universe released its grip. Scrambling out of, and over the serving counter, the prisoners waited for the scream of agony. All they heard was a quiet gurgling sob as the creatures emptied their compatriot of innards and life.