Lobster Johnson: The Satan Factory

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Accidents happened. Surely Rocco Fazzina would understand that, especially after everything Chapel had done for him. But then he recalled the zeal with which the two thugs had ordered him to save this particular man.

  What makes this guy so special? he’d wondered.

  The man’s wallet was resting atop a heap of bloody clothing in the room’s center. Chapel picked it up, opening it to read the name printed upon the driver’s license.

  Frank Fazzina.

  Chapel’s heart nearly came to a stop as he read the name again, and then again.

  Frank. Fazzina.

  He vaguely remembered hearing that Rocco’s big brother’s kid had joined the gang, and that he was being groomed to be the Devil’s second in command.

  The sudden rush of adrenaline purged the lingering effects of alcohol from Chapel’s body. He knew exactly what this meant. He’d killed Rocco’s nephew. His own days were numbered.

  Completely lucid for the first time in many months, Jonas Chapel began to hatch a plan. He had to leave New York, get far away from the city as quickly as possible.

  Gathering up what little money he had left, Chapel ran from an inevitable death.

  He ran from the Devil’s wrath.

  —

  Chapel was one glass away from finishing the bottle, and hopefully silencing the mocking laughter of the bloated worm. He ran a hand across his unshaven face before reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, feeling around for what little money he had left.

  Withdrawing his hand, he counted the foreign coins, and saw that he had just enough for another bottle. Silently, he prayed that the new bottle’s worm wouldn’t be quite so disrespectful.

  “Señor Chapel,” cried a voice from the doorway.

  Startled, Chapel dropped the handful of coins on the floor as a little boy dressed in a loose-fitting wool outfit, a large straw hat perched atop his head, ran into the cantina.

  “What is it, Paco?” Chapel slurred, almost falling as he slid from his chair to retrieve the fallen money.

  “You said for me to let you know if there were strangers in the village,” the child said breathlessly as he squatted beside Chapel.

  The boy’s words filled him with dread, stopping the reclamation of his coins. “Go on,” he urged.

  “They are here—two men in very expensive suits, and they are asking for you.”

  “Where are they?” Chapel asked, reaching out to grab hold of the boy’s arm in a trembling grip.

  “They are coming this way,” the boy said, his dark eyes glistening wetly in the dim light of the tavern. “I ran ahead of them to warn you.”

  Chapel quickly looked toward the door, catching sight of shadowy shapes moving across the threshold.

  The bartender was looking their way, drying a glass with a filthy rag.

  “A back exit?” Chapel yelled to him, forgetting what remained of his coins and rising to his feet.

  The bartender just stared, continuing to dry the glass.

  “Do you have a back door?”

  Chapel was already moving to the far end of the rundown establishment, Paco at his side. There he found a door, but it was blocked by stacks of wooden crates filled with empty bottles.

  “Quickly,” he urged the boy, grabbing the first of the boxes. “We need to move these.”

  The boy, no older than ten years of age, did the best that he could, pulling down the heavy crates to gradually reveal their means of escape.

  The bartender was yelling at them, but Chapel ignored him, his mind too frazzled to understand what it was that he was saying.

  Sliding the last of the boxes aside with a clatter, he grabbed at the old wooden door, hauling it open. He chanced a final glance to the front of the cantina just as Fazzina’s men came in. Chapel knew who they were immediately; they carried an air about them.

  An air of death.

  “There he is,” he heard one of the men say, just as he darted through the door out into an alleyway.

  “This way, Señor Chapel,” Paco urged, waving his little brown hands at him, urging him to follow.

  Chapel surged toward the boy, the alcohol in his veins stealing away any chance he might have had at dexterity. He bounced off an alley wall with a clatter, stumbling toward the boy, who reached out to grab his arm.

  “Quick, quick!” Paco said, leading him on a twisting path.

  He could hear Fazzina’s men behind them, kicking aside the glass-filled crates to give chase.

  Heart hammering in his chest, he let the boy lead him through the maze-like back passages of the village. Chapel felt as though he was immersed in some sort of horrible nightmare, the darkness of the back streets seeming to intensify, closing in on them as they ran.

  The night was silent except for the sounds of their fatigue. He didn’t know how long they’d been running, but he was certain that it wouldn’t be long until he could run no more.

  Legs trembling with exertion, he found himself stumbling, falling to his knees, letting go of Paco’s hand.

  “No, Señor,” the little boy said, coming to him. “We must run.” Nervously, he looked about them. “This is not a good place to rest. Please, get up.”

  Chapel was gasping for air, waving the boy’s frantic hands away.

  “I can’t,” he said, his words expelled upon a wheeze.

  He could hear the sound of heavy footfalls growing closer, and Chapel felt the electricity of fear tingle through his body. He managed to stand, swaying uneasily upon rubbery legs.

  Paco took his hand again, and was trying to pull him along, but Chapel planted his feet, noticing something in the darkness across from him—a door.

  There were strange symbols scrawled upon the rough-looking piece of wood. He traced the symbols with his eyes, having no idea of their meaning, but feeling as though this was his moment of salvation.

  “In here,” Chapel said, throwing himself at the door.

  “No, Señor Chapel,” the boy pleaded, trying to pull him away. “This is not a good place.”

  Annoyed, Chapel shook off the child’s grip. “Nonsense,” he hissed, leaning upon the old wood, and with all his strength, forcing it to open. “They’ll catch us for sure if we don’t . . .”

  The single room was lit by candlelight, strange shadows swirling like obsidian smoke in the flickering flame. At first he believed that they were alone, but then an old woman emerged from the darkness.

  “I was waiting,” she said with a thick accent, a hideous, toothless smile on her dark, wrinkled face. She nodded with excitement, clapping her gnarled hands together.

  “La Bruja,” Paco whispered breathlessly, trying to pull Chapel back into the alley.

  “Leave me alone,” Chapel barked, roughly slapping away the boy’s hands. He reached out, pulling the door closed behind them.

  “Come in, come in,” the old woman said, waving them further into her dwelling.

  Chapel was fascinated by the old crone. He found himself drawn to her withered form as she urged him to come closer. Paco stayed at his side, his trembling hands tightly gripping the fabric of Chapel’s pants.

  “How?” Chapel asked. “How did you know we’d be here?”

  The old woman cackled again, reaching for one of the candles on the table next to her. “I know these things.” The hot wax dripped onto her gnarled hands, but she didn’t seem to notice. “As I know that you have come for this.”

  She moved the burning flame closer to a pocket of shadow in the corner, illuminating something propped there.

  Paco gasped, the fingernails of his small hands sinking through the material of Chapel’s trousers and digging into the flesh of his leg. Chapel grimaced with the sudden pain, but could not look away.

  “This is for you,” the old woman said happily, lifting the flame higher to reveal the glistening face of a skeleton in a simple, wooden coffin.

  He felt compelled to move closer, dragging along Paco, who still gripped his leg. Chapel had never seen anything like it. At
first glance, the skeleton appeared human, but upon closer inspection—as the dancing light of the candle flame revealed its details—he saw that it wasn’t.

  “What . . .”

  The skull was thick, with what looked to be horns protruding just above the brow. The bones of the body, twisted and malformed, jutted out at odd angles, the arms dangling much longer than anything remotely humanoid.

  The skeleton appeared to be sweating. A pinkish-red liquid slithered along the yellowed bone to puddle at the bottom of the coffin.

  “What is it?” he at last managed to ask.

  The old woman’s grin grew horribly wide as she answered. “It is your future,” she said.

  He was just about to ask her more, when there was a sound like a shotgun blast, and the door to the hovel burst open as Fazzina’s men, guns drawn, charged inside.

  “Hey, Doc,” said one of the men he remembered from that fateful night. Duke was his name, and tonight he wore a cruel smile on his pale, doughy features. “We’ve been lookin’ for you everywhere.”

  The other man, whose name was Pete, giggled like a girl, his beady, rat-like eyes twinkling with anticipation.

  Chapel’s thoughts raced. He considered using the boy as a shield as he attempted his escape, but doubted that he would survive the attempt.

  “Mr. Fazzina sends you his best,” Duke said as he raised his gun.

  A strange breeze passed through the hovel, blowing out a number of the candles with its caress, making the darkness all the more impenetrable.

  He was going to run, to use this moment provided by the darkness, but the sound of Paco’s screams froze him in place. The old woman—La Bruja—had grabbed the boy, dragging his struggling form to her.

  The thugs opened fire, the muzzle flashes lighting up the darkness, as Chapel dove for cover.

  Through staccato flashes of gunfire he could make out the old woman, and was stunned by what he saw. She had placed the tips of her clawed fingers into the reddish-pink substance that oozed down the skeleton’s twisted bones, and was smearing it about the struggling child’s mouth.

  Fazzina’s men had come further into the room, squinting through the shadows, eager to know if their shots had found their marks.

  Paco pulled away from the crone and lunged across the room, landing at the mobsters’ feet. He shivered and moaned.

  Chapel crouched in the darkness, watching, transfixed.

  “Should I plug ’im?” Pete asked.

  “Yeah,” Duke answered flatly. “You kill the kid, and I’ll see if the doc is still kickin’.”

  He had made himself incredibly small upon the floor, cowering in the cover of shadows, praying not to be seen.

  Duke approached the old crone, who was laughing as if she were having the time of her life.

  “What’s so funny?” Duke asked her, pointing the gun menacingly at her face. “Do you see anything funny here, you screwy old bat?”

  “You,” she said, shoving the still-burning candle toward him. “I see you.”

  Chapel watched the gunman’s finger twitch upon the trigger, and knew what was to be the old woman’s fate. But then Pete cried out, saving her for at least a moment.

  “What’s wrong with him?” There was fear in his voice.

  Duke spun around to see that Paco had climbed to his feet.

  At least, Chapel thought it was Paco.

  —

  The boy . . . was changing. His body was becoming hunched, his limbs longer . . . thicker, his hair wild like a lion’s mane.

  “Don’t stand there looking at him, shoot ’im,” Duke ordered.

  Pete pointed the gun, but the transformed Paco was faster. The boy surged forward with a guttural growl, and sank his teeth deep into the gangster’s hand.

  The gun clattered to the wood floor as Pete screamed, beating at the boy’s head with his fist.

  “Son of a bitch,” Duke said, aiming his own weapon, trying to get off a shot without hitting his companion. “Hold still!”

  Pete’s cries were as pathetic as Paco’s growls were terrifying.

  “Get ’im off!” the mobster cried, struggling with the feral child, but to little avail.

  Duke rushed to his partner’s aid, reaching to grab hold of the child’s thick, black hair.

  It was as if Paco knew he was there. The boy immediately let go of Pete’s hand, his face and teeth now smeared in dark blood. With a snarl he launched himself at Duke, sinking his teeth into the flesh of the gangster’s throat. Duke wildly fired his gun as he was driven backward to the floor.

  Paco’s attack was relentless, and the man’s screams soon quieted to little more than wet gurgles.

  Clutching his bleeding hand to his chest, Pete ran to escape. He was screaming for help, trying futilely to get the door to the hovel open.

  Paco lifted his face from the gaping hole he’d gnawed in Duke’s throat and growled like some demonic hound from hell. Bounding across the room, he leapt upon the screaming Pete, dragging him to the ground, and tearing at the man with ragged claws and teeth like tiny daggers.

  Chapel crawled cautiously from his hiding place and rose slowly to his feet. He walked across the room as if in a trance, pausing to glance down at the unmoving form of Duke. The gangster’s eyes were open wide, frozen in terror at the moment of death.

  Pete’s screams had now grown silent too, and Chapel watched in horrified fascination as the transformed boy continued to savagely rip at the man’s corpse.

  As if sensing his approach, Paco looked up with a hiss. His features were horrible to behold, more animal than human, smeared crimson with the blood of his victims.

  Chapel froze, his eyes locked upon those of the beast child. For a moment they remained like that, each of them unmoving, until the boy roared, scrabbling across the hovel to get to him.

  “No, Paco!” Chapel screamed, his hand going up to shield himself from the attack.

  An attack that did not come.

  Shocked, he lowered his hands to see the blood-covered boy squatting before him attentively, like an obedient dog, waiting for its next command.

  “How?” he asked, turning toward the old crone.

  But she was not there. Burning candles had been placed at the foot of the coffin, illuminating the grotesquery lying inside.

  Chapel stared at the skeleton, as images of the old woman forcing her hands—covered in the slimy, red drippings from the bones—into Paco’s mouth played in his head.

  Is it possible? he wondered, eyes drawn to the growing puddle at the skeleton’s feet.

  In his gut he knew that it was.

  The substance sweating from the bones somehow had the ability to transform people into . . .

  This is for you, he heard the old woman’s words reverberate through his head, as he again looked upon the skeleton.

  It is your future.

  Finally, Chapel understood. Somehow he was supposed to be here . . . this was for him.

  With the bestial Paco staying close to his side, Chapel approached the skeleton, and saw, in the sweating, malformed bones, his destiny.

  He reached out for the bones, and then hesitated, not sure what their effects would be on his naked flesh. Looking around him, he found what he needed in an old, woven blanket, its once-bright colors faded to shades of gray.

  Chapel took the blanket and brought it to the coffin. Carefully he wrapped the skeleton, removing it from its resting place. He carried it to the door, stepping over Duke’s cooling corpse, and walked out into the alleyway.

  Out into the world.

  CHAPTER ONE

  —

  The carnival tents rose up out of the sprawling New Jersey field, illuminated in the glow of the harvest moon like some brightly colored, late-fall fungus.

  The Lobster darted across the open expanse of uncultivated farmland, a black shadow cutting shark-like through the ocean of moonlight toward the island of tents.

  Within the cluster, he lost himself in the long shadows thrown by the
towering Ferris wheel, before quickly making his way to one of the larger tents.

  Professor Powell’s Oddities and Wonders read the banner hanging above the tent, undulating in the cool September breeze.

  If his suspicions were right, this was where he would find his quarry.

  The Lobster reached down to the holster on his hip, unsnapping the flap and drawing the Colt .45. With his thumb he flipped off the safety, and then pulled back the slide, chambering a round. Reaching out, he pushed aside the heavy canvas curtain, and disappeared inside the tent.

  Behind his goggles, the Lobster’s eyes adjusted to the dim light; lanterns that hung upon nails in the wooden tent supports provided the only illumination. Stealthily he walked down the dirt pathway with gun ready at his side.

  The tent contained multiple exhibits, each oddity and wonder given its own special place. There was an empty stool where the rubber man would sit, bending his body into unimaginable positions for the enjoyment of the rubes; a murky, fluid-filled tank where the body of a mermaid child was supposedly preserved; and an empty metal cage that would contain the savagery of the Three Missing Links. A painted backdrop behind the cage depicted a trio of snarling, ape-like beasts—a gorilla, a chimpanzee, and an orangutan—walking upright as they emerged from the jungle.

  The air around the cage stank of sawdust and something else, something heavy and pungent; something that smelled of the wild. He stopped, preternatural senses aroused. Beneath the collar of his leather jacket he could feel the hairs at the nape of his neck stand at attention as he scanned the shadows.

  The attack came swiftly—silently.

  A wall of black fur and muscle bounded from a pool of shadow, as if a piece of the very darkness had come alive to strike.

  The Lobster raised his gun, but the gorilla was faster; its long, powerful arms savagely swatted him aside. He was thrown backward, nearly toppling the mermaid tank, and catching a whiff of the thick chemical smell that wafted up from its liquid contents.

  A plan began to take shape.

  The gorilla lumbered silently toward him, its eyes glowing with an eerie luminescence. Its gait was stiff, the way it moved, almost as if . . .