The Satan Factory

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Is this it? Hurley wondered while reloading his gun with the last of his bullets. Is this how it’s to end?

  So be it, he thought, resigning himself to the fact. He could think of worse ways to die. Alone in a gutter, stinking of booze and regret.

  It would be an honor to die with these men if he had to, but not quite yet. Hurley still had bullets in his gun and a fire in his belly. And he was going to put them both to good use.

  He counted down his bullets as he fired.

  Five. Four. Three.

  He made them matter, waiting until the monsters got close enough so that each shot would be fatal.

  Two. One.

  One left. Hurley lashed out with his fists, hating to use the last of his bullets. But then a monster went for Lester, and he had no choice but to put his final shot in its ear.

  From the look of things, they were finished. He made eye contact with each of them. Bill and Bob were both out of breath, their clothes and faces spattered with their own blood and the blood of their foes. Harry searched his pockets for any stray bullet, while Lester glowered at the approaching horde, daring them to continue their attack.

  Shoving the pistol into his coat pocket, Hurley reached down, picking up the empty pump-action shotgun. If it couldn’t fire, it could be almost as effective coming down upon a skull, or slammed across a face. He wasn’t ready to give in yet, and he was certain that the others felt the same.

  In a circle, back to back, they watched as the monsters crept toward them, prepared to die fighting. Multiple sirens wailed, growing louder by the second. The sound seemed to be coming from all around them, and they searched for the source of the noise.

  “What’s that all about?” Lester asked.

  Hurley chuckled. “It’s the cavalry,” he said, trying to keep his excitement in check, just in case he was wrong.

  The monsters had stopped as well, glancing around in search of the source of the annoying sound.

  Multiple paddy wagons appeared on the streets, driving as close as the frozen traffic would allow. Then, from out of the backs of the trucks they came: New York’s finest.

  And they were armed to the teeth.

  “We might want to think about ducking for cover,” Hurley announced, just as the monsters caught sight of the policemen advancing on them.

  Just as hell broke lose.

  —

  No use fighting it, the Lobster decided, allowing the thick, foul-smelling fluid to pour into his open mouth. He might as well save his strength for what was to follow.

  The blood of the demon master filled his mouth, running down the back of his throat and into his stomach. It was if somebody had placed a live wire up against his body. The charge he felt was far more pronounced than what he had been experiencing before, in preparation for this moment.

  The Lobster heard screaming, a cry so filled with pain and torment that it shook him to his very core. It stunned him to realize that the cry was his own. The pain was terrible, worse than all the stab wounds, gunshots, broken bones, and burns that his body had endured. The Lobster’s entire body was on fire, each and every cell burning . . . exploding, and then healing over to begin the process again.

  His body was changing.

  But despite it all, he was still in control.

  His body became wracked with terrible spasms as his muscles grew, and the bones that they were attached to grew thicker . . . longer. There were horrible popping sounds to be heard as the ligaments stretched and snapped before healing up, and the pain . . . The pain was like a thing unto itself.

  The horde had released him as soon as the transformation had begun, stepping back to watch excitedly as he became one of them. The thing that had once been Chapel hovered above him as he thrashed upon the floor, screaming out with each new twist of his transfiguration.

  “Embrace the pain of change,” the demonic master said encouragingly. “It only hurts as long as you hold on to the past . . . as long as you hold on to what you were.”

  There was a part of him that wanted to let go, to make the pain stop, to embrace the inner beast clawing to be free, but thankfully that part of him had grown weak over the years since he had begun his mission, so he was able to ignore its pathetic whining, as he had done so many times in the past when things looked bleak.

  The Lobster made the pain his own, using it to keep going. He could feel his clothing grow tight as the configuration of his body changed, becoming larger, more powerful, and more monstrous. The master of the beasts was inside his head now, urging him to take that final step toward becoming what lurked in the farthest, darkest reaches of the human soul. In everyone there lurks a monster, the demon lord whispered in his mind. And the Lobster knew that his poisoned blood was being used to call it out.

  Images flashed in his mind, ancient memories of an evil that had existed before recorded history. He saw the demon lord in its many incarnations, and how its desires had threatened to sweep the world, but there was always something—someone—there to stop it.

  The Lobster saw these warriors, in all their primitive guises, taking strength from a kinship that had existed since the dawn of time.

  The pain was gone now, replaced by a fury that dwarfed anything he had ever felt before. Mouth filled with the taste of his own blood, he roared, flexing powerful new muscles. He felt strong and dangerous, reveling in what this new form could do to the world.

  But that was a monster’s way of thinking.

  Yet he was still the Lobster.

  —

  Chapel watched as his adversary changed before his eyes.

  He could not have put into words how happy it made him to see the one who had so doggedly opposed him writhing at his feet, becoming something not even remotely human.

  It’s a good day.

  He could feel his newest acolyte’s thoughts inside his skull, all the pain, rage, and fury that he would unleash upon the world in his name. Chapel reached out, attempting to bend the Lobster to his will, but something was wrong. The Lobster was fighting his control, somehow retaining his sense of self.

  But how?

  Chapel reached down, gripping the Lobster’s face in his clawed hands, pulling his gaze to him.

  “You are mine!” Chapel proclaimed, hoping to break his resistance.

  But the Lobster just stared up through the thick, circular lenses of his goggles, a twisted smile forming upon his battered and brutish face.

  Chapel reached deep into his opponent’s altered mind, attempting to turn loose the beast, but full control somehow eluded him. Images from the Lobster’s thoughts exploded across the surface of his own brain, images that Chapel was able to observe and experience. He saw his adversary in deep conversation with another.

  Bob. The man’s name was Bob, and from the Lobster’s own recollection he knew that this man was a scientist of some kind.

  “I’ve done as you asked,” Bob says in the Lobster’s memory. “But I’m not quite sure how I feel about this.”

  The Lobster unbuttons the cuff of his jacket sleeve, rolling it up, exposing a pale, muscular arm. Bob has produced a hypodermic needle, filled with a reddish-brown substance.

  Blood, Chapel thinks . . . Chapel knows. The blood of one of my spawn.

  “I have no idea what this could do to you . . . even in this diluted form,” the scientist warns.

  The Lobster instructs the man to inject him.

  “If all goes according to plan it’ll be similar to how snake handlers build immunity to the venom of poisonous snakes,” he says, watching as the scarlet fluid is slowly pumped into a vein. “And if I’m wrong, and start to change for the worse, you know what to do.”

  A pistol lies within the scientist’s reach upon the tabletop.

  The Lobster has an immediate reaction, shaking uncontrollably as his body’s natural immunity tries to combat the virulent substance that has invaded it. For the briefest of moments it looks as though he might succumb to the blood’s power.

  Bob reache
s for the gun just in case.

  But the Lobster proves stronger than the diluted demon blood, his system able to prevent the change from occurring.

  “To build any kind of resistance to what could be coming, I’ll need more injections,” the Lobster tells Bob breathlessly.

  The scientist nods, reaching across the table to a tray covered with a cloth.

  “That’s why I’ve made these up,” he says.

  Pulling away the cloth, he reveals double rows of needles filled with diluted samples of the blood.

  Demon blood.

  More images suddenly flooded into Chapel’s mind, multiple scenes of the Lobster injecting himself with the demonic contents of the needles. And each time, as he was about to succumb to the blood’s virulent influence, his will was stronger, the dark power of the blood bending to him.

  The Lobster had been taking the blood willingly, building up resistance. Now he had the strength of a monster, but his thoughts were still his own.

  This is madness.

  Chapel cleared his mind, staring down at his foe, seeing him in a disturbing new light.

  The Lobster still looked up at him, face frozen in a rictus grin.

  “Know thine enemy,” he growled, as he reached up to grab Chapel by the front of his vestments and hurled him back toward the altar.

  The demon master stumbled backward, catching himself on a piece of holy ornamentation. It was a long metal pole, a golden cross glinting divinely atop it. Chapel scowled, his eyes burning from the sight of it as he regained his footing.

  Perhaps the God that lives here isn’t so silent after all.

  Chapel lifted the pole from its base, wielding it like a staff of power.

  “Kill him,” the demon lord ordered, pointing the golden cross at the Lobster. “Tear him apart.”

  And as his acolytes swarmed toward the Lobster, Chapel reached out, making contact with his enemy’s mind in the hope that he would find fear there. The sweet, delicious fear of the vanquished. But instead he found only a sucking darkness that threatened to draw him in and swallow him whole.

  And it was Chapel who was afraid.

  —

  The Lobster could hear them all inside his head, gibbering excitedly with the desire to spill blood. But they could hear him as well, and they knew that he planned to kill them all. Each and every one.

  His new brothers and sisters came at him with the intention of murder, and he returned the favor. As they swarmed—a seething mass of razor-sharp teeth, claws, and superhuman strength—he welcomed their murderous hunger, diving into their slavering midst. They all wanted to feast upon his enemy flesh, to take his strength and power. They were welcome to try.

  The master’s voice was the loudest, inside all of their skulls, urging them on, ordering him destroyed at any cost.

  The Lobster reveled in his new demonic strength. At first he had missed the feel of cold metal in his hand, the smell of spent cordite as he fired steel-jacketed death into the soft flesh of his enemies, but this new sensation was something as well.

  They’re all so fragile, he thought, as he ripped an arm from its socket with the ease of snapping a drumstick. The screams of agony were like music to his ears, and it seemed to make him stronger. Mere punches turned bones to powder as he countered their attacks. The stone floor beneath their feet grew slick with the blood of the fallen, but still they attacked him, and still he fought.

  There was no mercy, even in this house of God.

  And all the while he fought and maimed and killed, he kept his eyes on Chapel, the sole reason for the existence of the twisted abominations that he fought, and the twisted abomination that he had become. The demon master stood upon the altar, waiting for the extensions of his malignant evil to bring his enemy down.

  But the Lobster had no intention of falling. Skulls burst like overripe melons. Bones shattered like glass. He was a force to be reckoned with, and he inched his way toward the altar. The closer he got, the harder they fought him. They knew his intent and would do anything to keep their lord and master safe. But that mattered little to the Lobster; he had his objective, and nothing would sway him from his task.

  The nearer he came, the louder the master’s voice echoed inside his head. Chapel attempted to seduce him, promising him untold power and dominance over entire continents, but the Lobster had no interest in anything more than the total eradication of evil from the world.

  That and seeing the demon master dead at his feet.

  Shrugging off five of his attackers like a dog shaking fleas from its coat, the Lobster made it up onto the altar. His body had been cut, ripped, bitten, and bruised. But still he fought on.

  —

  There was a part of the demon lord that marveled at his foe’s sheer tenacity, but he was also saddened by the fact that this magnificent engine of death would not be part of his growing legion. With the transformed Lobster by his side, there would be no force that could oppose him. But it was not to be, for this fabulous specimen had been tainted by the precepts of order.

  So be it.

  What still remained of Chapel’s fragile humanity wanted to flee from the holy place, to escape this seemingly unstoppable opponent, to live and fight another day. But the demon inside of him would hear none of it. Shrugging aside what remained of Jonas Chapel, the demon watched his enemy fight his way up onto the altar for what would most assuredly be their final dance.

  The demon roared, asserting its full diabolical influence. His host body, once belonging to the human Chapel, faded away with a whimper, just as the human race would soon do.

  The demon’s mass grew, muscles swelling, bones thickening, preparing for the epic battle to come. He still clutched his newly acquired staff, adorned with the symbol of a faith that would soon be no more. How appropriate that it be used to kill the last hope for humanity.

  —

  All he could smell was the blood of his enemies.

  The Lobster was drenched in it. He raised a damp, leather-gloved hand and wiped drying gore from the lenses of his goggles so he could see what was ahead.

  The monster lord had grown in size, any vestiges of the humanity it had once possessed now completely replaced. Its body was huge on top, straining against the priest’s robes it had stolen, and its arms were long and thick, like the gnarled branches of a tree. Its legs were short, but muscular, and it swayed from side to side, brandishing a staff made from one of the altar’s holy ornaments.

  The demon shook its horned head, blowing a spray of snot from its flaring nostrils, like a bull preparing to charge.

  The beast inside the Lobster howled with joy, anticipating the bloodletting to follow, but his humanity still managed to maintain control. Turning toward the carnage of the church behind him, his eyes found the parishioners still huddled, frightened, in the pews.

  “Leave,” the Lobster ordered, the bestial sound of his voice disturbing even to him.

  The men and women, young and old, hesitated, fear holding them in place, making them cling to one another all the tighter.

  “It’s not safe here . . . Go!” He gestured for them to flee. This was their last chance to survive the nightmare that they had been sucked into.

  They’d started to move, sliding from the pews when the demon lord attacked. It moved swiftly, lashing out with its metal staff. The demon lord slashed the Lobster’s face with the golden cross atop the staff. Thrown back by the force of the blow, the Lobster crashed into the front row of pews, where the captives had once been. The wooden pews shattered to kindling.

  The Lobster quickly recovered, springing to his feet, a jagged haft of wood clutched in his hands. The demon roared, its mouth wide and cavernous, teeth dripping with saliva.

  “You think you can take this from me?” the beast bellowed, stomping its feet down upon the altar. “Look outside, champion of order, look outside at what the world has become. You’re too late; it is already mine.”

  The Lobster started toward his foe, the demon lord�
��s surviving minions trying to hold him back. His new wooden weapon proved dramatically effective as he stabbed and slashed his way through them.

  Chapel’s thoughts—the thoughts of the demon that had usurped the man’s flesh—echoed in the Lobster’s head, and they were terrible. Every step of the way, the Lobster’s brain was inundated with visions of a world twisted by the demon’s dominance. It would be hell on earth, and he would do everything within his power to see that it never happened.

  “This time I’m supposed to win,” the demon grumbled, swinging the golden cross at him again. “It’s only fair.”

  The Lobster ducked beneath the whistling swipe, waiting for his opportunity to strike.

  “Let me hold sway for a millennium or two,” the demon suggested, jabbing at the blood-spattered symbol of the claw upon the Lobster’s chest. “And then it will be your kind’s turn to challenge me for supremacy once more.”

  The Lobster trapped the cross beneath his arm and yanked it from the demon’s grasp.

  “I’ll challenge that supremacy now, thank you,” the Lobster growled, tossing the altar ornament aside with a clatter.

  The demon flexed its powerful, clawed hands, blowing a cloud of mist through its pig-like snout.

  “Why does it always have to be so hard?” the demon lord asked, frustration lacing its question.

  And then it came at him, its massive form careening across the altar. The Lobster attempted to halt the demon’s charge, but it lowered its head just as it reached him, the tip of one horn catching his side. The demon tossed its head back, lifting the Lobster from the ground and hurling him through the air.

  Landing on his back, he felt the wind expelled from his lungs. Lying there upon the altar, the Lobster looked up, taking in the scenes painted on the old ceiling above him—a warrior angel, clad in golden armor, doing battle with a green-scaled dragon. A struggle between good and evil, a conflict played out through the ages.

  A war that would always need to be fought.