Lobster Johnson: The Satan Factory

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Hurley knew that he should run, that he should follow the others down the tunnel to escape the threat that would soon be nipping at their heels, but instead he found himself raising the shotgun, taking aim at the bestial form of Fazzina hovering over the corpse of Red O’Neill.

  He pulled the trigger and the shot boomed like thunder, clipping the malformed crime boss’s shoulder in a spray of crimson.

  Fazzina screamed once, stumbling backward, but he did not fall. Still ignoring the instinct to flee, Hurley pumped another round into the chamber and pulled the trigger. There was a click, but nothing more.

  The shotgun was empty.

  Fazzina charged toward him, bounding across the floor like some grotesque form of ape, murder shining in his dark, beady eyes.

  Hurley braced himself, using the shotgun like a club as the beast man lunged at him. He swung the butt of the rifle across the side of the monster’s head, shattering the wooden gunstock while knocking Fazzina violently to one side.

  Fazzina rolled across the floor and sprang to his feet. There was blood like tar covering half of the transformed man’s face, his skull dented in on one side.

  Hurley did not wait for the next attack. He lunged at the monster, broken gun held like a club. Fazzina lunged again, but Hurley was expecting the move. Once again, he swung the remains of the shotgun. The jagged, broken end of the gunstock struck the bloody side of the monster’s face, sending him back to the ground, but Hurley did not let up. He hit the monster again and again.

  Fazzina tried to fight back, tried to swat Hurley away with his razor-sharp claws, but Hurley avoided them with ease.

  There was a shrieking howl inside his head, a roar that seemed to drown out any form of rational thought. All there was at that moment was the battle—the battle that would lead to the kill.

  He imagined that the civilized Jake Hurley had been forced from his body, hovering ghost-like above the room, watching as the animalistic version of himself carried out his murderous purpose.

  What other explanation could there have been?

  It was as if he’d been given the injection, as if something now coursed through his veins, igniting the bestial side of his nature.

  Fazzina brought his arm up, blocking the gun barrel as it fell again. He gripped the weapon, yanking it from Hurley’s grasp, and tossed it out of reach. But the animal Hurley didn’t really seem to notice. He jumped on the Fazzina monster, his fists flailing.

  Everything became lost to the roar of blood in his ears. Images exploded in his mind, equal bursts of pain and disturbing satisfaction. Hurley became one with the moment, trying desperately to survive the encounter, but also extracting his revenge upon the man who had taken his life.

  He was as much a monster as this beast he continued to fight, his skin torn, battered, and bruised. Hurley knew that he shouldn’t have been still standing . . . still fighting, but he was, and that just spurred him on to his next, and what could be his final, action.

  —

  The struggle had taken them across the makeshift laboratory floor, their bodies crashing into tables stacked with glass beakers and delicate medical equipment.

  And that was where Hurley found the scalpel.

  Like a beacon, it called to him from the floor amongst the broken glass and pieces of shattered wood, promising him an end to this conflict. The monster’s claws were like razors, and until then he was no match for them, but now he had found his prize.

  The two thrashed upon the floor, their blood mingling together, making their hold upon each other slick. Fazzina was attempting to bite him, yellow teeth snapping, and in that Hurley saw an opportunity.

  He let Fazzina’s teeth take hold.

  He flung his head back, screaming in agony with Fazzina’s bite. Fresh blood spilled from the multiple puncture wounds to mingle with the blood seeping from his other injuries.

  But as Fazzina growled, biting down again, trying to tear the flesh from his upper arm, Hurley saw his chance and took it. He jabbed the scalpel into the crime boss’s throat, having to push extra hard to puncture the thick, alligator-like skin. He gathered his waning strength, pulled the blade back, and plunged it repeatedly into Fazzina’s throat.

  Fazzina tried to escape, releasing Hurley’s arm from his clamped jaws, but Hurley would have none of it. He wrapped his damaged arm about the monster’s head, holding him in place as he continued to stab.

  Fazzina did not die easily, but he died nonetheless. Hurley continued to stab at the monster’s throat long after he’d ceased his struggles, stopping only when he realized that he was being watched.

  The creatures that had escaped from their pen had encircled them, watching the conflict play out with dark, beady eyes.

  Hurley released Fazzina’s corpse, letting it flop to the floor.

  And still the monsters watched him intently.

  His body was drenched with the blood of his enemy, as well as his own. It was the throbbing pain of his own injuries that kept him upright, his focus on the pain the only thing that kept him conscious. Still clutching the bloody scalpel, he held it out before him, ready for the next wave of attack.

  An attack that would most certainly finally take his life.

  “C’mon, you ugly sons of bitches,” Hurley growled. “C’mon. What’re you waiting for?”

  And just when they seemed ready to pounce, they stopped, suddenly distracted by some unknown force that caused them to look around, their strange animalistic whines filling the air. One of the beasts let out a weird croaking sound, followed by a similar sound from another. Eventually they were all vocalizing their unease, moving as one toward the tunnel, forgetting him, as if following some unheard siren call.

  Or maybe they just expected him to join their swarm, for after what they had witnessed, he had been accepted as one of their own.

  A beast.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  —

  The truck crashed through the gate of the back lot, turning onto the street outside the armory with a screech of tires.

  Ignoring the pain arcing through his body in throbbing, electrical volts, the Lobster ran in pursuit, firing his pistol in hopes of puncturing one of the truck’s tires, but it was to no avail.

  Standing on the street, he watched the truck begin its escape, attempting to calculate what needed to be done in order to stop it from getting away. Looking in the opposite direction, he saw a gang of men milling about at the front entrance, their attention captured by the fleeing truck.

  The Lobster headed their way at a clip, suspecting that he knew who they were, and that they might have what he required.

  “It’s the Lobster!” one of them screamed, raising a machine gun held by his side. The others raised their weapons as well, and all opened fire.

  Adrenaline surging, the Lobster ran at them, firing his pistol with cold efficiency. The goon with the gat was the first to go down, a bullet entering his eye on the way to his brain. The Lobster dropped to the street in a roll, firing multiple shots at the gunmen closest to his prize.

  Evading bullets, he snatched up the Thompson machine gun from the ground, spraying his attackers as he ducked down behind one of their cars for cover. Bullets punched into the metal of the vehicle, while others ricocheted off the concrete sidewalks as they attempted to drive him from his hiding place.

  The Lobster scowled. He didn’t have time for this nonsense; his true foe was getting away.

  Like a jack-in-the-box, he popped up from behind the car, firing the machine gun with short, controlled bursts, forcing them to dive for cover. The Lobster swore as the machine gun went silent, clicking upon empty chambers.

  He could practically hear his enemies laughing with joy as they emerged from hiding, their weapons fully loaded.

  The Lobster turned to run, attempting to again use the parked vehicles for cover as shots rang out. At first he believed them to be coming from his pursuers, but then realized that somebody had come to his aid.

  The Lobster
turned to see Harry, twin Colts in his hands, firing at O’Neill’s men. A pipe protruded from the corner of his mouth, clenched between his teeth as he dispatched one evildoer after the other.

  The surviving goons scattered, firing at him from behind cover.

  The Lobster joined Harry behind his own black sedan.

  “Where are the others?” the Lobster asked, holding out his hand.

  Harry placed one of the Colts in it.

  “They’re on the way,” Harry told him.

  O’Neill’s men had broken out the heavy artillery, multiple machine guns blasting away at their hiding place.

  The stink of gasoline filled the air as the car’s gas tank was ruptured.

  “Move!” the Lobster screamed at Harry.

  The two men jumped up from behind the vehicle as stray sparks from the bullet strikes ignited the expanding puddle beneath the vehicle, causing the gas tank to explode into a fiery ball.

  “Are you all right?” the Lobster asked, ears ringing as he climbed to his feet.

  Harry nodded, sticking his pinky into his ear and giving it a shake.

  Things didn’t look very good for them right then. O’Neill’s men were recovering from the blast, swarming out from their hiding places to finish the job.

  “Are you ready for this?” the Lobster asked, preparing for what could very well be a last stand.

  “I’ve been ready for this for a long time,” the man answered, chambering a round into his gun.

  They stood their ground, side by side, illuminated in the orange glow of the burning wreckage, watching as the surviving mobsters stalked toward them, and ready to finish what they had begun.

  But they wouldn’t get the chance.

  The air was filled with screams of rage, and the sound was growing louder, moving closer.

  Monsters spilled from the armory, a deluge of shrieking beasts flowing out onto the early morning streets.

  O’Neill’s men didn’t have a chance to react before they were swarmed by the hideously transformed. Their screams of death mingled with the excited wails and howls of the monsters.

  “Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Harry said, starting to back away.

  The Lobster grunted, distracted by the conflict in front of him.

  The monsters seemed agitated, confused, sniffing at the air.

  “What are they doing?” Harry asked. “Not that I mind, but I would have thought we’d be dead by now.”

  “They’re searching for something,” the Lobster stated. “Following a scent.”

  Some of the beasts started down the road in the direction their master’s truck had gone. Soon they were moving en masse, loping down the early morning street on the trail of their lord and master.

  “What the hell is this?” Harry asked, looking toward the armory.

  A lone figure had emerged from the building covered in blood, its clothes in tatters. It stumbled toward them.

  As Harry aimed his weapon, the Lobster reached over and pushed the gun barrel down.

  “He’s one of ours,” the Lobster said, as Hurley came closer.

  “I’ll be damned.” Harry removed his coat and put it over the shoulders of the trembling, blood-covered man.

  “Thanks,” Hurley said through chattering teeth.

  “Are you all right?” the Lobster asked.

  Hurley nodded. “You?”

  “I’m alive . . . for now.”

  —

  A black sedan rounded the corner, coming to a complete stop with a screeching of brakes.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Lester said, leaning out of the passenger window, his arm still in a sling. He was wearing one of the portable communi-cation devices around his neck. “We came as quick as we could.”

  “Did you bring the appropriate gear?” the Lobster asked, walking toward the car. “If my assumptions are correct, the streets will soon be overrun with monsters.”

  Lester nodded. “I think we can handle that.”

  Bill got out of the driver’s side; Bob, the back seat. They were all here . . . his men . . . his team.

  Bill popped the trunk, showing what they’d brought from the lair. The back of the car was filled with guns of all sizes and calibers, ammunition, and explosives. It would do.

  Bob stepped up beside the Lobster, an expectant look on his face.

  “Yes?” the Lobster asked, hand on the lid of the trunk, ready to close it.

  “How are you feeling?” Bob asked.

  The Lobster knew what he referred to, but it was a mystery to the others and would remain that way.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “There have been no significant adverse affects except for a heightened aggression, which has actually served me well tonight.”

  “And you’ve taken all of the injections?”

  The Lobster reached down to one of the heavily padded pouches on his belt and removed a compact syringe. Without missing a beat, he brought the needle up to his neck and plunged it into his carotid, injecting the contents into his bloodstream.

  “Yes,” he said, handing the empty syringe to Bob for proper disposal.

  “I tried to find something,” Bob said nervously. “I tried to find something that could be used as a cure . . . something to return these folks to normal, but . . .”

  Before closing up the trunk, the Lobster reached inside and removed a machine gun and bullets.

  “This is the only cure we have for them,” he said, slamming the lid. “Let it be quick and merciful.”

  —

  The police car, siren wailing, pulled in front of the truck, attempting to halt their progress. Paco chattered wildly, hopping up and down in his seat in frustration. Chapel reached across to stroke the boy’s shoulder, telling him with his thoughts that everything was going to be fine—that this was how it was supposed to be.

  Leaning forward in his seat, Chapel gazed out the windshield, taking note with his single good eye not only of the police cruiser that had stopped them but also of what awaited them on the other side of the street.

  This is the place.

  The police officer had exited the vehicle, so Chapel decided that he would do the same. Paco warned him with guttural squawks, but he ignored his companion’s advice, opening the truck door and climbing out. The police officer had removed his citation pad and was writing a ticket, not even paying attention. One of the truck’s back tires had been punctured by the Lobster’s attempts to stop them, and they’d continued to drive on a shredded tire and rim.

  “You’d think you would have had the common sense that God gave ya to pull over and fix that tire so’s—” the police officer said, as he looked up from the ticket he was writing.

  The expression on his face was priceless.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he said, his voice trembling with fear as he looked upon Chapel’s new visage.

  The visage of a god.

  “No,” Chapel said, shaking his head. “None of those, I’m loathe to say.”

  The memories came to him in painful flashes, glimpses of a past undiscovered by archaeologists, unknown to historians. But Chapel remembered, as if he had been there. The bones had chosen many before him, but this recollection was from one of the earliest to host the power.

  The shaman had once been the holiest of holies, the most powerful member of his jungle tribe, but a series of droughts and the dwindling birth rate had left him the scapegoat for his people’s misfortunes. They had driven him away with hurled stones and threats of dismemberment, and the holy man had gone into the jungle alone, believing that eventually he would die.

  A raging storm had driven him to find shelter, and he found it within the hollowed-out trunk of the largest and oldest tree he had ever seen. Inside the belly of the tree he had found the bones, partially hidden beneath dirt and thick, twisting roots. The shaman was starving, and had begun gnawing on the slime-covered bones. Almost at once, he had been touched by the presence, shown the pathway to future glory.

  The sha
man had returned to his people, changed by the bones, and one by one he had changed them as well.

  Chapel awoke from the memory to see the police officer reaching for his holstered gun. He knew that he had the power to reach across and slay the man, but he was feeling generous, and decided that this officer of the law would make a welcome addition to his legion.

  “We’ll have none of that,” Chapel said, moving with the speed of a serpent. In what appeared to be one swift movement, he bit into the flesh of his wrist, drawing blood, and reached across to grab the policeman.

  He placed the bloody wound against the startled officer’s mouth, allowing his blood to flow into the man’s body, allowing the gift of change to begin his new subject’s glorious transformation.

  The man began to cough, and then to scream—they always did. He stumbled away, his body already beginning the painful process of becoming. Chapel ignored his choking gasps and cries, signaling for Paco to leave the truck’s cab and join him.

  Even in the early hours of the morning the streets were becoming cluttered with people. Fearing that they might interfere, he used the mental connection he shared with his minions to command the transformed policeman to keep the citizens at bay.

  The monstrous officer responded with a howl, unholstering his weapon with a long-fingered hand and firing multiple gunshots into the air. The crowds scattered with fear, and Chapel continued on his way across the street to the place where the final battle would occur.

  Again his thoughts drifted back to the last time his destiny had been this close, when the conquest of this world was at his fingertips.

  He remembered the ancient temple. It had been erected in the name of some other god, but his own magnificence had usurped that pitiful deity, and he had claimed its worshipers for his own. That had been the last time that he had come so close to solidifying his hold on this world, and on the flesh of a human host. As always, there had been those who stood against him.