Hell on Earth Read online

  Caballistics, Inc.

  Hell on Earth

  During WWII, Department Q was formed within the Ministry of Defence to combat Nazi occult warfare. In the Twenty-first century, however, it has outlived its usefulness and its funding is scrapped. Enter reclusive millionaire rock star Ethan Kostabi, who has bought up its employees and constructed a brand new outfit - Caballistics, Inc. - to investigate paranormal phenomena...

  CABALLISTICS, INC

  -Mike Wild-

  #1: HELL ON EARTH

  #2: BETTER THE DEVIL

  MORE 2000 AD ACTION

  THE ABC WARRIORS

  #1: THE MEDUSA WAR - Pat Mills & Alan Mitchell

  #2: RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINES - Mike Wild

  ROGUE TROOPER

  #1: CRUCIBLE - Gordon Rennie

  STRONTIUM DOG

  #1: BAD TIMING - Rebecca Levene

  FIENDS OF THE EASTERN FRONT - David Bishop

  #1: OPERATION VAMPYR

  #2: THE BLOOD RED ARMY

  #3: TWILIGHT OF THE DEAD

  DURHAM RED

  -Peter J Evans-

  #1: THE UNQUIET GRAVE

  #2: THE OMEGA SOLUTION

  #3: THE ENCODED HEART

  #4: MANTICORE REBORN

  #5: BLACK DAWN

  JUDGE DREDD FROM 2000 AD BOOKS

  #1: DREDD VS DEATH

  Gordon Rennie

  #2: BAD MOON RISING

  David Bishop

  #3: BLACK ATLANTIC

  Simon Jowett & Peter J Evans

  #4: ECLIPSE

  James Swallow

  #5: KINGDOM OF THE BLIND

  David Bishop

  #6: THE FINAL CUT

  Matthew Smith

  #7: SWINE FEVER

  Andrew Cartmel

  #8: WHITEOUT

  James Swallow

  #9: PSYKOGEDDON

  Dave Stone

  JUDGE ANDERSON

  #1: FEAR THE DARKNESS - Mitchel Scanlon

  #2: RED SHADOWS - Mitchel Scanlon

  #3: SINS OF THE FATHER - Mitchel Scanlon

  Caballistics, Inc. created by Gordon Rennie and Dom Reardon

  In Memory of Paul McAdam

  Senior Slayer, Friend

  A 2000 AD Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  www.2000adonline.com

  1098 7 65 4321

  Copyright © 2006 Rebellion A/S. All rights reserved.

  All 2000 AD characters and logos © and TM Rebellion A/S. "Caballistics Inc" is a trademark in the United States and other jurisdictions. "2000 AD" is a registered trademark in certain jurisdictions. All rights reserved. Used under licence.

  ISBN (.epub): 978-1-84997-063-1

  ISBN (.mobi): 978-1-84997-104-1

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  CABALLISTICS, INC.

  HELL ON EARTH

  Mike Wild

  Caballistics, Inc.

  The Illuminati, demonic possession, the Templars Resurgent, Opus Dei and the Hidden Inquisition, occult Nazis, the Starry Wisdom, hollow Earth theories, Delta Green, alien abductions, the Rosicrucians, the Cult of the Black Sun... some of that stuff's real.

  ONE

  Boswell, on the Yorkshire coast

  2.12am, October 15th, 1944

  Voices muffled by rubber and crunched staccato by static filled the airspace above the frozen moor.

  "Altitude one hundred feet. Preparing to begin flyby, tower, over."

  "Roger, Nighthawk One."

  "Nighthawk Two, ready to roll."

  "Eyes peeled, Two. We have a blue alert."

  "Understood, leader. Tower, this is Nighthawk Two. We are on approach vector, over."

  "Roger that. See what's happening, boys."

  "Affirmative, tower."

  "And boys?"

  "Tower?"

  "I don't like scrambling blind. Be careful, boys."

  "Roger, wilco. Activating fuselage cameras and commencing flyby in three... two... one..."

  THOOOM.

  Annabeth Jardine whirled full circle as the RAF Mosquitoes droned overhead, banking a second later to bypass Scratch Tor, in whose direction she too hurried. Buffeted by the flyover's wake she fell and split a palm on the track that ran beside the tor and down into town. The trenchcoat worn over her slight and trembling frame had once belonged to her husband, and its great folds flapped and slapped in the aircrafts' aftermath. She raised a bloody hand just too late to prevent an equally oversized cap being blown from her head and sent tumbling away. Annabeth's dog, Moll, gave chase instinctively, but she ventured only a small way along the path before scampering back to spin in panicked circles at her owner's side. The dog was rarely distressed but tonight clearly sensed there was something horribly wrong not far below.

  She rubbed the dog vigorously to ease her fears, patted her solidly. Aye, girl, there was something wrong all right.

  Annabeth heard the Voice once more in her head, felt her brain pulse agonisingly as she forced it away. Her breath condensing in the ice-cold air, she continued on, following the planes' flightpath to where the track dropped steeply into town and revealed the panorama below. She gasped and felt her heart seize. Beside her, Moll began to bark and howl.

  The town.

  Oh dear God, the town.

  "We have visual contact, tower. Repeat, visual contact. Oh no. This can't be..."

  "Nighthawk One?"

  "They're burning, tower. All the people in the town. They're burning."

  "Say again, Nighthawk One. Burning?"

  "Affirmative, tower. My God. My God-"

  "Nighthawk One, radar is showing no enemy air activity in the area. Repeat, no-"

  "Tower, Nighthawk Two. Confirming the sky is clear. This is not an air raid, over."

  "Then what-"

  "So many. God help them, there are so-"

  "Report, Nighthawk One. What is happening to these people?"

  "Tower, I... I don't know... it's impossible, can't believe it. The people, the people they're just-"

  Bursting into flames, Annabeth thought, hand on her mouth. It was impossible but happening right before her eyes. Human torches staggering out of their homes into the streets, screaming, consumed by fire. Others seemingly unaffected desperately trying to douse their loved ones, then themselves wailing in disbelief as their own flesh ignited for no reason at all. Men, women, even children - people Annabeth knew - flailing wildly through the night, collapsing to their knees, onto their faces, then just burning away on the ground. And in the midst of them, those very few who remained untouched, dropping to their own knees, but this time in prayer. And all of them wailing the same desperate plea to the sky.

  "FORGIVE ME!"

  Oh God, Annabeth thought. The Voice. It's the Voice.

  "Mum?"

  There was a tug at her hips and Annabeth turned to see her five year-old son. "Judd? By Christ, boy, what are you doing here? I told you to stay at the farm."

  "I know. But there's a voice... in my head."

  Annabeth grabbed her son by the shoulders, span him away so that he could not see the horror that continued below them. Her heart thudded rapidly. Whatever the hell you are, stay away from my boy, she thought.

  "Aye, lad, there is," she said quickly. "But you're not to listen to what it's saying, do you hear me? You're not to listen."

  "But it wants to see
my shins-"

  Annabeth blurted a laugh, aware that it sounded hysterical and came with tears, and she drew Judd tightly against her.

  "It won't stop, Mum," the boy murmured into her side. "Mum it burns!"

  "Judd, I said don't listen," Annabeth commanded and shook the boy. "Whatever it says to you, you must not listen! Promise me that, Judd. Promise me!"

  Judd reddened and stared fearfully at Annabeth, his own face wet with tears. But he struggled to beat the pain, seemed to subdue it. "I promise."

  "Good boy. Good boy."

  The Voice, Annabeth thought. It had awoken her at the farm, perhaps fifteen minutes earlier. A sibilant whisper that felt like the remnant of some dream. But then it had grown and grown in her head until it felt like fingernails scratching on the inside of her skull. Not show me your shins, as her son thought. The word had been sins.

  A command coming from everywhere, nowhere.

  Show me your sins.

  SHOW ME YOUR SINS.

  SHOW ME YOUR SINS!

  She had flung open the door of the farm, and it had revealed to her the distant dull glow of the town; the faint cries of despair carried onto the moorland by the wind. She had begun to run, the Voice becoming louder with every stride she took. She had fought it as best she could - agony every time she rejected its call - but passing the road where John had died, it had her.

  Suddenly it was six years ago, and she watched her husband dying all over again. Thunder, lightning, the heaviest rain she could remember. The cliff edge crumbling suddenly away beneath John's feet.

  "John! Aww, John, no, no, no..."

  "Back, Annie... Get back!"

  She was laying again on her side on that wet, wet ground, her unborn son in her belly, stretching a hand out desperately to reach John as the mudfall slid her scrambling husband down the liquid edge.

  "I can reach you!"

  "No, Annie! You can't!"

  She had tried. Oh lord, how she had tried, her arms straining in their sockets as she had willed them to grow one more inch, her body arching like a bow until it felt that her spine might snap in two. Then John had pleaded with her to think of their baby, and she had flailed at him hystericaly in denial of the death he knew was coming. But her movements caused her to lurch forward in the mud and, in a moment of vertiginous panic, she'd instinctively grabbed for the safety of the rock. And in that moment, without her being able to say she was sorry, John had slipped away from her forever.

  For a long time she thought that she could have saved him, that she had let her husband die. For a long time she thought that she had sinned. But at last the guilt had lessened, and she had found peace.

  Until tonight, when the Voice had stripped the time away and again she had wanted to cry, "Forgive me!"

  Was this what it was doing? Forcing the people of Boswell into baring their innermost souls? It seemed impossible, but why else were they begging forgiveness? Dear God, no - the question was why were they all burning?

  Moll's renewed barking drew Annabeth out of her reverie and she turned to see the cause of alarm, shaking visibly when she did.

  Above her, one RAF pilot had already vocalised what she could not.

  "Request you say again, Nighthawk One, over."

  "I repeat, tower, they are rising. The bodies are rising."

  "Nighthawk Two, please confirm."

  "Tower, it's impossible, I know, but leader is correct. Sweet Jesus, the people are getting up. And they're dead."

  It wasn't just the dead, Annabeth saw, it was the dying, too. The dying and those on their knees, still, in desperate prayer. All of them - every man, woman and child - rising as one. And as they rose, they turned to look out of town, up the hill.

  And they began to move towards her.

  No!

  Annabeth swept Judd up under her arm and pulled the frantically barking Moll firmly by her collar to turn the dog around. She had run towards town in the hope that she could help with whatever had afflicted her neighbours, but this was vastly beyond her ken and she knew she had to get out of there right now. But as she turned back to face the moors, she paused. There was movement in the darkness where there hadn't been before. A shape that was indistinct but seemingly emerging out of the ground itself. It looked like-

  Something lunged at her from the dark, appearing and then disappearing in a feral flash of teeth and bone. She span Judd away, screaming in shock, and as she did Moll's collar tugged in her grip. The dog was going crazy, barking and straining on her hind legs, desperate to defend against the attack, and before Annabeth could do anything she broke free and raced into the dark.

  "Moll, no girl!" Judd shouted. But it was too late. The aged and loyal working dog was gone, and a second later there was a brief, agonised yelp and then silence.

  "Moll!" Judd shouted again. When there was no response, he began to cry. "M-Moll?"

  Annabeth stared with horror onto the moor. She couldn't believe it. The dog was dead, just like that. Oh God, Moll, she thought. Please, won't somebody tell me what's happening?

  Her desperate plea brought with it an even more desperate realisation. Whatever had just killed Moll wandered out there on the moor, and she and Judd dared not cross it. But equally, they dared not stay where they were. The only way to get her son out of there was to carry on into town.

  Through the people.

  Trying as best she could to calm Judd, Annabeth drew a deep breath and turned briskly back to the path, swallowing when she saw how far the throng had advanced towards her. Then she noticed that they were not really heading towards her at all. Because halfway up the slope the path forked, and a narrower, less-trodden trail veered up the side of Scratch Tor. It wound eventually to the ruins of the monastery at its peak but, before then, it passed the black mouth of one of the entrances to the labyrinthine cave system that lay beneath the tor. And one after the other, the people of the town were slowly filing inside.

  Annabeth stared into the blackness of the caves and sensed the Voice speaking from somewhere deep within. Childhood nightmares of a thing meant to live down there came flooding back. Oh dear God, it was calling these people to it. No, stop, she wanted to cry out, but dreaded what would happen if they actually turned and looked back.

  "Mummy, I'm scared," Judd said. "Where are all the people going?"

  "I - don't know," Annabeth said haltingly. She knew she couldn't hide these horrors from him any longer. "Baby... I just don't know."

  Slowly, cautiously, quietly, she eased Judd and herself down the path, moving as invisibly as she could through the grotesquely shuffling bodies of people who only a day before had been friends and neighbours. Time and again she had to bite her lip to stop herself crying out in shock, and felt there was going to be no end to their number. At last, though, she managed to weave Judd through their ranks.

  But there was no respite in the town itself. A further mass of townsfolk filled its narrow lanes and blocked Annabeth's flight at every turn. The screaming here in their midst was horrendous, and it was surely only a matter of time before one or more of their burning bodies came into collision with Judd and herself.

  Annabeth looked around desperately. She had to find refuge, somewhere to hide.

  There. The church.

  She bundled Judd forward, dodging the flailing forms, until the two of them reached the church's graveyard and crashed through its wooden gate, but she made it only partly along the path before she recoiled in horror. She did not need to hear the local priest, himself being consumed by fire, warning in his last breaths of Judgement Day - it was right there before her eyes.

  "Nighthawk Two, are you getting this on film?"

  "Affirmative, One. Oh, no. that's not..."

  "Nighthawk One, this is tower. Report!"

  "The graveyard, tower... it's..."

  Had Annabeth been able to overhear the exchange she would have had no idea what to say. All that she could think herself was no, oh no, no, no... Every grave in the graveyard was erupting
with its dead, and bodies milled about in various states of decay or decomposition. One or more of the more recently interred Annabeth - horribly - recognised. Slowly, inevitably, her gaze shifted to one particular grave in the far corner of the burial ground - and she physically convulsed as she spotted blackened hands emerging out of its topsoil.

  No, not John. Oh please, not John.

  Annabeth forced Judd behind her, shielding him from the father he had never known, and backed up towards the gate. But other graves had disgorged their dead in her wake, and suddenly she and Judd found themselves crowded by leathered flesh.

  It was too much. Just too much. Annabeth felt herself drop onto her knees as frantic bubblings of hysteria began deep inside.

  Then a corpse was sent stumbling back, its head shattered under the impact of a huge, hairy fist. "That's quite enough of your nonsense, thank you very much," a rumble of a voice declared. Dazed, Annabeth looked up to discover its origin.