"Not everyone," said Aidan. 


"True," said Helen. She turned to the third person in the room, the 
one person who had yet to speak. "You're the only person who's on 
our side. What do you think?" 


"| think type rockery, " said Geoff Mansani. "I think you're rockery." 
He stopped and gathered himself. "Rockery... Right." 


Aidan straightened up again, his good hand forming a fist and 
kneading the small of his back as he did so. "Jesus, it fucking 
aches," he complained. Mansani continued, ignorant to his 
presence. "The VB last told me exodus CV is an CV aural on his 
own turf... " 


Aidan snorted in derision. "Wow he's on your side," he said, "Hold 
the front page." 


Helen disregarded him. "Carry on, Geoff," she said. 


"Itself the lady thing he'd elect," he said. "Last... thing... he's expect. 
Am attack on gotta own peppery.... On... his... pen... own... 


property." 


"That's easy for you to say," Aidan said, and a noise like ruined 
laughter came from his throat. Helen shot him a warning glance. "Oh 
come on," he said. "And anyway where's he going to be when the 
shit hits the fan?" 


"Doesn't matter," said Helen. "Whatever help he can give - " she 
turned quickly to Geoff - "you can give, will be appreciated. Even if 
you're just the lookout. Whatever you can do, we'll take." 


Geoff Mansani pulled something from his jacket. A stubby black 
cylinder with prongs at the end. Aidan Brown's good eye widened in 
amazement. "Fuck me," he exclaimed. "Is that what | think it is?" 


Geoff placed it carefully on the coffee table. "It's a trader... tray... 
razer... Fuck. Silecroft socks. Electric socks. Shocks." 


"A taser?" Helen asked. Geoff Mansani nodded. Aidan whistled. 


"Guess that swings things back in our favor," Helen said. "Ok - come 
back here before seven. We'll finish this before the dawn." 


"Jesus H Christ," said Aidan. "This is madness. How the fuck do you 
expect this to work?" 


Helen shot him another withering glance and he raised his claws in 
capitulation. "Okay," he said. "Okay. You win." 


"He won the see another sunrise," Geoff said. 
"No," Helen agreed. "He won't see another sunrise." 


Geoff Mansani nodded silently, thinking about his last conversation 
with Harold Maine. Less than a week ago the man had woken up, 
shit-covered and terrified, and demanded that Geoff come round 
straight away. He had suffered the most vivid nightmare, Maine said. 
He had been attacked in his home by Helen and Aidan, and they 
had literally turned him into excrement. He had come apart, flesh 
turning to dollops of dung as he watched, and - as Helen, the love of 
his life walked away - the lobster monster had dragged him into the 
tiny bathroom and flushed him away forever. 


Just a dream, but horrific nonetheless. 


Maine trusted Geoff Mansani, he said. He had told him that if he 
helped foil such an attack in the future, he would give him his voice 
back. Hell, he would make him a star. So now, with just such an 
attack mere hours away, the ex radio presenter had a difficult 


decision to take. He had promised to help Maine, and if he did, he 
would be relatively safe - but he would never be free. 


He looked at Helen, at the ruin of her arms and hands. At her 
hollow, sunken eyes. She had been crying a lot, he realised. The 
rape and murder of your only child would do that to you, he thought. 
His eyes went involuntarily back to her birth defects. Her disfigured, 
malformed fingers, her tiny t-rex arms. 


He shook his head, the road suddenly clear, and made his choice. 


"You can VB reply... VB relying... rely CV on me," he said. 


=f 


Carol Paris waited in the unmarked car. The sun was low in the sky, 
a baleful beacon in the gathering dusk. "Come on," she whispered. 
"What's going on?" 


A heavily built man gestured for her to wind down her window. She 
shook her head. He brought out from his jacket an ID badge and 
held it for her to see. He came round to the passenger side. She 
opened the door, and Lieutenant Dimitri huffed into the seat next to 
her. She repeated her question. "Always wondered what you look 
like," she said. "What's going on?" 


"Things have come to a head," said the agent. "Our hand is being 
forced. Shame, because we were about to put covert surveillance in 
place. Too late now - we waited too long. Oh, and Caruso says he 
told you so." 


"He did, did he?" 


"It's no secret he wanted a Meet and Greet weeks ago. He doesn't 
know why we had to - " 


"He doesn't know a lot of things," Carol said. "Leave it at that..." 


"Okay..." 


"Damned right, okay. So what's going on now? Why the sudden 
activity?" 


"F1 and M2 have just turned up at Harold Maine's apartment. MTF is 
on its way, they should be there any second. Hopefully they're not 
too late." 


"Christ," said Carol. "Time is 21:17. We'll be there in ten if the 
traffic's good." 


"Yeah. | just hope whatever made us hang back with this one was 
worth it." 


+ 


Helen stood at the main door of Harold Maine's apartment block and 
looked at the watch Mansani had bought her just for this occasion. 
Eight thirty seven. Aidan and Geoff Mansani had gone ahead of her, 
walking quietly and anxiously up the stairs to the fifth floor, lost to 
the gloom in the badly lit hallways. 


The plan, such as it was, was simple. Aidan and Geoff would go first 
and hide around the corner of his apartment. There was no danger 
of Aidan being seen, after all, although the smell would sooner or 
later give him away. Helen would follow them up and knock on 
Maine's door. Surprised at her visit, Maine would allow her inside. 
Aidan and Geoff would burst in and overpower Maine. Helen would 
leave and the two men would try and drag out as much information 
from Maine as they could about how he performed his grotesque 
miracles, and make him change them back. Then they would kill 
him. If they could leave with the source of his power, so much the 
better. Otherwise they risked it falling into the hands of someone 
else, and they still wouldn't be free. 


It would look like an accident, so there would be no struggles, no 
screams, no police involvement. 


Eight thirty-eight. It was time. She pushed open the front door and 
walked in as confidently as she could. Sounds of televisions turned 
up loud to hide the neighbors' arguments. Cheap carpet, badly 


painted walls. The scent of cigars, cheap cigarettes and joints. She 
walked up the first flight of stairs to the second floor. There were 
wonders right here in this building; monsters both human and 
otherwise; malevolent, horrific miracles that defied understanding. 
That the mundane and the grotesquely fantastical could live side by 
side so easily beggared belief. 


The third floor. Damp on the walls, mould forming in the corners 
where the moisture gathered. Less noise. A TV or two, and a sound 
system pumping out aggressive, misogynistic music. She proceeded 
onwards and upwards. 


The fourth floor. The air seemed heavier - no, that wasn't right. It felt 
like it was thicker somehow, as if there was some anomalous force 
in effect that slowed her movement and made her fight for every 
new intake of breath. She looked at the mould thriving and plotting in 
the corners, could almost see the spores spreading like gossamer- 
thin threads along the walls and ceiling. She was breathing them in, 
she thought, and she closed her eyes and envisioned her lungs 
blackening with damp. She felt it worm its way into her bloodstream, 
felt her body temperature drop as the filaments took hold within her. 


Get a fucking grip, she said to herself. She looked up; the mould 
was just mould, the black patches just that - but the sense of dread, 
of active, alert malice, did not leave her. 


The fifth floor. This was it. Harold Maine's domain. There was a 
grimy, clingy feel to the air, as if countless years of cigar smoking 
hung invisibly in the corridor. Once again she found herself fighting 
to breathe. The carpet was grubby and damp. There were 
unidentifiable shapes within the weave that giddied her senses. She 
looked back down the hall, saw the ceiling light flickering in the 
gloom. Dust motes drifted lazily in the small circumference of 
ungloom, swirling randonly like deep sea protozoa. It felt like she 
had somehow found herself on the sea bed. And wouldn't that be 
appropriate, for a lobster man and a woman who's hands were more 
in keeping with something crawling on the ocean floor? The patterns 
on the carpet spoke of chasms and unfathomable, dank darkness, of 
things hidden and waiting and hungry in the depths of the world. 
Was this why the air felt so heavy - because she was underwater, 
and an ocean of weight was above her? 


She pushed the images from her mind as best she could and 
counted down the numbers on the doors. Thirty nine, forty, forty- 
one... forty two. She stopped. Unlike the others, this door had a 
heavy metal grille placed over it, locked from the inside. She listened 
for a moment - there were sounds of life inside. A radio, running 
water. Metal on crockery. 


She knocked on the door, vaguely aware that she was almost about 
to lose control of her bladder, and waited for a reply. Around the 
corner, she hoped, Aidan and Geoff were poised to strike. 


There was movement inside the apartment. Noises getting louder as 
the occupier grumbled his way towards the spyhole. The plan was 
shit, she realised. It had zero chance of working. Her only hope was 
to flee. She was about to run, no longer equal to the task ahead of 
her, when the door swung open inwards and the monster she had 
come to unravel revealed himself. It regarded her initially with 
surprise, then greed, then suspicion through the locked grille. It was 
a creature of few words. 


"Fuck," said Harold Maine. "What the fuck are you doing here?" He 
peered over Helen's shoulder into the hallway behind her. "Fuck," he 
said again. "You alone?" 


"Yes," she replied. 

"You look nervous," he noted. 

"|... wanted to talk to you," Helen offered. 

"Why?" 

"| was hoping that maybe we... | feel so alone. Since Angela died." 


"Oh yeah," Maine grunted. "I heard about that." She felt his gaze 
drift down to her ruined arms. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, but 
he licked his lips with absent minded wanting. 


"It's - | can't talk out here." 


"Yeah," Maine said. His eyes narrowed. "Something smells... fishy, 
doesn't it?” 


"| don't know," Helen said, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. 
Christ, she thought. Please don't see through this. Maine watched 
her bosom heave, entranced by the rise and fall. "I just knew | had 
to come here," she said. The words almost failed her. 


Around the corner, Aidan's legs shook. Just open the fucking grille. 


Maine pondered. He had always wanted her and she was here at 
last. Helen Gwandoya fought the surging panic; she knew she 
looked terrified and vulnerable, broken and desperate. That's what 
Harold Maine would want, that's what he would expect. Her one 
chance at entry into the apartment depended on lust overpowering 
common sense. 


Around the corner Geoff Mansani and Aidan Brown gave one last 
prayer to whatever gods still cared for them, and steeled themselves 
for the horrors ahead. The time was upon them. The time of 
reckoning. 


Maine raised his eyebrows and clicked his teeth. Then, his eyes 
never leaving her, he unlocked the grille and cast another look 
around the hallway. Satisfied that she was indeed alone, he pushed 
the metal frame outwards. "You'd better come in," he said. 


The metal grate swung open. The apartment beyond was dark, 
illuminated only by a silent television and the neon signs outside. 
Maine wiped his forehead as he beckoned her in. "This must be my 
lucky fucking day," he whistled, and Helen Gwandoya crossed the 
boundary silently. Behind her, an ex-radio jockey and a 
blasphemous, crippled child murderer checked one last time for 
witnesses, and swung around the corner. 


Harold Maine had minutes to live. He would be found dead by a 
secret organisation, his head lodged face down in the toilet, 
apparent victim of a bizarre accident. He would not be missed or 
mourned. 


Geoff Mansani picked up his pace. He knew the lobster thing was 
right behind him, although he could neither see nor hear it. He held 
the taser under his jacket, reassured by its weight, and counted 
down the door numbers. Forty five, forty four, forty three. He 


reached forty two just as Gwandoya disappeared inside. The 
neighbors left or right or above or below would not call the police or 
raise the alarm, no matter what ungodly noises they heard. And if 
the police did come, they would be waylaid and distracted. A mother 
suddenly screaming for a lost child, a dispute between brothers that 
would spill out into the corridors and slow things down. There would 
be confusion and chaos. They knew what was expected. 


And so did Geoff Mansani. He grabbed the metal grille even as 
Harold Maine swung it shut and pushed past Helen Gwandoya. He 
could feel Aidan Brown's presence behind him, hot and damp and 
vengeful, and he guessed that Maine could see him too. Why else 
would he have just lost control of his bladder, if not at the sight of the 
lobster thing at his door? His next words confirmed it. 


"You!" Harold cried, and his face was white with fear. Aidan Brown 
pushed past both Helen and Geoff and grabbed Maine by the throat. 
He turned back to Helen and panted, "Get out. Go!" She looked at 
Mansani briefly; he was readying the taser, waiting for Aidan to bring 
Maine down. Although Maine struggled, he was undone by Aidan's 
extra bulk, his vestigial legs and carapace weighing down the man 
even as he cried out in alarm. He sank to the floor with a shriek. 


Aidan looked back at her again. "Go!" He shouted, and this time she 
obeyed, but not before one last glance; Geoff Mansani was standing 
over the two entangled on the floor, taser in hand, ready to deliver 
the incapacitating blow. Each of the three looked more terrified than 
the others. 


She fled the apartment in tears. Suffering was suffering, no matter 
how well deserved. The door slammed shut behind her and she half 
ran, half stumbled down the corridor and down the stairs until she 
reached the bottom; she sank down sobbing onto the floor, gasping 
for breath, and waited for damnation or deliverance. 


Prev 


Next 


Some Are Born To Endless Light 


It is a pleasant Sunday morning. 


Reaching her hand out to shut down her bedside alarm, May lazily 
rolls off her bed, her hair messily thrown over her face as always. 
Shoving strands aside, May swipes across lines of messages from 
her friends, all wishing each other a good night. Timestamps all from 
over 12AM. Yeah, last night was a blast. May yawns as she drags 
herself into the bathroom and heats up the water. Nothing beats the 
winter cold better than a warm morning shower, she thinks, as she 
dresses up and ties her hair into a bun. 


May dances down the flight of stairs, humming a soft rhythm along 
the way. Sliding the kitchen door open, May is greeted with the 
delicious smell of pancakes and bacon. Two others are also in the 
kitchen, beaming at her. 


"Morning, sweetie. You are early today." 


"Morning, Mom. It'd be a waste to sleep in on such a beautiful day" 
May smiles, suddenly realizing an absence. "Where's Dad?" 


"Oh, he had to leave early. Said there were important things to deal 
with. Strange weather or something." Mom chuckles. "Sometimes | 
honestly wonder if he's working at a research institute or a fantasy 

nerd club." 


"Ha, could be." May pulls out a chair and sits down by her young 
brother. Mom brings each of them a glass of milk. They have 
breakfast and talk about silly things. May is happy. Life is peaceful, 
and she wishes it to stay like this forever.