End Times V: Kingdom of Hell Read online

  END TIMES

  Volume V: Kingdom of Hell

  By Shane Carrow

  Text copyright © 2018 Shane Carrow

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by Alchemy Book Covers

  Sign up to Shane Carrow’s mailing list to stay updated on future books, or follow the author on Twitter at @shanecarrow

  THE END TIMES SERIES

  End Times I: Rise of the Undead

  End Times II: The Wasteland

  End Times III: Blood and Salt

  End Times IV: Destroyer of Worlds

  End Times V: Kingdom of Hell

  End Times VI: Brother’s Keeper, coming in spring 2018

  SEPTEMBER

  “The belief of a cruel god makes a cruel man.”

  Thomas Paine, The Age of Reason

  September 1

  I’d done a lot of insane shit since the rise of the undead. In fact, I’d done a lot of insane shit since I got up that morning: from Moreton Island, to the white-knuckle chase across the bay pursued by New England’s attack choppers, the sprint through the airport and the game of chicken on the runway.

  None of it made my heart feel like it was going to explode as much as jumping out of that plane did.

  Maybe if I’d been skydiving before it would have helped. Well, I hadn’t. One minute I was up there in that bubble of light and warmth and sound, a conceivable human space, looking at other people all around me. The next moment the fighter jet had blown a hole in the fuselage and I was out and gone, into the cold and dark, plummeting into the night with my hands curled around the PAL codebook.

  I’m sure I was screaming. I was tumbling and turning, dropping through the sky like a stone. I got a glimpse of the plane, already far above, fire trailing from one engine. It may as well have been an angel among distant stars. That tiny little cargo bay, everybody inside, gathered around the truck: that was gone, forever. Irrevocably lost to me.

  There was only one place I was going to end up.

  As I fell – wind ripping all around me, blasting into my face, like being strapped to the front of a Ferrari – I shoved the codebook into the pocket of my jeans and began fumbling across my own torso for the chute release. I didn’t know whether I had five seconds or five hundred seconds before I was going to hit the ground.

  I yanked a cord. The parachute erupted from my back and suddenly the straps around my arms and legs dug in hard, and I almost got whiplash, but the deceleration was a relief: here I was now, drifting, floating, descending down to the ground.

  As for what that kind of ground that was, I had no idea. The sun had gone down but the moon hadn’t come up yet, and the world below me was a featureless dark space. There was a blotch of light somewhere to the south, a town or something, on the edge of a lake by the looks of it. That was all I could use as judgement for how long until I hit the ground.

  It came up quicker than I thought. I got a sense of something solid below me – a sense of sound, leaves shifting in the darkness – and suddenly I had my hands raised to my face, crashing through foliage, leaves and sticks, a branch against my leg…

  And then suddenly my bare feet hit the ground, and I toppled and stumbled forward even as I felt the parachute snag, caught in the treetops, stopping me from tumbling down a slope. I kneeled there for a moment, knocked off balance, hands down in the dead gum leaves, gasping for breath. I was in no hurry to get up. I wanted to kiss the ground.

  It was like when I’d come off the truck at Brisbane Airport. I was in a bad situation, I knew, and in a minute – as the adrenaline began to ebb – it was going to sink in just how alone and fucked and abandoned I was. But for now all I felt was sweet, beautiful relief that I was still alive.

  After a moment I stood up, fumbled for the straps, slipped out of the parachute. I looked up at the stars through the leaves of the trees and tried to listen for the grumbling engine of the Globemaster.

  Nothing. The plane had carried on towards the south, crippled and losing altitude but still flying, for now. Maybe it would find somewhere to make an emergency landing, or a crash landing. Or maybe not. Maybe any second from now, the southern horizon would be lit up by an unexpected nuclear blast.

  I squatted there for a moment, still catching my breath, my mind ticking over everything that had happened since we left the HMAS Canberra not six hours ago. The night was cool, and I tucked my hands into the armpits of my Air Force jacket. Frogs were croaking and chirruping, the breeze rustling the eucalyptus leaves, but other than that the night was silent.

  Aaron was pressing against my mind, hammering at the door, my mental phone vibrating off the table. He’d been doing that ever since the Canberra blew up, ever since that spike in my own fear and adrenaline would have been mirrored in his own body, far to the south. I hadn’t responded to him yet – hadn’t had time, except for a brief moment on the plane, when I’d been too exhausted. But I had to now. I closed my eyes, sank into the sound of the frog song, and within minutes felt my brother flooding into my mind.

  What the fuck is going on? he demanded. What’s happened? The Globemaster’s gone silent!

  You know about the plane?

  They broke radio silence when you left Brisbane, he said. Not much point in it anymore. Why aren’t the pilots responding?

  New England sent a fighter jet up and they blew a hole in the back. It’s going down fast. Send air assets – anything Wagga has, choppers, whatever – I don’t think it’ll make it back to base. They might make it out of New England. I don’t know…

  “They?” Matt, where the hell are you?

  I parachuted out, I said.

  You what?!

  Never mind! I said. Just send them some backup!

  They already left, Aaron said. As soon as we knew they were crossing New England airspace. Not that we have much. Matt, what do you mean you parachuted out? This isn’t a good time for jokes!

  I explained what had happened: the fighter jet, the explosion, the gigantic hole in the Globemaster’s fuselage. Sergeant Blake pinned under the toppled truck, his eyes meeting mine. The PAL codes flapping on a jagged piece of metal at the edge of the hole.

  Jesus Christ, Aaron said. And you’re on your own?

  Yeah, I said. Blake handed out a lot of parachutes, but I didn’t see… I mean, I don’t know. Maybe some other people came out. But we didn’t go out together.

  And you have the PAL codebook? Aaron said.

  Yeah.

  He was silent for a minute. You need to get the fuck out of there, he said. If the pilot of the fighter jet saw people coming out, parachuting out – they’ll know the plane’s flight path. They’ll know where you’ll be coming down. You need to start moving.

  Where the hell do I go? I don’t even know where I am!

  Did you see any landmarks as you were coming down?

  There was a town, maybe, I said. By a lake, I think? I could see the lights reflected.

  Just pick a direction and go, Aaron said. It doesn’t matter. The more distance you put between yourself and where you came down, the better. Because they’ll be looking for you. They can’t find you, Matt. That can’t happen.

  I knew that. I’d heard all about what happened in New England, under Draeger’s command. And if the plane had been forced down – if his forces recovered the nuke – and I had the codebook…

  I’m going to go, I said. Maybe in daylight I can figure out where I am. But… I’m going to go.

  Good luck, Aaron said.

  I ended the call and the world flooded back to me: the croaking frogs, the wind in the leaves, the feeling of my own bare feet pressed against the forest soil. I wished like hell I hadn’t taken off my wet boots on the plane.

&
nbsp; While I’d been talking to Aaron the moon had slunk up above the horizon, fat and pale, and I could see my surroundings much better now: light bushland across hills and gullies. The parachute was caught in the tree branches above me, the wind rippling across its canvas surface. Well, first things first: Army camouflage or not, that thing was a dead giveaway, and had to come down. I spent a few minute tugging and yanking at it, and eventually had to climb up into one of the trees to dislodge it entirely. Once it was on the ground I folded it up and shoved it into a hollow between some tree roots. Then I thought twice, dragged it out, pulled the knife from my belt and started cutting at the canvas and the cords. A few minutes later and I’d tied some fabric around my feet. Not ideal – and I looked like a 14th century village oaf – but better than forging off into the bush, at night-time, barefoot. Then I shoved the remains of the parachute back into the hollow, and stood up.

  Sergeant Blake had taught us how to navigate by the stars. Find the Southern Cross, then find the two pointers, form some perpendicular lines… I had to move around a bit, trying to stare up through the leaves, but eventually I had it. South. I had no idea where I was, of course, but the way I figured it, I was below the Globemaster’s flight path, and that had probably been going from north to south itself. Or north-east to south-west, maybe; it was all going to be a rough guess anyway. So I should go east, or west, to get away from the area New England would be searching. And since the ground seemed to slope more towards the east, that was the direction I went.

  In my heart I wasn’t optimistic. I was quelling panic, in fact. I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it far in one night. I was in hostile territory, all alone, with no idea where I was, and for all I knew the full might of New England’s rogue military forces was focused on finding the Globemaster and the people who’d parachuted out of it. If, in fact, anyone else had gone out apart from me. I’d seen some people get sucked out the hole whether they liked it or not, but I didn’t know if they’d been among those wearing parachutes.

  But New England would be looking for us. I knew that for sure. Since I’d jumped out of the plane I’d felt like the most lonely person in the world, lost and afraid in a big dark forest. But there were people out there right now, hundreds of them probably, in command centres and vehicles and military bases, hunting for us.

  My ears were pricked for the sound of helicopter rotors, but I couldn’t hear any. Yet.

  I found a small gully with a creek running down it – that explained the frog noises – and drank deeply before pushing on. I took stock of myself as I went. I’d changed clothes in the Globemaster because I’d been wet from the bay, so I had a mismatched outfit of green and olive Army pants, a white t-shirt, and an RAAF jacket. Not ideal if New England was hunting for loyalist military forces. I still had an M4 clip in one of my pockets, but I’d abandoned the rifle at the airport when it was damaged in my fall from the truck, and somewhere along the way – probably in the chaos after the missile hit the Globemaster – I’d lost my Browning as well. So all I had for a weapon was my SOG knife. I had the PAL codebook tucked into my pocket, I had the journal and some pens and papers, I had half a blister pack of the antibiotics the ship’s doctors had put me on after the various injuries I sustained during my first trip to Moreton Island two weeks ago. Oh, and I had the parachute sacking tied around my feet. And that was it.

  I pushed on down the creek. As the ground became steeper it turned into a series of small waterfalls, lush ferns and bracken crowding around, and it took me more time to scramble down. Eventually it opened up at the edge of a larger body of water, and I found myself looking across at what seemed like a town.

  Village might have been a better word. It was a big lake, and I couldn’t see it clearly, but it was just a handful of lights standing on their own reflections on the far side. I stood at the rushes by the edge of the water, watching and listening for a while. If this was a secure town, and if New England had a location on us, I figured it might be a hive of activity. Vehicles coming and going, helicopters landing, maybe. But it was still and quiet.

  Well, I still wasn’t going near it. I followed the lake shore for a while before cutting into the bush again, in a roughly easterly direction. I was starting to realise how bad my mental map was. I’d never even heard of New England before people had started talking about Draeger and his so-called Republic; and now here I was, on the ground, on the run, without the faintest fucking clue of what the place’s geography was like. They’d said it was in the mountains, but it didn’t seem very mountainous; more like hills. Not like the Snowies, not like Jagungal. Thank God for that, anyway, or I probably would have frozen to death by now, no matter how far north it was.

  It was harder going as I left the lake. The bush was thicker, and so were the clouds, so the moonlight was fleeting. A few hours later – probably not even midnight yet – I felt Aaron pushing at my mind again.

  How are you doing? he asked.

  Haven’t heard or seen anything, I reported. Saw that town, though – on the other side of the lake. How many towns are there here? What’s the deal with this place, anyway? Is it people holed up in towns? Like Eucla? I remember someone saying there were farms and stuff.

  They have walled towns, Aaron said. Some of them are pretty big. But it’s still mostly safe out in the country – not a lot of zombies. So people live out there too. That’s what we hear, anyway.

  Well, no zombies sounds like a plus, I said. I had enough shit to deal with right now, stumbling around in the dark in the bush, without running into a pack of undead as well. Any word on the Globemaster?

  Not yet, Aaron said. We’re picking up a lot of radio chatter from New England, but there’s conflicting reports about what happened to it.

  It didn’t get back to Wagga, obviously.

  No, Aaron said grimly. So that’s the other thing. Order of Captain Tobias – you need to send me the PAL codes. Memorise them, send them to me, we’ll doublecheck you’re right, then you can destroy the codebook.

  It was a good idea, and I was a little annoyed it hadn’t occurred to me. Give me a minute, I said to Aaron, and broke the connection. The moon was shining down through a gap in the clouds and the leaves, and I dug the codebook out of my pocket and actually opened it for the first time.

  My heart sank. The codebook didn’t have codes in it at all. It didn’t even have sheets of paper. It was full of glossy transparent slips, and inside each was a laminated card, maybe twenty of them in total. I pulled one free. It had the seal of the United States on it, the eagle with the spears and olive branch, and a bunch of finely typed warnings about how it was important government property that could result in decades of jail time if misused. On the reverse side was a black magnetic strip, like a credit card.

  I called Aaron again. Bad news, I said. They’re not numbered codes. They’re like swipe cards. About twenty of them. One for every warhead on the ship, maybe. I don’t know. But I can’t exactly send them to you.

  Fuck, Aaron said.

  Should I destroy it anyway? I asked.

  It was a question I felt obligated to ask, but it felt wrong. Too many people had died for this – this, and the nuke. If I destroyed the codebook, the nuke itself was as good as useless. I knew what the consequences were if New England ended up with both of them, but still – it felt wrong.

  Let me talk to Tobias, Aaron said. You’d better keep moving.

  I ended the call, and kept pushing on into the night. I already knew I couldn’t destroy the codebook. Not yet, at least, when I hadn’t seen a peep of pursuit. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe I wasn’t in New England at all. Maybe the plane had been off course, maybe the town by the lake was just some other survivor stronghold somewhere else. I wished I’d paid closer attention to the maps back in Jagungal. Though that probably wouldn’t have helped. A map is one thing, if you’re driving and flying. It’s a totally different thing when you’re stumbling through the dark with sticks and rocks poking through your shitty parachute-sh
oes, walking through spiderwebs, holding your knife in your hand because every time a possum screeches or an owl hoots you think it’s a zombie stumbling up out of the darkness, regardless of what Aaron had said about New England’s safety.

  I pushed on for a few hours more, feeling exhausted and hungry. I hadn’t eaten since lunch on the Canberra, and since I’d probably never felt as much adrenaline as that evening, I’d also never felt as much of an adrenaline comedown. I paused and rested whenever the moon went behind clouds thick enough the make carrying on infeasible, and sometimes I found myself falling asleep, jerking awake when I suddenly remembered where I was.

  Eventually I felt so bone tired I realised I had to try to stop and rest. It was getting colder, too – not exactly Snowy Mountains weather, but much worse than the balmy shores of Moreton Bay. I found a hollow between the roots of a big gum tree, pulled some dead leaves up over my pants for insulation, tucked my hands into the armpits of my jacket. I was asleep within minutes. A zombie could have wandered up and eaten my face off, I suppose, but I was too tired to care.

  When I woke it was daylight. Not even the grey light of dawn – proper daylight, several hours past, shining over the eastern ranges into my face. I blinked, disoriented and confused and upset, as yesterday’s events flooded back into my mind.

  It wasn’t the only thing flooding into my mind. What happened? Aaron demanded.

  I fell asleep, I said.

  Tell me next time before you do! I didn’t know what had happened to you!

  Sorry! I snapped. Sorry, but remind me – which one of us is safe and sound in Jagungal? And which one of us just had to sleep out in the bush in the middle of fucking nowhere?

  I’m sorry, Aaron said. I was just worried about you.

  Have you heard anything about the Globemaster? I said.

  Yeah. It crash-landed somewhere south-west of Tamworth.