Smithy still wasn’t sure he could get away. He’d taken a beating, and every movement was painful. He couldn’t hear the demons following, but there was no way of knowing how close they were. His run had taken him deep into the woods, but he didn’t care where he was heading any more so long as he was running.

  The woods were pitch-black. The moon only made itself known through the slightest of gaps. Smithy feared he might never make it out of this dark foreboding place, and part of him wanted to give up and cry. He missed his mum. He missed his dad. And he missed his brothers. All dead, ripped apart by demons. This he knew because the first place he’d visited once he’d left his flat above the newsagent was home.

  Although it hadn’t been home by the time he had got there.

  His parents lived in a large house in a small village. A five-bed property set in two acres of lawn beside a church and graveyard. In a zombie apocalypse, it would have been dead central, but this was a different end of the world scenario, and graveyards were no more dangerous than anywhere else. As the house was remote and surrounded by privet hedges and accessible only by a private gated driveway, Smithy held a hope that his parents were okay.

  Getting there on foot had been difficult, but he had made the trip in less than a day. Early autumn, and night had arrived around seven o’clock. One hour after that was when he had reached his parent’s driveway. The button to open the gate didn’t work, and the driveway lights were out, but that was only because the power grid had failed six weeks ago. No reason to think his parents weren’t hiding inside the unlit property.

  I know they’re in there.

  He hopped the gate and started up the drive, staring up at the bedroom windows. The curtains were drawn over each one.

  Nice thinking, Dad. Keep out of sight.

  The urge to shout out had taken over him, but he knew he’d only got there in one piece by stealth. Being loud and stupid now could attract attention and get him killed. Demons occupied every street in the town, and Smithy had needed to crawl beneath vehicles or jump inside wheelie bins to hide. He’d never known he’d such a talent for sneaking, but he made it four miles across town without a single demon detecting him. Still, he wasn’t about to risk his life now by shouting for his parents.

  He crept up to the front door and tried the wrought-iron handle. It didn’t budge. That was okay, because he knew other ways into the home he had grown up in. He went to the side of the house, where there was a white-painted wooden gate. He tiptoed against it and craned his arm over the top. A moment’s fumbling was all it took for him to lift the catch on the other side.

  The small courtyard inside was where his mum smoked her cigarettes, and he was relieved to see a large terracotta plant pot full of water and fag butts. Even in the apocalypse, his mum had refused to smoke in the house. His stomach began to flip, though, when he saw his childhood home dark and lifeless. What was making him truly anxious was the fact that, any moment now, he would find out whether his parents were alive or dead.

  The back door was unlocked as he assumed it would be. His parents rarely locked it when they were home. It led into a small utility room where an ancient washing machine stood next to a brand-new dryer. The old dryer had packed up several years ago, but the washer was seemingly immortal. The utility room abutted the house’s spacious kitchen. The kitchen was where Smithy headed. Inside, he found both of his parents pasted across the tiles, limbs taken off and scattered on the counters. His father’s head was sitting on top of the Aga.

  Smithy fell sideways against his mum’s antique china cabinet and threw up, the entire contents of his stomach spilling on the floor. He heaved until only bile stung his mouth.

  His parents… His parents were dead.

  Mum and Dad.

  He couldn’t stay in this room, couldn’t see them like this. No. Holding his mouth, he staggered around their remains and headed into the dining room, where he promptly threw up. The horror only increased. Both his brothers were dead too. Mike was sprawled against the wall with his dry guts tumbling out. There was a cricket bat in his hand, but the lack of blood on it showed he had never stood a chance. Joey was slumped over the walnut dining table, legs splayed to the point where his pelvis had split apart. A pool of blood had dried beneath him on the dark wood.

  What the hell had happened? The demons had clearly attacked, but beyond that Smithy would never know. The only clue was a broken window in the billiards room where the monsters must have got in.

  Got in and killed my family.

  But I survived. Why?

  Smithy was alive because he hadn’t come home. Instead of doing as his brothers had, and making his way back to Mum and Dad, he had cowered in his flat, waiting for the whole thing to blow over. His parents must have died wondering where he was – wondering why only two of their three sons had come home.

  I should have been here. I could have done something.

  But he knew he would only have died with them. Yet that seemed better than being alive. Now he was alone – utterly and completely. Despite his tiredness, he hadn’t been able to bear sleeping in the house, so he had set out into the night and walked until dawn.

  Now, months later, he was no longer walking but running. Running through the night on battered legs. But for what? What was the point?

  It’s all over. I’m only delaying my death.

  Smithy slowed his run to a jog. Then he didn’t even jog. He ambled without caring. Frankie and the other demon might come upon him at any moment, but there was a relief in not fighting any more. Eventually, he stopped altogether. He found a sideways-growing tree and collapsed against its thick, twisting roots. There he waited. If the demons wanted this world, they could have it. All it had to offer was suffering.

  An hour passed and his Seiko told him it was past midnight. An apt time to die, and he could sense his fate was due to arrive. Sure enough, a demon approached through the trees.

  A little more pain and then I can rest. Maybe I’ll see my parents again. I can tell them I’m sorry.

  The demon crept out of the bushes and stared at Smithy beneath drooping eyelids. It approached cautiously, slinking like a cat. Close enough to pounce, it stopped and stared. “I found you.”

  “Yes,” said Smithy flatly. “Get it over with.”

  The demon tilted its head and frowned. “We must go. Quickly, we must go. Before bad ones come.”

  Now it was Smithy who was frowning. “Huh?”

  “My friend, Aymun, gave his life to save you. You must live, or he died for nothing. I run when you run. If I stay they would harm me. Hurt David.”

  Smithy stood from the tree root and glanced around. It felt like a trick, when all he wanted was a straightforward death. Why did they have to toy with him? “What do you want?”

  “To help. We must go from here.”

  “Where? Where is there to go?”

  The demon shrugged, a very human gesture. “Somewhere.”

  “Somewhere? Oh, and here was me thinking you didn’t have a plan.”

  “No plan. Just a name. David. Now come. There are other alive people. Have seen them.”

  “What? Where?”

  “I don’t remember, but in time I might. Come, and David will think hard. Try to remember castle in forest with many people.”

  Smithy couldn’t believe it, but for the second time this week, he was about to trust a demon. “Okay, David. I’m Smithy. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “David dislike Hell, but yes, let us go.”

  Man and demon ran deeper into the woods.

  Night fell and provided an advantage. Mass, Addy, and London were able to sneak right up to the edge of the farm and set themselves up on top of a sloping hill. Addy had pulled the nail out of her face now, but London’s hand was in a bad way, shorn almost in two by a chunk of steel. Despite his toughness, the wound clearly tormented him, so much so that he had no hope of holding his shotgun and firing it accurately. Fortunately, Addy and Mass were in full fighting condition.

  The farm appeared abandoned, but telltale signs told otherwise. Shadows flittered across the windows, revealing watchful guards, while several firepits told of regular campfires. The biggest reveal, however, was the long white bus parked inside a barn nearby. This was the place. These were the people who had taken Gross and Tusk.

  Gemma’s people.

  But there was no sign of Gross and Tusk. Were they inside the farmhouse? The greystone building rose three storeys high. The kind of place Mass had never stepped foot in before the apocalypse, and far removed from the terraces and tower blocks he was used to. His world had opened up in the last year, all while he had lost everything he knew. It was as though the person he’d been for twenty years was a dream, and this was him finally waking up to reality. Hunting monsters and men through the British countryside.

  “What’s the plan?” asked London, cradling his hand against his chest. “We have no idea how many there might be. We should come back with more men.”

  “We don’t have any vehicles,” Addy snapped. “It would take us the entire night to get back to Portsmouth. Gross might not have that long. And who knows what happened to Tox and the others.”

  London nodded. He understood the argument. So did Mass. This might be a suicide mission, but they had no choice. The Urban Vampires weren’t police officers or soldiers. They were a gang. And any gang worth its salt never backed down from a fight.

  “We can’t win a firefight,” said Mass, “so I’ll try to get in and out without being seen. If I can get to Gross and the others without raising the alarm, we can come back and wipe these bastards out. Addy, if they spot me, you know what to do – bring the thunder.”

  Addy turned and dragged the LMG around to her side. Before leaving, they had gone back to retrieve it from the top of the toilet block. They had about three hundred rounds, which was nothing really, but if Addy made them count, she could give Mass an opening to get the hell out of there. He also intended to put Honeywell’s shotgun to good use.

  I can’t believe he’s gone. He should have fallen in battle, not because of a dirty trick.

  London repositioned himself on his elbow, wincing in pain as he knocked his ruined left hand. “I guess this is it,” he said. “It’s been an honour that I hope continues beyond tonight.”

  Mass patted the man on the back. “If we die tonight, it just means we’ll be kicking demon arse in Hell tomorrow.”

  “These aren’t demons we’re about to face,” said Addy. “They’re people. I… I haven’t had to kill people before. Can’t say I like the thought.”

  “Then I’ll do my best not to get caught. I trust you to do whatever you need to do.”

  Addy gave him a nod.

  And then he was gone.

  He clambered down the hill towards the farm, the moon at his back helping him stay hidden. The barn was the nearest structure and that was where he headed. If he didn’t stay concealed, there was no chance this would work. The bus parked inside the barn was large, more like a luxury coach than anything municipal. Large black lettering marked the side: HUMANISTIC RELIEF FOUNDATION. Had it belonged to some kind of charity? Stolen? Or were these people charity workers gone bad? He doubted it.

  What was the point of all this? What did Gemma and her group want? The woman had murdered half a dozen people who had only been trying to help.

  Mass tried the coach’s door but found it locked. He’d thought maybe he could find some intel on board, but he was undeterred by the setback. He crept out of the barn and moved towards the main farmhouse. If Gross and the others were being held on the upper floor, it would be difficult to get to them without being seen. No turning back though. He would kill a hundred people if he had to. That was the worth of an Urban Vampire.

  Mass crept around to the back of the house, searching for a way in. Eventually he found a back door with a tiny windowpane that allowed him to see inside. Although dark, it appeared deserted and the door was unlocked. He began to fear that the place might be abandoned.

  No, there were people in the windows. I know what I saw.

  Speaking of the windows, they had been boarded up from the inside with only slight gaps at the top remaining. Somebody had made this place secure. Furthermore, the kitchen itself was well-stocked with supplies. Tin cans, pasta, and various other non-perishables were piled up on the counters. People lived here.

  Mass kept low as he moved through the kitchen, holding his shotgun at the ready. He knew if he fired it then the jig was up, so the goal was to remain undetected. Two men occupied the adjacent room, sat around a dining table playing cards by candlelight. One was chubby and white while the other was tall, lean, and Asian, with a long black beard. Neither saw Mass as he crept into the corner of the room. The problem was how to creep past them into the house’s front reception. The darkness would help, and the candles might make the two men blind to what lay beyond the circle of light they cast. All the same, Mass needed to stay absolutely silent in an unlit, unfamiliar room.

  Carefully, he tucked the shotgun under his arm and got down on his knees. Holding his breath, he began to crawl. The floor was tiled, which made the journey hard on the knees. It also made his boots a danger as his toecaps struck the tiles softly with every movement. Mass paused. His heart was beating rapidly, not because the two men in the room frightened him, but because he knew Gross, Tox, Tusk and the others were relying on him getting through the house unseen.

  The reception beyond the dining room was lit by more candles, which meant he would be visible once he passed into it. If the men happened to look his way… He watched them playing cards, waiting for the right moment. The white man had just lost a hand, sliding over a bundle of notes with a disgruntled moan. “I thought it was haram for Muslims to gamble,” he said, “so how come you’re the best poker player I know?”

  The darker-skinned man chuckled. “This isn’t gambling. Money has no worth any more. It’s just paper.”

  “So it would be illegal for you to bet with anything of value?”

  “Not illegal, just frowned upon. For me, wiping the floor with you is enough of a thrill.”

  “You’re a cocky prick, Imran, you know that?”

  “It’s not cockiness if you win. Okay, shuffle.”

  Mass saw the two men divide the cards and begin shuffling them. It meant their eyes were fixed downwards, focused on what they were doing. Mass slipped into the next room and held his breath.

  The hall was empty, but voices came from what Mass assumed was a lounge. Benign chit-chat. It seemed unlikely Gross would be inside.

  He must be upstairs. Damn it. If I get seen, escaping will be impossible.

  What choice do I have?

  Mass located the staircase and crept upwards. The old panels creaked, and after each step he paused, waiting to see if he’d been discovered. Eventually, he found himself on the upstairs landing, still undetected. Stealth wasn’t his forte, but he was pulling it off so far.

  Maybe this can actually work.

  Now fully ensconced in enemy territory, Mass raised Honeywell’s shotgun. He still hoped not to fire it, but he was more than ready. More voices floated out onto the landing, but not ones as laid-back as downstairs. The tone of this conversation was adversarial – an interrogation. Mass moved up beside a door and listened.

  “How many soldiers in Portsmouth? Where are you finding new supplies?”

  “Piss off. There’s enough people in Portsmouth to wipe you idiots off the map. By the time we’re—”

  It had been Gross talking, but a meaty slap interrupted his words. These people were interrogating him, but why? What did they want? If it was intel on Portsmouth, they were biting off more than they could chew. Even if the farmhouse was chock-a-block with people, there couldn’t be more than twenty or thirty. Thirty against the thousands at Portsmouth.

  “Just answer my questions. I promise you, my mission is more important than yours. I serve a higher purpose.”

  “You’re a dead man. I ain’t telling you jack shit.”

  “So be it. You’re not here to answers questions. Tomorrow, you shall discover your own worth. Until then, you should learn to watch your mouth.”

  A moment of silence was broken intermittently by the scuffling of footsteps on floorboards. Gross began to swear. Then he began to scream.

  They were torturing him.

  Mass flinched, which caused him to bash his shotgun’s barrel against the door. He froze, hands trembling, but no one inside the room seemed to hear over Gross’s screaming.

  Then Mass heard something to his left. Someone stared at him from down the hall.

  Gemma.

  The woman’s eyes went wide with shock, but she recovered enough to shout out a warning. Absurdly, Mass put a finger against his lips, urging her to keep quiet, but of course she had no interest in obeying his commands. She was the enemy.

  “Luan, Michael! There’s someone in the house.”

  Mass hissed with frustration. He was fucked. The only thing he could do now was go down fighting. He raised his shotgun at Gemma and pulled the trigger. She leapt out of the way just as a chunk of wall exploded. He’d missed.

  Shit on it!

  A door opened further along the hallway and an Asian man rushed out with a handgun. Mass pulled the second trigger on his shotgun and put a hole in the man’s torso. Then the door right beside Mass opened, and he had to leap out of the way as someone came at him with a bloodstained knife. The blade sliced at Mass’s neck, but he ducked and struck his attacker’s knee with the butt of his shotgun. The man hit the ground, howling. Then Mass hurried backwards, desperately trying to load another pair of cartridges into his shotgun. Usually, he would have a line of Urban Vampires covering him while he reloaded, but now, alone in the enemy’s house, the low-capacity shotgun was a liability.

  He fumbled the second shell and cursed, his hands trembling. No time to retrieve the ammo, so he made use of the single cartridge he had inserted successfully and lifted the shotgun to find another target. Another Asian man, more demonic than human, came raging down the hallway. He had a milky left eye and an ugly hate-filled face. Mass aimed for that wicked face but didn’t have time to pull the trigger. The milky-eyed man batted the shotgun aside and threw Mass against the wall. He raised an arm that ended in a nasty steel hook, and with a snarl he demanded, “Who are you, trespasser?”

 

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