The Satan Factory Page 12

  Hurley’s thoughts raced, recalling Old Lloyd’s excitement that things were getting better.

  For Smitty, and very likely many others, things couldn’t have been worse.

  —

  Chapel brought a shaking hand to his forehead, rubbing at the skin there as he attempted to explain the situation. It felt as though his skull was becoming white hot, the heat radiating from the bone nearly making his flesh blister.

  “Everything was going according to plan until he showed up,” the doctor said in exasperation.

  “He,” Fazzina barked from behind his study desk. “The Lobster, you mean?”

  “Yes, the Lobster,” Chapel said impatiently. “The man in the black leather and goggles. He killed my soldiers, so I’m going to need more subjects to—”

  The crime boss jumped up from his seat, the chair flipping backward to the floor.

  “Your soldiers?” he bellowed. “The Lobster killed your soldiers?”

  He stormed around the desk to confront the doctor.

  “Seems to me that you might be forgettin’ who’s in charge here.”

  The tension in the room grew with leaps and bounds. The doctor could smell the fear coming from Fazzina’s men, who stood off to the sides of the room. He was certain that they’d seen the results of their employer’s rage before, and he doubted that it was a pretty sight.

  But he had other, more physical matters to contend with at the moment.

  Chapel’s head felt as though it were burning. Again he rubbed at the front of his head, discovering two bony bumps that had formed beneath the skin.

  How odd.

  “So, not only did you fail to kill the competition, now we’ve got the Lobster sniffin’ around.”

  Fazzina stared at Chapel, his apish face twisting up in disgust.

  “What’s wrong with your skin?” he asked.

  Chapel glanced at his hands. The once soft, pale skin had been rubbed away, replaced with a new, far more durable flesh. He knew that it was only a matter of time until it had all sloughed off to expose the new him beneath.

  The demon lord he was becoming.

  “A side effect of my work,” he explained. “Nothing to concern yourself with. Tell me about this Lobster person.”

  Fazzina laughed humorlessly. “Tell you about the Lobster. All you need to know is that you don’t want him sticking his nose into our business. People have a tendency to wind up dead when he takes an interest.”

  “He’s a vigilante of some kind,” Chapel suggested.

  “Yeah, you could say that,” Fazzina growled. “A real pain in my ass.”

  The pain beneath his skin had intensified, and Chapel imagined his skull, beneath its fragile covering, glowing hotter with each passing second.

  “A champion,” he continued, almost to himself.

  “A warrior.”

  —

  The loathsome word took him back to another time, to another place, where—as a dreamer—he had borne witness as a demon built an army with the flow of its blood.

  Chapel was back there again, only this time not as an observer, but as a participant. Now he was the beast, his army of the transformed waiting for his word.

  Nobody could stand before him and his legions. Soon the jungle, and the world beyond it, would belong to him.

  Standing upon the steps of the temple erected in his honor, he looked down upon his gathered minions. They were waiting for him to give the word, to send them swarming into the jungle in search of prey.

  He could feel them all buzzing within his thoughts, each and every one his to command.

  This is what it’s like, he thought.

  This is what it’s like to be a god.

  The demon raised his long, powerful arms, drawing their attention. The words danced upon his tongue, the words that would send them off on his mission of conquest. He imagined what it would be like with an entire world at his command, and the demon smiled.

  But just as he was about to speak . . .

  The torches flew from the cover of darkness, hundreds of burning beacons hurled from the jungle to land upon the walls of his temple.

  As one, he and his legion turned, all asking the same question—

  Who dares?

  The warriors swarmed from the jungle, crude knives, swords, and spears clutched in their hands. They did not hesitate, attacking the first of his monstrous legion, brutally cutting them down before they even had a chance to react.

  He felt their deaths as if the wounds were inflicted upon his own person, and the demon lord roared his displeasure, commanding those whom his blood had transformed to attack.

  Standing atop his altar, he watched the carnage unfold below, his furious anger overflowing. For every one of his own cut down, his legions took at least two of the enemy, but still they fought.

  The demon roared his rage; how dare they attempt to stop him? His anger flowed from him down to the twisted bodies of his followers. Fight, he told them, fight for his vision of a world remade in his image.

  So enthralled was he by the scene unfolding below him that he did not hear the man’s approach until it was too late.

  At the last minute, the demon whirled to see that he was no longer alone atop the altar that had been constructed by his worshipers. He smiled at the primitive soul that approached him. He was all too human, his dark, fragile flesh protected by rough armor made from bones and the empty shells of ocean life.

  He sensed that this one was the leader, that it was he who had led his army deep into the jungle to thwart the demon’s plans. This will be the one that will suffer the most, the demon thought, reaching for his foe.

  This one would be shown the errors of his insolence.

  The demon expected to taste the fear exuding from the primitive, but was sorely disappointed.

  The warrior kept moving toward him, a dark determination—instead of fear—in eyes cast in shadow by his helmet.

  And for the briefest of moments, it was the demon that was afraid.

  The demon and the man clashed atop the temple, the demon’s rage against the warrior leader’s courage. It was the fiercest of struggles, the stuff of legends, and no matter how hard the demon fought, or how monstrous his aggressions, the warrior matched him.

  Soon the battle was for naught, most of his minions slaughtered, the survivors having fled, maimed, into the embrace of the jungle and the fates that awaited them there.

  Sensing the inevitability of failure, the demon lord attempted to escape, hoping—praying—that his adversary’s injuries were too grave to allow him to pursue.

  Pushing his battered enemy away, the demon leapt for the steps that would take him down to the temple grounds now awash with the blood of his enemies, as well as his minions.

  But the champion rallied his strength and leaped upon the demon, the two of them struggling as they tumbled down the merciless stone steps to land at the temple’s base.

  It was then that the demon lord came to understand his fate. There would be no victory for him this day, no escape into the dark, fetid embrace of the jungle.

  No, today he would meet his fate.

  Lying there, beaten and bloody, amongst the dead and the damned, the warrior achieved his victory, dousing the demon with sacred oils.

  And burning the flesh from his unholy bones.

  But he did not die, for his evil was too great, escaping the purging fire by seeping deep within the bone to wait for another time—a time when the extent of his wicked ambitions would have been forgotten, and the warrior had long since turned to dust.

  That would be the time for his plans to begin anew.

  —

  Chapel returned from his vision to find the lapels of his jacket clutched in the hands of the furious mob boss, as if the man were attempting to lift him from the ground.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Fazzina roared.

  “Nothing,” Chapel replied, realizing that most of the pain in his skull was gone. “Nothing at all.
”

  Fazzina shoved him backward. Chapel struck a bookcase filled with leather-bound volumes that he was certain the ape of a man had never cracked. Fazzina’s men snickered as he caught himself against the shelves, volumes tumbling from where they’d rested, likely untouched, for years.

  “I’d say there’s plenty wrong,” Fazzina said, pointing a thick finger at him, barely able to contain his fury. “You promised me an army . . . that I would be king.”

  Unfazed, Chapel bent down to retrieve the books and placed them back upon their shelves. He had a new plan now; the vision that he’d just experienced had made it so much clearer.

  “That’s not the case anymore,” he said, placing the last of the leather tomes home.

  “What did you just say?” Fazzina hissed.

  The tension within the room increased by tenfold; the smell of animal fear and excitement permeated the air. Chapel could smell it floating there—taste it—and it aroused him to action.

  “You heard me, little man,” the doctor said as he casually reached up to scratch at his face. A piece of skin came away, loose and wet. Chapel studied the dead skin before letting it drop to the floor. “Our plans have changed.”

  The words were like a trigger, the big man in the smoking jacket hurling himself across the study with murder in his eyes.

  Chapel had had just about enough.

  Fazzina crashed into him, pushing him back against the bookcase, meaty hands around his throat. There was great strength in this one, Chapel observed, and at that moment changed his mind about the mob boss’s fate.

  With ease, Chapel peeled Fazzina’s hands from his throat, amused by the look upon the man’s face at this exhibition of his newfound strength.

  “You will take your hands off of me,” Chapel calmly said. With very little effort, he hurled the large man away from him. Fazzina yelped like a dog as he flew backward, slamming up against the double doors, his large body now blocking the room’s only exit as he slumped, stunned, to the floor.

  All eyes were upon the doctor, and he liked it.

  Jonas Chapel reveled in his newfound power. As Fazzina’s men watched, frozen in place by fear, he reached up to his face, tearing away the old skin to reveal the new beneath.

  His horns were coming in quite nicely.

  Before they could act, before they could draw their guns, he bounded across the room toward their boss . . . their master. In one swift movement, he withdrew the case that held the hypodermic of crimson fluid, removed the needle, and plunged it deep into Fazzina’s neck, letting the transmutative power of an ancient deity flow into the man’s veins.

  Chapel had special plans for this one. By limiting the dosage, he would allow the crime boss to hold on to just enough of his intelligence to be pliant to his master’s wishes, yet still to maintain that level of human savagery that made him so effective.

  Fazzina began to scream as the power took hold, warping his body into a true reflection of his malignant soul. But his features changed little. Anyone looking at him would still recognize him. And why not? Fazzina had always been a monster.

  Chapel turned to face the men who still stood unmoving, their terror rendering them ineffectual, and smiled.

  “So, who’s next?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  —

  The Lobster had ordered Hurley to head to Central Park—to Hooverville—and see what he could find out about Smitty Johanson’s mysterious benefactor. Hurley had been pleased to receive the assignment, since he had already intended to do that very thing.

  He entered the park, careful to stay out of sight of the cops walking their beat, heading over to the Manhattan Bridge and the encampment found at its foot.

  It was quiet in Hooverville tonight, the usual sight of men jawing by a burning barrel fire nowhere to be found. Hurley wanted to chalk it all up to the hour, but something in the air made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

  Sticking to the shadows, he made his way toward Lloyd’s shack. If anybody were going to know anything new, it would be him. He took another look around, squinting into the shadows for any sign of life, but found none.

  Hurley had a bad feeling as he stepped closer to rap on the shack’s wooden frame.

  “Lloyd,” he whispered. “Lloyd—it’s me, Jake,” he said. He pushed the hanging tarp aside, lowered his head, and entered his friend’s dwelling.

  It was dark inside the shack, like being inside a cave, as his eyes attempted to adjust.

  “Lloyd?” he whispered again, looking over to where he knew the old man slept.

  Something moved, emerging from beneath a blanket. He could barely make out the pale, frightened face. Hurley recognized the little girl, and believed her name to be Susan.

  “Did the monsters go away?” she asked, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps.

  “Monsters?” Hurley asked, his brain attempting to process both her question, and why she was hiding beneath a blanket in Lloyd’s hovel. “Honey, where’s Lloyd, and why are you . . .”

  He could see her eyes grow huge in the dark, and the scream that escaped her lips was like an ice pick to the side of his head. Susan had reacted to something, something that was behind him.

  It was all instinct now, reaction time honed by his experience as a police officer as well as his years on the street. Hurley reached down into the darkness at the floor of the shack, remembering where Lloyd kept his skillet.

  His hand wrapped around the cold handle of the iron frying pan and brought it up, spinning around to use it as a weapon.

  Lloyd stood there, his face pale and spattered with something that could have been ink. But Hurley knew that it wasn’t.

  “Y’gotta go, Jakey,” the old man said, eyes wide in terror. “Before they find ya.”

  “Lloyd,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief, dropping the frying pan to his side. “It’s only Lloyd, honey,” he said, turning to Susan, trying to calm the little girl, who was crying uncontrollably.

  Hurley looked back to his old friend just in time to see him yanked back through the partition with barely an opportunity to scream.

  The little girl was screeching again as Hurley charged at the heavy curtain, frying pan clutched tightly in his hand. The scene outside was like something out of a nightmare. Lloyd was being dragged away into the darkness of the park by monsters very much like the one he’d seen dead on the floor of the Lobster’s lair, only these were very much alive. They were everywhere he looked, dragging the citizens of the Central Park shantytown from their hiding places.

  He had no idea what to do. The terrified wails filled the night as the people were besieged. Whoever was responsible for the creation of these creatures must have been getting desperate, no longer taking the time to trick the victims into their trap. Now they were taking what they needed without a care, the poor people of Hooverville nothing more than specimens for the monster-making madness.

  One of the monsters sprang into his path. It opened its mouth in a roar, showing off multiple rows of pointed teeth. The beast reached for Hurley with long, terrible fingers, and he reacted.

  Fear—fear was their game. They were using the terror of what they were to take these poor souls.

  Hurley swung the frying pan across the monster’s face. The creature’s head flipped violently to one side in a spray of blood and teeth. He didn’t give the beast a chance to recover, bringing the heavy pan down on its head as hard as he could.

  Another of the monstrosities came at him before he could prepare himself, jumping onto his back and sinking its teeth deep into his shoulder. Hurley screamed. Spinning around, he tried to dislodge his attacker, careening toward Lloyd’s shack, slamming himself up against it.

  Stunned, the creature dropped from his back. It attempted to recover, shaking its shaggy head, but Hurley had already swung the pan, again catching the monster on the side of its skull, sending it to the ground. He brought the pan down again, just to be sure.

  Hurley pulled the curtain as
ide, looking for Susan; if he couldn’t save the others, at least he could get her to safety.

  “Susan, c’mon,” he said, reaching out to her. At first she shook her head, crying harder, but eventually she began to understand and threw off her blanket, taking hold of his hand.

  The child gasped, her fear locking her legs as she saw the monster, unconscious and bloody, on the ground outside the hovel.

  “It’s all right,” he reassured her.

  But just as she began to step over the grotesque obstruction, the monster’s hand shot out, grabbing hold of her ankle, tearing the sock and shoe from her foot as she struggled. Hurley went at the beast again, smashing its head and face repeatedly until it finally let her go.

  The child’s screams had drawn attention to them. He could see the horrible shapes moving toward them in the darkness.

  “We have to run,” he told the sniffling child. “Run as fast as you can, all right?”

  She nodded, eyes overflowing with tears.

  “Let’s go,” he said, taking her hand, and the two of them began to run.

  The sounds from the park around them were horrible—the screams and cries of the Hooverville residents as they were dragged off to God knew where. A female monster emerged from the concealment of some bushes, her heavy sweater and flowered dress hanging from her now-malformed body in tatters.

  Hurley jumped between her and the little girl, swinging the pan like the most powerful of weapons. It connected beneath the beast woman’s chin, flipping her backward to the ground.

  They continued to run. His hope was to get them closer to the street; he hoped that the monsters would not follow them there.

  The next attack came from the trees. Two more of the things dropped down from above, chattering like monkeys from hell as Susan cried out. Hurley’s arm had begun to ache as he swung the heavy metal pan. His shoulder throbbed painfully where he’d been bitten earlier, but he couldn’t think of that now. He had to fight.

  Susan screamed from somewhere behind him, but he couldn’t turn to see her. The monster in front of him was larger than the others, and came at him like a runaway train. It roared as Hurley met its attack. He heard the sound of thrumming metal as the pan struck its skull, but it didn’t have the same effect that it had on the others.