The Satan Factory

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “Puts hair on your chest,” the old man said, smacking his lips.

  “So what gives?” Hurley asked. “Things seem to be buzzin’ around here today.”

  “They certainly are,” Lloyd said. He took another sip of the brackish coffee. “Seems that Smitty Johanson and Reggie Alder got themselves some work.”

  Hurley smiled. “That’s great,” he said, remembering Smitty Johanson, a bear of a man whose arms were covered in amazing tattoos that he’d gotten as a merchant marine. “Who’s hirin’?”

  Lloyd shrugged his bony shoulders. “Not sure. It’s all kind of a secret. Smitty came by late last night to get some of his things, said he and Reggie were approached by some fancy gentleman who said he needed some strong backs. Said they might even be lookin’ for more if things work out all right.”

  “Any idea what kind of work or where it is?” Hurley asked. It was just his nature to be curious.

  The old timer shook his head. “They didn’t say, but I’m sure they’ll be around sometime soon to tell us all about it,” he said cheerfully. “Didn’t I tell ya things were lookin’ up?”

  “Yeah, you did,” Hurley said, taking another bitter sip of the cooling coffee. “And you might just be right this time,” he added, thinking of the little girl on the red bike.

  “Can’t rain forever, Jake. That’s what my grandpappy used to say,” Lloyd said happily. “Just gotta find yourself a place to stay dry until it stops.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  —

  It was cold and raining like a son of a bitch as Red O’Neill sat in the back of his sleek, new Ford Model B, and watched the first of his trucks return from their trip to Canada.

  He really hated the idea of getting out, but he had to show his face. The guys needed to know that he was hands-on, especially in light of what was coming down the pike.

  O’Neill was a big man—six two, three hundred and sixty pounds—with a head of fiery red hair. He was the youngest of the New York crime bosses, but what he didn’t have in years, he made up for in ambition.

  Red O’Neill was on the rise, and if he had his way, all of New York would be following his orders by the end of next year.

  “Might as well get this over with,” he grumbled, sliding his bulk across the seat toward the door. His driver quickly got out to open the door for him.

  “God’s takin’ a piss tonight, eh, Floyd?” O’Neill said, pulling the collar of his cashmere topcoat up around his thick neck.

  “Musta had too many beers with Saint Peter,” Floyd answered with a laugh.

  “Somethin’ like that.” O’Neill buttoned the top button on his coat against the wet and the chill.

  “Want I should come with you, boss?” Floyd asked.

  “Nah,” the big man said as he began to walk toward the dilapidated warehouse. “Keep the car warm. This shouldn’t take more than a couple a minutes.”

  O’Neill crossed the lot, trying to avoid the puddles expanding across the cracked and uneven blacktop. The sliding doors at the front of the warehouse had been pushed aside, allowing his trucks access so they could unload the evening’s product.

  “How’s it goin’, boys?” O’Neill asked as he slipped through the doors and out of the rain.

  “So far, so good, Mr. O’Neill, sir,” Bart, the warehouse supervisor, said as he waved the fourth of the five trucks inside.

  It was cold in the warehouse, but at least it was dry.

  O’Neill removed his fedora, giving it a good shake. He placed it on a stack of crates and unbuttoned his coat, careful not to get his new, pinstriped suit wet. He draped his coat over the top of the wooden crate beside his hat.

  The last of the trucks entered the warehouse with a roar, its windshield wipers flapping furiously. Water cascaded off of the heavy tarps that covered the back of the vehicle, creating puddles on the concrete floor.

  Two warehouse workers hustled to the sliding doors and quickly rolled them closed, wrapping a thick chain around the handles, just in case somebody decided to pop by uninvited. But O’Neill doubted that would be the case, seeing as he had most of the cops walking this beat in his pocket.

  Nope, there should be nothing but smooth sailing tonight.

  “Any problems?” O’Neill asked the driver as he jumped down from the truck’s cab.

  “No, sir,” the man said. “Not a Mountie to be found.”

  “Excellent,” O’Neill said, slapping the man on the back. “Nice to know I’m gettin’ my money’s worth over there.”

  He walked with the driver to an open area in the center of the warehouse. The tarps had already been thrown off the backs of the trucks to reveal their precious cargo.

  Whiskey. One hundred and fifty barrels full.

  The warehouse workers swarmed into the backs of the vehicles, carefully rolling the barrels down heavy plank ramps to men waiting below.

  O’Neill watched them unload the wooden containers of golden liquid, already calculating the total value of the contents within. As it stood now, whiskey was more valuable than oil, and a hell of a lot more fun to drink.

  This was the fourth shipment of this size that he’d overseen this week. Normally his orders were for half as much, but Red O’Neill had plans. He was planning an expansion of his territory, and with that would come more joints needing more product.

  He thought of the violence to come and felt a little uneasy, but there was no way to avoid it. If you wanted to bake a cake, you had to break a few eggs.

  The big man was startled from his thoughts by the sound of men yelling. He looked up just as one of the whiskey barrels rolled off the side of a ramp and smashed on the warehouse floor. O’Neill couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched hundreds of dollars run down the drains in the floor.

  The foreman began screaming at the worker, as the poor slob tried to stammer out an apology.

  O’Neill couldn’t help himself. He stalked across the floor.

  “Mr. O’Neill . . . I’m sorry, sir,” the laborer protested, eyes wide with fear at the sight of his boss.

  And he should have been afraid. Red O’Neill was a reasonable and fair man, except when it came to what he believed was his.

  Like Canadian whiskey.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he bellowed, his face even redder than usual. He reached out to grab the man’s leg as he stood at the edge of the truck, and yanked it out from underneath him. The luckless worker fell to the hard concrete floor below.

  O’Neill lashed out with his foot, kicking the man in the ribs as hard as he could. “This stuff is like gold . . . my gold, and you’re supposed to be doing everything in your power to make sure that it’s safe.”

  The big man kicked the worker again, even as the poor slob tried to crawl away, all the while apologizing profusely. The other workers just watched, knowing that if they tried to step in they would receive some of the same.

  “Does that look safe and sound to you?” O’Neill screamed, following the man as he scrabbled across the floor. “It’s a waste of my money . . . a big, honkin’ waste.”

  “I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry.”

  The worker was crawling through the spilled whiskey when O’Neill straddled him, bringing the sole of his shoe down on the back of his neck. The man let out a scream of pain as his face was driven to the whiskey-covered floor.

  “If you’re gonna waste my hooch, at least have the common courtesy to tell me how it is,” O’Neill growled, adding his substantial weight to the back of the man’s neck.

  The worker thrashed beneath him, struggling to rise as O’Neill bore down upon him.

  “Well?” he asked. “Was it worth my money?”

  The man was screaming, trying to answer, but his words were horribly distorted as his face was forced to the concrete.

  The other workers had circled them, watching with cautious eyes.

  “Anybody else want to be careless with my property?” the big man asked, forcing eye contact with each and every one of them
.

  Every once in a while they had to be shown that he was the boss, and what he was capable of if crossed.

  The man was still struggling and carrying on as O’Neill raised his foot. They must have believed that he was letting the man go, but that was the furthest thing from his mind.

  O’Neill brought the heel of his shoe down onto the man’s neck. The worker let out a short, gurgling squawk, his body flopping around like fish on a dock. The big man brought his foot up and stomped it down again, and then again, until the man wasn’t moving anymore.

  The smell of death—of piss and fear—wafted up from the body on the warehouse floor, and O’Neill brought a hand up to his face to fan away the offensive odor.

  “Anybody else feel like being careless with my property tonight?” he asked, again glaring at all of the workers.

  They all looked away.

  “Good, then might I suggest you get back to work?”

  “You heard Mr. O’Neill,” the foreman announced. “Let’s get these barrels unloaded. Let’s go . . . We ain’t got all night.”

  The foreman was moving away to join his crew when O’Neill stopped him.

  “Who was he?” O’Neill asked, flipping the worker’s body over with his foot.

  “I think his name was Weir,” the foreman said.

  “Weir,” the large man repeated. “I want every one of these guys to give a dollar of their earnings tonight to his family. It’s only fair.”

  Red O’Neill was all about being fair. It was exactly how he planned to run things once he was in control.

  He waved the foreman away, the adrenaline coursing through his large body now making his powerful hands tremble. He’d planned on heading home after this, but now, he decided that maybe he’d like to stop by his closest club and have a few, maybe a visit with one of his girls to help him relax.

  O’Neill was thinking about a whore named Angela—the girl had legs that wouldn’t quit—when the lights went out.

  “Hey!” O’Neill bellowed with annoyance.

  “Sorry, Mr. O’Neill,” he heard the foreman call out. “I got one of my guys checking the fuse box right now. Shouldn’t be but another minute before . . .”

  A bloodcurdling scream rolled out from the darkness.

  “What was that?” O’Neill hollered. “What’s goin’ on over there?”

  He heard a commotion, the sounds of voices raised in panic, and something else.

  “Did you hear me?” he again yelled, watching the shadowy shapes moving across the room. “I asked what was going on.”

  But his questions went unanswered as the sounds of panic from his men filled the warehouse.

  O’Neill thought he heard another sound, something that would have been completely out of place here in the darkened warehouse, but now he was certain.

  An icy chill ran down his spine as he froze on the spot. The men were screaming now, some crying out to God, others to their mothers.

  Among the cries and the screams, he heard growling.

  Something came out of the darkness screaming and crying, its face and clothes covered in what looked like ink, but O’Neill knew otherwise.

  It was the foreman, and as he reached out to his boss with trembling hands, something surged up behind him. He let out a howl as the thing yanked him away.

  Back into the darkness.

  His survival instinct finally kicking in, O’Neill ran for the exit, heart hammering painfully in his chest. And as he ran, he could hear from behind the sounds of things—horrible, horrible things—in the shadows, moving closer.

  The hounds of hell nipping at his heels.

  —

  The little one . . . what did Chapel call him? Fazzina asked himself. Paco?

  Paco was playing in a puddle of blood as the lights in the warehouse came back on. Fazzina recoiled from the horrific sight before him. It was like something out of the books the sisters of Saint Ignatius would show him—telling him that was where he would go if he didn’t mend his devilish ways.

  There were four of the horrible, blood-covered things, plus Paco, and they screeched and growled, dancing amongst the bloody remains of the warehouse workers. Fazzina wasn’t sure exactly how many workers there had been, for none of the bodies had remained intact. Everywhere his eyes fell, he found another body part.

  Red O’Neill was supposed to have been here tonight, and he may well have been, but Fazzina couldn’t be sure.

  The creatures—what else could he call them—wallowed in the blood that leaked from the dismembered body parts. He knew that these things had been human not too long ago, but now, thanks to the doc . . .

  Fazzina couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it, but the crime boss blessed himself as he forced his legs to carry him further into the warehouse.

  “Impressive,” the doctor said, appearing at his side. Chapel had a handkerchief pressed to his mouth and nose to stifle the stink of violent death. “Don’t you agree?”

  “It’s a nightmare,” Fazzina answered, equal parts repulsed and excited by the potential. The creatures appeared to be growing agitated again, attacking the torn and discarded corpses with renewed fury.

  “But a nightmare that you will control,” Chapel said, walking past him toward the chattering, blood-drenched beast men.

  “Stop,” he commanded.

  And the creatures stopped their aggressions, all turning their dark, animal eyes to him.

  Chapel in turn looked at Fazzina.

  “With my assistance, of course.”

  Fazzina nodded in agreement. “Of course.”

  “Then do we have a deal . . . boss?” Chapel asked, extending his hand.

  Drunk on the smells of violence and death, Fazzina grabbed hold of the doctor’s offered hand.

  “You can have whatever you want.”

  —

  There was a something in the air.

  Hurley had felt it as soon as he’d awakened that morning in the single-room apartment in a rundown tenement on West Thirty-eighth Street, provided for him by the charity of his mysterious benefactor.

  He’d always been sensitive to such things, able to feel when something wasn’t quite right. It had served him well as a police officer, and continued to do so in his service to the Lobster.

  Walking the streets that morning, he’d kept his ears open, but didn’t get much. There were murmurings of an impending gang war in the city, but he’d been hearing that since he was a rookie on the force. He’d heard other dribs and drabs of information over a cup of Joe or a shared cigarette—some new politician added to Rocco Fazzina’s payroll, an illegal shipment of guns due in port by the end of the week.

  But his gut told him that wasn’t all. No, this was something in the atmosphere of the city; like a thunderstorm slowly building, waiting to be unleashed.

  He decided to head back to the Lobster’s lair since he hadn’t returned last night. Besides, it was raining hard, and it would be nice to get out of the wet weather.

  Down he went into the station, over the edge of the platform, and into the tunnel. He was getting good at this, almost able to feel his way through the darkness.

  The piece of pipe was right where he’d left it the last time, and he picked it up and banged out the code upon the wall.

  There was no wait this time, or creepy voice. The passage slid aside, gears turning and stone rubbing against stone. Hurley quickly ducked inside and started down the metal steps.

  As soon as he reached the corridor that led to the door into the Lobster’s sanctum, he began to smell a sweet, smoky aroma that told him that Harry was nearby.

  Of all the Lobster’s men, Harry was the one that Hurley seemed to relate to most. He knew nothing of the black man’s background, but there was something about him, something that confirmed that what they were doing in service to the mysterious vigilante was all for the greater good.

  Hurley pushed on the cool metal of the door and it swung open into the Lobster’s lair.

  Bill
wasn’t around today, but the truck he had been working on was. It looked as fortified as a tank. Hurley followed the comforting aroma of pipe smoke down the hall to where he’d last found Bob and Lester, and then to another smaller area around the corner.

  Harry sat in an old, comfortable-looking leather chair in front of an elaborate radio set, playing with a large black dial on its face. The setup reminded Hurley of the communications systems they’d had down at the station, but he doubted those guys had ever seen anything as complicated as this.

  “Good evening,” Harry said, as he leaned back in the chair and stretched, pipe protruding from the side of his mouth.

  “It’s morning, really,” Hurley informed him.

  Harry pulled up the sleeve of his heavy sweater and looked at the watch on his wrist. “So it is.” He chuckled warmly. “My, time flies when you’re having fun.”

  “Where is everybody?” Hurley asked.

  “Around,” he answered, taking the pipe from his mouth. “Despite our dedication to the Lobster’s cause, we all have lives outside of here.”

  “Except for you,” Hurley said in an attempt at humor.

  The black man laughed. “All except for the guy with radio duty.”

  Hurley found himself laughing as well. It felt good, a camaraderie that he hadn’t really experienced since being removed from the force.

  “So what can I do for you this morning, Jake?” Harry asked, slouching in his comfortable chair.

  “I have some stuff for him,” he said. “It’s nothing all that exciting, but I thought I’d pass it along.”

  “We’ll let the boss decide what’s exciting or not,” Harry said, searching the tabletop in front of the radio for a pad of paper and a pencil. “Give me what you’ve got and—”

  The radio suddenly came to life, the panicked communications of a patrolman in Hell’s Kitchen. Hurley knew that area of town pretty well. The officer was at a warehouse near the docks and he sounded excited. Something big was going down.

  The word massacre was used.

  Harry was listening intently, scribbling it all down on the pad in front of him.

  “I know that area,” Jake said as the communication broke off. “Red O’Neill has a warehouse there.”