The Satan Factory

  And he had lost the battle.

  Chapel stopped at the foot of the stone steps that led up to the large, wooden double doors of Saint Katherine’s Church.

  He tilted his head back, following the line of the building up to the spire and the gold cross atop it.

  “This is where it ends,” Chapel croaked, climbing the stairs with Paco by his side.

  “And the changing of the world begins.”

  —

  Hurley sat crammed in the back seat of the Ford as it raced down one side street after another in pursuit of their quarry. The other passengers were all eerily quiet, a kind of electrical anticipation crackling in the air of the vehicle.

  He glanced out the window to see their leader holding on to the car’s side mirror as he rode on the vehicle’s running board. Like Washington crossing the Delaware, Hurley thought, bringing an odd smile to his face. His skin felt tight when he smiled, and he realized it must have been because he was still covered in blood.

  The blood of his enemy.

  It was like some strange kind of baptism, a rite of passage into a world that, up until that moment, he’d never entered, only danced upon the razor-fine edge. What had happened to him in the brewery—what he had done—this had pushed him far over that edge into new territories.

  It was as if he now shared some strange, unspoken connection with the men inside the car, something that he could have only imagined before.

  I’m one of them now, he thought, understanding perfectly what that meant. He again gazed out the window at the Lobster, perched on the running board.

  They belonged to him. To his mission.

  “You all right?” Harry asked.

  “I’m good, thanks,” Hurley answered. “Do you want your coat back?”

  Harry shook his head. “Naw, keep it,” he said. “There’s blood all over it. If we make it out of this intact, I’ll take it and have it cleaned.”

  If they managed to survive what was coming, they’d sweat the small stuff then, like washing the blood of monsters from their clothes. It all sounded reasonable to Hurley, especially since crossing that line.

  The Lobster pounded a fist on the car’s hood. The sound echoed inside the car and Bill hit the brakes, bringing them to a stop.

  “This looks to be the place,” Lester said, using his good arm to open the front passenger door.

  Hurley slid across the seat, following Harry and Bob.

  They had come to a stop behind a line of traffic. The cars were parked haphazardly, doors open, windows shattered. Bodies littered the street. Something wicked had passed this way, and it had taken no prisoners.

  Up ahead, he could see smoke; the sounds of screams and roars of something that had once been human drifted down the street toward them. There was no doubt where they had to go.

  The Lobster stood at the front of the car, looking down at the traffic-cluttered street, assessing the situation. The way he stood, his clothes shredded and torn from the conflicts of the evening, Hurley wondered how it was possible that the man was still upright—and if it had anything to do with the injection he’d watched the Lobster give himself.

  The Lobster turned, machine gun resting on his hip, and motioned for them to follow. Harry and Bill had opened the car trunk and were handing out weapons like it was Christmas.

  Armed to the teeth, they followed the Lobster as he maneuvered around the abandoned cars, trying not to look at the ravaged bodies of those early risers who were unlucky to be in the way of the monster pack as it swarmed the streets in search of their master.

  A disabled truck, one of its tires shredded down to the rim, was blocked by a police cruiser, its driver’s door open wide and no cop to be found.

  Hurley felt a cold chill dance up his spine as he imagined the officer’s fate.

  The Lobster stopped them with a raised hand, slowly going around the truck to view what lay ahead. Cautiously, they followed, stopping as the Lobster did to gaze upon the sight in front of them.

  There was a church across the street. The beasts cavorted about the steps, howling and carrying on, while others climbed the concrete structure, like insects on a discarded piece of food.

  Gazing upon the sight, Hurley could not get the thought from his mind that the gargoyles that adorned the old structure had somehow come to life, climbing down from their timeless perches to claim the holy place as their own.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  —

  The monsters had seen them.

  Howls of alarm went out from the beasts that hung upon the face of the old church. It wouldn’t be long before they started to swarm.

  From where he stood, the Lobster could see that one of the church’s heavy wooden doors was open, and the nightmarish face of their master—knife hilt still protruding from his eye socket—peered briefly out before he closed the door.

  He had to get inside that church.

  “Cover me,” he said to his men.

  He ran around the cars and across the street to the stone steps leading up to the blessed sanctity of Saint Katherine’s Church.

  The monsters dropped down from the church, like hideous spiders leaping from their webs to pounce upon their unsuspecting prey. Gunfire erupted all around him, his men trying to protect him.

  Three beasts bounded down the church steps, chattering excitedly. He tried not to think about what they had once been, and how these innocent souls had been infected by the malignant touch of evil. He sprayed them with machine-gun fire before they could reach him, multiple explosions of crimson leaking from their bodies as they crumpled to the ground in midstride.

  The beasts were sturdy; he would give them that. Even after being riddled with bullets, they still attempted to grab at him as he passed. The Lobster shot them each again, just to be sure that they would not be a problem anymore.

  The creatures were dying all around, gunfire cutting them down before they could even reach him. His men were doing a good job, and he hoped that they could keep it up for just a little bit longer, until he could get inside the church.

  When he started up the steps, the demonic beasts came at him in waves, his machine gun cutting through their rough, reptilian flesh with little resistance. The bodies of the dead had started to pile up, their blood staining the gray concrete steps of this holy place.

  The Lobster wondered if, after all of this violence, the church could ever be as it once was—a place where people could come in search of peace and solitude—or would its parishioners worship elsewhere, shunning this place as one abandoned by the holy power to which they prayed? He’d often heard that this was a loving and forgiving God, but he’d never really seen any evidence that would make him believe that was true.

  Explosions of gunfire and the screams of the damned accompanied him on his journey up the church steps; a symphony of misery that he hoped never to hear again. But he knew he wouldn’t be so fortunate. This was what his life was, and he would continue to hear this symphony of violence until he was buried, cold and moldering beneath the ground.

  The machine gun was empty, and there was no time to reload. He had almost reached the doors, and the monsters’ attacks were intensifying, despite the cover provided by his men. Tossing the empty firearm into the face of one of the reaching beasts, the Lobster retrieved his military Colt from its holster and opened fire. The automatic pistol did not have the stopping power of the machine gun, but it would do. He was almost where he needed to be.

  Sirens mingled with the cacophony of battle. There wasn’t much time before the authorities would arrive and the Lobster knew that they weren’t equipped to deal with situations like this. That was one of the reasons why he existed.

  The wooden door loomed ahead of him. A monster dressed in a policeman’s uniform lunged from the shadows, its mouth open to bite. But the Lobster was faster, shoving the black metal barrel of the Colt into its maw and pulling the trigger.

  Standing before the church, he kicked the doors open. They swung wide, inviti
ng him in.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the Lobster rushed inside.

  —

  He’s in.

  Hurley watched from the corner of his eye as the Lobster slipped into the church. One of the beasts reached out from beneath the parked car that he was using for cover, grabbing his ankle in a steely grip. Hurley yanked his leg away and fired the shotgun he’d been given, turning the monster’s arm to bloody mist.

  Stepping back, he got a better view of the battleground. The normally busy streets around the church appeared devoid of innocents, allowing them to fight the fight.

  We’re the first line of defense against a tide of evil threatening to flood the city, Hurley thought. He darted across the street to help Lester, who was doing a remarkable job of defending himself, even with his injured arm.

  Hurley fired again and again, dispatching three beasts that appeared hell bent on taking Lester down. Then he turned so that he and Lester were back to back, and continued to fight.

  Some of the monsters were smart, coming only so close before quickly darting away, making them waste bullets. The beasts were clever enough to know that without their guns, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Hurley said a silent prayer to the gods of war and ammunition that there were twice as many bullets as there were beasts.

  —

  The Lobster was startled by how quiet it was inside the church, like being in the eye of a hurricane, waiting for the worst of the storm to hit. Little by little the sounds crept down to meet him: the hiss of the old church’s steam pipes, the muffled sobs of the terrified worshipers trapped in the middle of this conflict, the labored breathing of the horned devil standing upon the altar.

  “So nice of you to join us,” the thing that had once been Chapel growled, his voice carrying powerfully in the acoustics of the church.

  The rage flared in the Lobster’s blood, and he found it nearly impossible to contain. The final injection had pushed him to the brink. It was taking all the control he could muster to keep from disappearing into a red haze of fury.

  He raised his gun to fire, noticing that the horned beast was now wearing the flowing robes of a priest to cover its twisted body. The suit Chapel had worn lay discarded and torn at the side of the altar, as if he had shed his skin.

  The demon lord raised a clawed hand in protest. “Wait! Perhaps you should consider your next course of action.”

  And that was when he noticed them.

  The worshipers who had been celebrating Mass when the demon and his spawn invaded had been herded into the first two rows of pews. The demon master’s acolytes were scattered amongst the terrified patrons, mostly old men and women. They wouldn’t stand a chance if Chapel gave the order to attack.

  “Do you want to be responsible for their deaths, here in this holy place?” the master asked, waving his long, spindly arms around.

  The Lobster hesitated, the barrel of the gun dipping. And that was all that they required.

  The monsters charged at him from the darkness of the surrounding pews. They seemed to flow out of the shadows, a hissing and growling wave.

  It took everything that he had—everything that he was—not to fight them, but he could still see the innocents in the wooden benches at the front of the church, the fear radiating from them almost palpable. He could not risk their safety, and allowed himself to be swarmed upon.

  Letting himself be taken.

  —

  Chapel had actually felt a twinge of fear as he saw the warrior enter the church. He’d known that the Lobster was coming—it was inevitable, like the sun setting in the sky—but still he felt a chill of apprehension pass through his malformed body as his adversary appeared.

  To be so close to triumph time and still to be challenged—he would not stand for it. This was to be his time, and he would allow nothing to stop him.

  Chapel almost giggled, watching through his good eye as his foe faltered at the sight of innocents in harm’s way. How pathetic that their safety could actually prevent the Lobster from acting, keeping him from achieving victory.

  As he willed his swarm to take the foolish hero, Chapel gazed at a statue of the Christ. Chapel sneered; he could feel nothing here. It was a hollow shell of a building erected to a God who was no longer listening.

  That would soon change. Soon there would be a god who listened, a god who would share his glory with each and every one of his followers.

  “Do you pray to him?” Chapel asked those seated in the pews. Most wouldn’t even look his way, his beasts standing menacingly over them.

  “Do you silently call his name?” He cupped his ear, pretending to listen. “I hear nothing . . . nothing but the sound of your fear.”

  He also heard the sounds of his acolytes as they struggled to drag the Lobster to him, but that was beside the point.

  “Soon you will have a new god,” he assured them with a nod of his great, horned head. “A new god that will fill you with his power, transforming you into an instrument of his glory.”

  The people began to weep, huddling closer.

  “Yes,” he cooed, interpreting their fear as something else entirely. “It will be the most wondrous of things.”

  His horde brought the Lobster forward, and the closer he got, the more Chapel could have sworn that he could feel . . . hear . . . the man’s thoughts, as he could with all of the creatures his magnificence had transformed.

  Are we that much alike? he thought. Opposites? Different sides of the same coin? Agents of order and chaos locked in a perpetual struggle throughout time immemorial. Chapel chuckled at the idea.

  How melodramatic.

  His beasts dragged the Lobster to the foot of the altar. The man, beaten and bloody, still struggled with his brood. Strength like this was to be admired, but it would be for naught.

  He gestured to his demonic followers, and they forced the Lobster to his knees.

  “Excellent,” Chapel hissed.

  He could feel the Lobster’s hate tickling at his brain, images of what the vigilante wanted to do to him blossoming across the surface of his mind.

  How is this possible? Chapel wanted to know. The master of the demon horde descended the three steps, bending down to clutch the Lobster’s battered face in his clawed hand.

  “How?” Chapel demanded, certain that the Lobster would know what he was talking about.

  The Lobster only smiled, his teeth stained crimson with blood seeping from his injured mouth.

  This just enraged Chapel all the more, and he was tempted to order his followers to rip the man limb from limb . . . but where would the satisfaction be in that? Where was the ultimate victory?

  No, he had other plans for the insolent crime fighter.

  Chapel laughed, his glee echoing into the rafters. He wagged a clawed finger at the defiant man, turning his back to move further up onto the altar. Stepping over the body of the priest that he had slain when he’d first invaded the church, he zeroed in on what he was looking for.

  Paco appeared from the shadows to watch him, cradling a broken statue of the baby savior that he’d found in the back. On the altar, in front of the tabernacle, there glinted a golden chalice. He snatched it up, returning to his prisoner and his flock.

  The Lobster still glared defiantly, though he was down on his knees.

  “It’s over,” Chapel said. “Don’t you understand?”

  The vigilante just continued to smile, his thoughts bombarding Chapel with their savagery.

  “Enough,” Chapel snapped, anxious for all of this to be brought to an end, and the march to transform the world begun. He reached up to his injured eye, wrapping his hand around the knife hilt that still protruded from the socket. With a forceful tug, he pulled the blade free, the intensity of the pain washing over his body in waves.

  Chapel felt the blood begin to flow from the socket, sluicing from the wound as if a spigot had been turned. Not wishing to miss a drop, he placed the golden chalice beneath the weeping hole, co
llecting all that drained from the wound.

  “That should be more than enough,” he said after a moment, sloshing his blood around with a lecherous smile as he descended the steps toward the Lobster.

  “Your defiance will soon be a thing of the past,” Chapel told him, leaning toward the Lobster, chalice in hand.

  Chapel brought the cup toward the Lobster’s mouth, while some of his acolytes held the hero’s head still. Others gripped his jaw, forcing his mouth to open.

  “Drink,” Chapel instructed, tipping the chalice’s bloody contents into the Lobster’s open mouth.

  “Join with me, body and soul.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  —

  They were all together now, back to back, in a rough circle before the steps leading up to the church. The monsters’ numbers had been weeded down, but those remaining were relentless in their attack.

  Hurley had no idea how much longer they could keep this up; their energy levels were dwindling as quickly as their bullets.

  So much for the god of ammunition.

  Hurley aimed, firing his final spray from the shotgun. “I’m out,” he announced, as the others continued to fire.

  “Here,” Harry said, and Hurley felt the poke of hard steel in his side.

  He dropped his empty weapon, taking the pistol and box of bullets Harry offered.

  “Much obliged,” he said, firing into the skull of a monster that had gotten too close for comfort, while emptying the bullets into the pocket of his coat.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Harry answered, firing his Bergmann machine gun in short bursts. “Let’s get out of this with our skin intact, then you can thank me all you want.”

  “Deal,” Hurley said as he squinted down the barrel of the pistol and fired. A monster that had once been a woman flipped backward onto the blood-drenched street.

  “That’s it for me,” Bill announced.

  “And me, too,” Bob added soon after.

  The attacks were intensifying, as if the monsters knew they were weakening. Holding his rifle like a club, Bill charged, swinging the weapon like it was some ancient battle-ax. Bill joined him in the fray, holding back his own attackers with what looked to be a scalpel.