A war that would always need to be fought.
The sight of the demon looming over him blotted out the image. It was coming in for the kill.
You’re welcome to try, the Lobster thought.
The monster bent to haul him from the ground. With a primal scream, the Lobster rose and plunged the makeshift wooden knife into the demon’s breast. He reveled in the look of surprise on Chapel’s twisted face, the bulging, yellow eyes, the mouth agape in shock.
With a grunt, he pushed the knife in deeper, giving it a savage twist as he put all his strength behind it, hoping to reach the demon’s cold, black heart.
Blood flowed like a river of tar from the wound. The demon stumbled back, hands fumbling for the splintered piece of wood protruding from its chest. It finally managed to remove the crude knife, hurling the offending object away with a roar that could only have come from the realization that it had again been defeated.
It placed one of its hands over the gaping wound, its oily blood spraying through its fingers as it staggered backward, falling onto the altar.
“Help me,” the demon lord pleaded, beckoning to those of its twisted flock that had managed to survive.
The monsters shrieked and wailed, tearing at their hair and their scaled flesh. They too had come to the realization that it was over.
The demon lord hauled itself across the altar in a pathetic attempt at escaping. But the Lobster would have none of that. He snatched up the cross-capped staff from the floor and approached the demon. The beast rolled over, snarling with dwindling ferocity, and the Lobster drove the metal rod down through the demon’s flesh and into the stone beneath, pinning him there.
The demon lord howled, flailing to free itself from the offending object, adorned as it was with the symbol of a religion it had planned to usurp. Its wound was like a mouth, open and vomiting darkness like ink onto the altar’s surface.
Swaying above his nearly vanquished foe, the Lobster could feel his strength—his nearly demonic fury—beginning to ebb. His wounds were severe and beginning to take their toll on him.
He needed to end this.
Looking down upon the demon staked to the altar, he saw that the monstrosity was smiling up at him.
“I don’t see anything funny,” the Lobster said, fighting to stay upright. “Especially for you.”
“I’m already looking forward to the next time,” the demon said, black bile now bubbling up from within its mouth.
The Lobster shook his head. “Sorry to break it to you, but there won’t be a next time.”
And the demon began to laugh, a most horrible sound that echoed about the church, now tainted with its evil intent.
Wanting to finish this before he was unable, the Lobster reached to his belt for one of the grenades at his side. With great effort, he pulled the pin from the phosphorous grenade while the demon lord continued to laugh.
Squatting down over the beast, the Lobster jammed the primed explosive into the oozing, open wound in the demon lord’s chest. The monster gasped, ineffectually grabbing at the Lobster while writhing upon the altar. The Lobster leaned in, whispering in its ear.
“Ashes to ashes . . .”
He pulled free from the demon’s grasp and stepped over the dying monster lord.
One of the doors swung open at the front of the church, as if beckoning to him, urging him to exit while he could still stand. But then something akin to a bear trap clamped around his ankle, causing him to fall forward onto his chest.
“There will always be a next time,” the demon lord gurgled. “I can feel it in my bones.”
The phosphorus grenade detonated, filling the unholy beast with a white, searing light. Its body, the church altar, and all the evil that had desecrated it, consumed in a blinding flash of hungry fire.
—
The madness escalated.
The NYPD had arrived, department-issue Thompson machine guns spitting death and killing the monster men in a storm of .45-caliber gunfire. Now, the dwindling number of demonic beasts had a new focus for their attack, and the Lobster’s soldiers took the opportunity to slip away, hoping to avoid potentially incriminating questions as to what they were doing there and how they had come to be fighting monsters in New York City.
Hurley had started to run, planning on heading back to his apartment to wait out the aftereffects of the demon siege, but he found himself drawn to Saint Katherine’s, curious as to what could have been going on inside.
What if the boss needs help? he wondered, climbing the steps to the front doors as the sound of machine-gun fire and the shrieks of the damned echoed through the air behind him.
He needed to know.
Hurley pulled open the door, letting daylight flood into the darkened church. He spotted the Lobster immediately, stumbling away from the altar, beaten and bloody and half-transformed into one of Chapel’s creatures. There were bodies at his feet, and some of the monster men were still alive, slowly stalking toward him. About to call out, Hurley saw sudden movement from the foot of the altar, and then the Lobster crashed to the ground.
Hurley raced to help the boss. There was no way that he was going to abandon the man who had been responsible for his rebirth. His redemption. He ran toward the Lobster . . . and then something up on the altar exploded, blowing him backward in a flash of white light. The front of the church was engulfed in white fire, and he shielded his face from the intensity of the heat.
But he forced himself forward. The altar was consumed in fire, and a billowing cloud of smoke roiled toward him. He did not see the Lobster, but breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed something moving.
Again he started down the aisle, but stopped when he heard the screaming.
Demons came out of the smoke, their bodies covered in fire. Five burning monsters came toward him at a run. Shaken by the horrific sight, he turned for the door.
The morning air rushed in, feeling cool upon his scorched face, and he came face to face with armed police officers, raising their weapons to fire. Hurley dove to the ground, the burning monsters at his back, tumbling down the concrete steps as the police opened fire on the flaming abominations, mercifully releasing them from their torment.
Police and firemen were everywhere, and before he was noticed, he got to his feet. His body throbbed from the abuse it had endured over the last few hours, but he found the strength required to slip from the chaotic scene undetected.
Leaving the horror behind.
—
Hurley had no idea how long he’d been sleeping.
All he knew was that when he finally made his way back to his fleabag apartment, it had been morning, and now, looking out the window, he could see that the sun had set.
His body ached and his skin felt tight from the dried blood that still stained it. He moaned from the pain as he forced himself upright on the bed.
Hurley ran a hand through his blood-encrusted hair, putting a hot shower at the top of his list of things to do. He’d clean up as much as he could using the sink in the shared bathroom down the hall, but he would probably shower at one of the YMCAs in the city.
“You’ve slept for two whole days,” said a voice from the darkened corner of the tiny room.
Hurley yelped in surprise, his heart flipping painfully in his chest.
“Jesus,” he said, watching as the Lobster emerged from the shadows. “You just about scared the life from me.”
Considering that Hurley had last seen the man caught in the blast of an explosion in Saint Katherine’s Church, he wasn’t looking so bad. Any hint of the demonic influence of Chapel’s blood had vanished from him.
“How are you feeling?” the Lobster asked, standing by the window, gazing out at the night.
“A little sore, but I should be asking you that question,” he said. “How did you manage to survive . . .”
“The explosion? Let’s just say that certain steps were taken in this particular investigation that ensured my survival,” he said.
“We did,” the Lobster answered. “Some of the transformed escaped into the sewers, but the cannibals should take care of them.”
“What are the papers saying?” Hurley asked with a grunt, as he stood up from his bed.
“The newspapers are reporting that the attacks were perpetrated by the escaped residents of an upstate asylum for the criminally insane,” the Lobster said, still staring out at the night.
“How could they come up with something like that?” Hurley asked. “Didn’t they see?”
“They see what they want . . . what they need to see,” said the Lobster. “It’s a way to explain away a world so strange that they cannot even begin to understand.”
“I guess,” Hurley said. He removed his blood-covered shirt, throwing it on the floor and going for his spare. It was one of his nicer shirts, but seeing as he didn’t have another . . .
“So what now?” Hurley asked, wincing as he slipped into the shirt and began to button it. Every part of him hurt, some parts worse than others, but at the same time he felt a sense of satisfaction that he’d not felt in a very long time.
“Now?” the Lobster asked. He reached into the front of his jacket and removed an envelope.
“What’s this?” Hurley asked, taking it from him.
“The location of your wife and daughter.”
It felt like somebody had dropped a ton of scrap metal on his head.
“My wife and daughter?” he asked, his voice a trembling whisper. “I . . . I don’t understand.”
“You’re done here,” the vigilante said coldly. “You’ve served your purpose, and now it’s time for you to resume your life.”
“But I thought . . .”
The Lobster slowly shook his head.
“Just because you’ve experienced the real world hidden in the shadows, that doesn’t mean that you’re ready to reside there permanently.”
Hurley looked at the envelope, his hands starting to shake uncontrollably.
My wife and daughter.
“What if they don’t want me back?” he asked. “What if this is the world I belong in now?”
The Lobster retrieved a bag from the shadows and placed it upon the bed. From what he could see, it was filled with clean clothes and some money.
“Then we’ll see each other again, but until then . . .” the Lobster said, his voice trailing off as he slipped back into the shadows.
And before it could be discussed further, Jacob Hurley was alone.
But hopefully, he thought, as he started to open the envelope with hands trembling in anticipation, not for much longer.
EPILOGUE
—
Paco had returned home.
Home to Mexico with the skeletal remains of his master.
He knew that it was his job—his special purpose—to make certain that if the master’s plans were not fulfilled, that his remains were to be returned to the place of waiting, and there abide the passage of time until destiny called again.
Paco had been hiding at the back of the altar when the fires erupted, scouring the flesh from his master’s bones. Patiently he had waited until the flames had died down, and he could retrieve his master’s remains. The flesh was gone, leaving only the blackened bones behind, but the blood of the demon lord was still there, hidden within the marrow of the charred remains.
Wrapping the bones in singed and soot-covered cloth, he had begun his journey, escaping out the back of the church into the cold night.
It had been an arduous journey of many miles, but the boy had managed, sneaking aboard the backs of trucks and freight trains traveling south. Anyone foolish enough to disturb his pilgrimage paid a hefty price, the offender’s flesh often filling Paco’s belly, supplying him with the needed strength to complete his travels southward, all the way to the winding back streets of an unnamed Mexican village, and into the lair of La Bruja.
The witch woman had been waiting for him, somehow already aware of the master’s defeat. She had helped him with the bones, gingerly unwrapping them from their well-traveled cloth and arranging them in the crude, wooden coffin, like the other bones before them.
And there they waited.
Waiting for the one who would begin the process again, waiting for the one that would take the bones—become the bones—and allow the demon lord to at last hold sway over the world.
Paco lay curled in a ball at the foot of the wooden casket, occasionally dipping his clawed fingers in the puddle of demon blood that perspired from the charred bones of his master and rubbing it into his gums. Now he heard the sounds of approaching footfalls.
The shack was hidden to most, visible only to those preternaturally connected to the demon bones. To those connected to the demon lord’s destiny.
La Bruja heard the approach as well, rousing herself from her sleep as the footsteps from the street outside came to a sudden stop just outside her door.
“Come in,” the witch said with an evil cackle. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
And the door swung slowly open, revealing a striking figure clad in black leather and holding a Colt .45.
—
The Lobster knew that the demon’s bones had been taken.
A strange sort of link had been established since he’d inoculated himself with the monster’s blood, a connection that had gradually begun to fade when he had ceased taking the injections. But enough of a bond still existed to show him where the bones had been taken, and where he had needed to go to put an end to the demon’s cyclical rebirth, once and for all.
He stepped into the hovel, Colt in hand, ready to dispatch justice.
The old witch woman roared, her jaw unhinging. She sprang at him, her seemingly frail body suddenly lithe and quick as lightning, connecting with him before he could fire his weapon, and driving him back against the wall of the shack.
Pinning him there, she opened her mouth wider, and wider still. The Lobster felt as though he knew this one. She had been the first to recover the demon’s bones, rescuing them to be brought elsewhere as he awaited a suitable vessel, so that he might be born again.
It was time for her to pay for her crimes against humanity. Forcing his hand up between them, he placed his left palm against her forehead to brand the symbol of the Lobster’s claw upon her brow. There was a wet, sizzling sound, and the oily stink of burning leather in the air.
The witch sprang away from him, swatting at her face. Her skin had caught fire, burning away the flesh to reveal the blackened bone beneath.
“I’ll swallow you whole!” she bellowed, the parchment-like skin of her face falling away in burning shreds.
The Lobster emptied his clip into her dancing body.
The witch staggered back, her body bleeding from multiple bullet wounds. Her skinny arms flailed wildly as she attempted to remain standing, knocking jars of foul-smelling oils from their shelves. Then, at last, she succumbed to her injuries, and slumped to the floor.
He ejected the empty clip from his weapon and inserted a fresh one, preparing to bring this nasty business to a close. The monster at the far end of the hovel stood in front of the wooden coffin that contained the bones of the demon lord. Once, the thing had been a child. From the fading connection he still shared with the demon, he remembered the boy’s name.
“Paco,” the Lobster said, watching a surprised expression form upon the monster child’s face, as he too recalled who he’d once been.
The boy seemed confused, gazing down at his hands, at his long and clawed fingers, as if seeing them for the first time. In his face, for just a moment, the Lobster saw not a demonic beast but a frightened child in need.
Paco tried to speak, but the words were caught on a fat, swollen tongue and far too many teeth.
But the Lobster could read the pleading look in the former child’s eye. One that begged for mercy.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, re
placed by a demonic savagery. A child no longer, the beast sprang at him in an attempt to protect the bones. It knocked aside multiple candles in an attempt to reach him.
The Lobster fired once, a single bullet entering one of the eyes that had requested his special brand of mercy. The child’s head flipped violently backward as he dropped to the floor.
The candles that had fallen continued to burn, their flame igniting the sickly smelling oils that drenched the floor.
The Lobster moved closer to check on the child, to see if more than a single shot would be needed to release him from his misery. The monster lay on his back, his remaining eye open and gazing up at the ceiling, and to heaven above.
The fire was like a thing alive, racing about the room, attacking and devouring everything that it could in its blazing maw.
The Lobster stood amongst the smoke and flames, his eyes upon the skeletal remains lying propped within the wooden coffin. He stayed there for as long as he was able, until the hungry flames had reached the coffin and its contents, and had begun their demonic feast upon them.
Forced to leave the burning shack for his own safety, the Lobster remained until the building was nothing more than smoking rubble.
Once the fires had gone down and the detritus had cooled to smoldering, he found what remained of the demon bones, and shattered them beneath his heel.
Grinding them to powder.
A powerful evil had been vanquished this night, and the Lobster experienced a momentary sense of satisfaction, but it was fleeting.
Yes, an evil had been removed from the world, but there would always be more.
So many more to face the justice of the Lobster’s claw.
THOMAS E. SNIEGOSKI is the author of the groundbreaking quartet of teen fantasy novels entitled The Fallen, which is being turned into a trilogy of movies for the ABC Family channel. His other novels include Force Majeure, Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel: Monster Island (tying in the two popular television series), and Angel: Soul Trade.
With Christopher Golden, he is the coauthor of the dark fantasy series The Menagerie, as well as the young readers’ fantasy series OutCast, recently optioned by Universal Pictures. Sniegoski and Golden also wrote the graphic novel B.P.R.D.: Hollow Earth, a spinoff of the fan-favorite comic-book series Hellboy.
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