Hellspawn (Book 6): Retribution Read online

  “What’s going on?” Paul shouted as he barged into the room.

  The doors had barely swung back on the two way hinges before he spun around and slammed through them going the other way. The sight of ten men leaping tables while chased by an ever growing horde of decay was enough of an answer.

  “Which way?” gasped Max.

  “Back to the boats?” suggested Terry.

  “Fuck that! I’ve come this far and I’m not being forced out by some stinking dead fucks. We hold the stairs!” roared Matt, withdrawing his massive sword.

  Taking the steps two at a time, they waited on the first landing. While Matt psyched himself, the rest of the group looked at each other with uncertainty. Nothing moved in the empty hallways or stairs above. Yet.

  “You lot watch the upper floors. I think we’ve found most of the guests.”

  “What’re you going to do, boss?”

  “I’m going to send these godless bastards back to Hell!”

  Pouring down the corridor they came. Covered in fresh blood from their earlier prize, the sight of the streaming crimson filled Matt with a volcanic fury.

  “Come on!”

  Obliging his invitation, the first group started to stumble up the stairs. Slowed by the ascent, Matt hacked them apart before they could get close. The rage taking over wouldn’t allow for quick kills. He dismembered without refrain, roaring with laughter as severed parts fell into a twitching heap. The next wave trod on their sundered companions, breaking bones and coating the floor in green viscera. Cleaving through their heaving mass, they fell by the dozen in a rank mess of partly decomposed organs and weeping skin. The pile grew with each kill until it was an impassable barrier of meat and severed, snapping heads. Adrenaline surging, Matt felt none of the exertions of the indiscriminate devastation. Climbing over the mound of flesh, the half alive mouths tried to bite him.

  “Boss! What the fuck are you doing?” shouted Max.

  “Finishing it!”

  They watched as he forged his way up and over the mountain of gore. Slipping here and there, he grimaced and moved on. Reaching the peak, he dived towards the sofa which Paul had been relaxing on. Slamming into the padded leather, the legs collapsed under the strain. Jumping to his feet, he retrieved the open bottle of whisky and carefully stoppered it with the cap.

  “I can’t believe you’re worried about the fucking booze!” cried Max.

  “It’s priceless!” Matt shouted in reply.

  Dodging the remaining undead, he vaulted the reception desk. Climbing on to the lower level of the two tiered counter, he swung in wide arcs at the creatures as they strained to reach him. Tops of skulls were lopped off, necks hacked, hands and arms severed.

  “Holy shit,” muttered Andrew, gaping at the carnage when all fell still.

  The Scotsman’s chest was heaving as he drew in deep, shuddering breaths. The makeshift claymore was awash with emerald blood which trickled from the point onto the counter at his feet. Everything was dead, or incapacitated to the point it was no longer a threat.

  “What the fuck are you waiting for?” he growled. “Finish them off. I need to get pissed.”

  Staring at the mass of flesh and knowing there were many hidden heads lurking within, Max turned to Tim. “Where the hell do we even start?”

  Chapter 15

  “If anyone wants to back out, now’s the time,” Sam said to the expectant faces of the students.

  “We won’t take the piss…”

  “Braiden!” admonished Gloria.

  “Sorry. We won’t make fun of you.”

  “Better.”

  “The things out there want to eat you. If they see us, they’ll attack. It’s not for the faint hearted.”

  No one shrunk away from the task. They all knew they needed to face the fear, to overcome it in an environment that didn’t have a thirty-foot wall protecting them. An hour of butchering frozen meat sacks at the gates wasn’t enough.

  “Ok, good.”

  Sam continued. “You’ve all got really good with the bows over short distances, and that’s where we’ll be fighting them; up close and personal. Braiden and I will cover you with the machetes, and Gloria and Jonesy will cover us with the guns. Hopefully the car alarms will pull most of them south which means we won’t need to take on too many.”

  Jonesy watched from the rear, heart swelling with pride at the youths. If he ever had kids, he wanted them to be just as brave and resilient as this pair. When Sam had finished, he took over. “We’re going to drop from the sally port on the northern end of the castle. From there, we head through the woods to the park then west across the outskirts of the town. The archery shop is quite isolated which works well for us.”

  “How’re we going to carry it all back and still fight?” asked Holly.

  “We’ve already dropped four wheelbarrows over the edge. We load up as much as possible and run it back. I’d like to empty the whole place if possible, even if it means a couple of trips.”

  “What happens if we get attacked?”

  “If it’s small numbers, less than five for instance, we destroy them. If it’s a horde, we pull back and leave the gear for another day.”

  “Has everyone checked their bows?”

  The students confirmed they had. More than half of the show models were now useless, the taut bowstrings snapping from overuse. A couple of cut fingers were stitched and bandaged from the accidental breakages.

  “Is everyone stretched?” asked Jonesy. “We’ll be dropping quickly and climbing quickly if the worst happens. I don’t want anyone cramping up.”

  “Why do I feel that was aimed at me?” chuckled Gloria.

  “Just checking,” he replied.

  “I may be getting on in years, but I still had to cover some physical education classes. I could shimmy up a rope as fast as the youngsters.”

  “She’s quicker than me,” Winston added. “But that’s not hard with my weight.”

  A hand shot out and slapped him playfully. “Stop it!” said Pea. Pauline had divulged her nickname to Winston during one of their long chats on wall duty and it had stuck. Her father had called her his sweet pea, which was then shortened to plain Pea as she got older.

  “You’re as strong as an ox, mate,” Jonesy complimented the youngster.

  “As big as…”

  Pea’s punishing hand lashed out again.

  “Anyway. We do this slow, and quiet. Sam and Braiden have already done some similar work with me out in Ford. Gloria too. You follow our lead at all times until we get to the target. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Giving the signal to DB on the watchtower, he waited for the signal to go.

  Lining up the newer cars on the roads of Arundel town, he let off single shots. Windows shattering, the first two cars were as dead as the creatures wandering between them. The third, a Mercedes, started to shrill, the hazard lights flashing at the damage. Two more vehicles were attacked, adding their strength to the overall din.

  “Let’s take a look,” said Jonesy, peeking over the rim.

  Of the half dozen cadavers that had been milling around, only one remained. The others were slowly shuffling around the northern edge of the wall, out of sight.

  “Pea, would you mind?”

  Nocking her bow, the girl drew the arrow back and leaned through the crenel. The arrow pinged from the cord, punching through the back of the female zombie’s head.

  “Good shot,” Winston said.

  “God, get a room, you two!” Braiden said.

  “I… er…” Winston muttered, blushing furiously.

  “Enough fu…” Jonesy started, then checked himself. “Effing around. We’ve got a job to do, now let’s do it!”

  Slinging the rifle, he grabbed the rope and shimmied down expertly, using the knots to slow his descent. Hitting the dirt, he retrieved his weapon and dropped to one knee, keeping watch on the surroundings. The shrieking wail of the alarms was working wonders,
but it might carry and draw in the undead from the surrounding areas.

  A heavy womp signalled Winston was down, and he took up position, battle axe in hand. In quick succession, the others dropped and formed up. Gloria followed at the rear, incredibly sprightly for her age.

  “I still have the aches and pains,” she explained. “But I’ll be darned if I don’t feel a hundred times fitter than before.”

  “I’ve always said the apocalypse is the best form of exercise,” said Winston.

  “When have you ever said that?” replied Sam.

  “A second ago.”

  “And before that?”

  “Well, I’ve thought it a few times.”

  “Eyes on!” Jonesy ordered. “Stay sharp.”

  The short expanse of open ground gave way to the forest surrounding the Swanbourne manor and fishing lake. They all knew the greatest threat was this half mile stretch of gloomy woodland, with the dips and troughs of the land, the heavy bushes and shadows. Jonesy took point with Sam, while Braiden, Gloria, and Winston covered the rear. The four strongest students all carried one of the lightweight barrows on their backs. Winston had remarked about how they looked like turtles until Jonesy’s stern glare had shut him up.

  The decision had been taken to use the concealment for the approach. As much as it increased the danger of an ambush, it also provided them cover from the undead eyes of the town. Once the weapons were secure, they would then use the roads to break for home. It was far better to be pursued back to a fortress than be trapped inside a glass fronted shop, regardless of the amount of ammunition on the shelves.

  Jonesy held up a fist and they all stopped. Kneeling down, they waited to see what had concerned the soldier.

  “Look,” he whispered to Sam, pointing through a break in the trees.

  Swanbourne manor, previously out of sight of the castle, was surrounded by hundreds of the undead. The exterior doors were smashed in, and the outlines of shuffling corpses could be seen through the windows.

  “There are people in there?”

  “There could well be,” agreed the soldier.

  “What do we do?”

  “The same as the cathedral, we make a note and tell your mum. Right now, the job is getting the bows home. Whoever they are, they’re secure for now.”

  “That means a lot more people may be alive than we thought,” Sam said, filled with hope.

  “It sure looks that way. Let’s stay quiet so we don’t bring them down on our asses.”

  Motioning to move out, the ragtag procession cast a glance at the home as they moved between the towering birch trees. The sight of more survivors made the world seem a less bleak place, and they all secretly hoped their families might be in the same position. Hunkering down, riding it out, waiting for rescue.

  The frozen vegetation and fallen autumn leaves crunched underfoot as they moved like wraiths in the shadows. Sam and Jonesy gave any dense piles a wide berth after the near miss just outside Chichester. This time they didn’t have the early warning alarm system that was Honey. She spent most of her time dozing in front of the fire or growling down at the milling dead from one of the walls. Once or twice she’d barked, catching sight of a stealthy cat moving unchallenged in the ruins. Pea had surreptitiously tried to lure one of the felines to the safety of the castle with morsels of meat. Either fear, or their independent nature, had thwarted the efforts. Not to mention Honey doing a damned good job of being sneaky herself and scoffing the meat when no one was looking.

  “I like it out here,” Winston whispered to Gloria. “It smells better. Cleaner.”

  “Being surrounded by festering monsters does tend to sour the air,” she agreed.

  Ahead, Jonesy came to the edge of the woods. Their route had taken them directly towards the recreation grounds at the north of the town. Previously pristine all year round, the weekly trimmed grass of the green had fought back, finally free of the madly cropping blades of the ride on mowers. Braiden had played football here a few years ago, and it seemed strange to see nature reclaiming what was rightfully hers. What will everything look like in a few years? he thought. Greener, I expect.

  The pavilion was locked up tightly, the metal shutters down except for one. The wooden exterior was in desperate need of a lick of paint that would never come. A mobile scaffold had been erected but now lay toppled away from the building. Pots of paint and brushes were scattered over the gravel pathway. The once brilliant, white paintwork was now a pus yellow from the unrelenting sunlight. The likelihood was the groundsmen were interrupted while trying to rub down the haggard looking structure with sandpaper. Chased away, they had probably been eaten by the zombies and now prowled the streets of Arundel. Given enough time, the peeling paint would be the least of its problems. Year after year of rain and snow would see the roof collapse and the whole thing return to the earth.

  “Move slow and keep your eyes open. I don’t like how long the grass is,” Jonesy warned, and the order carried back up the line.

  A foot and a half deep in places, it was enough to completely hide anything laying down. Jonesy had already seen the remorseless nature of their foe, no matter how ruinous the injury. No legs, they crawl. No arms, they would push themselves across the ground with even a single leg, grinding themselves into a paste. No body, still the head would snap at anything close enough to bite. It wasn’t ideal, but they were too far in to turn back.

  Pushing out across the sea of dormant, dry, brown grass, they took each step with care. Watchful for any movement in the gently swaying blades. The chill breeze and their own progress caused a sibilant rustling that would mask the approach of a threat. From the treeline to the north came the crack of snapped branches.

  “Get down!” Jonesy spat, dropping to his belly instinctively. The students were slower, but in two seconds they were all face down in their own shallow depressions amongst the grass.

  Rising onto his elbows, Jonesy watched as dozens of zombies stumbled into view. They bumbled on, drawn towards the distant warbling of the alarms in the town. Keeping low and peering through the undulating foliage, he watched as they cleared the grounds and crashed through the low wooden barrier on the southern fringe. Counting another twenty seconds, he listened as their shambling faded before standing up.

  “We need to move, quickly. It’s bringing more than I thought.”

  Hurrying onwards, they started to watch the trees instead of the ground beneath their feet. Inadvertently moving out of the column, Anthony hit an outstretched foot and fell directly on top of the body. Squealing in terror, he pushed away, hands sinking into rancid guts. Looking down at the melting face, it was already dead. The top of the skull bore a deep indentation from something heavy and blunt. Thanking his guardian angel, he wiped the gore against the ground.

  “We need to go!” hissed Jonesy, hearing the ruckus from both the sides of the park and the manor house to their rear.

  The dozens already passed were turning around, but something far bigger was coming from the north.

  “Everybody move!” Sam barked.

  “Head for the pavilion. We’ll hide inside!”

  Throwing caution to the wind, they sprinted for the shelter. The barrows were tossed aside as they reached the steps to the veranda. Gathering under the porch, there were two doors. The main entrance was locked, but thankfully a second was slightly ajar to the left. Rushing down towards the open door, Jonesy staggered to a halt and groaned. “It’s a fucking utility room.”

  “We need to bust in, it’s the only way,” Winston frantically whispered.

  Readying himself, he shoulder-charged the wooden door which didn’t budge. Trying again, the sturdy, burglar proof barrier resisted the attack.

  “I’m going to have to blast the lock. Everyone get back and cover your eyes!” Gloria barked.

  Aiming at the mortice lock, she fired. The mechanisms shattered from the close proximity of the blast, leaving shards of metal and wood sticking from the tattered hole. Winston char
ged again and this time the door burst inwards, taking part of the frame with it. Bustling inside, they slammed it shut and looked around for a means of securing the broken entrance.

  Seeing nothing in the immediate vicinity, Jonesy looked at the ashen faced youngsters. “Get ready for a fight!”

  Chapter 16

  The air was pleasantly warm and smelled of wood smoke and timelessness. Furniture adorned Kurt’s room stretching across the centuries. A sixteenth century wainscot chair sat at a Spanish Vargueno desk, the patterns of the moulding exquisite. The four poster bed was older still, probably fourteenth or fifteenth century and carved from local oaks. More than once, Kurt had found himself admiring the craftsmanship of the room, tracing the indents and whorls of the woodwork. Joy inevitably turned to sadness as he realised the skills, if not already lost to time, were certainly lost to the dead. He could saw a piece of timber straight, but creating a bird on a piece of wood only inches wide with deft strokes of a sharpened blade? No chance.

  Sitting back on the cosy sofa, he wrapped himself in a blanket. The tremors of mental and physical exhaustion had receded somewhat, leaving a feeling of lethargy and aching bones. It was similar to flu, but without the running nose and sore throat. The period of enforced rest was starting to pay off, attested to by the return of his mental faculties. It had got to the point he could no longer see the wood for the trees, with foes, both real and imagined, haunting his every waking moment. The fog of confusion was dissipating as surely as a real mist under the sun’s rays. The prison would be coming again, and soon.

  Remembering the orders of Sarah, he pushed the concern aside and returned to his previous task. Looking between the novel and the wind up radio, he was torn about which to choose. Nothing but static had burst from the speakers for days now, but he hoped against hope and picked up the light plastic box. Turning the handle vigorously for a minute, Kurt eventually stopped, then hesitated at the power button. Each time he heard the interminable crackle it was like a reminder of the frailty of life. Their erstwhile radio mascot was badly missed. Her positivity. Her chutzpah. Her refusal to let the godawful situation get her down. All these traits had buoyed their group during the darkest hours. Silence now reigned over the airwaves. Closing his eyes, Kurt pressed the button and turned the volume controller slowly higher. No music or chatter waited, only an empty hiss. Gabrielle was either fighting for her life, or had already joined the ranks of the undead. Cursing, he turned it off and tossed it against the soft padding of the seat. Grabbing the book, he stared at the words on the yellowed page. It was a first edition of the Brothers Grimm, fanciful tales bound within an expensive hardback. Nothing made sense and his frustration grew until he carefully tossed it aside to join the radio. As annoyed as he was, wanton destruction of either item was utterly pointless.