 
**The Wrong Side of the Tracks  
** by  
T.C. McQueen

Copyright 2013 T.C. McQueen

Smashwords Edition

Foreword:

This is the point where the author generally prattles on about inspiration and thanks lots of people, so here goes. I used to take the train to work. That's it, sorry it wasn't more engaging, but what do you expect for nothing, Stephen King? Special thanks to FNH at Cthulhu Podcast for his support, check out his regular podcasts. Also thanks to Gavin Steel for the cover photography. See more of his work that I haven't ruined with photoshop at Gavin Steel Photography on Facebook. Also follow the rambling of this author there on Facebook too. Enjoy.

Chapter One: The snake that swallowed its tail.

"You are only as good as your last job" was a pearl of wisdom handed down to me from Henry William Darrow, who had the dubious honour of being my Pa. In his own way he was warning me not to rest on my laurels and get off my ass and work. When I came home from France in 1918 it was sound advice. Over ninety years later it still was. However, the Department of Homeland Security seemed to prefer "What have you done for me lately?" Sure, I had prevented a long dead pagan witchdoctor from staging a bloody comeback tour and plunging the east coast into a new dark age, not to mention taking a severe ass kicking in the process. That, however, didn't carry much weight with the payroll section at Homeland. They saw an agent unfit for duty and tried to ditch me on medical grounds. Yes, the only reason I took the badge in the first place was to get out of jail, but my pride wouldn't let me just walk away. Frankly, I was a bit peeved Septimus hadn't opened the door to his own side operation for me, hunting the paranormal with the protection of a Government badge. After a month or two licking my wounds, I was ready to get back to work. The thing was, I had no office to report to, no supervisor to check up on me, and most importantly no pay cheque. My calls to Septimus went unanswered, till after weeks of silence, one of his flunkies called me at my Boston apartment, with an order to report to DHS headquarters in Boston.

Bright and early on a crisp April morning, I hopped the train down town to the business district, trying my best to blend in with the other commuters, one more suit amongst many. Up till now, public transport was something that only happened to other people, ordinary people. People like me don't keep office hours. When I worked with the Bureau, I was a field man, I only saw rush hour driving home off a night shift. Strap hanging with fellow members of the human race made me realise how much of a gap I had put between them and me. I swayed back and forth, bombarded by music, half heard phone conversations and the rustle of the morning papers, all wrapped up in the aroma of fresh ground coffee. It was a novelty at first, but that faded after sixty minutes of being elbowed in the ribs by strangers. I was grateful to climb the stairs out of the station and breathe fresh air. Spurning a short cab ride, I opted to walk to my new job, using the time to catch a smoke. I was early, so I stood in the shadow of the building, enjoying the last draw before stubbing out the butt. Gazing upward, I was more than a little impressed by the sight of Homeland's looming headquarters. Keen to make a good first impression, I checked my reflection, straightened my tie and strode into the lobby, trying to look like I belonged there. I presented myself to the grim faced uniforms at reception. They directed me to the security checkpoint, were a pretty young thing with a badge and a gun relieved me of my revolver, phone and other tools of my particular trade. She raised an eyebrow at the Bowie knife when I placed it reverently in the plastic tray, likewise with the medicine bag from round my neck, She kept the aloof professional demeanour going throughout despite throwing her my best Cary Grant smile. As I gathered up my loose change and smokes she leant in with a conspiratorial whisper.

"Keep the cigarettes hidden honey, don't let the Troll see them, he'll go nuts." Well, nobody wants to upset a troll, especially on their first day, so I simply nodded and palmed the pack into a pocket. Once through the checkpoint, I found myself confronted by a small, immaculately turned out little man in a blue pin stripe number. Picture the love child of Pee Wee Herman and Gollum and you've got him. The whispering guard showed him a clear bag containing my revolver, knife and other toys.

"Good Morning, Agent," he managed a sly glimpse at his clip board, "Marx." He raised an eyebrow at my offered hand like I had just spat on it. "My name is Special Agent Tollan, I will be conducting your orientation and escort you to your new assignment." Something told me this was the Troll, an irksome little company man.

Every job has its own brand of company man. In law enforcement, a company man submits reports like regular cops do, but these reports are about potential budget savings by removing the coffee machine or how to improve public perception by not smoking and smiling more at the public. Frankly, if that's how you think, you have no business wearing a badge. I need coffee and cigarettes, and if I don't get any, I damn well guarantee I won't be smiling at you. It is the lot of the rank and file that these folk climb the ladder on the basis of dumb ass ideas. Trust me, when you need a cop, and I mean really need one, you don't want a company man. Chances are he would write you up for bleeding to death on the side-walk.

I forced a smile, hoping to charm my gun back from his bureaucratic clutches. As if reading my mind, he droned on. "Your weapon, which I see is non-regulation, and your other, how should I put it, effects, will be returned after certain checks have been completed and your clearance is approved by a supervisory agent." I opened my mouth to ask who that was, but was cut off by a raised palm in my face. "That would be me." He spun on his heel, gesturing for me to follow. I paused, considering which death I would most like to see him suffer. I decided on the spot if something should crawl from the depths of hell to crack his skull open and eat his brain, I would let it.

I threw the pretty guard a smile and got one back for my efforts. With a heartfelt sigh, I fell into step behind him. He led me through the cavernous lobby space, towards the bank of elevator doors. I trotted to keep up as he wove his way expertly through the sea of government employees busying about their government employment. We stopped at the last door. Keen to seem helpful, I tapped the call button as he fussed with a swipe card. I expected a swift elevator ride to some corner office with a vertiginous view of the city, instead he ran the card through the lock of a nondescript service door to one side of the elevator. It swung in to reveal a dimly lit stairwell that lead only one way, down. Hugging his clipboard, Tollan glided down the stairs, his wing-tips glinting in the service lighting. I got the feeling that the corner office was something I may have to work up to.

Flight after flight we descended, I couldn't help but wonder why they didn't install an elevator for this part of the building. As we walked, he bombarded me with telephone numbers, break times, no-smoking policies, dress codes and a ton of stuff I didn't even think was in English. I finally understood why they took my weapon. After the welcome talk, I felt like chewing on the barrel. At the base of the stairs, he swiped his card through another lock, this time however, instead of leading the way, he pressed a fresh card bearing my picture into my hand, holding the door open with his foot.

"I go no further Agent. Follow this corridor to the end, report to Agent Fisher. He has your assignment." He ushered me through with that shooing gesture usually reserved for children and small dogs. Before I could thank him or, even tell him to go screw himself, he breezed off, letting the door slam in my face. Feeling slightly adrift, I peered down the hallway. I hoped agent Fisher was less of an asshole than the Troll.

Fearing the worst, I rapped on a door marked "Historical Data Conversion Project" and, rather gingerly, swung it open. The room was dominated by rows and rows of government issue steel shelving, stretching off into the shadows. The only light came from a buzzing fluorescent tube dangling precariously above a collection of desks, awash with boxes, huddled in the centre as if for protection. The glow of computer screens served only to add to the dreariness of the place.

A rake thin, middle-aged man with grey hair and a salt and pepper beard popped his head up from behind a stack of cardboard file boxes. He stepped out from the chaos and came over to greet me as I entered.

"You must be Agent Marx," he smiled, shaking my hand vigorously, "Agent Ken Fisher. Welcome to Purgatory. Who did you piss off to get here?" He dumped a box of files from a chair and gestured for me to sit.

"Most folks call me Marx, the rest call me that son of a bitch Marx." Ken's smile broadened at that. I took a seat, eyes wandering round the clutter of my new workplace.

"Coffee?" he reached behind another pile of boxes which neatly concealed a coffee machine. Setting a steaming cup before me, he sat back, placing his feet on the desk in a manner I hadn't seen done in years.

"The Troll told me I was getting new blood. I expected some graduate rookie pain in the ass. You got that look in your eye that says you're no stranger to a day's work. Am I right?"

"That you are Ken," and then some pal. "Fifteen years with the Bureau, organised crime work mostly, some counter terrorist stuff , you know how it goes." His eyes never left me as he sipped his coffee.

"So how did you end up in Homeland?"

"To be honest, Ken, I kind of fell into it. A friend called me in to consult on a case that grew arms and legs." I took a gulp of the dark brew, waiting to see how much background he wanted.

"Oh yeah, that thing in Arkham, right, the professor that went nuts, right?" still pinned by his steady gaze I could see he wanted details.

"Yeah, things went bad pretty quick and there were...casualties," in my mind I could still see the tortured bodies reaching for my throat. Ken must have seen the look in my eye and changed the subject.

"Well, someone upstairs likes you enough to give you a job during a recruitment freeze. Just not enough to let you out of the basement," he emptied his cup, placing it on his desk, "Maybe they're keeping you out of trouble."

Yeah, that sounded about right. He poured us both another coffee and we chatted a little. He listened politely, but I could see in his eyes he wasn't buying the PG-thirteen version of my recruitment; the version that omitted any mention of raising the dead.

In turn, he explained his career arc, from his days with the Secret Service, through stopping a bullet during the apprehension of a suspect on a third strike, to sitting at home on a medical pension with nothing but game shows for company. An old friend had recommended him for the historical data conversion project. A nothing job, usually farmed out to civilian contractors, but due to the sensitive nature of the files, the powers-that-be wanted it kept in house. Ken, with the resilience of someone who had spent his working life inside a massive bureaucracy, took to his new job with a smile. Basically, his job was to input files from other law enforcement agencies that dated back to before the age of computers. Sure it sounds dull, but it gave the man a reason to get out of bed and earn a wage; more than that, it gave him a sense of self-worth. You can't put a price on that. In a short space of time I had come to like Ken Fisher. I liked him even more when he revealed the disconnected smoke alarm and lit up a smoke. Coffee and a cigarette; god-damn if I wasn't smiling.

It was clear to me that Septimus had intended this to be a punishment detail, but the work was straight forward and the company was good. Agent Fisher was patient with my two finger typing and my ongoing struggle with modern technology. If I got bored, I could even read some of the files just for entertainment. Transcripts of wise guy's phone calls from the sixties were quite nostalgic, especially when they mentioned long dead celebrities.

By mid afternoon on that first day, a phone call summoned me to the lobby, where I was reunited with my "effects". My visitors pass was replaced with a wallet encased badge and ID card. I was official now. The pretty guard introduced herself as Carla Montoya as I initialled the paperwork. Her colleagues crowded round the table as I claimed my gear back. Like most uniforms they took a professional interest in my choice of weapon. I took the opportunity to sweep away the Bowie and the other kit while the big revolver was passed round to nods of approval. Officer Montoya was rather shrewdly appraising the ammunition instead.

"What are these markings Agent?" she held up one of the large calibre rounds between thumb and forefinger," It looks like writing of some kind." I didn't expect her to recognise the language, not many folks get taught Vedic Sanskrit in high school. I don't pretend to understand how, but those rounds burn big holes in supernatural creatures. I choose to remain ignorant but grateful.

I answered with a smile and a shrug. It was easier than lying. She retrieved my gun from its new fans, passing me the pistol butt first. She took a moment to examine the nickel plated frame and the pearl handle, her eyes lingering on the inscription "TCB".

"So why the fancy six gun cowboy?" she asked, reluctantly passing it over. I took the weapon, loading the empty chambers, hoping to pack up my kit and slink back to my dungeon office.

"Gift from a friend ma'am," I confessed, sliding the pistol back into place on my hip, "He passed away a few years back, I carry it in his memory. Besides, I prefer revolvers, they don't jam like that nine mill(imetre) you've got there." Montoya however, wasn't the kind to give up easily. She held up a speed loader of six large shells, with tips of shining silver. Their hollow points laced with silver nitrate designed to expand on impact and generally ruin the day of those susceptible to the precious metal.

"Okay smart guy, what are these for, werewolves?"

"There's no werewolves left in Boston, Officer Montoya. Why sure I shot the last one not ten years ago." I drawled in my best Texan. As I headed back to the basement I could hear the guards' guffaws behind me. I still wake up in a cold sweat some nights thinking about that hairy son of a bitch.

Ken looked up from his screen on my return. He noticed the bulge on my hip.

"Feel better?"

"Yup, don't leave home without it." Fisher shook his head, pointing to his vacant waistband.

"Haven't carried a weapon in years son. Don't miss it at all." I kind of envied him his piece of mind that allowed him to walk the streets unarmed. The more I thought about it, I couldn't place a time since the twenties that I had voluntarily gone without a firearm of some description.

I finished my shift at four pm on the dot and joined the rest of Boston's population for the journey home. If the way in had been busy, the way out was frantic. I quickly resorted to the running back technique of pointing my shoulder and going for daylight. I somehow squeezed my way onto the train. At my stop, I was ejected from the packed carriage like a drunk from a bar, barely keeping my feet as I landed on the platform. Smoothing my collar in an attempt to salvage some dignity, I strolled home, pausing to drop some change in the tin cup of a homeless guy sitting outside the station.

The biggest change for me, I guess, was the banality of it all, a lifetime of keeping odd hours and equally odd company had been my comfort zone for so long it had become my routine. My daily ritual now started early, up at oh six hundred (that's six am to you), shower, dress, followed by a brisk walk to the station, buy three cups of coffee, (my usual breakfast), and a newspaper, then onto the train for the hour journey down-town. Before, I railed at the prospect of life as an office dweller, I had sworn that I would never go down that path, polishing my ass behind a desk. To my surprise I made the adjustment rather quickly. My world became that basement office with no windows and crummy ventilation. The nature of the job itself was the kind of mindless filing that grinds down a person's soul. Whenever you see a guy in the news running through a shopping mall with an automatic weapon, chances are he worked in a job like this one. In my case however, Ken kept me sane with his steady supply of coffee and war stories from his days in the Secret Service. I think he was starved of human contact after months in the department all alone and he was willing to overlook my shortcomings as a typist in return for some company. Once the days chores were done, it was back on the train. The journey home usually passed in a blur of jostling bodies, cell phone calls yelled in my ear and the rhythmic hiss of music leaking from headphones. My evenings had the comfort of a TV dinner, a good belt of bourbon with the news on TV, then bed. Monday through Friday, weekends off.

The days became weeks, the weeks became months. That after dinner bourbon became two or three; finally, I stopped counting. I even started watching the Dallas Cowboys again, and boy was that easier with bourbon. One morning, running a little later than usual, I left the apartment without my revolver. Although I felt strangely under dressed that day, the next day I left it in the drawer on purpose. After two gun free weeks, I felt liberated, like the last eighty odd years had been a bad dream. My morning ritual evolved. I stopped for pastrami on rye at the deli on the corner, got a taste for those low fat lattes, whatever the hell they are. I dropped the odd buck into the lap of Ritchie, the homeless veteran outside the station. Hell, I even took the delightful Officer Montoya on a couple of dates. She was pleasant enough company, but I reckon she got the vibe that I was a guy with a past who drank too much. It's difficult to form relationships of a romantic nature with women when you've already met the love of your life, watched her turn vampire, hammered a stake through her dead, black heart and cut her head off. So yeah, I guess that counts as having a past.

**Chapter Two:** The song remains the same.

The weeks slid by in a blur. Spring became summer, summer turned to autumn and autumn to winter. Then one chill Monday evening near Thanksgiving, I was leaving the station when I got that undefinable feeling that something was off. Ignoring instinct, I sauntered through the exit door. I thumbed out the usual green for my homeless friend but Ritchie was conspicuous by his absence. I figured he was catching some heat from an air vent in the alley beside the station. Without thinking, I strolled down the alley, kicking over trash absently, calling his name. I caught a glimpse of worn sneakers under a pile of cardboard. I gave him a tap with my right brogue as I fished out the ten bucks. I figured, so what if the guy's off the wagon, so was I. When he didn't stir, I bent to tuck the bill in one of his many jackets. My fingers came away red. Peeling back the makeshift blanket I could see his neck was torn out. Not enough blood around for a wound that deep. Looked to me something had sunk its teeth into his flesh and drained him like a keg at a frat party. The feeling of dread hit me hard, like the splash of cold water on a sleeping man. My hand drifted to the gap on my belt where my revolver should have been. Damn, what a time for a reality check. The scrape of nails on concrete above had me lunging left into a pile of trash. I came up in a crouch, eyes wide, searching for the source of the sound.

"Scared little man?" whispered the thing clinging impossibly to the wall. I could make out the scrawny silhouette twenty feet up in the evening shadow, his burning red eyes fixed on me. I risked a quick look about, cursing my stupidity. He was between me and the street, I was trapped. As if sensing this, he began to chuckle softly as he crept to the ground, slow and steady, his movements as ponderous as spider steps.

"You should be, we're still hungry," rasped another voice, this time from behind. He had a mate, and she sounded impatient. Long rank nails gently traced the slope of my shoulder. I caught the scent of decay and blood. Vampires. How the hell did this happen? Last I heard their numbers were way down.

"Look, I don't want any trouble. Take my wallet, just don't hurt me," I begged, playing the scared citizen, my hand slipping inside my coat. The bitch grabbed me, spinning me round. Red eyes met mine. She was a touch shorter than me, a waif of a girl, with a frizzy mess of dirty blonde hair. Dressed in her finest charity shop clothes, she could have passed for a grunge band groupie, had her face not been caked with fresh blood.(covered with blood)

"Why don't we take your money and hurt you. What do you think Karl?" she cooed through a mouthful of razor sharp teeth. I dropped the act. Drawing myself up to my full five foot eight, I let the Bowie drop unseen into my hand.

"Just remember, you had the chance to walk away." She paused, frowning at me.

I swung the big knife up and out, taking her head off at the neck. The gurgling wreck of her body dropped to the ground, twitching. I rolled right, dodging the rushing figure looking to blindside me. Before I got to my feet again, the raggedy figure of Karl barged me into the wall, winding me. His attack was all animal strength and fury. I closed up, letting him rain blows on my upraised arms, keeping my head intact. His anger seemed endless as his fists hammered down with such force they threatened to break bones. A wild kick to the knee put me off balance. Keen to keep up the punishment, Karl hoisted me to my feet again with supernatural strength. Roaring in my face, he held me at arms length. I met his gaze, slipping my blade into his chest, taking him through the heart. We fell in a heap, me on top. I took his head, clean at the neck like the other one. Just to be sure. They were young blood suckers, inexperienced. I had been lucky. I checked the alley. Life went on as normal on the Boston side-walk barely thirty feet away. No one paid any mind to the little drama that had unfolded. Passers-by glanced in the alleyway, but no one wanted to be involved. I cleaned the blade on Karl's grimy army jacket. I stopped at Ritchie, taking a moment to close his sightless eyes. Nothing more to be done for him. They had chosen to feed from him rather then turn him, killing him in the process. As I watched, the bodies of my two attackers decayed, like a stop motion film, the decay of years happening in seconds. The end result was a desiccated mess that I scooped into a dumpster. As the adrenalin left my system, I could feel the pain setting in. This half-assed clean up job would have to do.

I forced myself to walk, not limp back to the glow of the street lights. When I got back to the apartment, I slid the big revolver from its holster, checking the ammo load. Dumping the hollow point shells, I fed six handmade rounds into the chambers. Inspecting the Sanskrit on the casing, I shook my head at my arrogance, my expectation that I could, or even should have a normal life. I caught my reflection in the mirror as I passed and stopped to look closer. Sure, I wasn't ageing on the outside, but boy was I ageing on the inside. The eyes gave it away. Nursing the bruises blossoming on my arms, I took the Bowie knife and carved protection runes above every door and window in the place. Sure I wasn't gonna see that security deposit again but at least I would wake up with my throat intact. Dinner consisted of half a bottle of Tennessee's finest sipping whiskey. I spent the night sitting in the dark, the revolver in easy reach.

The next morning I passed a coroners van parked beside the station, headlamps catching the rain with their beams. Two uniformed cops were propping up a wall while Ritchie's mortal remains were gurneyed away to a state funded funeral. I overheard the muttered words "animal attack" as I hurried by, feigning disinterest.

At work, Ken noticed the change in me. It took him a while, but after a few silent glances, curiosity finally got the better of him.

"Kid, you okay?"

I shrugged away the question and poured us both a coffee.

"Marx, if the work here is getting to you, take a break. I'll cover for you for a couple of days. Who's gonna know?"

"I'm good Ken. Besides it ain't this job that's the problem. Let's just say my past is catching up with me. Cheers." I smiled and raised the coffee cup in mock toast.

"In that case you won't mind holding the fort while I do the doughnut run. Coffee's no good without a bearclaw." He threw on a coat and scarf as he breezed past me.

I felt rather then heard the door open before Ken reached it. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled and I caught a faint whiff of expensive cologne and something else, something dead.

"Tollan, what brings you down to the cheap seats?" Ken's voice had that forced quality of a man being polite to someone he hated.

"Sit," rasped a low voice.

I dumped the coffee cup, sensing something was very wrong. Ken stumbled stiff legged back into the office, eyes unfocused. Tollan close behind him. I almost didn't see the dark thing slide in behind them.

Skeletally thin, the form stood at least six and a half feet tall, clad in all black, the hood of it's jacket hiding it's features. As I watched, it shunned the dim light, hugging the wall muttering curses in an ancient tongue as it went. All at once, the head snapped to one side, and red eyes met mine. Damn, another vampire, and this one looked more pissed off than the last two.

"You!" a spidery finger pointed accusingly at me. "I could smell your stench on the bones of my children little man."

"Sleep," it commanded.

I stood, easing myself from the tatty swivel chair.

"Sleep little man," he urged, his voice cracking with concentration.

The thing had glamoured Ken and the Troll, but it's hocus pocus didn't work on folk like me.

With unnatural speed, his hands closed round Tollan's neck. The creature glowered at me through the dim light of the office.

"Sit, or I kill this one."

A part of my mind considered calling his bluff. Instead I sat, choosing to hear it out.

"Your weapons, place them on the table."

With a squeeze of it's hands, Tollans face changed colour slightly. I dropped the Bowie and the revolver amid the clutter of the desktop.

"You are a strong one, I could use you." His hands eased from the bureaucrat's neck, reaching for mine instead as it drifted across the floor toward me.

It swept the weapons aside and sat facing me. I could smell the corruption coming from it in waves.

"I will make you my child and these cattle will be your first meal," it cackled with barely concealed joy at the prospect.

"Tamashii Taberu will reward me for this." That name meant something, but I couldn't place it.

"One last swig if you don't mind." It grinned a shark's smile and gestured for me to continue. I pulled a small hip-flask from my pocket.

I drank deep from it, my cheeks bulging. Leaning forward, I spat the holy water full in it's face. The effect was as startling as it was immediate.

I remember the first time I set holy water on a vampire, it had been more from curiosity than anything else. That was way back when I was still learning the trade. It had screamed blue bloody murder, it's flesh bubbling and cracking like a bad paint job in the summer sun. At the time I had found it quite disturbing to witness, this time it was almost funny. The creature's face burst into flame as the anointed liquid scorched like napalm into it's skull. An unholy yell echoed around the cramped office, deafening in it's fury. I ducked under the sweep of outstretched hands, scrambling for the Bowie on the floor. Instead my fingers found the pistol. I put the barrel to it's head and squeezed the trigger. The screaming turned to an insane, strangled, burbling racket, the now ruined skull draping around it's shoulders. It flailed madly round the room, toppling furniture, crashing into boxes of files. The clawed hands blindly reaching out for my throat. I got behind it, slamming a chair into it's legs, dumping it on it's ass. I caught a glimpse of the Bowie's hilt on the floor, I grabbed the creature with one arm, scooping up the knife and jamming it between the thing's ribs. It stopped it's manic thrashing, hanging limply in my arms. I jumped back as the rot set in. Within seconds it was dust and bone. I sat down on the cold concrete floor with a bump.

I cast a look around the room. Ken and the Troll sat oblivious amid the chaos. Dragging myself to my feet, I took Ken by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

"Go buy doughnuts Ken. Nothing happened here." He simply nodded and went on his merry way. I then turned to the Troll. Too good a chance to miss.

"Go back to your office and forget all about this." He stood, even in his suggestible state, he took a moment to adjust his tie. As he made to leave, I put a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh and everyone's lunch is on you today, okay?" He nodded dumbly as he left.

I forced myself to ignore the fresh bruises on top of last nights beating and began the clean up.

I sifted through the thing's remains, but there was nothing of interest. I brushed the place clean, dumping the dusty bones in the furnace. I straightened the place up as best I could before Ken got back, pastries in hand.

"Sorry kid, I guess I zoned out. Did you say yes or no to that bearclaw?" he said, scratching his head as he sat down. I poured him a coffee as he pried open the box of pastries.

My damage limitation seemed to have worked, apart from Ken sniffing the air, asking if anything smelt funny.

Later that day, a rather bemused Agent Tollan returned to our basement empire with two chilli dogs and cokes. I simply smiled, took the food and kicked the door shut in his face.

As I swayed with the crowd on the train home, I mulled over the day's events. The thing in the office had followed my scent clean across town, using it's will to dominate the unfortunate Tollan, forcing him to unlock the doors to the basement. Chances are no one even saw it enter the building, vampires, especially the older ones, are adept at not being seen. It wouldn't have shown up on camera either. Homeland needed a serious security upgrade. I put a call in to Septimus, but got his answer-phone instead. I left him a brief report on what had transpired, suggesting he put a team on the increase in vampiric activity in down-town Boston.

It was maybe ten o'clock when I got a text message on my cell from Septimus. " **Ge** t Marcus. Take Boston train to NYC. Hurry **;-)"**. I thought better of calling him for an explanation, with his kind of influence my next office could be in McMurdo, Antarctica. Besides, when The Director calls, you go. I sent a text to the Doc. "Be on the next plane to Boston". He replied an hour later, telling me he was boarding a flight and would see me in about six hours.

It felt good to be back in the loop, I wondered why he wanted us to travel by rail but was glad of it. Y'see, I don't fly. Not anymore. The last time I did, the plane was bristling with .50 calibre machine guns, and for good reason.

I dragged my foot locker from beneath the bed and sorted out some essentials. As I packed, the newsreader in the background was reporting sketchy details of an incident in up-state New York, a chemical spill at some rail depot. I checked my watch, and hoped that it would be clear by the time I got there. My old life had reasserted itself with a vengeance and that life paid no mind to the vagaries of Amtrac timetables.

**Chapter** Three **:** The Sleeper Car.

I picked up a bleary eyed Marcus at the airport in the wee small hours the following morning. I hugged him like a brother and helped his drop his luggage in the trunk of the cab. We sat in silence as the driver, lectured us on government social policy and what he would do to clean-up the streets of Boston. I thought of Ritchie's fate, throat torn out as a vampire's entrée and tuned him out. Instead, I my attention drifted to the cabs FM radio, the newsreader droning on about possible rail delays due to a derailed trainload of hazardous chemicals. I made a mental note to check the Acela express was still on time. As if to mirror my mood, it started to rain. Despite the driver's inventive route to South Station, Marcus threw the jerk a twenty dollar tip, academics rarely know the value of money. I shook my head and grabbed the luggage. We half ran through the downpour, my upturned collar only funnelling the rain down the back of my neck. As we made for the ticket office, I shook myself dry like a wet dog. Struggling to read the timetable in the twilight of the station, I reckoned on a nine am-ish arrival time at Grand Central. I stood at the grubby plastic window of the ticket desk for what seemed like an age while an overweight female Amtrac employee ignored me in a way that only Amtrac employees can, thumbing her way through a celebrity gossip rag. Eventually I cleared my throat to get her attention.

"Yeah, how can I help you today?" she inquired without looking up. I could have been standing there with a mask and a gun and got the same response.

"Two for the next New York train please. Are they running on time? I heard there was a problem in New York."

She leaned her sizeable bulk back in her chair.

"Hey Al, you hear anything about delays on the New York Line?"

"Ah ain't heard shit," replied the unseen Al.

"Don't know anything about that sir," she translated.

I slid a wedge of bills at her and she slid the tickets back without even a hint of eye contact.

When I was a kid I was fascinated by trains, not the dull take you to work kind, but the ones that whisk you off to mystery and adventure. In nineteenth century Texas, the arrival of the mail train was something the whole town turned out for. I had wondered what it would be like to just hop on that steam powered beast and never go home. For the world weary twenty first century, it's another forgotten miracle of the modern age. I stopped to admire the sleek lines of the Acela Express, more like an airliner than a train. I couldn't shake that boyish hankering to see a steam locomotive again. We climbed aboard and, stowing our cases, dropped into the plush upholstery. The car was better furnished than my first apartment in Arkham, I could feel the heating and the cosy seat making my head fuzzy, that numb invitation to close your eyes for ten seconds and open them eight hours later. I reverted to my three coffee breakfast from the passing trolley to snap myself awake. I hadn't seen the Doc in a while and had some catching up to do. The seats around filled quickly and the big engine thrummed into life, hauling the train out into the dreary Boston dawn.

Initially the Doc and I had chatted the way old friends do, the kind of polite chit-chat that doesn't worry your fellow passengers. Things like;

"So hows living in LA Doc, you got somewhere nice to stay?" and "I hear it gets pretty warm out there." As opposed to,"Have you gotten over whacking your academic colleague over the head with an axe yet?" or "Caught any of your students worshipping unnameable ancient horrors?"

I found out all about the Doc's new life as a historian for Cal State and about his new alias.

He kept his own first name and took his mother's maiden name. Welby. I suppose I couldn't really criticise with an alias like Julius Marx.

Eventually we ran out of conversation suitable for prying ears and fell to silence.

Like most men as close as than brothers, we were comfortable with long periods without talking. The time had passed effortlessly as I watched the Massacheusetts countryside slip by, slowly being hypnotised by the gentle clatter of the tracks hurtling by beneath me. It being an early morning train, it was full of suits, both male and female heading down to the Big Apple on the company dollar. An array of smartphones and laptops kept their eyes downwards. A standard morning's commute for folk whose working day starts an hour before they reach the office. A change from the cattle car journey I was used to, this was business class. The warm fuzzy feeling returned and I decided to check my eyelids for holes, just a long blink really.

With a loud gasp, my eyes snapped open. Out of blind instinct my hand grasped for the revolver on my belt. The fog surrounding my sleep addled brain was replaced by a headache that was clearly labelled "Tijuana Hangover, Do Not Open". I ran a hand over my eyes and tried to focus. I looked around, my gun hand reluctant to leave the reassuring smoothness of the mother of pearl grip.

The train. I was still on the train. We appeared to have stopped.

I cursed myself for actually falling asleep, a damn good trick after my massive intake of caffeine. Marcus was seated across from me, resplendant in his tweed three piece, snoring loudly. His glasses sitting at a saucy angle on his serene visage.

"Doc...Doc. Wake up will ya!" I hissed. The sight of the other passengers dozing away all around me was somehow disturbing. After what seemed like forever, he opened his eyes, momentarily looking his true age. The flash of panic in his eyes mirrored my own earlier reaction.

"John? Where the bloody hell am I?" he blurted, an edge of fear in his voice.

"Relax Doc, we're still on the morning train to New York," I peered out the window, drawing a palm across the moisture forming on the window to get a better view of the platform and the weirdly retro signpost.

"Thank God, I was having the strangest dream. I dreamt of a large creature, very, very old, trapped by a black alien machine that sang to it," his voice trailed off when he realised I was ignoring him.

"We've stopped in a town called Seward's Ridge, I don't remember seeing this stop on the schedule. Ring any bells?" He sat bolt upright at the mention of the name.

"Seward's Ridge?" he repeated, his brow furrowing in concentration, then abruptly rising to his feet, his gaze fixed on the window.

"John, it can't be, not Seward's Ridge!" I waited for the explanation for this outburst but none came. We both rubbed at the misty perspex to get a better view of our unexpected stop. I caught a glimpse of a tall figure dressed in grey striding purposefully past the window and out of sight through the station gate. I turned to check that my friend had seen the mystery wanderer, but he had moved on, any further investigation would have to wait for now, we did after all have the mystery of the sleeping commuters to investigate.

The Doc made his way from one end of the car to the other stopping here and there to examine several of the passengers. Despite him having been a medical doctor, he was in truth a pathologist first and a healer second. I always got the impression he preferred his "patients" that way.

"They appear to be in a comatose state rather than simply asleep. Without any proper diagnostic equipment it's impossible to be sure..."

"Yeah Doc they're out cold I get it," suddenly irritated at him for stating the obvious. That headache was slowly subsiding but it was being replaced by it's close cousin, nausea.

"I suggest we check out the entire train first John. It has eight cars, Let's split up. You head for the engine and I will check backwards towards the kaboose or whatever is at the back of a train these days." I couldn't fault the man's logic so I began making my way forward.

It was the same story in every car, a sea of Armani and Brooks Brothers slumped in various positions. When I reached the front car, I had to pop the door and drop down to the platform in order to get to the engine. Standing there on the barren concrete I felt oddly exposed, which I put down to my innate sense of paranoia . Something didn't feel right. The air was too still. There was no birdsong, no crickets chirruping, nothing. It was also unseasonably warm. On a hunch I took out my cell. No signal. So much for guaranteed cover. I put it to the back of my mind and climbed into the driver's compartment. Like the others, he sat slumped back in his chair. I checked for a pulse and found one, but he was out like a light. The usual cop tricks for waking drunks never even got a groan out of him. The controls were all dead. I dropped back down to the platform and looked up at the clear morning sky. No power lines. Hmm, this was an electric train. How the hell did we get here? This and other mysteries were crowding my thoughts as I returned to the the main body of the train. I found the Doc in the rearmost car.

"Ah John. Perfect timing. What do you make of this then?" He stepped aside to reveal an object about the size of a briefcase on the floor behind the last row of seats. It was jet black and looked for all the world like a weird sawn off tombstone with smoothed down corners. That wasn't the weirdest part. It was covered, and boy I mean covered, in symbols. Still not the weirdest part. They were moving.

"Okay Doc I'm beat, give me a clue. What the hell is that?" The Doc stood cradling his head in his hands, his main tell for deep thinking.

"Some of the symbols I recognise. It's purpose though, is anyone's guess. But it's defintely MiGo in construction. Stake my life on it." MiGo. Aww Shit.

The MiGo had dogged us from way back in the day when we were all based in Arkham. What little we knew about them was a combination of legend, observation and plain old guess work. First off they weren't local boys. Best guess puts them from what is now called Pluto by us but Yuggoth by them. Physically, they resemble a large ugly bug, maybe about five foot tall with leathery wings. Their goals, however, were and still are, a complete mystery to us. Whenever they showed up, things always took a turn for the strange. My nausea was getting worse just at the thought of them.

"Doc, what say we head into town and try and drum up some help there?" He peered over his glasses at me in surprise.

"Are you sure that's a good idea John. After all this is Seward's Ridge we're talking about." I turned to face him my frustration building.

"What the hell is the deal with this town Doc. You've been acting real squirrely since you saw that damned sign."

He frowned at my apparent stupidity, then, with a click of his fingers, had some kind of epiphany.

"Your low blood sugar is making you cranky. I saw a food trolley further up the train. Let's eat and I will tell you what I can remember." The only fare on offer was soda and chips, we helped ourselves, his honest streak made him leave a crumpled bill in the tip cup, but he was right, it did soften my mood. Although my soda had the benefit of a nip from a flask of bourbon. It's the little comforts that make the difference to your day. I sipped quietly as he related the strange tale of Seward's Ridge.

Back in the fifties the good ole' US of A was a different place. The nuclear family hadn't gone into meltdown just yet. People still trusted politicians. Patriotism didn't require it's own Act of Congress. Seward's Ridge was the epitome of small town America. Population of about three thousand, clustered around a picturesque town square, a veritable sea of neatly manicured front lawns and white picket fences.

In the summer of '53 the folk there started to report strange lights in the sky and some locals started disappearing. There was talk of a strange white weed strangling crops. It being the early days of the Cold War the Soviets were the prime suspects for anything hinky. That level of national paranoia worked to The Director's advantage. It allowed him to set up his post war counter paranormal operation and carry on what we had started while working for the OSS. Although his department had no official title, those who worked there dubbed it "Section 8", which eventually stuck. Their motto, "You don't have to be mad to work here, but we are!". He recruited from various Government agencies. Not just ex-military types. He also took scholars, historians, scientists, even psychics. Section 8 sent two of it's finest out to investigate the sleepy burgh. They reported their arrival by telephone, then nothing. Septimus sent another team in, but they could find no sign of the agents or the town for that matter. No craters, no smoking ruins, nothing. The town of Seward's Ridge had just plain vanished. On the advice of Septimus, President Truman declared it a "chemical spill" and had the Army Corps of Engineers bulldoze the site. People trusted Truman, after all he had dropped the Bomb on Japan, he was the nations saviour, why would he lie? The nation grieved for about twenty four hours then moved on. Seward's Ridge became nothing more than a memory.

"Okay Doc, where was I when this was going on? Why have I never heard of this case?" He looked at me, the discomfort in his eyes plain to see.

"John, you were a guest in Arkham Sanitorium. Don't you remember?" Oh! A part of my life I had forgotten. Repression the shrinks call it now. Damn!

I had survived two world wars, hunted vampires, exorcised daemons but the straw that broke John Henry Darrow was a simple murder enquiry in Seattle.

After the war, Septimus had sat us all twelve of us down in a Belgravia Hotel suite in San Francisco and laid out his grand plan. He had the backing from the President to set up Section 8 as an independant unit after the OSS was stood down in 1945. The Director needed some people he could trust to help set up shop. Not everyone was keen to sign on with Uncle Sam again so soon.The war had been hard on us all and we wanted a break. He convinced Turner, Bayliss and Hagen to sign up straight away. Hagen struck me as a weird choice at the time as the others were both eggheads. Turner was a maths genius and to be fair, a decent college athlete, his main drawback was that he was a little flakey. Bayliss was a physics guru, an inventor on the fringes of sanity who had kick started the Manhattan Project. Luther Hagen however was a pilot, a brawler and an all round roughneck. Don't get me wrong, I liked the guy, he was good in a fight, but he needed watching. In my mind, Hagen enjoyed the war a little too much. The rest of us said our goodbyes and decided to split up and lay low till we were needed again.

For my sins I headed north and settled in Seattle. I went back to policing, a calling I had missed over the last twenty odd years of investigating the paranormal. By 1950 I had reached the dizzy heights of Detective in Seattle's East Precinct working mostly homicides. Then one day in early '53 Hagen rolled into town. He called me, telling me he was on the tail of a warlock who had helped the Imperial Japanese war effort by using magicks and calling on the power of dark forces. His codename was "Souleater" and Hagen was determined to find him and kill him. We had crossed paths with this guy a couple of times during the war and it had always got messy. I had pointed out that not only was the war over but I was a cop again and cold blooded murder was pretty much off the agenda. Hagen had pitched a fit at that and stormed out, swearing he would find the bastard all on his own. I contacted Septimus who confirmed my worst fears. Hagen had gone rogue and was hunting a figure who had almost certainly died during the fall of Japan. Hagen had taken his Souleater theories to him but he had denied him any resources for such a wild goose chase. Hagen in turn ditched his partner, signed out a goverment car and went AWOL. About three days after Hagen's phone call I got a report of a multiple homicide at an abandoned warehouse. I found Hagen unconscious, covered in blood, surrounded by corpses. From the looks of things he had abducted, bound and tortured to death about a dozen young men and women. When he came to, he was like a wild man, screaming that they were all vampires and that they where the children of Souleater. The man was foaming at the mouth crazy. I know what you're thinking, that I pulled him out of there and torched the place. Wrong, dead wrong. I put the sonofabitch in jail where he belonged. Where he remains to this day in fact. Septimus moves him from jail to jail every twenty years or so and changes his details to avoid suspicion. Three rules never change however. No visitors, no outside contact, no exceptions.

I guess that's what did for me. All those dead kids and the knowledge that a man I had called friend had become a monster, kind of tipped me over the edge. I hit the booze hard, even harder than normal for me. The Doc found me sitting in my car by the waterfront staring out at the big blue of the Pacific nought but empty whiskey bottles for company. Apparently I had been missing for days. Marcus checked me into Arkham Sanitorium. When I left there in the autumn of '54 I didn't go back to Seattle, and I never have. Strange as it may sound, one the main reasons I refuse to fly is the only pilot I ever trusted was Hagen.

The mysterious disappearance of a small town was a closed case by the time I was back in the saddle.

"Okay Doc, this train is going exactly nowhere. There's no answers to be had here. What's our next move, sit here and wait for the cavalry?" The Doc gazed out the window seeking inspiration.

" I beleive time is against us John. We should follow the tracks away from town as quickly as possible. I just have one thing to care of first," he replied, reaching into his tattered gladstone bag. To my surprise he produced a large piece of chalk and began marking symbols above the doors of each railway car. He finished every masterpiece with a sprinkle of a dust of dubious origin and even more dubious smell.

"I've been expanding my repertoire of defensive magick recently. As good a time as any to give it the old college try eh?"

"What are you defending these folk from exactly?" I asked as I scrutinised his handiwork. I recognised some of the symbols as the designs Septimus had insisted we got tatooed on ourselves years ago. When asked what they were for at the time, he had simply said "Protection".

"These are Elder Signs old friend. In theory they should repel most things really." In theory. His doodling complete, we stepped onto the platform then down to the tracks and headed for civilisation, or at least New York City.

Glancing around at the array of track laid out I took a guess that this town was once at least semi important. A selection of sidings, points and a large shed complete with water tower straddling a spur of track told me this place had been a centre for something commercial, probably lumber. The Doc noticed my habitual survey of my surroundings.

"John, if there was an engine in that shed, we could ride the rails out of here." He made a gliding gesture with his hand as he spoke.

"Sadly Doc, I'm a man of few skills and train driver doesn't feature."

He shrugged in mild disappointment and trudged off, following the tracks that ran to the horizon.

We had been walking for about an hour when I noticed it.

"Doc. You up for a short run? I want to test a crazy theory." He gave me a distrustful sideways look but nodded. I tried not to smile as he limbered up like he was about to go jogging along Venice Beach.

At my signal he took off full pelt. Tweed flapping as he flailed at the air. He sprinted for all of ten seconds before he stopped, looking back at me.

"John, why aren't you running?" he leant over, bent double, his breath rasping with the unaccustomed effort.

I took one long measured pace and stood beside him.

"A better question would be. Why did you only get one step in front of me after running like a madman for that long?" He looked at his feet as if his shoes had somehow betrayed him.

"I thought at first I was seeing things but the landmarks ahead aren't getting any closer even though we seem to be covering ground. Sorry for the prank Doc, but I had to be sure."

"Sure of what exactly?" he asked, flattening his distressed lapels.

"We're trapped here. Looks like if we want out, we'll have to go through Seward's Ridge." He didn't quite harrumph as he turned back to head towards town, but it felt like he did.

We soon found ourselves back on the platform where we started.

**Chapter Four:** Mister Sandman

Doc was back in scientific curiousity mode as we reached the station gate. Standing for a moment to catch our breath, we were rewarded with view of Seward's Ridge sloping away from us down a slight hill. All in all, an unremarkable little red brick Massachusetts town, from where I stood I could see the clock tower of the town hall, a gas station, a diner and even a bowling alley. Frankly for a town that was MIA for nigh on sixty years, it was looking pretty good on it. The sun was pleasantly warm, bathing the town in subtle shades of gold. However, if anything, the place looked creepier the lighter it got. Somehow I still couldn't shake that feeling that something was badly wrong here. A glance at the Doc told me he felt the same way.

"Doc, you okay? You look kind of queasy." His usual indoor dwellers palour was greyer than normal.

"Bit of a headache. Can't seem to shake it. Probably the after effects of whatever rendered us unconscious. I'm sure it's nothing." I was no doctor but I wasn't convinced.

I check my cell again. On seeing me do so, the Doc did the same. We shared a look and both shook our heads. Zippo. Once we were down the slope and on to Main Street I stopped at a payphone and lifted the receiver. Again nothing. I hooked a finger into the coinslot and fished out a quarter. I flipped it at the Doc.

"Here, buy yourself something pretty." He examined the coin, turning it over reverently.

"This coin is stamped 1950. These are worth about ten dollars to a collector nowadays." With that he palmed the coin into his vest pocket.

"Okay Doc, where is everyone? No one escaped this town did they?" Doc could only shrug in reply.

"In hiding perhaps, but from what I can't say." he mused.

By then my attention had been distracted by the array of antiques strewn about the streets. DeSotos, Buicks, Chevrolets, all V8 relics of the days of cheap gas and no speed limits.

"Doc, are we, y'know in the past?" I know it sounded like a dumb question but the evidence was totting up.

"Time travel is impossible," he stated bluntly, "Haven't you ever heard Bayliss pontificate on the subject?"

Bayliss. Our very own nutty professor. A tall, lanky figure with a fright of red hair and a terminal inability to dress himself. He once tried to explain M theory to me on a long boat trip to some god forsaken part of the world. He got as far as explaining a model of the universe based on ten dimensions with Time as the eleventh before I drew a pistol and threatened to shoot him.

Doc stood, admiring the sleek lines of a little red two-seater. He caught my eye, nodding at the four wheeled mid life crisis.

"A Barchetta, the definitive sports car of the time for my money. Used to have one of these little beauties, till that sod Turner took her for a spin and crashed her," he said whistfully.

I smiled at the thought of Turner hooning around Arkham with his boyish looks, predatory smile and middle age libido. Then something caught my eye.

"Doc, this one has government plates." I loped across the street to a large black Dodge abandoned by the kerbside, driver's door ajar. My foot scuffed away something metal which clinked it's way into the gutter. Taking a step back I could make out at least a dozen spent shell cases, closer inspection revealed them to be .45 caliber stamped with the Department of War identifier around the base. Probably part of the cache of ordnance that Septimus squirreled away during the war and kept for his new agency. I cast about looking for any signs blood or impact marks and found bullet holes in the doorway of a hardware store and more on the brickwork ten feet away. No signs of blood though.

"Looks like Section 8's boys found themselves some trouble here. Thing is though, these rounds look new and the damage to the doorframe looks fresh." The Doc was examing the spent rounds with interest.

"John these were fired recently I can still smell gunpowder from them. Less than a week ago I'd say. Curiouser and curiouser eh?" he mused.

I wasn't sure if we were through the looking glass or down the rabbit hole but neither was an attractive proposition. The lack of any signs of life was severely creeping me out. My inner Texan was telling me to find a big gun and take to the high ground. My inner Texan was rarely wrong.

I looked at the big Dodge as part of a crime scene, running events through in my mind. The driver was heading west through the heart of town and judging by the skid marks braked hard from about forty mph stopping just shy of the kerb. He got out and started banging away with his .45, reloading at least once. I stood at the driver's door, standing in the shooter's footsteps. Pointing my finger like a pistol I could see he had two separate targets. One in the doorway and another to the right against the wall. The grouping was too good for them to be misses, so why no blood?

Stepping onto the kerb I took the role of the target. Looking down I could see no shell casings.

"What if I had a revolver? There would be no shell casings would there?" I pondered this a little longer.

"Doc, do me a favour and stand here would you." Ever patient with me he duly obliged. Using him as reference I paced across the street in a straight line from the Doc past the door of the Dodge to the shopfront of a barber's shop. Examining the wall I found a trio of holes, each about a half inch across, clean through the wall. I could see scorching around each one and I could make out a faint tang of ozone in the air. Not a revolver, a MiGo weapon. I waved my friend over to take a look.

"MiGo are tough creatures, unlikely to be killed by a handgun. Maybe the agent didn't know who or what he was shooting at." He look around him, squinting despite the faint sunlight. He made a good point, the MiGo could disguise themselves as human and had done so on many occasions, but it rarely stood up to close inspection.

"There is still the question of what befell our foolhardy agent. Had the MiGo hit him with that beam weapon there would be bloodstaining." What the Doc meant was a corpse with big holes burnt in it. I still couldn't get my head around why this scene was so well preserved. If we could find out what became of the missing agents maybe that would tell us.

"Put yourself in their shoes John. Where would you go to ground in a town like this?" My eyes drifted towards the clock tower at the centre of the deserted hamlet. I gestured to Old Glory hanging limp in the listless morning air.

"The high ground Doc. Easy to defend, good field of fire. That's my bet." With a nod from the Doc we headed off.

It was a short walk to the square, habit making me stick to the walls, my beckoning finger interrupting a grumpy academic's saunter down the middle of the street.

The low roar of an engine, sounding louder than normal in the silence, made me shove the Doc into a hallway of an apartment block. I tried the handle and was rewarded with a swinging door. You gotta love small towns. Safe inside, I peered through the cracked door at a large silver Escalade as it powered past and into the square. Behind me I could feel my friend's frustation as he sought to see over my shoulder.

I closed the door over gently and moved to the nearest apartment door, again unlocked. Striding past the homely clutter of someone else's life I found a window looking into the town square. Through the lace of the curtains I could see the SUV had came to a stop in the middle of the road, it's four occupants, all in smart suits, spilling out in military precision. It was then I saw the figure in grey again. This time he was standing waiting next to the town's central monument, hands clasped behind his back. His smart suit made him look for all the world like a funeral director. As I watched he welcomed the new arrivals with a curt but efficient bow. I was too far away to hear their conversation but his body language told me that this gig was all business.

"I saw this guy earlier, looks like he's brought some friends.What do you reckon Doc?" Silence.

"Doc?" I was sure my friend had followed me into the deserted apartment. A series of muffled thumps from another room got my full attention. With a muttered curse I drew my revolver and slowly worked my way toward the kitchen. A grey haired woman stood at the sink, her back to me.

"Ma'am. Don't panic I'm a federal agent. Have you seen..." As I got closer I could see she wasn't about to answer me without the help of a ouija board and a damn good medium.

I holstered the pistol and fished out my flashlight. The beam picked out a mass of silky strands rising from the sink which had enveloped her head and torso. Her hands were raised in fright, bound by rigour and the strange substance that held her upright. A quick glance showed me it had sprung from the waste disposal and grabbed her like a giant white hand. It was probably a blessing that her face was obscured. A sudden movement behind me had me grasping for my pistol when something lassooed my gun hand, wrenching it backwards to the sink. A flash of black steel hit the worktop with a thunk. The grip on my hand relaxed and I struggled free. Doc dragged me out the kitchen by the collar then stepped past me to recover the hatchet, the runes on it's haft glowing faintly.

"Do you carry that thing all the time?" I said rubbing the circulation back into my wrist.

"Be grateful that I do," he replied, dusting more of the wispy substance from his tweeds.

"You had better take a look at this," he waved me after him into the adjacent room. The small bedroom faced the rear of the block, the curtained window offering little light to see by. A figure cloaked in the same wispy white substance lay on the floor, his severed limbs splayed around him at unnatural angles. I bent down to inspect the bloodless wounds on the head and torso. Drawing a pen from my jacket I probed the lacerations. White stringy strands stuck to the ballpoint where I expected to find blood.

"What the hell is this stuff Doc?" unwilling to place the pen back in my pocket, dropped it on the corpse.

"Mycelium of some description. A fungal growth. It appears to have consumed his blood and other body fluids. Notice how dry his skin is." He gestured, urging me to try for myself.

"Take your word for it Doc." I raised my hands in mock surrender.

"I was snooping about and he, well, rather surprised me. Fortunately I travel prepared." He patted the steel on his belt. Some day I will buy that damn thing a drink.

"This place is infested, time to leave." I offered no argument and we made for the street once more.

We were brought up short by the sight of Mrs Deadguy, free from the sink and now blocking the doorway, wisps of gossamer trailing behind her. Teeth bared in a silent snarl she threw herself at me. She was a slight thing but when she barreled into me, her fierce turn of speed carried me back into the bedroom and onto the floor. I managed to roll over on top of her, fighting to keep control of her clawing hands. I got in a couple of good rights, avoiding the sweep of her ragged nails. I snaked a hand round the back of my belt and slipped the bowie from it's sheath. Putting my weight on the hilt, I pinned her to the floor with the broad blade. As I rolled away I felt rather than heard the tomahawk take her off head.

Struggling to my feet, I watched as my friend kept chopping. The sight of the Doc's handiwork put my nausea level up another notch.

We stood amongst the dismembered couple in a moments silence. It was Doc who broke it.

"John, if the rest of the town has met this fate, we will need to tread lightly." Clever guys always need to state the obvious. Dumb guys like me however always tread lightly in this life or they find themselves in the next one. The sound of rusting from the kitchen had us moving swiftly for the exit. I caught a glimpse of white tendrils reaching blindly across the apartment floor as I swung the door shut.

Standing back on the kerb our little encounter made us a tad more cautious. We kept low, dodging between the abandoned cars as we approached the city building. I stopped short, my gaze drawn to the town monument. In my rush to spy on the mystery passenger, I had overlooked it completely. Rather than the tribute to fallen heroes I had supposed it to be, it was something much more sinister. A jet black obelisk covered in obscure moving symbols. I gestured with a nod.

"Look familiar?" I whispered. The Doc sat on his haunches next to me, his face grim.

"John, can you hear that?" he whispered, his voice distant. I shook my head.

"It's singing," he winced faintly, his hand straying to the side of his head. We had found the source of his malaise.

" I need to get closer." With that he trotted out from our vantage point, his eyes never leaving the awful structure. Discretion being the better part of common sense I stayed put and waited for the screaming and gunfire to start. While the Doc indulged his inner geek, I kept my head on a swivel. A flash caught my eye, the first one was the camera on Doc's cell as he documented his find. I was about to ignore the second till it was followed by more. I squinted at the tower of city hall across the square. Flash, flash, flash. Damn, someone was signalling us!

To my eternal shame my morse was a little rusty but I got the jist. S-E-C-8-F-O-F. Basically, I'm Section 8, friend or foe (who the hell are you?). Wrestling the zippo from my pocket, I gave it a quick spit polish and sent back. S-W-O-R-D-F-I-S-H. The default password from our days in the service. Long story. After a pause, the message came back. F-R-O-N-T-D-O-O-R. Then, H-U-R-R-Y.

I broke cover, jogging past the eerie black spike, pausing only to grab a handful of tweed and kept going despite a bluster of protest.

The large oak door was an impressive sight, a twelve foot tall studded with iron, it was magnificently medieval, complete with a demon's head doorknocker. As we stood huddled there trying to hide from unseen eyes, my foot scraped the salt heaped along the entrance in a solid line. Then the Doc pointed to the chalk marks on the framework, crude defensive symbols. My admiration was growing for whoever was holed up here. The padlocked storm shutters also showed signs of eldritch protection.

After what seemed like forever, one side of the portal creaked open an inch to allow(show) the barrel of a .45.

"Talk fast. You better be the goddamn cavalry," a hoarse voice managed.

"Let us in for god's sake before we get seen," the Doc hissed.

The door swung open enough for us to scurry in then shut behind us with a soft clunk.

**Chapter Five:** Blast from the past.

In the gloom of the entrance hall I got my first look at our new ally. A young face aged by worry, in need of a shave, with a mess of blond hair perched atop a tall lean frame. His suit showed signs of wear and tear, as did he. Something in his eyes hinted he wasn't a guy to cross lightly, the .45 and the badge on his belt confirmed it.

Always one for manners, Doc stuck out his hand for a formal introduction.

"Name's Professor Marcus Lockhart, pleased to meet you son." The kid took his offered hand, a little taken aback.

"Special Agent F.N. Herriot, you guys from Section 8?" His gaze lingered on me as he tried to place me.

"Hey, you're John Darrow aren't you?" he smiled as he remembered, "I was Hagen's partner till recently, he showed me a picture of you guys from the war." I shook his hand, my turn to be taken aback.

"Took you long enough to get here guys, I've been here nearly a goddamn week. C'mon." I could only shrug at Marcus and gestured for him to follow the kid. He set a brisk pace as he led us up the wide stairs and through a maze of corridors to a narrow flight of steps that eventually brought us out on the tower I had seen from the station. The forty eight stars of the union hung just above us, barely moving in the still air. The kid had set up a regular bunker perched above the sleepy town. Water, food, binoculars and a hunting rifle leant against the parapet. Across from the foodstuff was a milk crate fully stocked with molotov cocktails. This kid was listening to his Inner Texan too.

Settling down on some curtains that doubled as bedding, the kid filled us in.

"I was heading back to New York after doing a favour for Hagen. I had checked in at the Boston Office and got orders to collect my new partner, Koberg, and head for Seward's Ridge." The kid took a swig from a canteen before carrying on.

"There were sketchy reports of some unusual activity and a spate of disappearances. We were told to observe and report back anything that would merit the attention of our department."

Marcus shifted uneasily on the makeshift bed, the presence of the black edifice outside pressing on him like a knife in the side. I caught his eye, in spite of his obvious discomfort, he simply nodded and let the kid carry on.

"We got here fairly quickly and checked in with the local Sheriff. He seemed stumped by the whole affair, he had no idea why his town was falling apart around him. It had started small, reports of folks seeing lights in the sky which he put down to the Air Force testing some new top secret aircraft. When the locals started reporting this weird grey weed covering the crops he got worried. By the time we showed up, folk had started to disappear. All manner of crazy rumours were circulating by then, alien invasion, Soviet spies, living dead, the whole town was in a panic."

"Koberg came up with the idea of plotting the disappearances on a map." At the Bureau they called that geographical profiling and patted each other on the back, back then it was nothing more than solid police work.

"The missing lived in an area centred around the old abattoir and spread out from there. We decided it was the best place to start looking so we drove across town to the place on our own. By this time the Sheriff and his deputies were snowed under with panicky calls from townsfolk about the grey weed. We figured we would take a look and call New York for reinforcements if we needed it."

The kid swallowed heavily, his eyes betraying painful memories.

"When we got there, the place looked quiet, so we snuck in for a look around. It stank to high heaven, much worse than I expected for a charnel house. We got in through the fire escape, it led us up to an old office overlooking the factory floor. From there we could see piles of junk scattered everywhere and not much else. We made our way down for a closer look. The junk turned out to be piles of clothes, all torn up like they had been slashed to ribbons by something razor sharp. Not a drop of blood though. We checked out the side rooms and storage areas off the main floor but came up empty. Then we heard it, a kind of pulsing almost rhythmic noise. It seemed to be coming from beneath us." By now the kid was sweating heavily, he took another mouthful of water.

"I found a staircase and we headed down, it was pitch black so we used our flash-lights. They came out of nowhere, these two men just grabbed Koberg and dragged him off into the basement corridor. I drew my weapon but I couldn't shoot for fear of hitting him in the dark. I kept my light on him as long as I could. He was fighting like crazy, and cussing at them but these guys were strong, they took away his torch and his pistol and beat on him real good. I tried to keep up but I lost sight of them round a corner, I kept tripping on stuff on the floor. It was then I realised it was the damn grey weed, it was like a thousand hands were grabbing at me. It was everywhere, the floor, the walls. Then Koberg stopped yelling and started screaming. I'd never heard a grown man scream like that. So I ran, I ran like hell." The kid started to sob as he remembered the death of his partner. I put a hand on his shoulder. He drew himself together with a long steady breath.

"By the time I got back to the car, the weed had wrapped round the wheels. So I floored it, lucky for me the big V8 motor pulled free and I sped straight out of town. I can't explain what happened next, it's a bit hazy. No matter which route I took, I just couldn't leave this awful place. When I got back to town the weed had taken the Sheriff's Office, including the Sheriff in fact. I drove around deserted streets looking for any survivors. Then I saw my partner strolling down the street. I pulled over and hollered at him. He turned and looked at me like I was a total stranger. He had that grey stuff on him, in his mouth and everything. He snarled at me like a wild animal and lumbered towards me. I knew whatever I was looking at wasn't my partner any more. I remembered my training, I drew on him and put a full clip into his chest. Nothing, not a damn thing, not even a flinch, he kept on coming. Then this other guy showed up, from god knows where. I yelled at him to run. " As much as I hated to interrupt I just had to ask.

"Did this guy have a grey suit, black tie about six foot and gave off a creepy undertaker vibe?"

The kid took a moment.

"Yeah he did I guess. He pulled some odd looking pistol and shot at me. I don't know what it was but it felt like a lightning bolt just missed me, if I hadn't stumbled he would have got me dead bang," the kid tapped his chest.

"I returned fire, not sure if I hit him or not. I just ditched the car and ran. I hid in a bowling alley till dark. That was when I noticed the power was out. I could hear others like Koberg ransacking the town in the dark, looking for others and dragging them off to god only knows where. When the weed started sprouting from the water faucets and the electrical outlets I moved on. Ever since then I've been ducking from place to place, scavenging what supplies I could and keeping out of sight of the townsfolk."

The Doc and I shared a glance.

"When did this happen again?" I queried.

"Day one sir, seven days ago. I've been here in the tower for two days. So far the protection I put up has worked. So far."

The Doc had sat in stony silence throught Herriot's account. Neither of us wanted to give the kid the bad news. Before I could open my mouth, the Doc spoke up.

"I'm afraid the situation is worse than you've described Agent," Doc had that voice on he used for bad news. The one he had practised for years as a medical professional. The coldly factual one folk never want to hear, including me.

"The truth is, this town disappeared more than a week ago son. It disappeared almost sixty years ago, as did you. We've stumbled into this by accident, god alone knows how. By our reckoning it's the early twenty first century." The kid took it well.

"Horse shit, that's impossible, how could I have been here that long? I saw pictures of you from the war, why don't you look any older!" Okay, maybe not that well.

" I have a wife, a kid dammit. I've got to get back to them!" The kid's voice was rising out of control.

"Your wife is either dead or incredibly old by now Agent," the Doc assured him,"Your child probably alive but quite elderly by now...ungh!" my elbow in his ribs cut off any more inconvenient truths.

"Not helping Doc," I placed a calming hand on the kid's shoulder.

"The important thing is you're not alone anymore. We're here and we're gonna help. Besides we didn't come alone, there's a whole trainload of sleeping commuters we need to think of." I gestured out towards the train and it's slumbering cargo.

"By the sounds of things whatever the hell is infesting this town will find them sooner rather than later." I sat back a moment, mulling over the kid's story. He was stressing over his family but I needed him focused. I had seen kids not much younger than him go the same way during both wars. Lacking any clinical training, I found keeping them busy kept them from overthinking the nightmare they were stuck in.

"Agent, you saw a guy in a grey suit that shot at you, was he in the square earlier?" Herriot nodded, obviously still distracted by the Doc's revelations.

"What about the SUV, I mean the big silver car. Had you seen that before today?" This time he shook his head. The Doc took over.

"Agent Herriot, this is very important," the kid blinked twice as if clearing his mind then looked at him, "When did that black obelisk first appear?"

"I dunno sir, I've been so busy watching out for people and that white stuff I never paid any mind to the architecture." In his shoes I probably wouldn't either.

Doc fished out his cell phone and started examining the images he had taken. The kid's eyes went wide when he saw it. On seeing his interest, Doc turned the device to let him see better.

"It's a portable telephone with a camera built in, but it doesn't need any film. Damned useful thing sometimes," he explained.

"You guys really are from the future aren't you. So what's it like? With technology like that America must rule the world" he smiled at the thought. I didn't have the heart to tell him it was made in Japan. Instead I improvised.

"Best not to discuss it kid. It might upset the timeline, y'know the whole space/time continuum could suffer." Okay so blame Star Trek re runs at 3am for that one, but the kid bought it.

He sat shaking his head.

"I always thought Hagen was yanking my chain when he told me about you guys from the original Section 8. You really don't age do you? How is my old partner anyway, what's he been up to for sixty years?" I didn't have the heart to tell him Hagen had probably been concentrating on not dropping the soap in the showers. I exhaled slowly as I looked about for a change of subject. It was then I noticed the Doc was frowning his "this aint good frown" as he examined the pics of the monolith.

"Doc, care to share with the group?" I asked, glad for the distraction.

"John I think I can translate some of the symbols." He paused, the silence making me uncomfortable.

"And?" I prompted.

"There's a lot of information here." He turned the phone round, allowing both myself and the kid to see the tiny glowing screen. "These symbols here mean, danger and Hostroth." He waited for a response but none came. The kid and I exchanged glances.

"Which means exactly?" I could feel my blood sugar lowering again.

"This confirms what I thought after our encounter in the apartment across the road. What we are facing is a creature so rare it's very existence was thought to be mere folklore." Sounded like another day at the office for us. I let him continue.

"The legends go back as far as ancient Sumeria, but the only recent written record of the Hostroth is from the fourteenth century. In the Montmajour Text a heretic monk wrote of a strange and terrible white menace that threatened a town, infecting the residents. The account was hidden in the walls of Montmajour Abbey in France. It was only found in 1976, I came across it while searching for, for something else."

"Was there any mention of how to kill this Hostroth?" Old texts are all fine and well but the rarely give you _how to_ instructions.

"As I recall the Lord who held dominion over the area fought those under the spell of the creature, cutting them down and burning the remains." Alright, now we had a Plan A. Dismemberment and fire raising, both very do-able.

"The text made no mention of any direct contact with the creature itself or of the town being isolated in this odd manner."

"We need an escape route Doc. Any thoughts?" There was no point after all, in torching the town with Mrs Darrow's favourite son still in it.

"Our friends in the SUV seem to manage it. I'm wondering if we can do the same."

"The device on the train, is that what got us here?" I wondered out loud, the Doc nodded.

"I have a theory I would like to test John, but we need to get back to the train."

Scooping up the rifle, I tossed it to the kid, "C'mon, we got a train to catch."

**Chapter Six:** Slaughterhouse blues.

Gathering up the fruits of Herriot's foraging, we set off for the station. I could tell by his silence the kid was still processing the whole sixty year thing. On noticing the same, the Doc produced a can of soda and some chips from his pocket.

"Here," he offered, "Low blood sugar, best eat something." The starving agent wolfed down the food, making a face at the soda.

"Problem?" I asked.

"It tastes, well... different. Is this what soda is like in the future?" I simply nodded.

"I prefer the old stuff." Again I could only nod.

The kid led us out a side door and we slid unseen into a side alley. Our earlier brush with the occupants of the apartment hadn't gone unnoticed however, a scrape of boot on concrete gave us warning of an approaching group of infected. We threw ourselves flat behind a low wall as they shuffled by in silence. I slid the revolver free, ready to shoot our way through, the kid stopped me with a knowing shake of his head. I remembered the spent shell cases and holstered the pistol. I had a limited supply of ammo and three thousand potential targets. After what seemed like an age, the locals shambled off and we continued on our way.

The route we took back was longer than the road in, but I could see the kid was minimising our exposure. Leading us through empty buildings and abandoned houses, we emerged from an office block across from the station gate.

Things looked different though. A knot of white strands poured from a storm drain, marking a path through the gate and onto the platform like a grubby white rug. Fearing the worst, we scrabbled up a steep embankment and over the wall into the station.

The train was as we left it. Wispy tendrils reached for the first car but gave the Doc's eldritch graffitti round the doorway a wide berth. Ignoring Herriot's wide eyes at the sight of our chosen transport, we headed to the last car, popping the safety release, clambered in the emergency exit.

The suits were still deep in slumber. The kid let out a long whistle.

"If you told me this thing flew here I would believe you. It's like something from Buck Rogers." If he thought the design was out of this world he should see the price of a ticket.

"Here we are," the Doc puffed as he dragged the MiGo device into the passageway. The moving symbols still creeped me out. I found it difficult to look at the thing, my eyes wanted to slide off it and onto something less likely to put me back in therapy. My eyes, god bless 'em, persuaded my brain it was time of a nip of bourbon. I offered the flask around but got no takers. Cheap round.

"How did this thing get you here?" the kid asked, squatting by the slab, reaching for, but not touching it.

"I think it acts like a kind of hall pass if you will," Doc answered. "Day to day, trains, aircraft, automobiles travel this area and don't encounter any kind of phenomena." He gestured with a nod at the black slab. "I think that this device allowed us to pierce the barrier and end up here."

"Okay, so why bring a bunch of white collar commuters here. The MiGo have a way to drive in and out of town. Mr Grey seems to flit in and out of town whenever he pleases." I closed my eyes as the answer hit me. "Unless they need those people here." I sat down heavily, the implications raising bile in my throat.

"I don't get it. Why are they here?" Herriot looked at us in turn, confusion in his voice.

"Simple," Doc explained, " The Hostroth has already exhausted its food supply, they're feeding it."

This town just got worse and worse, I could see why it wasn't a tourist hotspot.

"Doc, how do we use this hall pass of yours to get everyone out of here?" I asked.

"I've been mulling that one over. Without power, this train is stuck here. What we need is another engine. I'm betting that the shed in the siding we saw earlier has one," he gestured in the direction of the gloomy structure.

"We've been over this, neither of us can drive a damn train! As a kid I had a choice, cowboy or train driver, I chose cowboy." Doc pursed his lips and glared his disapproval at me.

After a short silence, the agent piped up.

"My father worked the railroads. When I was a kid before the war I used to ride the rails with him from Boston, all the way to the yards at Annapolis. I reckon I could give it a go," the kid smiled a grim smile, "After all, there's nothing to stay here for is there?"

"That's the spirit!" cheered the Doc, slapping the agent on the back.

We secured the stranded carriages as best we could, and, dropping quietly to the track at the rear of the train, we followed the spur line to the shed. Rather than risk the noise of the large double door, we opted for the more discrete side entrance. Inside, the high vaulted pine roof was almost obscured by the massive diesel engine that squatted on the track like a leviathan from another time. Herriot let out a long low whistle of appreciation as he ran his hands down the cobalt blue flanks of the beast. I let him check it out while I secured a perimeter. Luckily there was no sign of the infestation here. I used my sleeve to clear a patch of grubby window pane, I couldn't see any sign of pursuit. Fear sat in my gut like a lead weight as I could see from my new vantage point the white tendrils that had enveloped the front of the train, its passengers blissfully unaware of the horror trying to find a way in.

I gave the kid five minutes of clambering over the workings of the enormous train, tapping gauges and throwing switches before I dared ask the sixty four thousand dollar question.

"Okay, can you get this big fella going or not?"

"I think so, but there is one small problem."

"Define small. Small as in, gee guys, I can fix this, or gee guys we need to push the train to New York?"

The kid frowned a little, then, beckoned me over to an open engine cowling which housed a snakes nest of pipes, valves and other engineering doodads. Excuse the technical jargon.

"This here is the main fuel line. Looks like they were in the middle of replacing it when things went south. I can fix it but I don't have the right tools or a replacement line." He stood, wiping grease from his face and hands, still frowning.

"Can we scavenge what we need from somewhere else in town?"

The young agent sat down heavily on an upturned drum. Suddenly he looked ten years older.

"Oh yes, I've seen the tools and spares we need already." I could sense the arrival of a large but.

"But..." And there it was, and I knew it was gonna be a real cracker.

"When Koberg and I searched the abattoir, they had a tool room and a stack of piping I could use."

Great. The only way out wasn't just back into town, but right to ground zero.

The Doc was listening intently.

"Tell us precisely what you need and John and I will go. If anything should happen to you, we would all be trapped here," he laid his hand on the agents shoulder. "We can't afford to lose our driver."

I could see the kid wanted a second chance at the thing that claimed his partner, but his fear kept him back, that place held a personal terror for him that would haunt him for years. If he was lucky.

The kid raked around on a nearby workbench till he found a scrap of paper.

"Here, let me draw you a map," fishing a pencil from a jar he began to sketch.

Working quickly he marked out a rough plan of the town, highlighting city hall, the train station, finally he added the abattoir, right on the edge of town, with an X.

I smoothed out the paper as the Doc peered over my shoulder.

"Looks to me like we could skirt the edge of town and miss all the excitement. What do you think Doc?"

"Hmm. Once we get the tools and material we need, how do we get it back?"

I looked over at Herriot, he was chewing his lip in obvious concern.

"I need wrenches, a pipe saw and three feet of line this gauge. None of that stuff is too heavy. You should be able to carry it all back without any problems." He rolled a short section of copper pipe down the table top at me. I dropped in in a pocket.

"How long to get us moving once we get back?" I tried to stave off images of a mass of pale arms reaching through the windows at us while the kid fixed the engine.

He scratched his head in that manner that every mechanic uses when asked such a question.

"At least half an hour if all goes well." Frankly, I half expected him to say next Tuesday.

The Doc carved spells above the doors and windows and sprinkled that damn awful powder about.

I busied myself checking my revolver and passing over the rifle and molotovs I had lugged from city hall. Tucking the map in my jacket I turned to the Doc. He simply nodded and headed for the door. Herriot eased the door ajar, sticking his head out gingerly. After a brief pause, he gave us the thumbs up and we snuck out.

"Good luck," he whispered.

"To all of us," whispered the Doc.

I took us maybe an hour to work our way through undergrowth and drainage ditches, just to reach the halfway point. It had been a while since I had my ass in the grass as it were, I could feel the burn of muscles rarely used. The bushes had taken their toll on my suit, giving me that scarecrow chic look that cost a months wages in a Greenwich Village boutique. Doc, the consummate indoorsman, had so many cuts and scratches he had the look of a man who had been hit with a bag of cats.

The roadway that ran through town lay before us, a hundred yards of dead ground to the safety of the undergrowth on the west side. We lay in the long grass of the east side, sizing up our next move. A loud rumble split the air, like a clap of thunder. Doc scanned the area with a pair of field glasses borrowed from the kid.

"I can see movement further into town. It looks like our friends in the SUV."

A gentle breeze carried the noise of a high revving engine, followed by the squeal of tyres.

"Now what are they up to I wonder?" he shot me a sideways glance, "Should we go look?"

I shook my head.

"Doc, this ain't the time for side trips, the kid needs those tools." Sure, I was curious about the SUV and its shadowy occupants, but first things first.

"In that case I suggest we use the distraction to cross the road." With that he creaked his way upright and we crossed the highway at a half jog. Once across, we hid in the tree line. The Doc brought up the field glasses once more, checking the road for any movement in our direction.

"There's some activity down there. I would say the natives are definitely restless." He passed me the glasses; sure enough, white dusted shapes were pouring from buildings, shambling onto porches, lumbering through front yards, clawing their way after the big off-roader. I could still hear the driver wrestling the big car through the auto scrapyard of Main Street, punctuated with the sound of metal on metal. I handed the glasses back.

"If these guys are behind this, I don't think everything is going to plan." My friend raised an eyebrow at me.

"Let us hope we fare better then." Some days, hope is all you've got.

Making best use of the distraction generated by the Escalade, we scrambled, climbed and crawled our way through the outskirts of town. Some forty minutes later, we found ourselves a hundred yards from the rear of the abattoir. We sat in silence, pausing to catch our breath. As I studied the layout through the binoculars, I noticed the Doc had produced something from his pocket. A grey, slim device, about the size of a book. The Doc tapped away, lost in concentration.

"Is that a Kindle?" I asked, trying not to sound like a commercial.

"Why yes. I find it's the best way to carry my research material."

I shook my head as he continued.

"Mock if you like, I can carry transcripts of Dolmann's Reliquary of Evil, Sun Yi's Legend of the Nine Demons, Malleus Malificarrum, even The Montmajour Text is in here somewhere." He scrolled through the pages as he spoke.

"Besides, you try carrying books written in blood and bound in human skin through airport security these days."

"Anything useful in there Doc?"

"Sadly, the Text describes the events surrounding the Hostroth attack, without any description of the creature itself." He tucked the gadget away with a frown.

"So that would be a no then."

I turned instead to the task at hand. From our vantage point, I could see the north aspect of the old abattoir. Maybe sixty yards long on this side, a mix of red brick and corrugated tin, two stories tall with a rickety looking fire escape scaling the right hand side. I reckoned that was our way in.

I took off first, running for the base of the staircase. Once there, I tested the first metal rung with a tentative step. It creaked, but no more than I did first thing in the morning. I scaled the steps, keeping low, my eyes fixed on the door at the top.

The door itself was a crude wooden affair, strapped with rusty metal and fortunately for me, unlocked. I cracked the door an inch, Bowie in hand, waiting for a grasping hand to paw at me. When none came, I grew bolder, swinging the door fully ajar, I slipped inside. I found myself in a shadowy office space, doubtless placed on the first floor to avoid the inevitable reek of blood and death that permeate these places. There was another scent, something cloying and sickly, something that hinted at decay and hopelessness. The office itself was a clutter of disused furniture, empty boxes and dust sheets. One wall faced onto the factory floor, half glazed, it allowed the occupier of the office a master's view of his staff. Keeping low, I crabbed my way to the inner door. I could make out the legend "General Manager" neatly scribed on the grimy glass. I gently drew the roller blind aside to allow a discrete view out to the main factory. Down the stairs to the rows of hooks and tables, I could see a line of doorways on the far side. The one marked "Workshop" caught my eye. In the shadow I could make out faint wisps of gossamer, strung haphazardly amongst the workspace below. I had half expected an army of dead eyed townsfolk, stumbling aimlessly around, filling the gap between me and the workshop. I returned to the fire door and waved the Doc over. As he puffed his way up the stairs, I risked another look onto the factory floor. Nothing.

The Doc reached for the roller blind covering the office door, at his touch, it snapped free from his hand, flapping madly upwards to clattering against the glass with a terrific racket. My friend jumped in fright, throwing himself behind a pile of boxes. I drew the revolver, taking aim at the door. As the blind slowed it's manic spin, the drawstring beating against the glass, I thumbed the hammer on the big gun, waiting for someone, something to burst in on us. After what seemed like an age, the door remained firmly shut. Silence descended. No clatter of footsteps on the stairs, no ungodly cries, nothing.

The Doc's head emerged from hiding, somewhat shamefaced, he mouthed a "Sorry" at me and returned to the door. As he went from crouch to standing at the door, I holstered my pistol and stood beside him. I pointed out the workshop door.

"Our tools should be in there. Let's not dawdle here." I tugged open the door and started down the stairs. Doc followed, nervously eyeing the white strands trailing from the fixtures.

"John, look at this," he held up a tattered piece of shirt. I took another look around. What I had mistaken in the gloom for discarded trash was an alarming collection of shoes, belts, shirts, all torn up. Just like the kid had said

"I estimate maybe forty or fifty people died here," he dropped the rag, wiping his hands clean on his jacket.

"Okay, so where are the bodies?" He only shrugged in reply.

We picked our way across the shop floor, stepping over disconcerting piles of clothing. I eased open the workshop door, what little light there was, spilled in to reveal a haphazard collection of tools of all shapes and sizes. A light snapped on over my shoulder, the Doc stepped past me with flashlight lighting the way.

"Doc?"

"I found it on the floor." He played the beam around in the gloom. I fished out the pipe from my pocket and started checking the size against a neat stack of pipework lying in the corner. It didn't take long to locate what we needed. With Doc lighting my work, I rummaged about, filling a rough canvas toolbag with a selection of tools from Herriot's list.

Without warning, the Doc snapped the light out, plunging us into near total darkness.

"Shush John, we have company," he hissed.

**Chapter Seven:** Belly of the beast.

Setting the toolbag down gently, I stepped to the doorway. In the half-light streaming in from the skylights, I could pick out the dark shapes moving in the shadows at the far end of the factory floor. The roller shutter of the vehicle bay was thrown open, silhouetting a steady stream of infected. I eased the door closed, grimacing at the creak of the hinges. The darkness closed around us like a large black hand. Doc flicked the torch back on, bathing us in a strange yellow light. He briefly swung the beam around the cramped tool room.

"Time to go Doc, I saw stairs about ten paces from here," I said, offering my friend the tool bag.

Sticking to the shadows, we crept from our hiding place and down a narrow corridor towards the stairwell. Once inside, the Doc hissed in my ear.

"If we follow the signs for the generator room, hopefully we can find a service corridor and emerge on the other side of the building. Then we make good our escape." I proffered a "thumbs up" in response.

Trusty revolver leading the way, we descended into the bowels of the abattoir. One level down we encountered a door, draped in menacing gossamer threads. Doc simply shook his head and we carried on down the steps. I tried not to ponder on Herriot's account of exploring this part of the building. Next floor down was the same, wisps of white candy floss beckoned from under the door frame. I didn't even look at him this time, I just kept going. The stairs ended abruptly at a narrow metal door, aged with rust. The door was slightly ajar, I nudged it open further with the barrel of the gun. The dim flashlight picked out something on the floor. Leaning passed me, the Doc scooped it up. Federal credentials, circa 1953 for one Agent Paul Koberg FBI. The photo card showed a stern faced man in his twenties, cropped haircut lending him a no-nonsense military mien. Poor bastard.

"I say we take our chances with door number two," I whispered, jerking a thumb upwards.

"Agreed, this level must where Agent Koberg met his grisly end. A fate I would rather not share," the Doc stepped aside with an after you gesture.

A noise from above halted me in my tracks. Three floors up, many feet were crowding onto the narrow staircase. Turning quickly, I pointed urgently at the rusty doorway. He shook his head vigorously, holding a hand up while he rummaged through his pockets for something. Lacking the time or the inclination for reasoned debate, I shoved him over the threshold, swinging the door shut behind us.

Before us lay a service corridor, we pressed on. Pipes of uses long forgotten crowded the headspace, forcing us to duck in places. The beam of the flashlight did little to light our way, offering only a vague pool of light to see by. Mindful that we were unwanted guests, we picked our way along quietly, fearful of discovery at any moment. Webs of white draped the pipework and covered sections of the floor. With no way back, we ducked under the hanging menace and stepped cautiously over the contaminated flooring. Eventually our path was blocked by a veritable plug of gossamer strands. The Doc shuffled past me, a bag of powder in his hands. With a muttered curse he scattered the foul concoction over the obstruction. The effect was immediate, the strands recoiled like a hand from a flame. A faint rumble underfoot made my heart skip a beat or two. Once silence reasserted itself, we crept onwards. We passed several doors, identical in construction to the one we had fled through. Most were locked, one swung in to reveal nothing more sinister than a broom closet. The access way continued for what seemed miles, then, without warning it suddenly opened to a larger anteroom. A mess of crates and drums lay strewn about, making quiet progress difficult. Sharing a silent nod, we moved on. A dozen yards further on, the corridor ended abruptly in a featureless metal door. It swung outwards at my touch to reveal a T junction. A grimy signpost proclaimed "Generator Room" to the left and "Service Elevator" to the right. Shining the flashlight in either direction served only to accentuate the gloom and the general aura of despair that permeated the place. The Doc absently sniffed the air.

"Does something smell off to you?" he asked. I shot him a look.

"It's an abattoir. The whole damn place smells funky. I was trying to ignore it," I answered curtly.

"So which way now?" I asked, using the pistol to gesture first one way, then the other.

Before he could provide an answer, echoing footsteps from the way behind us stifled any further discussion. They were approaching fast.

"Run," I hissed, "take the tools to the Kid," I put my shoulder to the door, my eyes scanning the gloom for something, anything to hold the damn thing closed. The door bucked under the impact of something mean and heavy. The door popped open briefly before my weight slammed it shut again. A howl from the other side was answered by many more in the distance.

To my surprise, my friend produced a large piece of chalk and began to mumble to himself as he inscribed the door with arcane symbols. Finishing his handiwork with an artist's flourish, he stepped back. The howling turned to a yelp of pain as the symbols took on an eerie glow in the dim light. On general principal I added a length of two by four to jam the door shut. The Doc smiled a knowing smile, patting my shoulder as the signal to leave. Wetting a finger and holding it aloft, he gestured toward the left.

"I had no intention of leaving you behind John. Besides, my sense of direction is terrible, I could never find the bloody train station again," he added with a wink.

I never thought I would be grateful for being saddled with a friend who couldn't find his own ass without using both hands, a map and a native guide.

"Thanks Doc, I'm far too young and pretty to die down here," I pointed out. Then a thought struck me.

"So tell me, why are we heading for the generator room?" even as I asked I knew I wasn't going to like the answer.

"I've decided to take a leaf from the John Darrow handbook and follow my gut," he replied frankly.

I took the opportunity to recheck the ammunition in my revolver, hoping my friend wouldn't see the connection.

"Will that hold them?" I asked, gesturing at the faintly glowing symbols on the service door.

"Oh yes," he nodded enthusiastically, "Sumerian barring spell, very powerful. This is what I was trying to do before you shoved me through the doorway. In fact if I could get to the other end of the corridor I could, in theory, trap them in there." Yeah, in theory, communism works and we all know how that ended.

The door marked "Generator Room" was rather a sturdy affair, a double door, which, at first glance appeared to be barricaded from the other side. Peering through the gap in the centre, I could make out daylight high up on the far wall.

"Paydirt Doc. If we can open this we should have a clear shot at daylight," I grinned, unaware of what was lurking on the other side. A glance at the Doc should have been warning enough.

"I have a bad feeling about this John," his voice barely a whisper. I holstered my pistol and handed him the flashlight. He nervously played the beam back the way we had came.

Taking the door handle in both hands, I braced myself and heaved. The door gave maybe an inch, whatever was piled on the other side sure was heavy. I took a breath and heaved again, as I did so, I failed to notice the pale strands drifting through the gap, grasping the edges of the door. As the door gave, a wall of white spilled out to meet us. The rolled out with nothing more than the faint whisper of a silk sheet drawn across a table. I teetered backwards, dragging my feet away from the tendrils.

The Doc stood his ground, eyes clenched shut, lips moving in some ancient, forgotten chant.

He stopped briefly, opening one eye.

"John," he whispered, "Are we still alive?"

I leant forward and kicked the kicked the milky coils experimentally.

"Seems so," I peered past the mound choking the doorway, "Doc, stay very quiet and very still." He quickly shut off the flashlight.

The door opened into a cavernous space, the generator dominated the floor, pipes and conduits snaking unseen into the ceiling, metal stairways hugging the walls, hinting at escape. The only illumination came from shafts of daylight backlighting great swathes of gauze draped between the metalwork, hinting at things lurking in the shadows. At the far end of the room, a small crowd stood, gathered around a burning oil drum. As I watched they knelt before an unsettling area of shadow. A blackness that seemed to pulse with an unearthly malevolence. A presence squatted there so unnatural, so wrong, I could almost taste it.

I turned to the Doc, gesturing back the way we had came. He pointed back into the room, at a frightened group of survivors being led downwards from the upper floor towards the patch of shadow. We watched in silence from our hiding place as the condemned were led, single file, down the metal gangways, their footsteps barely echoing despite the empty space. The group of maybe half a dozen grimy, terrified souls were shoved onto a platform. They stood, huddled together, too scared to even beg. The infected held out their hands in supplication to the formless dark thing, their voices singing in some hellish, foreign tongue. The prisoners gasped in surprise and fear as the first was snatched from them by the sudden whip of a pale tendril. By the time the second one went, they had started to scream and clamour to escape. Cold hands shoved them back into the creatures grasp. In a matter of seconds they were all consumed. A faint breeze carried the unmistakeable stench of rotting flesh our way. The worshippers ceased their low mantra, then, one by one, stood slowly and filed back up the metal staircase.

I turned to the Doc, his expression was a mix of awe and disgust. Again I pointed back along the corridor, this time he relented and we snuck away, letting the door drift closed.

"What the hell was that Doc?" I asked, trying to keep the panic at bay.

"That my old friend, I believe was a Hostroth. A very hungry one at that," he replied, his tone more matter of fact than I could hope to muster.

"I really think we need to leave now," he shuffled off down the corridor, fussing with the flashlight.

I wasn't about to argue, he was a professor after all.

Following the grimy access hall, we soon found the service elevator. On a hunch, I wrenched the grillwork door ajar and soon spotted the service ladder. Leaning in, I grabbed the slippery ironwork and began to climb. With an audible huff, the Doc, righteously aggrieved at the prospect of even more physical exertion, swung onto the ladder and followed.

The ground level elevator door was slightly open, allowing us to slip quietly back into the factory. We crept from room to room, praying for an escape route until I pried open a heavy wooden door which led back to the main factory floor. I quick glance showed a crowd of infected between us and the exit. The sound of splintering wood somewhere behind us made us both jump.

"John, we are trapped in here." Always one for stating the obvious. However, there was always Plan B.

"Get this stuff to Herriot. I'll see you at the train shed." With that I slipped out the door, clicking it shut behind me. As dumb moves go, this was a belter, but options were thin on the ground. In the dim light I could make out the mob of forty odd townsfolk, sheathed in white strands, filtering through the islands of machinery and piles of debris.

I stepped into the middle of the factory floor, facing down the shuffling mass.

At the front of the crowd, I spotted a young man in a wisp covered dark suit and tie, bullet wounds peppering the centre of his chest, he stepped forward and pointed a pale hand at me. I recognised the face from the ID we had found earlier, it was Koberg, Herriot's partner.

"Sorry buddy," I whispered, and shot him in the head.

**Chapter Eight:** All by myself.

The large round buried itself in his bloodless skull, the arcane etchings on the bullet went to work, burning him from the inside out. It a moment, he was aflame, roaring in disbelief and anger. The others shied away from the brilliant blue fire that consumed him. In seconds he was reduced to a pile of ash. Although the results were impressive, the math was against me. I had five rounds left in the gun, another six of the handmade rounds sat on my belt. The remainder of the spare rounds I carried with me were either silver tipped or hollow points. Sure I had more shells in my luggage but that was somewhere on the train, it may as well have been on a neighbouring planet. The crowd surged forward. So I ran, I ran like hell. With an energy derived from adrenalin supplemented heavily with fear, I hurdled piles of broken machinery and sprinted up the stairs two at a time, retracing my steps back to the office. I managed to steel myself into pausing long enough to barricade the door with a desk and some empty filing cabinets before continuing my headlong flight out the fire door and down the fire escape, which groaned in protest at my heavy footsteps crashing down it. Halfway down, the bolts sheared from the wall and the damn thing pitched outwards, tipping me onto the grass. I managed a half roll, old wounds murmuring in protest as I scrabbled to my feet and kept running, hugging the building line. The scream of tortured metal echoed behind me, mixed with the angry roars of my pursuers. I reached the end of the building and risked a glance back. The collapse of the stairway had thinned the herd but I still had six or seven on my trail. In the open, I would eventually tire and these guys would be on me, so I opted to head further into town, hoping to lose them in the abandoned sprawl of Seward's Ridge.

I took a couple of quick turns before throwing myself under a fertiliser truck sat on the kerbside. I tried to control my breathing, fearful the hammering heartbeat in my chest would give me away. Heavy footsteps thundered past my hiding place as I clutched my revolver, with only five precious rounds left, I would have to make them count.

As I lay there, taking in my surroundings, something caught my eye. A flicker of light, nothing more, just a faint flicker. I tried to concentrate on the source. A non descript warehouse marked "Go Lane Machinery" seemed to be swimming in and out of focus. A light within winked softly in the gloom. Herriot had told us the power was down. Against my better judgement I decided to check it out.

The warehouse had been surrounded by a twelve foot wall, topped with broken glass, I say had been. It looked like someone had driven tank through it. Brick work lay scattered across the yard, the yard gate smashed like matchwood. Strangely though the warehouse appeared intact. Checking the coast was clear, I trotted over to the smashed gate. The building just didn't look right, something indefinable just set off an alarm in my head somewhere as being wrong. I drew closer, reaching a tentative hand out to the door. To my surprise, my hand passed straight through it! I yanked my hand back, quickly checking it was none the worse for wear. What the hell had I found? I tried again, and again my hand slid straight through. This time I was aware of the faint tickle of an electric charge, pulling on the hairs on the back of my hand. I took a leap of faith and stepped through the illusion.

I'm not sure what I expected to find, but the reality was much weirder. I found myself standing at the base of a flight of black metal stairs. Looking up I could see they formed part of a gantry, maybe forty foot square, raised ten feet off the ground. The platform had been a control room of some kind, filled with alien equipment, large screens and controls for God only knows what. I say had been. The place was wrecked, equipment smashed and the metal framework twisted and pulled apart as if an tornado of mental patients had spiralled through. Whoever had trashed the walls outside had barrelled straight through here. Then I saw the bodies. Dismembered arms and legs lay strewn amongst the shattered equipment, I caught glimpses of business suit and leather shoes. These remains were not human however. Closer examination showed strange alien flesh clad in the human clothing. I wished the Doc was here for the alien autopsy portion of the day's entertainment. I took a guess that this was what was left of the grey suit's visitors. MiGo dressed up as people. Damn, those guys were getting the knack of that. Not that their disguise did them any good however. From the platform, the outside world was easily visible, the walls of the "warehouse" were damn near transparent. A hologram of some kind, Bayliss would have a field day with this type of technology. This was, or had been till recently, some kind of surveillance operation. The remains of a screen lay in ruins, a portion still displaying a distorted image of City Hall and the town square. It showed a fleeting glimpse of a large crowd of locals, moving passed the view of the camera. I cleared away some of the wreckage, hoping to get a better look. My interference must have done more harm than good, the image flickered and died. A sound behind me had me spinning in place, gun in hand. The far corner of the platform held the wreckage of six tall, transparent tubes. I crept closer, stepping over debris and bodies. Close up, the stench was awful, the first five tubes held noting but a rank dissolved biomass. The last, however, held something suspended by hooks, it's pale skin held apart displaying the thing's innards. An obscene looking creature, in appearance like a jelly fish, maybe six foot tall, with grey translucent skin, it hung there inert like some grotesque catch of the day. Tubes ran from the thing's body to a device of some kind, and then to a large bell jar half full of clear green fluid. I heard the sound again, I leapt back levelling the pistol. I stood, dumbstruck with revulsion as the tubes detached from the body with a loud sigh. Some unseen machinery triggered, bathing the tube in blue light, melting the remains into a stinking mass like the other containers. I used my cell to take some pictures, I knew my powers of description wouldn't be up to the task. I suddenly remembered the image on the screen, and the realisation struck me, I had left the Doc to fend for himself with a supernatural lynch mob roaming the streets.

I headed back out onto the sidewalk, hoping to run interference for my old friend. Pausing to get my bearings, I set a rough course for the town square, guided by the looming presence of the clock tower. I ran from cover to cover, wary of every open door and vacant window. I glanced round a corner to catch a glimpse of a crowd of infected gathered round something large and silver. I took a second look and found myself staring at the wreckage of the Escalade lying on it's side, tires still spinning. A mob of snarling townsfolk were tearing at the SUV with their bare hands. As I watched, the crowd ripped out the doors, dragging the occupants from within. A terrible tearing sound rang across the street as the car's occupants shed their human skin like the Hulk bursting from his lab coat. The infected were briefly cowed by the sudden transformation as the MiGo spread their wings and drew weapons. I ducked as shots from a MiGo heat gun sliced overhead. Wild shots felled a couple of attackers, but a dozen filled their place and pressed forward, clawing at the shooters. The roar of the crowd became mixed with the high pitched screeches as they tore off wings and wrenched limbs from bodies. I made full use of the crowd's preoccupation with their bug problem and sprinted across the junction. I kept running, my mind replaying the images of the infected, tearing those bugs apart. I didn't imagine this old Texan would fare any better in their hands. When I passed the gas station, I began to recognise my surroundings from our first foray into the town. As I crouched by an abandoned car, I heard a familiar voice hiss at me from the shadows.

"Help me carry this stuff. It weighs a bloody ton!" The red faced academic peered at me from behind a low wall. I joined him in his hiding place. Scooping up the toolbag, we set off again.

"Doc, I found a MiGo duck blind about a block and a half away from the abattoir. The infected had trashed it, killed all of them. I saw a glimpse of a big crowd on their surveillance system near to the town hall. Glad you didn't run into it."

"I saw it, I saw it! The mob moved as with one mind, I believe they are taking direction from the Hostroth itself," he enthused, a little too much white showing in his eyes for comfort. "We really need to document this properly. Let's go back into town and try to find the mob again."

I placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"Doc, we really need to fix the damn train and get those citizens out of here before the beastie has them for lunch," I gently reminded him.

"Ah, yes. The passengers, of course. You're right," he admitted grudgingly. He still had that look in his eye that told me he would sooner stick around and study this monstrous creature and its human petting zoo instead.

**Chapter Nine:** Crazy train.

We stole our way back to the train yard, dragging our precious cargo. A grateful Herriot opened the door for us.

"I was starting to worry about you guys. I could hear all sorts of commotion from the town."

"Frankly Agent, I was getting worried about myself too," I said, offloading the weighty bag of tools.

He took the gear with a nod and went straight to work.

As he worked, the Doc and I polished off the food we had liberated from the train. I held up my cell phone for the Doc's inspection.

"Doc, whatever the MiGo were up to here, it's all went sideways for them. Check out the damage to the structure." I flipped through the images till I found the things in the tubes. "They had collected these weird looking bodies, and seemed to be draining a liquid from them."

The Doc sat back, peeling off his glasses to reveal a worried frown.

"John, when you left, I was forced to find another way out of the abattoir. I managed to escape through the disused offices, then out via a small window in the south side of the building." He drew his cell phone, turning the screen for me to see.

"From your description, the MiGo were dissecting the Hostroth's offspring."

"Are you sure?" I asked. How could he know what this thing's kids looked like?

"Very sure," he stated bluntly, gesturing to his cell. I peered at the image of one end of a cavernous room, lit by daylight streaming in from a line of windows high up in the wall. There were dozens of the grey skinned things swarming across the floor.

"Doc, I don't get it. If the MiGo set this up, why did the infected not turn on them right from the get go?"

"That's simple. MiGo physiology is radically different from human, they would provide no sustenance to the creature. They would be of no interest to it. It only attacked them when they became a threat, or rather, a threat to it's offspring," he explained.

"Okay, so what do the MiGo want with the offspring of some scary ancient monster?"

The Doc could only shrug in reply.

"Whatever their purpose, the MiGo seem to have engineered this whole situation. They have somehow isolated the town using their technology and used the population to feed the Hostroth with a view to initiating a breeding cycle."

"Judging from the evidence you found they were successful Doc." He nodded, mulling over his theory.

"When I read the Montmajour Text I assumed the infected were a cult of some kind which had summoned the creature. Now I believe that they are in fact an extension of it's intelligence. It's eyes and ears as it were. Capable of independant action but the creature can pull the strings as it were," he waggled his fingers, mimicking a puppeteer.

"If it has, in fact, disposed of the MiGo, it may well redouble it's efforts to feed again." His gaze turned to the commuter train lying a short distance away.

"Doc if this plan works and we escape, could this thing follow?" I baulked at the prospect of New York as a Hostroth smorgasbord.

"Don't forget time passes slowly for those trapped here. Even if we do escape, the chances are it couldn't fathom a way out of here before we could return with reinforcements."

Having seen what one did to a company of MiGo, I didn't relish the prospect of coming back here to go to toe to tentacle with this thing. Even with the benefit of the National Guard on my side.

"I saw a truckload of fertiliser near the abattoir, pretty sure I could MacGyver a bomb out of it. All I need is some diesel from the gas station and something to set it off and we're good to go."

"Why do you always have this compulsion to blow things up John," he said, his lips pursed in disapproval.

"You should be grateful that I do," I quipped. He didn't smile.

"We are outnumbered and underequipped. The logical thing to do is leave and return in greater numbers." Reluctantly I nodded in agreement, trying not to scowl like a child.

Herriot slammed the engine cowling shut, making us both jump.

"It's time folks," he grinned, wiping his oily hands on his shirt.

The plan was straight forward, we fire up the train, pull up to the last car and push it all the way to the twenty first century. Simple really.

The Doc gathered his bag of tricks, gesturing us both over to the side door.

"Give me five minutes to get aboard the express, I have some tricks that may come in handy. Besides I may need to tinker with the MiGo hall pass." With that he slipped out the door.

I slung the rifle, checking the chamber.

"All aboard," I grinned.

We climbed into the cramped cab of the big blue engine, I passed up the Molotov's and secured the door.

"What about the shed doors?" the kid asked.

I raised an eyebrow in reply, gesturing to the large lump of steel we were sat in.

"Oh," he said as the penny dropped.

I checked my watch, I had given the Doc his five minute start.

"Fire it up kid," I shouldered the rifle.

The kid nodded and hit the switch. Nothing. We shared a panicky glance.

He checked the dials and tried again. The engine gave a distant click then silence.

"Dammit," Herriot swore and jumped down from the train, wrenching open the cowling in frustration.

I slid down the ladder and trotted over to the grimy windows. Through the dirt I out make out a line of shabby figures pouring onto the platform, arms outstretched to the waiting train. Zombie rush hour.

"Whatever you're doing kid, do it quick!" I yelled without looking round. I used the rifle butt to smash the window and lined up for a shot. Through the scope I could see the townsfolk, armed with a collection of bats, axes and crowbars, trying to smash their way aboard. I settled the crosshair on a likely candidate, out of nowhere, there was an almighty flash and the first rank fell to the ground. I could hear the Doc's voice screaming a wild incantation over the sound of the crowd. They were cowed for only a second, the next rank stepping forward to lift the weapons of the fallen. I smiled, the Doc was unarmed and still dangerous.

Behind me I could hear the kid's frantic repair job as he hammered and swore the old engine into submission. I risked a quick glance back to see him climbing into the cab once more. I turned my attention back to the action on the platform. A blur of movement caught my eye. Without warning something grabbed the rifle barrel, tearing it from my hands. I staggered back from the window as pale, grasping hands reached in for me.

"Time to go kid!" I yelled, sprinting for the ladder. I heard the side door go in behind me. Something sailed over my head as I climbed into the engine. The Molotov exploded on impact, heat searing the back of my head. The kid hauled me up the last step and turned to the controls.

"If you're a religious man, time to call on Jesus!" he said, a grim smile on his face. He punched the starter, nothing happened. The silence stretched for an eternity. Rage and frustration boiled over inside me. An uncharacteristic outburst I assure you.

"Aww c'mon you useless hunk of crap!" I yelled pitching a kick at the controls. At that, something clunked beneath our feet and the massive diesel groaned into life.

Herriot hunched over the controls while I leapt to the cabin door. Two white faces loomed at the window, clawing for the door release. I put my weight to it, bracing a foot on the metal framework for purchase.

With a mighty crash we barrelled through the shed's ageing woodwork, dislodging one of our stowaways. I slide the door aside and shoved the lunging thing overboard, it hit the ground with the satisfying crunch of breaking bone. As I slide the door to once more, I could feel the engine ease off to an idle.

"The points are set wrong, we need to switch them and fast!" I stared past the kid at the hand control trackside, it's red painted handle hanging jauntily in the wrong direction.

"I'm on it. Keep this thing moving kid," with that I wrenched the cabin door ajar again and leapt to the tracks.

The engine was moving along at a slow pace, so I outstripped her easily. I covered the sixty yards or so in no time as the train rolled after me. My hands were slick with sweat as I wrestled with the heavy ironwork. I was painfully aware of the approaching engine, the kid yelling at me to hurry from the cab. With a burst of effort that threatened to tear muscle, I shut my eyes and heaved. Finally, the damn thing moved, the rails shifting position with a metallic clang. I stood back as the blue Goliath lumbered past. Shaking off fatigue, I threw myself into a trot after it.

At the express, the infected had met their match in a mild mannered professor, who, cursing like a sailor, was separating heads from bodies like an Arthurian hero. I stopped short of the snarling crowd, drawing my pistol.

The kid drew the engine up to the express, crushing a few of the pale creatures as the buffers connected with the modern train. The mob began to swarm to the cab. From my position trackside I took aim, placing five rounds into five unlucky skulls. The flames of the dying licked around the mob, some catching light, spreading the blaze further. Using the distraction, I slammed my last six of the handmade shells into the chamber, flicking it closed with a gunfighters flourish.

I made for the cab but the burning corpses choked the ladder. The kid risked a glance out at me, I waved him on, clambering onto the platform, hoping to join the Doc in the express.

Fate had other ideas, opting to scowl in my general direction.

Something closed on my right ankle with a vice grip, dragging me to the ground, the pistol fell from my grasp. In a panic I reached for anything to anchor me in place. I had a fair idea where I was headed otherwise. My flailing hands caught the edge of a paving stone, giving me the chance to look down. A cable of white held my leg fast, it gripped me like a bear trap. I heard a cry, glancing up I could see the Doc at the carriage door, axe in hand, ignoring the sea of hands reaching for him.

"Hold on" he yelled, "I'll be right there!" he braced for a mighty jump.

"No!" I shouted, "Just get the hell out of here Doc!" His reply was lost to me in the sound of the revving engine as it took the load of the express and it began to move away. The Doc's anguished face lost behind the crush of bodies as the express began to make progress along the platform.

Agony raced up my leg as the tendrils tightened their grip. I fumbled out the Bowie, unwilling to just roll over for the son of a bitch. I carved into the pale rope, rasping the heavy blade against the dense fibres for what seemed like an age until I cut through to the stone beneath. I rolled away, scrambling to my feet, wary of falling into that damned white snare again.

Scooping up my pistol, I leapt back down to the tracks ready to make one last dash for the departing train, the infected still clinging to the sides, hammering at the windows. A glance was all it look to tell me it was too late. The kid had built up a decent speed, in the hope of shaking off the pursuit, literally. The Flash on rollerblades couldn't make up that much ground.

I snapped off a salute to my friends, getting a long klaxon blast from the engine in response. With the mob focused on the departing train, I trotted across the tracks and into cover, away from the reach of the creeping white menace. I hid, hunkered down behind a stack of railway debris, eyes locked on the train as it powered it's way out of town, towards the barrier. The train gained a faint glow as I watched, it seemed to take on an almost blue halo as it moved away. A hint of something silver caught my eye. A grey figure strode onto the track a hundred yards from me, a shiny something in his hand. Before I could blink he took aim and fired at the locomotive. The big blue engine vaporised in a dramatic flash, the shockwave hit a second later, dumping me on my ass. As I wiped the dust from my eyes, I strained to see what had become of the express. I couldn't see a damn thing past the dust cloud that had once been the engine and a young agent. I scanned the tracks for the grey figure but he hadn't hung about to enjoy his handiwork.

**Chapter Ten:** Agent solo.

It was time for plan B. The B standing for bomb. If I was going to be stuck here I was sure as hell not sharing this town with some hellish creature, its alien zookeeper and a ton of angry zombies. First order of business was easy. A long sip of the dwindling supply of bourbon. Second order of business was to find that truck full of fertiliser and engineer a final solution. If along the way the grey man presented himself, well all fine and good.

Scampering back to the wrecked train shed, dodging the flames, I quickly scavenged some of the tools and supplies we had gathered earlier. I found the rifle discarded outside, the barrel twisted to a damn good right angle. Fine for shooting round corners. I kept the ammo, throwing the loose rounds into my pocket before grabbing up the tool bag with the other gear. I paused briefly, examining first the arcane symbols above the window, then the remnants of the awful smelling powder the Doc had been so liberal with. I realised then, smashing the window had undone the defences, scattering the powder and allowing the enemy a way in. I made a mental note not to be so damn stupid in the future. I knew I couldn't stay long, but where to go? I reasoned that the kid had managed to survive couple of days in the tower, so, reckoned it to be as safe a haven as anywhere, I carefully back tracked toward the town square, complete with creepy black monolith. I paused at the corner of the square, wondering at the purpose of this particular device. I snuck back into the town hall, checking and rechecking the defences as I picked my way through the deserted building. I took the added precaution of stringing some empty cans and bottles I rescued from the trash together across the doorways as a kind of adhoc early warning system. An old trick I learned in the war, I forget which one. Any unwanted guests would make an unholy racket as it were, giving me time to prepare a suitable welcome. After a couple of sweeps of the perimeter I was satisfied I was as safe as anyone with a pulse could be in this town in a bottle.

I climbed the stairs to the tower, my footsteps heavy with fatigue. I took a quick glance over the parapet before laying down for a brief rest. Fishing out my remaining supply of liquor I took a good slug of bourbon and toasted the memory of Agent Herriot, god rest his soul. Then another for the Doc, wherever the hell he was. The last one was for me, hoping to gee my synapses into dreaming up an escape plan once I blew up the hellish thing consuming the town.

As I lay there, watching the hazy sunset, I tried to piece together how to put my somewhat sketchy plan into action without getting torn apart by an angry mob. After about an hour's rest and some soda and chip fuelled brainstorming, I had the basics sorted out.

Step one, wait till it got dark. That was the only easy part in this whole insane venture.

Step two, find that damn truck in the unlit streets crawling with infected townsfolk.

Step three, assemble a bomb from available material and blow the thing to kingdom come.

Step four, well, if I survived to step four it would be something along the lines of getting out of town.

Edging out the side door to city hall was no less nervewracking than the last time, worse in fact, this time I was flying solo.

Call it bad luck, call it poor concentration on my part, whatever. The early warning system I had improvised earlier, wrapped itself around my left leg, clanging like a goddamn fire alarm. Against all common sense I found myself "shushing" it as I tried to untangle myself from the contraption.

The howling started about a hundred yards from me. Panic numbed my fingers as I resorted to the Bowie to hack myself free. Flinging the jangling mess to the ground I took five may be six steps before the first faces appeared at the end of the alley, peering expectantly into the shadows. A glance backwards told me I was cut off, a glass topped wall higher than the reach of this Texan. An insane idea sprang to mind.

Backing towards the door, I made sure the lean, snarling mob was following. Taking care to brush the salts aside, I scuffed over the chalk marks on the doorstep. Zig-zagging through the office furniture on the ground floor, I threw the lock on the big front door, stepping over the runes Herriot had placed there. The mighty wooden edifice clunked shut behind me as I bolted around to the alley I had just escaped from. I got to the side door just as the last of the infected had pushed their way in. I dragged the door over, I replaced the chalk and carved fresh runes into the door and it's framework with the Bowie. It stood to reason, if they couldn't get in passed the various spells and symbols, then they couldn't get out either. The odd signs the Doc had taught me should hold them for a while at least.

Keeping to the back streets, pistol in one hand, unlit flashlight in the other, I made my way to the gas station. Keeping noise to a minimum, I covered ground in short bursts, taking time to listen for signs I had been spotted. I had been through towns ravaged by war, blighted with disease and devastated by famine, but nothing like this. The buildings stood intact but eerily empty, their doors ajar as though the occupants had just upped and left, rather then been dragged screaming to their awful fate by those they had once called neighbours. Screen doors swung to and fro in the evening breeze, the creaking of the hinges like nails down a chalkboard to my already stretched nerves. No dogs barked, no music played, no lights shone a welcome inside. It was as if the life of the town itself had been bled dry by the creature and it's hellish minions.

The gas station reared out of the gloom as I crawled through the yard at the rear. From there I dashed to the door and slid carefully inside. I found myself surrounded by rows of neatly ordered tools, spare tires and oil cans of various sizes, the expected detritus of running a garage. I needed to get at least a drum of diesel to the truck without advertising my presence. Rolling a full drum was impossible to do quietly, especially through a town already as quiet as a graveyard. I decided it was maybe easier to bring the truck to the gas station. The problem remained however, how to get it there quietly. Then I smiled as I remembered the Doc's quip about my penchant for blowing things up. A big enough distraction/explosion elsewhere in town may just give me the time I needed to drive the noisy son of a bitch into the garage where I could work on her in peace.

I made a mental list of vital ingredients for a spur of the moment IED, and began a rummage of the gas station. Peering through the murky darkness I felt rather then saw the line of jerry cans, and, after a couple of disappointments, found one damn near full of gas. Pulling a tarp down from a hook on the wall, I threw it over myself like a pup tent and, thumbing on the flashlight, went to work, safe in the knowledge my blackout discipline would save me from the attentions of anything pale and scary.

Thirty minutes and a fair amount of cursing later, I had fashioned a fair device using the can of gas, the black powder from half of the rifle rounds and other odds and ends scavenged from the repair shop.

Building the device was fairly straightforward, lugging it around was another matter. Venturing into the gas station office, I poked about till I found a map of Seward's Ridge. By discrete flashlight I chose my target. Frankly the town was slim on viable options mainly due to it's size. I settled for the bowling alley, not that I had anything against bowling per se, but it's location on the far side of town gave me the best cover for my upcoming illicit activity.

Using some strapping from the garage supplies, I lashed together a makeshift harness so at least I could move with my hands free. With no small amount of trepidation, I slung the contraption over my shoulders and set out to find the bowling alley.

During the war, the second one I mean, I served in Section 8 in the Pacific Theatre of Operations, (Not to be confused with the Pacific Theatre, Michigan, a low life strip joint in the seventies, closed down by Section 8 after a possessed stripper ate four clients.) The Marines on the front line had a tough job, the worst of which as far as I was concerned was the onerous task of flamethrower man. He essentially carried a big incendiary device on his back, an open invitation to the Japanese to shoot him in the back and turn him and his closest friends into a walking, screaming barbeque. Generally this job fell to the slowest to volunteer for something else, or to whom so ever gained the displeasure of his Gunnery Sergeant (or God as they liked to be called). Strapping a heavy can of gas with a detonator to my back comes a pretty close second.

The streets were now pitch black, starlight my only safe way of navigation. Again sticking to the side alleys and back yards I picked my way across town. The heavy gas can sloshing as I moved. My eyes adjusted to the poor light fairly quickly, although in places the dark seemed impenetrable. Rather than risk walking into a trashcan, I opted to crawl like a dog through the shadows, multiplying the cuts on my hands and the tears on my clothes tenfold.

By the time I got to within reach of the bowling alley, I was exhausted. I set the gas can down carefully, opting to scout the place without the handicap of having a bomb strapped to my back. The propane tank at the rear of the alley, next to the kitchen, seemed ideal for my purpose. It also saved me the grief of breaking into the place and getting caught in flagrante incendio as it were.

As I lugged the device into place, the night air carried a low sound to my ears. Throwing myself flat I slipped the lighter from my pocket, even discovery at this stage was no great disaster. I froze, Zippo in hand. The sound was a steady rhythmic pounding, as I focused on it, I realised it was coming from inside the bowling alley itself. A handy dumpster served as a makeshift stepladder, allowing a precarious view inside. By dim candle light within, there stood a rag tag group of townsfolk in a rough circle around a lone figure. Their pale and wisp covered faces immune to his pleading.

"C'mon guys. Just let me go, I won't tell honest." His eyes darted from person to person, probably unaware the friends and neighbours he knew around him were long dead. He couldn't have been more than twenty, dressed like a labourer in a loose pair of dungarees and a worn ball cap. Cords of white substance held him in place, suspended from the roof like a grotesque puppet. As I watched the crowd continued to murmur their steady chant, feet marking rhythm like a sinister gospel choir. The beat changed pace, faster and faster it went, till the mob, unable to bear the wait, broke ranks and fell upon the hapless soul, devouring him in loud crunching chunks. Sickened by the sight, and more so the sound of the feeding frenzy, I lost my balance, tipping the dumpster and collapsing in a heap, trash clattering around me like a peal of church bells sounding an invasion. I scrabbled to the device, my hands shaking as I lit the fuse. It was too late for that poor unfortunate, but at least I could fry some of the bastards. The fuel soaked rag took in a flash, burning a little quicker than I had hoped towards the black powder charge. With the element of surprise a distant memory I ran for my life. Behind me a door gave way to a large press of bodies, the blood stained crowd, howling as they caught my scent of fear, bourbon and gasoline, gave chase. One I took to be the leader bellowed a chilling instruction over the racket of the baying mob.

"Take this one alive, the Mother will feed from him!"

I had got no more than fifty yards when the blast sucked the air from my lungs, kicking me like a mule square in the ass. I faltered but kept running. Looking back those infected that hadn't been vaporised in the blast, stumbled dumbly in the alleyway, fully aflame. A quarter of the building was gone, the remainder burning merrily. The inferno lit the night sky like a beacon. As I ran I caught glimpses of pale faces peering out at the spectacle from their shadowy places of refuge. With their attention fixed so raptly on the flames, I raced by unnoticed.

Breathless, I found the truck where I had left it, perilously close to the abattoir. Flinging myself into the driver's seat, I racked my brains trying to remember how to hot wire an automobile. My searching fingers ran down the steering column, where to my surprise, they found the keys in the ignition, you gotta love small towns. The ancient Chevrolet started first time, the engine spluttering into life. Spurning the headlamps, I drove in total darkness the few blocks to the gas station. Throwing the garage door up and over, I rolled the truck inside, killing the engine and slamming the big door down with a speed I hadn't thought myself capable of. Breathless with exertion but still full of nervous energy, I forced myself to stand still, waiting on cries of pursuit. When none materialised, I carved some runes above the doors, wishing I had paid more attention to the Doc's earlier handiwork. Sure I knew the basics, but the Doc was the Doc after all.

Using tarpaulin to black out the windows as best I could, I set to work by torchlight once more. This time the project was a little more ambitious. If I got this right, this one would make the last look like a firecracker. A mistake at any stage would see me turned into very messy wallpaper or at least earn me the nickname "Lefty". Working steadily I prepared the main charge first, ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, good old ANFO, the go to explosive for any nutcase terrorist wannabe. Freely available in most states the only problem was setting it off. Fortunately for me I had been cooking up this stuff to cover my tracks for years. Got a nest of staked or beheaded, decaying vampires you don't want the local Sheriff to find? Simple, park a truck of this stuff outside and just blow the whole place sky high. Works a treat, show up with a badge afterwards and tell them it was a meth lab. It's been my experience that small town Sheriffs have enough on their plate without a bunch of unsolved homicides getting added to their workload. Especially if the victims were all blood thirsty murdering hell spawn in the first place.

The detonator proved to be a problem, I didn't have enough black powder left to do the job. This type of explosive needed something burning real hot to set it off. Usually industrial quality detonators worked fine, sadly, this town didn't have anything like a quarry or construction site that would stock that kind of gizmo. I didn't relish the prospect of using the cordite in my remaining pistol rounds to produce that initial spark. Even all of the remaining rounds probably wouldn't yield enough for the job anyway. Then I remembered the MiGo, the wreckage of their Escalade may hold one of their fancy heat guns. An ideal substitute for a commercial detonator, a direct hit from one should set the whole thing off a treat. Another field trip was in order.

The journey was a shorter one this time, my caution giving way to impatience. I stepped lightly, pistol in hand, darting between the shadows, ever watchful for hungry townsfolk. The fire at the bowling alley was well alight. Judging from the scale of the blaze, it had spread to the adjacent property. Without so much as a Dalmatian, never mind a fireman in town, it would probably take hours, maybe days to burn itself out. When I found the wrecked SUV, it was barely recognisable as an automobile, it's innards strewn across the sidewalks just like it's inhabitants. Daring to use the flashlight, I searched the site for any trace of a MiGo weapon. I tried the inside of the vehicle itself as a last resort, the fading beam played across something small and reflective, making me smile with anticipation. To my disappointment it wasn't what I had thought, the lighting had played a cruel trick on my eyesight. The solid ebony shape of a hall pass, this one in miniature sat in the rear seat well, like a forgotten child. The symbols drifting lazily across it's jet black surface. Damn, I thought at first, then it struck me, this could be my way out of here. I hefted the house brick sized object from out of the wreckage, it's surface unnervingly cool to the touch. I disliked the feeling so intensely I wrapped it in my jacket in order to carry it.

"Sir, I require that object," droned a matter of fact voice from behind me.

I started, dropping the flashlight, pistol slipping easily into my hand. Turning to face the speaker, I could barely pick out the outline of a tall man, a shiny device in his hand levelled plainly at my head. That grey clad son of a bitch who had blown up the train and my friends with it.

Of all the witty retorts and brave speeches I had buzzing round my head all I could manage was.

"Wha...what?" cool eh?

"The doodah wrapped in your outer clothing, I require it." Okay he didn't actually say "doodah" but what he did say didn't make sense and frankly sounded more like a dolphin with something caught in its throat. Let's just go with doodah and leave it at that.

"Well, you can't have it," was again not the brave speech I had planned for a showdown with my nemesis.

"I require it to leave the site and carry on my work. Hand it over or I will shoot you," he delivered this blunt threat as though he was asking the time. I figured that if this was indeed his ticket out of here, then his day was as screwed up as mine. I considered shooting my way out, but even the big revolver couldn't shoot enough holes in this guy to slow him down. Another tack was required.

"Shoot me and you'll be stuck here," I replied, hugging the doodah to my chest. He seemed to chew this over.

"Very well, hand it over and I will not shoot you," as counter offers go it was heading in the right direction. I wasn't convinced though. Something was off, sure he wasn't an easy read but my gut told me he was holding an even crappier hand than I was. As he talked, my eyes adjusted to the gloom once more. I couldn't help but notice that he was dishevelled and careworn. His once immaculate suit was a mass of rips and tears, the well-manicured veneer had definitely been ruffled by today's events. To a passer-by we would have looked like a couple of bums arguing over a forty of malt liquor.

I took a gamble. Cramming my pistol away, I looked him in the eye and called him.

"I reckon that fancy ray gun of yours is running on empty mister. Especially after zapping that train earlier. You go ahead and shoot me," I grinned at him with a confidence I didn't really feel.

He grinned back, at least at first it was a grin. His face began to distort as feelers and other insectoid bric a brac fought to escape his widening mouth.

"You forget your place human," he gargled, lunging forward, antennae leading the way. Somehow, I ducked and rolled past him, staggering up and into a run.

"Hey, he's here guys. I found him!" I yelled, my voice cracking at the unaccustomed volume. The sound echoed horribly off the walls of the deserted town. Almost straight away my efforts were rewarded with the sound of creaking hinges and the slap of feet on concrete.

Then grey man recoiled at his impending discovery. He spun in place, weapon raised in defence.

Taking my chance, I ran like hell.

"See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya!" I offered to him as consolation. Hey, at least I got the last word in. Screams rang the air above my head as I ran for cover. Taking the nearest alleyway, I kept on like a star running back, vaulting piles of junk, dodging past abandoned cars, the hall pass tucked safely in the crook of my arm. Finally I had to stop to gasp for air, hoping the grey man would provide a sufficient distraction for the surly inhabitants of Seward's Ridge. Not for the first time, I considered the wisdom of stopping smoking. Not for the first time, I considered death at the hands (and teeth) of a hungry mob of infected cannibals a preferable option. In the headlong flight I had lost my bearings. In order to reorientate myself, I was forced to find a major roadway. Unable to see the city hall clock tower, I resorted to guesswork.

My feet took me a few random turns, bringing me to a familiar sight, the barbershop. Crouching at the corner I could see Herriot's black Dodge abandoned at the kerb just where he had left it a week ago, give or take a few decades.

Septimus White, the head of Section 8 and an old friend had his faults, skimping on equipment was never one of them. If he had sent two of his men to this town, they were loaded for bear, perhaps even scary prehistoric bear.

Keeping low, more out of habit now than necessity, I slid into the driver's seat. Easing the keys from the ignition, I ducked round to the trunk. As the trunk clicked open, I exhaled slowly in a low whistle, not even realising I had been holding my breath. God bless the Director, the Dodge's trunk was a regular box of delights. A pump shotgun, a Tommy Gun, four hand grenades and enough ammunition to take Iwo Jima again. Tucked at the back was a box file, I gave it a quick glance, looked like old paperwork, mostly in Japanese. I shoved it to the back again, making room for a more precious cargo. Placing the hall pass safely in the trunk, I pocketed the grenades, solving the detonator issue and lifted out the twelve gauge Remington pump, solving the firepower issue at least in the short term. Sure, the shotgun wouldn't kill the things that haunted the dark places of Seward's Ridge, but at the very least I could remove limbs with a well place shot. Flesh eating denizens of the night are much easier to wrangle without kneecaps. Loading the Remington, swiftly and quietly, I slung a bandolier of shells over my shoulder. Locking the Dodge, complete with hall pass in the trunk, I tucked the keys away safely. This bad boy was my ride out of town.

Now that I had my bearings, it was an easy journey to the gas station. Feeling somewhat bolder, shotgun at the ready, I marched on.

**Chapter Eleven:** Back to the future.

About a hundred yards shy of the place, I got the vibe that something was wrong. The sound of many shuffling feet had me scrambling for cover. A band of maybe a dozen townsfolk stood in the fore court, sniffing the air and grumbling in low tones. Opting to wait them out, I retreated into a nearby store. Crawling behind the counter, I made myself comfortable, scooping a box of beef jerky from the display, I made a quick meal from it, washed down with warm soda. Periodically from my vantage point, I could pop up and get a decent view of the gas station. The posse seemed set to stay, their precise purpose for loitering there unclear to me.

Laying in the gloom, I pondered my current situation, in particular my chances of actually escaping this god forsaken town. Sure I now had a hall pass but I had no guarantee that I could get it to work. The Doc's theory was just that, a theory. It was somewhat strengthened by the grey man's desire to lay his hands on the one I had stashed in the trunk of the Dodge however. Whatever he had been doing in this town over the years, it was plain that he and his cronies had misjudged this Hostroth creature in a very big way. Perhaps their innate feeling of superiority had lulled them into thinking the infected in the town were still only human. Perhaps the mystical connection shared with the infected and the ancient being had somehow strengthened it and allowed it to overcome whatever shackles it's captors had placed on it. Whatever the truth, the MiGo had screwed up in a big way. Their arrogance had been their undoing, an almost human characteristic in a way. Maybe they spent too much time down here with us talking monkeys.

A sound jerked me from my idle ruminations. Like a cross between a fog horn and an insane church organ, the very volume of it had the windows rattling in the frames. Outside, the locals set off at a run towards it's source. Making the most of the distraction, I slid unseen across the road and into the garage bay.

The truck was as I had left it, thank god. Using the four grenades, a couple of batteries and a small travel clock collected from the office, I quickly fashioned a detonator. It was all very crude but it would have to do. I armed the whole lot, leaving the timer for when it was in position. By the time I had finished all this, the racket outside had subsided.

Throwing open the shutter door, I cranked the truck into life. Gripping the steering wheel, I quickly took stock. I was driving a bomb on four wheels, built by a half drunk, half mad Texan, to kill an ancient nightmare come alive in a town trapped in the fifties. It sounded like a really dumb idea when you stacked it all up. Some days, dumb ideas are all you have. I punched the gas and rolled into the street.

I took a left onto Main, chicaning through the abandoned automobiles littering the road. The lack of resistance troubled me greatly, I had expected a death or glory drive to the things lair, ending with a large explosion. Instead I got a ghost town. I risked the headlamps and picked up the pace. It was a short drive to the old abattoir, the truck rattling down then deserted streets. The warehouse door lay open as I had left it, a lone figure stood guard. He snarled on seeing the truck approach. Gunning the engine, I struck him doing forty, the limp figure bounced under the wheels as I slid to a halt in the loading bay. I stepped down from the cab, shotgun in hand. Ready to shoot down the first wave of pale creatures. I stood for what seemed like an age, nothing. Not so much as a whisper. Damn this was too easy. Dropping the shotgun in the cab, I hopped onto the flatbed and set the timer. I figured twenty minutes ought to get me back to the Dodge and out of town. The charge was big enough to bring the whole damn building down on the thing in the basement.

I hopped back down to the floor. It gave underfoot in a way that concrete just doesn't. In the blink of an eye, the white web enveloped my legs up to the knees. A group of townsfolk stepped from the shadows, grinning in a manner that said "hungry". I struggled against the tightening grasp of the strands. The crowd rushed forward, grabbing and clubbing at me. I heard a loud crack, which I guess was something hitting my skull, and everything went black.

When I came to, I felt rather than saw the black metal floor as I found myself face down on it. With an effort I shoved myself onto my elbows. Taking in my surroundings, I realised I was no longer bound in white. Staggering upright, I tripped on torn and discarded clothing, nearly falling against a burning oil drum. With a gasp I saw the husk that had once been person wrapped in dungarees. I looked up at the wisp covered figures that encircled me, then at the daylight streaming in from the windows high above. Then I realised where I was. The generator room.

I risked a glance at my watch, nearly twenty minutes had elapsed since my capture. If I was gonna go, at least I was taking them with me. A low rumble shook the floor, threatening to pitch me back to the metalwork. One of my captors, a short fat man in a shopkeepers apron spoke, his voice scratchy with effort.

"What are you?"

"Huh?" was the best I could manage, I absently rubbed at my aching skull.

Again the man strained to speak.

"You are different, what are you?"

Well, mom always told me I was special.

"Me? I'm no one. Just another lost soul."

"The insects who bound us here have all perished. You found a way in, you will help us leave." It had the ring more of an order than a request.

"Hey, I got here by pure bad luck." I took a long look at the faces surrounding me. "Frankly, that luck ain't got any better so far. If had a way out I would have used it by now."

"You lie. Your friend used a device to leave, he would not have left you stranded. You have another." Crap. This guy knew a hell of a lot for an infected stooge.

"Look pal, you got the wrong guy. I just got off the train at the wrong stop, that's all."

I noticed they had all taken a step closer to me.

"Help us leave and you will be rewarded," he cooed.

"Rewarded? How," I asked, feigning interest.

"Immortality," he said savouring the word.

"Immortality is over rated I hear," I retorted.

"But _all_ my children are immortal!"

A faint breath of air drew my attention, I gazed into the blackness that was its source. The smell was overpowering, the reek of sweat, fear and death. A figure squatted there in the shadow, its formless bulk looming over us all, the Hostroth. The voice was a small town middle aged man, the words were that of the thing crouching in the gloom.

"Perhaps you can be persuaded to help my child," he rasped. White strands strayed toward me from the darkness.

My hands strayed through my pockets, my usual effects were gone. No pistol, no Bowie, not so much as a medicine bag. Then, my fingers touched on the loose rifle rounds lying forgotten in my jacket pocket.

This thing had figured out it's captors had a way in and out of the cage. There was no way I could let it get out. I glanced up at the metal staircase which lead to the main floor and hopefully freedom. I needed a distraction.

I dumped the handful of rounds onto the fire and hit the deck. I could feel the floor flexing as they stepped towards me. The ammunition lit the place up like the fourth of July, bullets ricocheting off the drum and out onto the platform. The flash of the powder momentarily blinding my captors.

Seizing the moment, I leapt up the stairs. The door at the top gave way to my shoulder and once through, I pulled over a large metal cupboard, blocking any pursuit.

All pretence at stealth gone, I heaved a chair through a window and jumped. Despite a rough landing (never my strong suit) I ran for all I was worth.

I had got maybe twenty yards when the charge went off.

A large unseen hand smacked me hard from behind, knocking me off my feet and face down into the dirt once more. I rolled over, ears ringing from the concussion, to see the building fold in upon itself. The dust cloud hung high in the air, I made a mental note not to breath any of that in, just in case.

The Dodge was where I had left it. My heart sank when I saw the trunk was slightly ajar. I tore it open and confirmed my worst fear. The hall pass was gone.

Fortunately the thief had left the remaining contents undisturbed. I lugged out the Tommy gun and a .45 pistol. Again my eyes caught the box of paperwork, again I put it to the back of my mind.

My eyes caught a glimpse of stains on the roadway. I would have described it as a blood trail had it not been green. That grey suited bastard had gotten away, but at a price. As a great man once said, "If it bleeds, you can kill it."

The big V8 grumbled into life, window down, I followed the trail, headlamps picking out the way. If he got out of this hell hole before me, I was stuck here for the rest of my life. Admittedly that would not constitute a long time considering the neighbourhood.

As I rolled through the streets, I could see the infected stumbling out after me. The boss was dead but they were still kicking and still hungry.

The trail of blood, if that indeed what it was, led back to the town square and the black monolith.

A figure stood before it, a hellish combination of man and insect. The townsfolk had torn nearly half his disguise away leaving his insect aspect in plain view. His hands, for want of a better term, worked feverishly over a set of controls which seemed to be made of light and floating in the air before him. The hall pass sat at his feet.

I pulled up a short distance away and strode toward him, Tommy gun at the hip. He spoke without turning.

"You are too late. I am shutting the project down and leaving. I suggest you take your own life and spare yourself any unnecessary suffering."

"Not happening Bug," I informed him, "Give me the hall pass or you die, right her, right now."

He made a noise which I think was laughter.

"That weapon cannot harm me," he stated flatly.

Stepping round him, I took aim at the door to city hall. The machine gun kicked in my hands as I put two long bursts into the hinges. Then I spent the rest of the ammunition peppering the door, shredding the barring spell as I did so. After the gunfire, the silence was deafening. Low groans and the faint creaking of tortured wood broke the moment. I dropped the empty tommy gun to the sidewalk

Pale figures burst from the darkness, rushing past me towards the insect man.

"That's for killing the Kid," I whispered.

He tried to run, despite his injuries. The crowd brought him down and then the screaming started.

I scooped up the hall pass and trudged back to the waiting Dodge. The drive to the edge of town was uneventful. I sat in quiet contemplation of the device that was my salvation. The glyphs danced enigmatically across its black glassy surface. The Doc had mentioned adjustments before he left. I cautiously tapped at a couple of the symbols which danced across the surface in response to my touch. I quickly realised I was like a monkey trying to program a computer. It was time to go.

I sat the Dodge in the middle of the road and floored it. The needle climbed up the speedo as I powered towards the barrier. I felt the resistance as I hit and the steering went light. Outside it got real dark, real quick. Then with a flash like creation itself, the twenty first century burst into existence around me.

A sea of blue lights and barriers enveloped me and I stood on the brakes hard. I somehow how managed to prevent embedding myself in a fire truck.

I stepped from the vehicle as a wave of dizziness hit me. The uniforms running toward me caught me as I fell. That was the last thing I remember.

**Chapter Twelve:** Ouroboros.

I came to in the back of an ambulance with a medic shining a torch in my eyes. I batted his hands away and sat up.

"So, you made it out then?" said a familiar voice.

The Doc's beaming face swam into focus. He slapped me on the shoulder, turning his head so I wouldn't see him palm a tear from his eye.

"You had us worried for a moment there. When the engine didn't follow the express through I assumed something had gone wrong," he pushed up his glasses to rub his eyes again. I looked at my watch before realising the folly of it.

"The bug blew up the engine and killed the Kid. I couldn't stop him," I let out a long breath.

"What became of our extra terrestrial friend may I ask?" he asked, as I sat upright, popping a couple of painkillers the Doc handed me.

"Oh, he ran into some townsfolk, they showed him some Seward's Ridge hospitality," I smiled weakly.

"Dare I ask about the creature?" he asked, eyes closed.

I placed my balled fists together, then spread my fingers suddenly.

The Doc shook his head , his lips pursed in disapproval.

I gestured past him at the train surrounded by a sea of first responders, bathed in flashing lights.

"The passengers, they okay?" he nodded.

"Special Agent Herriot's bravery saved almost three hundred lives John. Including my own. The passengers all awoke the moment the train pierced the barrier. For the life of me I can't figure out why. Most are off to hospital, no serious issues mercifully."

The Doc helped me down from the ambulance. An area the size of three football fields was surrounded in police barriers, patrolled by armed Marines some in full respirators and chemical suits.

"Doc, what's with the circus, how long behind you was I?"

"It was nearly two hours before you showed up John," came a voice from behind me.

I turned to come face to face with Septimus White, the Director himself. I was honoured.

He towered over me at six two, rake thin, his jet black hair slicked back as always. His strong features set off by his dark suit and overcoat.

"You always did like to make an entrance," he grinned before hugging me like the brother to me he was.

"Sorry for the fuss but when a train materialises from thin air onto the busiest commuter track on the east coast, people notice. Phone calls get made. We're calling it a chemical spill. Amtrac are furious. You know how it is." He drew me a long look.

"I almost forgot to thank you for returning government property."

"Huh," I replied.

"Special Agents Herriot's Dodge. Did you inspect the contents?" He fixed me with that gaze he must have used when he a Miskatonic Professor back in the day. The gaze that said, you better know answer pal or it's your ass.I hated it when he did that.

"I had other things on my mind Septimus. Ancient monsters, alien bugs, town full of zombies. You know how it is," the sarcasm didn't go down well.

"I was of course referring to the box of files in the trunk. Marcus tells me Agent Herriot was transporting then for Mister Hagen. I suggest you take a look." He led the way through the bustle of firemen, cops and paramedics to a large blue tent discretely guarded by several large men in suits. They nodded to Septimus and swept the door open for him. Inside harsh lighting hung above a table with several familiar items including the remnants of the |Dodge's armoury, the small and large hall passes and lastly the box of files I has so consistently ignored.

"How's your Japanese Marcus?" asked Septimus, passing him a slim folder from the box.

"To my eternal shame a little rusty," he confessed, adjusting his glasses. He pored over the file in near silence. When I say, near silence, I mean he uttered the occasional, "oh my Lord" or "unbelievable".

Abruptly he slammed the document down turning to face me and Septimus, his face pale.

"Do you know what this means?" he croaked.

I turned to Septimus, who merely nodded solemnly. Damn academics.

I held my hands up in mock surrender.

"Doc, it's been a long crappy day. Why not cut a guy a break huh?"

"Oh, of course, sorry," he took a long breath, which was my cue to grab a nearby plastic seat and fish through my pockets for my flask. Much to my disgust, it was still empty.

"These documents are marked with the symbol for the Imperial Japanese Military Intelligence. In particular, the Spirits of the Ancestors program," he paused as my brain wheels started to turn. SoTA, yeah, Japanese sorcerers from the war. Mean bastards too I remember.

At that, I got a whiff of cologne and a small shape swept up to Septimus with a tray of coffee.

"Director, your coffee, "cooed the Troll. I couldn't resist waving him over. Snatching up a cup of joe, I gave him my best smile.

"Thanks Agent Troll, I mean Tollan right?" his gaze spoke of disgust and hatred. Septimus dismissed with with a gesture. I waved him bye bye as he stomped out, glowering over his shoulder at me.

"Sorry Doc, you were saying," I took a grateful sip of the hot drink. I could feel the caffeine firing off synapses long inactive.

"Anyway," he continued, "These files were recovered from a temple complex near Osaka late 1945. They detail travel orders made 10th August that year for a named VIP and his entourage. A captured Dutch merchant ship was used to evacuate personnel and material towards China." I didn't like where this was going.

"Septimus, if the Doc is right, that was after you had Truman nuke two cities to kill, you know who," he only nodded in reply.

"He is clearly named in the orders John, Tamashii Taberu," he turned the file toward me, perhaps forgetting he was talking to someone who struggled to read his own handwriting. A cold feeling crept into my chest and gripped my heart.

"What did you say?" I whispered.

"His name John, Tamashii Taberu. Roughly speaking, He Who Gorges Himself on Souls. Souleater."

"Damn. Septimus, the report I made about vampires in Boston. The one who penetrated DHS, he called his boss Tamashii Taberu. I knew that name was familiar. The son of a bitch is alive!"

"John," Septimus interrupted my departure,"That information hasn't reached me yet. Let me make a call," he drew a cell phone from his coat and stepped away, barking orders at the poor soul on the other end.

He snapped the phone shut, stepping back to the table.

"John, why were you both on that train?" his eyes betrayed his concern he kept from his voice.

"You sent me a text the night I called in the vampire attacks, telling me to get the Doc and travel to New York. You specifically said use the train," his concern was catching, now I was too.

"John, your call came in this evening. I haven't sent you any such text. What is going on here?" He grabbed a passing suit, "Get Professor Bayliss in here, now."

"Septimus," I asked, "What day is it?" I shut my eyes dreading the answer.

"Tuesday," he frowned at me, then glanced at his watch, " nearly ten pm."

I stuck out my hand, "Give me your cell phone." He obliged, still frowning.

I scrolled down to my number and sent " **Get Marcus. Take Boston train to NYC. Hurry ;-)".**

The gangly figure of Professor Lawrence Harold Bayliss stumbled over the threshold as Septimus reclaimed his cell from me. He grinned broadly at the sight of the Doc and myself. After a raft of handshakes and back slapping, his eyes were drawn to the hypnotic swirls of the hall passes. He cradled the smaller hall pass in his arms like a child. I could see his mind reeling at the possibilities of fresh MiGo tech to play with.

"Hey Bayliss," I addressed my old friend, "Take a seat while I tell you all about time travel."

"I'm afraid that will have to wait John. I am restoring you to active duty with immediate effect. No more hiding in the basement, " he smiled grimly.

"Okay, so now what? Am I heading to Boston to look for Souleater?" I asked standing to leave.

"Not exactly, we need to bring in a specialist in the subject. I happen to know exactly where you can find one," again the smile. That always made me nervous.

"A specialist? Where the hell will I find one of those?" He kept smiling, then the penny dropped.

"A pilot of our mutual acquaintance, who is currently residing in certain federal prison in Virginia, I'll call ahead and let them know you are coming," he raised his cell phone to his ear.

Luther Hagen.

Aww crap.

The End

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