The Satan Factory Page 13

  Before he could react, the monster had torn the skillet from his hand and tossed it aside into the bushes. The creature picked up Hurley as if he were no more than a rag doll and threw him off the path, into a darker patch of shadow where it could do its worst.

  Hurley could still hear Susan’s plaintive cries, but they were fading off into the distance. He forced himself to his feet. He had to get to her; he had to rescue her from the monsters’ clutches.

  A clawed hand gripped his belt, yanking him around. Hurley lashed out with his foot, catching the beast man square in the face. There was a loud, cracking sound and blood streamed from its flared nostrils. It roared its rage and lunged toward Hurley.

  Scrabbling backward, Hurley’s hands searched for anything that could give him an edge in this impossible fight. A handful of dirt and pebbles was the best that he could do. He threw it into the monster’s eyes as it bore down upon him.

  Again his monstrous attacker shrieked, rearing back as it fought to regain its vision. Hurley saw his opportunity. He jumped to his feet and ran toward his opponent. Pulling back his fist, he punched the monster as hard as he could in its already damaged nose. The monster grunted, arms flailing as it attempted to get its hands upon him, but he avoided its desperate grabs. Again he went at the monster, delivering another brutal blow to its face. This time his efforts were rewarded. As his fist struck, the beast suddenly went horribly quiet, dropping backward to the ground as a steady stream of gore flowed from its nose.

  “Susan!” Hurley screamed, already returning to the path in a run.

  He heard her cries from somewhere up ahead, and sped toward them. In the distance he saw the little girl, fighting to get away from her assailant, her struggles causing the monster to drop her.

  He doubted that he had ever run so hard, his eyes fixed upon the horrific sight of the monster trying to snatch the struggling child up from the ground. Within feet of the monstrosity, he launched himself, tackling the beast man about the waist, the two of them tumbling across the ground.

  Wasting no time, Hurley managed to get atop the creature, straddling the hissing thing as he brought his fists down again and again upon its protesting face. The former cop didn’t let up, even though he could feel his knuckles shredding each time his pounding fists fell. But still the monster fought beneath him.

  He chanced a look toward Susan to see her standing there, frozen—waiting.

  “Go!” he screamed as he drove his fist into the monster’s face again. “Don’t wait for me! Get away as fast as you can!”

  She hesitated for a moment, but as more of the monstrosities began to appear from the shadows, she fled, her tiny form darting away through the park like a frightened rabbit.

  The monsters converged upon him, coming to the aid of their beaten brother. Hurley gave it his all, punching, kicking, elbowing, and biting, but eventually he started to tire, and that was pretty much the end of it for him.

  They drove him to the ground, pounding his head and body with fists like rocks, beating him toward the embrace of unconsciousness.

  This went on for what seemed like hours . . . days, but eventually it stopped, and he felt himself dragged across the park as he drifted in and out of awareness. He thought that he saw others . . . people that he knew from Hooverville, men and women, also being dragged across the grounds in the clutches of the demons from hell.

  Still incapable of fighting back, he was hauled up from the ground and tossed into the back of a truck with all the others. Hurley could hear some of them crying softly in the darkness, another praying the Our Father aloud. He wanted to tell them that they would be all right, that he was going to help them, but then he realized, as he slipped deeper into blackness, that he couldn’t even help himself.

  —

  The Lobster flowed from one shadow to the next, moving closer to the Fazzina mansion.

  Pressed against a nearby tree, he observed the dwelling. There were multiple vehicles parked in the circular drive out in front, but the house was strangely dark.

  A cold wind blew, scattering leaves of yellow and orange, and the Lobster used this, concealing himself in the flurry of movement, making his way toward the darkened home.

  There was a fire in his blood this night, and he hoped that it would give him the edge he would need for the battle that was certain to be fought.

  He moved along the back, finding a broken window that had been boarded over. Listening, he heard not a sound inside, and went to work prying up the wood so that he was able to slip inside.

  Activating the night vision built into his goggles, he maneuvered the room with ease. It appeared that there had been a struggle—some chairs overturned, dark spatters upon the rug.

  The Lobster began to consider the possibility that Fazzina wasn’t the mastermind behind the bizarre scheme that seemed to be unfolding.

  Even so, he decided to investigate the eerily silent home further, just to be sure.

  Carefully, he opened the study door a crack and peered out into the hallway, just as a tortured cry rang out.

  Darting from the room, he moved along the darkened hall, his hand snaking down to his side to unholster his faithful Colt .45. The scream came from the back of the building. Stopping short at a swinging door, he peered through a porthole window into the kitchen. It was dark in that room as well, but he could see the lone figure of a woman kneeling on the floor, dressed in a maid’s uniform. Her back was to him, and she was bent at the waist, her head nearly touching the white-and-black-tiled floor. She was trembling fiercely.

  The Lobster cautiously entered the kitchen.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he announced. “Do you need assistance? Are you all right?”

  The woman began to straighten, slowly turning around.

  “Everything . . . is . . . just . . . fine,” she said with great effort, the rows of razor-sharp teeth crowding her mouth making it difficult for her to speak.

  She leapt at him with a throaty growl.

  The Lobster jumped back, his gun firing twice, the impact of the bullets tossing the bestial woman back against the refrigerator, leaving a scarlet stain as she slid to the floor in a thrashing heap.

  The door to the pantry swung open and unleashed hell. More of the monsters swarmed out, overwhelming him. He tried to shoot, but they were just too much, wrenching the gun from his grasp as they piled upon him.

  He let the rage flow through his body, invigorating every muscle as he fought back against the monstrous horde. This was what he had prepared for, what he suspected he might be forced to face. And he hoped that he was strong enough to survive.

  Fists flew and legs kicked out, scattering the slavering beasts. The Lobster fought hard, but their numbers were too great. He grabbed hold of a kitchen stool and shattered it over the head of one of his attackers, then used one of its broken legs as a makeshift club. For a brief moment he thought that he might actually have a chance to escape the horrific throng, but that was before the largest of the beast men came forward.

  He was huge, at least twice the size of any of the others, and he rushed at the Lobster with a roar, scattering the smaller creatures aside to get to him. The Lobster lashed out with the broken stool leg, but it bounced off the twisted thing’s skull with no effect.

  The big beast reached for him with a roar, grabbing him by his leather jacket and yanking him close. And then the Lobster recognized him.

  Rocco Fazzina, the Lobster’s mind raced. This mockery of humanity was once Rocco Fazzina.

  The Lobster lashed out, driving his fist into Fazzina’s nose. The beast’s head snapped back, but he did not let go.

  The monster roared, throwing the Lobster toward the kitchen wall. Other beasts scattered as he bounced off the wall, leaving an indentation of broken plaster before he dropped to the floor.

  Shaking off the effects of the fall, he got to his feet, but the bestial Fazzina was already there for him. The creature reached down, yanking him to his feet.

  “I wan
t . . . I want so much . . . to kill . . . to make you die slow . . . slow and screaming,” the monster stuttered, fighting against a nearly overwhelming compulsion.

  The Lobster struggled in his clutches, but to no avail, and soon found his face slammed against the wall. Stars exploded in his head, but still he fought to get away. It did him no good. The beast man laughed horribly as he drove the Lobster head first into the plaster wall.

  “But the master . . . Chapel . . . He wants . . . He needs you alive.”

  Chapel, the Lobster thought, dazed but clinging to those words. The name of the plot’s mastermind finally revealed.

  Chapel.

  And then a curtain of oblivion fell, and all was draped in black.

  —

  Red O’Neill watched from the shadows. He was still holding the ax that he’d brought with him from the warehouse—the ax still stained with the blood of monsters.

  He had to know who was responsible. He had to make them pay. Red had managed to find his way home to his distraught family, who had believed him killed with the others at the warehouse.

  Slaughtered.

  The images of what he’d endured flashed through his brain, a sheen of sweat forming upon his skin despite the cool fall temperatures.

  He did not share with his wife and children what he had endured—what he had seen—that night, choosing instead to retire to his bedroom with his ax, and await his captains and lieutenants. He would need all of his men if they were going to stop whoever was responsible for opening up the gates of hell.

  The large man clutched the ax handle all the tighter, remembering the vibration that passed through the wood as the blade cleaved through the stubborn flesh of the damned.

  He had no idea if his men had believed his horrible tale. The look in their eyes, the sideways glances that they gave to one another as he spoke, made him think that they probably believed he had gone insane.

  If only that were the case. Being insane, he was sure, would have made this far easier to comprehend.

  He’d told his people that the plan was to strike back—to find out who was responsible and wipe them from the earth. They wanted to know if he had any idea who could have done such a thing, and he had to admit that he didn’t. But he’d told them that he suspected everybody, especially his rivals in business.

  One of his lieutenants had arrived late to the gathering with news of a special meeting that had been called by Rocco Fazzina, where all of the surviving bosses had discussed how they were going to deal with what had supposedly happened to Red.

  His man then went on to explain that Fazzina had left the meeting in a huff, and not too long after that, the other bosses were attacked, only to be saved by the Lobster’s intervention.

  Red had cringed at the mention of the vigilante’s name. After the monsters were dealt with, perhaps it would be time to end the Lobster’s existence as well.

  But that was a worry for another time.

  He’d immediately reached out to the survivors—to Zenna and Decante—determining that they had nothing to do with the monsters, which left only one other.

  Fazzina.

  He’d never trusted that vicious wop bastard, but could even he be responsible for such horrific action? Or was it as Fazzina had explained to the others at the gathering—the actions of foreigners wishing to invade their territories?

  Red had to be sure, so he’d taken his ax and come to the Italian’s home, standing in the darkness, watching—waiting for a sign that would tell him what he needed to know.

  And then there would come—if necessary—retribution.

  Suddenly there was movement by the house—not just the leaves tossed by the chilling wind that had captured his rapt attention before, but actual activity.

  Red O’Neill’s heart started to race as he saw them, his skin prickling with the sweat of fear. It took all that he had not to run screaming into the night. Confident that he could not be seen, he watched as the monsters emerged from the home, dragging an unconscious figure behind them. O’Neill fleetingly wondered about the poor soul, before his thoughts moved on. There were at least six of the abominations, all clambering into the cars parked in the circular driveway.

  The last of the twisted beasts stopped and turned his face to the darkness beyond the driveway, sniffing the air like some mutant bloodhound.

  O’Neill remained perfectly still, concealed in the darkness of shadows, as he confirmed the identity of the last of the monsters to climb into the car.

  Even in this monstrous state, there was no mistaking Rocco Fazzina.

  The vehicles started up, their headlights cutting through the thickness of night as they left the drive.

  Having seen all that he needed to, O’Neill turned away and headed back to his men, who were waiting with the cars near the road.

  “Follow them,” the large man instructed, hefting the ax, eager to again put it to violent use.

  “We’re going to put an end to this once and for all.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  —

  Chapel stood on the steps of the cathedral, his scarlet robes whipping in the winds of change.

  It had taken no time at all for his plans to be set in motion, no time at all for his minions to go out into the city to bring forth those who had yet to be transformed by his most holy blood.

  There were those who fought the servants of his will, but many who had accepted the new ways, who came to him willingly for the communion of transformation.

  A line formed on the steps of the church below him, a line that snaked down onto the city streets crowded with those already touched by his glory. Minute by minute their numbers grew, and soon there would be no one to stand against them.

  Chapel glanced from his place atop the church steps to the light poles that lined the city streets, the illumination they once cast now but a distant memory. The poles served another purpose, now. He watched as bodies, hanging from thick ropes tied about their necks, swayed like pendulums in the breeze.

  They were the ones who had stood against him, those who opposed the inevitable change.

  The corpse of the one called the Lobster spun in a circle upon his rope, almost as if the rotting warrior was eager to see the extent of Chapel’s reach.

  As far as his eyes could see, the streets were crammed with those transformed by his malevolence. It would only be a matter of time before they spread to other cities, and finally to the whole wide world.

  Chapel recalled the last time he had come this far, and how quickly it had been stolen from him. The demon lord smiled as he gazed again upon the warriors’ corpses as they dangled from the light posts, swaying in the breeze.

  No force was strong enough to oppose him.

  —

  Chapel opened his eyes to reality. He was gazing down at the oozing, skeletal remains. A smile creased his demonic features.

  “Soon,” he said aloud, his voice now a rumbling growl.

  He had been filling glass vials of the bloody substance oozing from the bones lying upon the table, in preparation for the work still ahead of him, when the skeleton mysteriously began to smolder.

  Breathing in the thick, oily smoke, he’d been overcome, experiencing the vision of his future.

  The skeleton continued to decay, the bones corroding before his eyes. It would not be long until there was little more than a wet outline of what had once lain there.

  But Chapel felt no sense of loss, for what the skeleton had given him still remained, only now, it flowed through his own veins.

  The thought made him smile again, and he leaned his head forward, curved horns scraping against the tabletop as the wafting mist flowed up from the disintegrating bones.

  He was eager for another vision of the future.

  A future where he would be king.

  —

  Hurley sank the spade deep into the soft earth, tossing the dirt over his shoulder onto an ever-increasing pile.

  “What are you doing, daddy?” his Emily
asked him. She stood at the lip of the growing hole.

  He stopped and stared at the child. She was much older now than he remembered, dressed in a pretty flowered dress, her hair in pigtails, and he doubted that he would have been able to pick her out in a crowd, but here . . . in this place, he knew exactly who she was.

  His daughter was beautiful. Just like her mother.

  “I’m digging my grave,” he told her matter-of-factly, and began to dig again. He wanted to get the hole good and deep, so when it came time to lay down, it would be less likely that the local critters would come sniffing around to dig him up.

  “Why are you doing that?” Emily asked, clutching a dirty rag doll to her chest. He remembered that rag doll; it had come from a nice old woman who lived on their street back when they had a home, before . . .

  “It’s just about time that I did it is all,” he said. He’d come across a pretty good-sized rock. He dropped his shovel, and bent to pick it up.

  “Why?” she asked, hugging her dolly tightly. “Are you dead?”

  Hurley tried to get his fingers under the rock to heft it up from the hole, but it was proving to be stubborn.

  “I sorta am,” he said with a grunt, trying to pull the stone from the rich, dark earth. It was not complying. “Things haven’t been going so great for your dad,” he explained to her. “I thought things were looking up there for a bit, but—”

  Something skittered out from beneath the end of the stone and he jumped back. It was the strangest thing. A lobster. There was a lobster underneath the rock. He watched it with fascination as it crawled up and out of the hole.

  “Be careful,” he warned Emily as the crustacean stopped at the lip of the hole, its antennae moving around, sensing the environment for danger.

  “He helped you,” the little girl announced happily.

  Hurley had no idea what she was talking about, but as he reached down to again attempt to move the rock he found that he could now grip the side of the stone easier, and with some effort could move it.

  “Guess he did,” he said with a grunt, rolling the stone over toward the side of the hole.