The Gates: An Apocalyptic Novel (31 page)

Hans banked his Tornado
left and swooped down towards the city of Dusseldorf. The grey squares of
industrial buildings, factories, and warehouses grew in size the lower he got.
The gate was not big enough to spot through his cockpit windows yet, but he had
its coordinates locked into his targeting systems. He was not carrying his
normal payload of anti-aircraft missiles and air-to-ground munitions. His plane
was carrying fire—lots of it. The incendiary missiles were leftovers from the
first Gulf War. Today’s missions did not involve maximising human casualties.
Modern munitions were designed to cause collateral damage—to take out buildings
and bunkers, or the odd troop carrier. Having CNN or BBC footage of human
beings burning to death after being covered in white phosphorus was not the way
Germany wanted to be portrayed. Adolf Hitler was not yet erased from the
world’s consciousness, and as such, Germany never got its hands bloody if there
were alternatives. This time, there were no alternatives.

This time Germany wanted to see its enemies burn.

The gate had opened up in the city’s
burgplatz
—Castle
Square. Named so for the castle that once stood there. The flat, open area
perched next to the river
Düssel, which was chock-a-block with
attack boats—all of which were filled with armed soldiers. The sound of machine
gun and assault rifle fire was like a swarm of hornets.

Hans swooped down lower, the nose
of his Tornado pointed almost vertically at the ground, but then he banked
sideways and pulled up. As he jetted over the rooftops, he got his first
glimpse of the gate. The area teemed with the misshapen, horrific bodies of
demons. They looked like burned men and woman, which made the
Bundestag’s
plan to engulf them in flames seem slightly redundant. Kommandos on the ground,
however, had reported that the demons did indeed die when set aflame. They had
reduced an enemy force outside the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin to ashes, but had
been forced to retreat when the demons kept on coming.

So Hans’s job, along with three of his fellow
pilots in their own Tornado’s was to engulf the entire site with white
phosphorus—pretty much the nastiest substance you could drop on an enemy. When
the substance was exposed to air it ignited. When it touched a person’s skin,
it stuck while continuing to burn. In simple terms, white phosphorus would
dissolve you while you screamed in the worst agony you could imagine. Even if
you survived, you would likely die of kidney failure, or from the side effects
that caused your lower jaw to rot away. It was a substance Hans had never dropped
before, and had vowed never to do so. He had no qualms about it now.

He called in to HQ and made sure the area was
properly evacuated. The ground forces had retreated to the ships on the
Düssel or into the armored troop carriers that blocked the main
roads. The enemy was pinned in—contained to the area around the gate. Some got
through into other parts of the city, but it was slow going for them. Now was
the time to strike.

Hans did a quick circle above the
city, and then entered into his calculated approach. A flick of a switch primed
his payload to release. All he had to do was reach the strike point on his intended
trajectory and hit FIRE. The ball would be in the back of the net within
seconds.

He grunted into the radio. “Engaging
enemy. T-minus ten till fire.”

“Proceed as planned,” he received
back.

Hans kept his Tornado under his
control. He could have let the plane automatically follow the flight plan
entered into its systems, but he liked to have the final say at crunch time.
There was no machine yet able to think on its feet, and when it came to
releasing death on a target, being able to make a last-second alteration was
vital. Not that he expected any reason to change his mind in this instance.

As he sped towards the
burgplatz
once again, he saw the enemy teeming on the ground like ants. No, not like
ants—like vermin. They were there to overrun and destroy, like a horde of rats
inside a pantry. They would leave behind nothing but filth and remains. Unless
they were dealt with like the pests they were.

Hans removed the shield from the top of his flight
stick, revealing the red FIRING button beneath. He poised his thumb over it,
waiting for the ideal firing solution. The flight computer told him it would be
only three seconds away.

3

2

1

Ping!

The electronic targeting reticule went from red to
green and it was time to press the button, but in the split second between his
brain telling his thumb to press down and his thumb actually doing it, he saw
something.

He lifted his thumb away just in time.

A mother and her child stood on top of a rooftop,
waving their arms at his plane as it swooped towards them. They thought their
salvation had arrived. The mother clutched her little boy in her arms and told
him to wave his arms in time with her. The woman had a smile on her face so
wide that he could see it from the air.

She reminded Hans of his own wife and his own son,
safely tucked away in their cottage in the hamlet of Genheim, two hundred miles
from the nearest gate. But were they truly safe there? Were the demons below
ever going to stop? How many of them would come through the gates?

The only thing he could do to protect his family
was to kill as many of the enemy as he could. He gave the mother and her little
boy one last look, and then pressed FIRE.

Death rained down on the city of Dusseldorf.

Damien Banks was an
investment banker in the city. It was a job he hated—and most other people
hated him for doing it.
Bloody bankers
—but the money was good and it
pleased his father. Jan Banks was a hard man to please, but money seemed to do
it. When he had made a fortune by building a vacuum cleaning empire, he had
expected his layabout son to get off his butt and do the same. Damien had
chosen banking because he lacked the imagination to make money through anything
more creative. When his father had told him to make money, his mind had made
the simple step right to banking, so he had studied economics and taken a job
at a bank. It was strange, but he had always felt like he was meant for
something greater. Being a banker was so—
shit!

It was because of his stuffy, suited role as a
banker that left Damien so surprised by how well he was faring in the current
crisis. Demons had attacked the city—and everywhere else, it seemed—but he was
somehow unfazed by it all. He had left his office on Corporation Street and
headed towards the new Grand Central Station where refugees were quickly being
hustled underground. The army were engaging the enemy and flying glass and
debris rained from the skies like snow, except this wasn’t winter; it was
summer.

People were screaming and moaning all around him,
yelling into their phones for their loved ones, but he stood amongst it all
calmly. He took it all in—the sobbing people huddled on the platforms, the
frightened elderly sitting inside the idle trains—watching the pain and misery all
around him and feeling every tear. He wanted to help. He needed to help.

He hurried up to a police officer in a bright
yellow coat and got his attention. “What can I do?” he asked.

“Sir, you need to remain here and stay calm. The Army
are dealing with it.”

“I’m sure they are, but I would like to help. The
more people taking action the better.”

“Sir, you cannot get involved. Please go find
somewhere to sit, until we know more.”

Damien shook his head and sighed. Telling someone
not to get involved when the city was under attack was the height of irony.
They were all involved whether they liked it or not. He couldn’t just stand
around and do nothing. People were hurt, and
being
hurt.

He made towards the escalators, which were
switched off but still made perfectly good stairs. As he took the metal steps,
two at a time, the unhelpful police officer shouted after him. “Oi, you get
yourself back here pronto.”

“No can do,” he yelled back.

The police officer stepped after him, but then
looked back at the several thousand unruly civilians on the platforms behind
him and thought better of it. He probably thought Damien was welcome to go get
himself killed if he wanted.

As he headed through the shopping centre and
emerged onto the pedestrian ramp, he had to shield his eyes from the burning
sun. It was a glorious day, but the smoke rising from the city’s tallest
buildings ruined it. Helicopters flew overhead and soldiers ran between
Corporation Street and New Street with groups of screaming civilians between
them.

“You need to go back into the train station,” one
of the soldiers advised him, but didn’t seem like he was going to make an issue
of it.

Damien considered whether he was somehow odd, due
to the fact he felt drawn to the danger in the city, rather than away from it.
The gate had opened outside City Hall, which was a ten minute walk down a wide
open street. Even from where he was stood, he could make out the fighting in
the distance.

Birmingham City under siege; it was a headline he
never would have expected. No one could have expected it. Yet, somehow, he felt
like he had been waiting for it. Lately he had been having the strangest
dreams. Dreams of demons. Only they had been demons in the snow. And it hadn’t
been him in the dreams fighting them—well, it
had
been him, but it was
like a different version of him. The dreams had left him unsettled, like he had
been waiting for something terrible to happen. He knew it was coming.

This morning, terrible had arrived.

He’d been in his office when he’d heard the chorus
of screams. There had been flocks of people coming into the city all morning to
see the strange black stone that had embedded itself in the fountain at the
City Hall plaza, but Damien and his colleagues had just been getting on with
their jobs. Banking never stopped, and one morning of distraction could cost a
shitload of money. Damien did not lose money. He hated his job, but he made
sure he kicked ass at it.

So what the hell was he doing? He was marching
into a warzone wearing an Armani suit.

The closer he got to City Hall, the less and less
he saw of the military. He should have been seeing more, but those he did see
seemed to be moving away quickly, concerned only with getting civilians to
safety rather than fighting the enemy.

He found a small group of soldiers hanging out the
doorway of a bank. They seemed to be regrouping. When they saw Damien heading
towards them, their eyes went wide.

“What the bleedin’ ‘ell you doin’ mate? Get out of
here.”

“I want to help,” he said, realising how stupid he
sounded now. What place did he have being amongst the soldiers?

The group’s sergeant stepped forward, a dark
haired man with stubble and a flushed complexion—looked like a drinker. His
nameplate read: Jobson. “People are dying out here, kid. I don’t know if you’ve
noticed that.”

“I have. That’s why I’m here. I want to help.”

“You can’t help. You can only help yourself by
getting out of here.”

“Yeah, okay. This was stupid. I just feel wrong
standing around doing nothing. People need help.”

The soldier put out his hand. “My name is Harry.
You are?”

“Damien. Damien Banks.”

“Well, Damien, I appreciate your courage. My
advice would be to join the service. You obviously have the nut sack for it.
Right now, though, you’re a civvie, and I can’t allow you to place yourself in
danger. So get your arse in gear and get back to the safe zone. The train
station is still holding, yes?”

Damien nodded. “It’s fine.”

“Good, then get mov-”

“Help me!”

The soldiers, and Damien, spun around to see a
young woman sprinting towards them. She had a bloody-streaked face and her
brown hair had been torn out in a clump. Right behind her was a vile creature
that was worse even than Damien’s nightmares.

“Help her!” he shouted.

The soldier, Harry, brought up his rifle, and his
men did the same. None of them fired though.

“What are you waiting for?”

“We can’t get a sight on it. The girl is in the
way.”

Damien looked at the young woman and realised that
the monster was right on her heels. It was too risky for the soldiers to take a
shot. He realised then why he was there.

He took off in the direction of the terrified
woman, running as fast as he could. The soldiers shouted after him, but there
was no way he was being talked out of it.

The closer he got to the demon, the uglier it was.
It was more ape than man, with talons like swords on its arms. It was only a
few steps behind the girl now. It was going to get her.

The demon launched itself into the air and came
down right on top of the woman. She yelled out, but her screams were cut short
when her chin hit the pavement.

The soldiers were still shouting, but as the woman
tried to rise back up, she again blocked any clear shot on her attacker.

The creature pinned her down with one of its claws
and raised the other in the air. Then it slashed downwards at the woman’s neck.

Damien launched himself at the creature just in
time to stop it decapitating the defenceless woman. The thing was crazily
strong, and it was like trying to ride a bull. He grabbed it around the neck
and squeezed, but it continued to thrash. Breaking necks seemed so easy in the
movies. Eventually it got free of his grip and got itself loose. Damien was
left on his back while the thing spun to face him.

“Oh bollocks.”

The monster leapt at Damien.

Damien lifted both legs and kicked out, catching
his attacker in the stomach and holding him at bay. He gritted his teeth and
kicked out with everything he had. It was enough to send the creature reeling
backwards.

And into enough space that the soldiers could open
fire.

Clatter clatter clatter.

The demon spun and twisted, dancing the dance of
death. It was all over in a few seconds. The demon lay dead on the floor. The
young woman was safe. Damien was trying not to piss his pants.

Harry came running up, scanning the area with his
rifle. When he was satisfied that it was safe, he helped the woman to her feet.
She was in bad shape, but nothing vital seemed to be injured. She was sobbing,
but was also gushing with gratitude. When Damien got up off the floor, she went
over and hugged him. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he said. “Glad I was here to help.”

“You did good, kid,” said Harry. “I really do hope
you join the service. You got the biggest balls I ever seen. You took that
son-of-a-bitch on hand to hand.”

“I had no choice,” he said.

“Yes, you did,” said the girl. “You could have
done nothing. Who are you?”

“My name is Damien.”

She hugged him again. “Thank you, Damien. My name
is Steph.”

“Steph, Damien. I know you both want to have your
moment, but I think it’s time to leave.” Harry pointed towards the City Hall,
to where more of the demons were coming around the corner. It was time to
leave.

“This thing has just got started, hasn’t it?”
Damien asked the sergeant.

Harry nodded his head. “Think this might just be
our final Summer. Let’s make it one to remember.”

The soldiers opened fire.