Hell's Army

Prologue- A Calling.

Once again, Henry Garrett didn't know why he left the house this morning.

He placed his papers on the desk, and pairs of disinterested eyes followed him.

He'd had a cup of soup in the fridge and about half an episode of Abington street still recorded from night. He could be curled in his bed right now, sunlight peeling in through the blinds and 'Great Expectations' in his hand.

"Right," he said, "If you could all get out your homework, we'll go through it together."

His students stared at him, unmoving. Like silent soldiers awaiting orders.

He sighed. "No one? Really?"

A few coughed. A girl with greasy blonde hair and eyelashes that were far too long leaned over, muttered something in her friend's ear. They snickered quietly, smirked at each other. Then at him. Their own little language he couldn't hope to translate.

What had happened to teenagers? He remembered his classmates, full of boundless energy, light dancing in their eyes. A smile always ghosting over their lips.

But these teenagers were dead. Their lips were set in a grim line, their eyes as empty as the blackness of the ocean. He was talking to a room of corpses.

"Okay." He turned around, scratched 'Themes' on the board in chalk. "Themes. What themes do we see in Twelfth Night?"

Dead, dead eyes stared at him.

"Come on," he insisted. "You must have something. Think about Viola. What idea does she show?"

Some of them fiddled with the hems of their little grey uniforms like prisoners. Some gazed at the blank walls unseeingly.

"Love," he said. "She shows love. What kind of love does Viola show?"

Life stirred amongst them. Dylan, a beady eyed, freckled boy with a mean face and even meaner personality, raised his hand.

Garrett looked around. There had to be someone else. Had to be. Anyone else.

"Dylan?" he surrendered after a moment.

"Olivia loved Viola," Dylan said in his squeaky little voice, like the whining of a particularly annoyed cat. "Does that make her a lesbian?"

A few of the students snickered. Short, quick, like showing even the smallest semblance of joy was toxic to them.

"Olivia thought Viola was a man," Garrett pointed out.

"Doesn't change the fact she had the hots for a chick."

More snickers, louder this time.

"Well, Shakespeare doesn't elaborate on Olivia's feelings for Viola," Garrett said quickly. "In the case of Antonio and Sebastian, however-"

"Are you saying Antonio's gay?" Dylan interrupted, a spark igniting in his dull eyes.

"Some people think so-"

"Are you gay, sir?"

All eyes swivelled to him. They weren't dead eyes, not anymore. Those eyes had caught Dylan's spark and were alight. Those eyes were mocking him.

"No," he said firmly. "I'm not. And even if I was, it wouldn't matter."

"Why wouldn't it matter, sir?" Dylan demanded.

"Because it just doesn't."

"So, you are gay?"

"Does anyone else have a theme?" he asked the class, ignoring the predatory smirk creeping up Dylan's face.

"Why would you say it doesn't matter if you're not gay?" he asked.

"Dylan," Garrett warned, hoping he sounded threatening. He'd never been very good at threatening.

Dylan's smirk grew wider. "Are you the wife, sir? You look like you'd be the wife."

"Dylan, outside," Garrett snapped.

"I was just asking."

"Now."

Dylan packed his things up slowly, slouched to the door. A few more snickers skittered about the room as he made a repeated gesture behind Garrett's back depicting just what he thought he did in his spare time.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the class shifted back into their static state of being, just enough light blinking inside their heads to keep them from slipping into a coma. They stayed like that as the hour crawled by. Garrett talked and talked, and no one answered. He was beginning to think the only one listening to him was himself.

The bell rang, and the students' heads snapped up as if they'd been programmed to.

They filed out as he called at their backs, "Remember to do the reading. There'll be a quiz."

He didn't go home after that. As the sky darkened, the sound of teachers talking and laughing and saying their goodbyes drifted down the hall, melting away into a ghostly silence. Garrett didn't go after them. He wouldn't know what to say even if he did. He wasn't exactly good at talking.

He packed his things into a leather bound bag, thinking about the soup waiting for him in the fridge. He went out into the corridor, waded through the shadows as the light of the moon flickered across the windows.

Something caught his eye up ahead.

A silhouette melted through the darkness. Someone was walking. Taking quick, awkward steps like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Garrett frowned. None of the teachers were here. He was the last to leave. He was always the last to leave.

The figure, Garrett was sure it was a man, took a few more clumsy steps. Garrett shivered, although he wasn't entirely sure why.

"You alright, mate?" he called out warily.

The man paused, took another step. He caught himself, the moonlight whipping across his dishevelled hair.

Garrett frowned. "Do you understand it's illegal to be intoxicated on school premises?" he demanded, even though he wasn't entirely sure if that was a rule or not. It sounded like a good rule. "I could have you arrested." The man just kept stumbling numbly forwards. "Are you listening to me?"

The man stopped, his back arching slightly. For a second, he didn't say anything, then, "Can you feel it?" His voice was harsh, croaky, like he was swallowing ash.

"Feel what?"

"All around us," he whispered scratchily. "Everywhere. In the air. In the darkness. In the veins."

Garrett took a step back. "I think you've had one too many," he said slowly.

"Come closer," the man said, which was the exact opposite of what Garrett felt like doing.

"I'm calling the police now," he informed him as he shuffled closer.

The man stopped, and for a second Garrett thought he had gotten through to him, then the light flickered over his face, and Garrett's blood ran cold.

His eyes. There were nothing in them. They were just white. Empty. Like a corpse's.

Garrett took another step back, but it was too late.

The man, thing, lunged, and for a second the light tore across its gruesome, twisted face, and pain exploded in Garrett's neck. It tore through him like a bullet. Through the searing haze he tried to scream, but nothing came out. He felt his own warm blood trickle down his neck, and as the blackness started to cloud his vision and he went tumbling into a dark abyss, all he could think was that he really, really shouldn't have left the house this morning.

Author's Note: Hello there :) Thanks for reading :) Just letting you know that this is sequel, so if you haven't read the first book, Hell's Detective, and don't want to be wondering who these strange people are, you might want to flip over to that one. Cheers :)