Legion (An Apocalyptic Horror Novel) (Hell on Earth Book 2) (27 page)

The demons closed in once more as Mass tumbled to the ground with the dreadlocked demon. Vamps focused his attention on the PM, but Windsor scuttled backwards behind a wall of demons ready to protect him as if he were one of their own. Vamps cursed the man, but knew he’d wasted yet another chance to end the maggot.

Pusher climbed to his feet, still weak and bleeding. He held out a hand to Vamps. “You saved me, blud. I dodged a bullet because of you. We need to get the hell out of here, or I’ll never get to repay the favour.”

Vamps felt the gate at his back, its surface shimmering and popping like hot soup. He saw the light reflecting in Pusher’s eyes. Their hands met and the two of them shook hands for the first time. “I wasn’t about to stand around and let that crooked fuck kill you,” said Vamps. “Not when I wanted to end you myself.”

Vamps yanked Pusher’s hand and threw him towards the gate. Fear sparked in his eyes as he stumbled into the shifting net of colour and disappeared. He’d not even had time to scream, devoured by the gate like a stone falling into a pond.

Silence filled the air, as if all sound had been sucked into some far away funnel. Then the gate emitted a high-pitched whine. The lens shimmered wildly, the colours growing angry in hue—reds, blacks, and purples.

Mass grabbed Vamps and shoved him away. “I think you broke it!”

The two of them ran, shouting for anyone still living to do the same. For once, the crowd of captives listened and got up from the floor to run. The demons, however, stood around in stunned confusion, watching the gate
fearfully.

They were terrified.

The high-pitched whining grew louder. The upper windows of the Selfridges building shattered and rained upon the street. Lord Amon bellowed, then turned and ran at great speed. Vamps enjoyed watching the giant run in terror, but his main thoughts were on getting away himself.

The gate exploded, bathing the whole of Central London in its furious glow.

H
ernandez held
Cuervo across his lap, stroking her damp hair. Her bloody scalp had matted, yet the sea clung to their skin with every spray of every wave and kept them wet. She had not spoken in more than an hour, and in the three preceding, had only mumbled incoherently. The young officer had followed Hernandez loyally and been rewarded with betrayal. He would see her wounds healed with willpower alone if he could.

He had always assumed his death would be upon the oceans, it was a noble, traditional death in a way, but to be marooned in the abyss like a Caribbean pirate… Dehydration would set in eventually—the salt water around him a cruel mockery—and then he would lose his mind. By the time he died he would have no idea who he was. Everything he had been would be a fever dream. He wondered about his ma, and if she was still alive. She would never see him again either way. Fury filled his veins. At his mutinous crew, yes, but more so in another direction.
Granger
.

Hernandez’s downfall had begun the moment that lowly Coast Guard captain undermined him. It had forced him to enact strict rule or lose immediate control to that smug toad, Danza. Trying to win over the crew after his encounter with the Hatchet had been a losing task. Granger had sabotaged Hernandez’s legacy. The Augusta was rightfully his after Johnson’s death, but he had lost it.

Oh, how he would love to wrap his hands around Granger’s neck. If his boat had sails, he would find wind and seek the man out.
England, he said. Going to England to find his kids. When the man’s country burns, he seeks only to fulfill his own needs.

The sun began to peek above the horizon, and told him he was facing east. If there was a God, he was taking Hernandez towards his desires. As if to confirm it, a beacon lit up a small patch of the retreating darkness.

A boat.

Hernandez shook Cuervo in his arms. “Wake up. We’re saved. Wake up, Cuervo.”

The woman remained still in his arms. And cold. When had she grown so cold?

“Cuervo?” Gently, he rolled her over in his arms and gazed into her face. All life had left her. It pained him that he was unsure exactly when it had happened. A woman died in his arms, and he hadn't noticed.

The boat would not see Hernandez in his tiny dinghy. Not unless he did something about it. He reached inside the waterproof container at the front of the boat and rooted around. From its contents, he found the small orange stick he was looking for and yanked off the end. The flare ignited, chasing away the darkness around the boat.

A horn blared out.

They saw him.

Hernandez took another item from the storage compartment, one he might need.

The boat took almost an hour to move close enough to collect him from his floating prison, and the origin of his rescuers brought irony along with them. It led Hernandez to unexplained laughing, which the English fishermen probably thought was madness of dehydration, or grief over the dead woman in his boat. But the laughter came because Hernandez was suddenly sure that his downfall would be amended with vengeance.

The captain of the small fishing hauler was an amiable man named Thomas, yet he did not appreciate being held at knifepoint. The long blade was the last item Hernandez had taken from the storage container, and it gave him back the authority Granger had taken from him. “Where were you men heading?” he demanded of the frightened skipper.

“Nowhere. We were planning to live off our catch and stay on the ocean until it’s safe.”

Hernandez pressed the knife closer to his windpipe. “You fool. The oceans are no safer than anywhere else.”

The skipper seemed surprised. “Really? Then where should we go?”

Hernandez removed the knife from the man’s throat and smiled. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long couple of days. My exhaustion is making me mad. My ship was attacked by creatures from the ocean bed. It is not safe to be out here. We must make for land.”

The skipper rubbed at his throat, but nodded and seemed willing to forgive. “Okay, fine, but where?”

Hernandez grinned wider. “Home. I want you to take me home.”

“America?”

“Not my home, friend. I want you to take me to yours. Take me to England. I have someone there I need to see. I take it you know the way?”

The skipper nodded and once again seemed afraid of Hernandez.

He had reason to be. Hernandez had a score to settle, and anyone who tried to get in his way would pay dearly. Oh, yes. He was done playing by the rules.

V
amps opened
his eyes and saw only light, but slowly, gradually, like grains of sand through an open fist, his vision returned. The world had filled with smoke and dust, a choking atmosphere that clawed its way into his lungs and made him choke. It was only the sound of his friend cursing blindly that told Vamps he was still alive.

“Fucking ‘ell,” said Mass. “My fuckin ‘ed.”

Vamps rolled onto his side and found his muscle-bound friend lying beside him. “You dead, man?”

“Nah, man.”

“Good.”

They lay there in silence for a few moments, trying to catch a breath against the cloying dust. At one point, Vamps turned his head and looked to the end of the road. He thought he saw Lord Amon disappearing into a side street, but strangest of all was that he was almost certain he saw a second giant stomping along beside him.

Two giants?

“V-Vamps?” The voice was not Mass, yet it was from a friend.

Vamps sat up, possessing more strength than he realised. “Gingerbread?”

Mass tried to get up with him, but his leg was busted, and he cried out. Vamps bid him to remain and searched the rubble for their friend. “Ginge, where are you?”

“O-over here.”

Vamps clambered over the front end of a ruined Volvo and found his friend lying beneath a pile of bricks and concrete. Oxford Street had fallen down. “Ginge, you’re alive?”

“I’m hungry.”

Vamps laughed. “You always are.”

The relief of seeing his friend was the greatest elation Vamps had ever felt. They had lost Ravy, but three brothers still remained. They had each other.

But the elation quickly faded when Vamps moved away some of the bricks and concrete from Ginge. He didn’t mean to, but he sucked in air anxiously.

“What is it?” asked Ginge. “Is… Is it bad?”

Both of Ginge’s legs were broken beyond repair, pointing in odd directions. His stomach was also twisted and hung oddly to one side. “Can you move?”

“I don’t know. Can I?”

Vamps watched, but his friend remained still. Not a single finger moved. A tear traced its way through the dirt on Vamp’s face and spilled onto his lap. “You’re fine, mate. Just a couple of bruises. We’ll get a few beers in you, and you’ll walk it off.”

“I’d rather have a Snickers.”

“I’ll go get you one. You just rest, okay?”

Ginge was quiet for a moment, but then asked a question. “What happened, Vamps?”

“I don’t know. The gate exploded.”

“Oh. I thought it might have all been a dream.”

Vamps looked around for the demons, but they had somehow perished in the explosion. Had the gate taken all those who had passed through it? Were the demons somehow bound to the gates? Lord Amon might still be present, but there was no way his underlings could have all hidden away so quickly.

Even the bodies of their dead had disappeared. 

He patted Ginge on the arm. “It wasn’t a dream, mate. It was a nightmare, but it’s over now.”

“Good. Because it was getting old.”

Vamps laughed. “Yeah, it really was, wasn’t it? If you hadn’t kicked ass there at the end, we wouldn’t have made it. You were a gangster.”

Ginge smiled. “I w-was, wasn’t I? Did I make you… proud? Did I…” His lips stopped moving and his eyes seemed to change. Whatever life he had clung to left him.

Vamps ran a hand affectionately over his friend’s face. “Yeah, Ginge, you made me proud. I hope that before I join you, I can make you proud too.”

Something in the rubble moved a hundred metres away, disturbing Vamps’s final moments with his brother. John fucking Windsor.

The Prime Minister clambered out of a pile of metal and brick and dusted himself off. He was covered in as much blood as masonry, but his limbs were intact. When he saw Vamps sat up and looking at him, his eyes went wide, but he did not approach. Instead, he scurried away. Some of his men were still alive too, shocked and stunned, but still of service. They gathered up the PM, and together they built a quick retreat. Vamps considered chasing after them, but he was too tired, and he was not yet ready to leave his friend.

Something else moved in the rubble. Something closer.

“Is Ginge okay?” Mass shouted out from where he still lay.

Vamps stood up, looked at his friend and shook his head.

Mass swore loudly, then went silent. Vamps wasn’t sure, but he thought his last remaining friend might have been weeping. But it was the movement in the rubble that was of most concern. Vamps was quite certain the demons were gone, but did danger still remain? Somehow, throwing Pusher through the gate had blown it up. There were other human survivors, Vamps realised now. They lay amongst the rubble, too afraid to move. Yet something did move.

A man. 

While he was trapped beneath the rubble, he was not covered in either blood or dust. He was unhurt. Wearing ragged robes more suited to the Middle East than London, the man was able to stand up straight and face Vamps.

“Who are you?” Vamps demanded, examining the strange Arabic gentleman standing in the rubble before him.

The man looked around with confusion, seeming not to know where he was. All the same, he glanced at Vamps and gave an answer. “My name is Aymun, my friend, and it is good that I am here.”

Vamps frowned. “Why?”

“Because I know how to kill the giants.”

W
eary and ill
, the survivors marched along the motorway. This time they headed south and were accompanied by no demons. They had freed themselves from slavery, and the memory of it spurred them on. Whether any semblance of safety still existed in Portsmouth, none of them knew, but having a destination kept them focused.

In total, there were fifty-seven of them. By no means an army, but at least a seed of one. As the demons had travelled the lands gathering up lost souls, so too would Rick and his companions, collecting bodies like a rolling stone collecting moss. Their numbers would swell.

For the last hour, since setting off from where Rick had closed the gate, Keith and the others had kept their distance from him. He was no longer the man they had known. He was something else—perhaps no longer even human. Daniel had left a part of himself inside Rick—had changed his very soul—and that unnerved the others, yet Rick knew that the dying angel had bestowed a gift. Daniel had been good, there was no doubt in his mind, and whatever he had done to Rick was to help them all.

Rick had no idea of his new powers, but he had dispatched The Caretaker and closed a gate. He could do things no other human could, and for that reason, he knew that he was important. His destiny was no longer his own. His body belonged to the people around him, and his power must be set towards good purpose. No longer could he think only of himself or those closest to him. It was time to start resisting. It was time to fight back on a grander scale. Looking back at the weary crowd behind him, Rick knew that the war had only just begun. And he had become a leader.

Yet leaders could lose battles as well as win them, and his decisions would get people killed. The only question would be how many and for what?

Rick had never felt so alone, not even in the alcohol-fuelled exile of his former life. His brother could barely look at him now, and Maddy—the one person who actually made him feel anything—was afraid of him. Would he ever be close to another again?

The road ahead was long and the end was unknown, but Rick was ready for whatever lay ahead. He hoped others would be ready too. The first line of a favourite song rang through his head and the lyrics were ominous.

All our times have come.

Here, but now they're gone.

Win or lose, things had changed forever, and so had every soul left alive.

Hell had come to earth, and its Legions scoured the earth. The reaper had come.

But Rick no longer feared him.