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Original art by Rob Pegler.

Chapter 1

Keep runnin', keep runnin'
You can't make a stand
They're comin' to find you
With blood on their hands

No bullet can stop 'em
No fire or steel
The man they call Molech
The Filth at his heels

~ Old folk song
Rose County, 1844

When they found Tracey, she'd been dead less than ten minutes.

She was lying on her back, amidst the splintered wreckage of the kitchen table where she did readings for her clients. The rest of the apartment was relatively untouched, apart from the shattered door and the bookcase in the living room, the shelves broken and collapsed in a way which suggested she'd been thrown against them. Books on Reiki and palmistry were scattered across the floor alongside cracked CD cases and animal figurines. Even from across the room, the neighbour who found Tracey knew she was dead. Her limbs were twisted—her right arm was later found to be broken in two places—and her face was a mass of lacerations and bruises. Her head was tilted back, blackened eyeballs staring into oblivion, chestnut hair tangled across the bloodied floor tiles. Amulets and protective charms were scattered across the floor, though whether they'd been grabbed in haste in a vain attempt to defend herself, or merely overturned in the struggle, no one could say. Her mouth was gaping wide open, as though she'd died screaming. There was frost on her lips.

The eventual autopsy created more questions than it answered. The black eyeballs suggested a hemorrhage, but no internal bleeding was found. Aside from the broken bones and bruises, the only injury was a criss-crossing lattice of red marks, like rope burns, around her face and neck. But strangulation wasn't what had killed her. The coroner eventually recorded "heart failure" as cause of death, which was the best explanation he could offer. All indications were that, against all logic, her heart had frozen solid inside her body.

Witnesses were hard to come by. There were inconsistent accounts of a struggle overheard by the neighbours, and of two people spotted leaving the scene. When asked for a description, most of the witnesses were unable to remember a single detail. The only one who did provided the police with only a single characteristic: "They were . . . dark."

The investigation was dropped less than a week later.

The text message hit Meliad's cellphone at 4:23 AM. The ringer was turned off, but the vibration hummed through the desk so that Mel—slumbering in whatever sub-coporeal reality she entered when she melted into the wood—was dully aware of it.

She emerged three hours later, morphing into flesh and blood atop the desk, and swung her feet around to slip to the floor. Pulling on the green satin robe she kept draped over her office chair, she padded wearily across the office to start the coffee maker. Only when she had a steaming mug of caffeinated beverage in her hand did she return to the desk, open up the top drawer, and pull out the cellphone to check her messages.

After an extended period of silence, she took another hasty sip from the cup, put it down on the edge of the desk, and made her way upstairs at a fast walk.

She knocked on Gabe's bedroom door three times before giving up and going straight in. He was slumped on top of the rumped duvet, still wearing his clothes from the previous night. He'd managed to get his boots off before falling into bed, but was still wearing his gun. His eyes were closed, his face half-buried in the pillow. Mel crossed to the bedside, cellphone in hand.

"Gabe," she said.

He didn't respond.

"Gabe."

Gabe snorted and pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

"Gabe, this didn't work on me when you were fifteen, and you were a lot better at it back then."

Gabe opened one eye. "Noted. What do you want?"

Mel held the phone in front of his face. Lifting his head slightly, he peered at the message.

heads up. molech & filth seen
near brownwood, moving SE.
mite b on way 2 roseburg.
~ Weir

Gabe opened his other eye. "Aw, fuck."

Mel nodded, putting the phone away. "I'll get you some coffee."

Will Grey was sprawled on his sofa in t-shirt and rumpled jeans, a piece of jammy toast in his mouth, thumbing through the book in his lap with a slightly exasperated air. The book was actually a thick plastic folder, containing scanned copies of an old handwritten journal dating back to the mid-seventeenth century. It held several hundred pages, penned by at least three dozen people over a period of three hundred and fifty years. The pages were contained in plastic sleeves, laid out more or less in the chronological order in which they were written. One thing it didn't contain, to Will's growing frustration, was an index.

He kept flipping pages. He knew it was in here somewhere.

Nine pages later, he finally found it. Sitting up on the couch, he bit off a chunk of the toast and munched slowly while he read the heading at the the top of the page, written in a bold flourishing script: "Molech and the Filth ~ Bratislava, 1876."

When he'd finished reading the entry, three pages and seven minutes later, the half-eaten piece of toast was still in his hand. Quickly finishing it off, he rose from the sofa and tucked the folder under his arm, making his way out of the apartment to the office down the hall.

Mel was at her desk, poring over two books at once while simultaneously checking information on her computer. Gabe's weapon cabinet was open, various guns and blades laid out on the desk, but he was nowhere to be seen. Will approached Mel, holding out the journal. "Um, listen—"

Mel looked up. "Oh, there it is. Thanks." Snatching the journal from him, she laid it on the desk and began thumbing through it. "Damn it, I need to index this thing."

Will nodded. "Yeah. Um . . ." Leaning over, he turned several pages at once until he found the entry again. "It's there."

"Thanks," Mel replied, without looking up.

"So . . ." Will sat down. "They're really coming here?"

"Looks that way. There've been six sightings between here and Dolmen in the last week. They're definitely going somewhere, and this is the biggest town in their path."

"So they might just be passing through?" Will suggested.

"Hope so." Mel sounded unconvinced.

"Shit."

"Yep."

Will's eyes strayed over the page, upside down on the desk in front of him. "Demon assassins." It didn't matter how many times he said it, it didn't sound any less cool.

"More or less."

"So somebody pissed off the wrong dark lord?" Will suggested. "Stepped on a few talons?" He knew he was grinning like a moron, he just didn't seem to be able to stop.

"Not exactly." Mel was leaning over the journal, making notes on a jotter pad. "Molech and the Filth don't work for anyone. Or anything, for that matter. They're outside of any demonic hierarchy, if there is one. Their only loyalty is to the cause."

"What cause?"

"The wrong one."

"Ah." Will pulled a chair over and sat down. "Have you ever seen them?"

Mel glanced up, slightly exasperated. "No. Never met anyone who has. But Gabe's great-great-great . . ." Her voice trailed off as she counted generations in her head. ". . . great-grandmother had a run-in with them, in the seventeenth century."

"In Bratislava?"

"Yeah," Mel nodded. "Cost her three fingers and her left leg."

"They didn't kill her?"

Mel shrugged. "They weren't after her. She just got in their way." She turned a page in the journal. "And you don't have to piss anyone off, either. Molech and the Filth work in more of a . . . preventative capacity."

"Sorry?"

Mel looked up. "They kill you for what you're going to do."

Will digested this, and stopped smiling. "So where's Gabe?" he asked.

Gabe was on the roof, throwing things.

One of the advantages of being the only tenants in a technically derelict building was the freedom to make use of space as you saw fit. Apart from the office on the third floor and the two apartments occupied by Gabe and Will, the Fisher Building had nine other rooms and most of them were empty. Mel used one of the larger ones for storage, and another had been converted into a makeshift holding cell in the late Seventies when Gabe's father had had reason to hold a lycanthrope in captivity for several days. A few years later, when money got tight, he'd removed the silver bars on the window and replaced them with iron ones.

As for the rooftop, it was flat and open and had stairwell access, which made it as good a place as any for a training area. At one end was a makeshift gymnasium of sorts, boasting an odd collection of home-built wood-and-metal devices for sitting up, pulling up and curling down. The center of the roof had been painted with a wide circle which served as a sparring ring, in which Gabe had recieved most of his early combat training from his father, and still had a couple of scars to prove it.

When Mel emerged from the stairwell, Gabe was at the range on the far side of the roof. The wall of the adjacent building, an ugly expanse of faded yellow brick, rose a full storey above the rooftop and served as a backdrop to a small and much-abused collection of standing targets. Facing this at a short distance was a chipped wooden table, upon which Gabe had laid an assortment of throwing weapons. As Mel approached across the sparring circle, he picked up a silver throwing knife and—barely pausing—sent it spinning across the roof to embed itself in a rectangular wooden board.

"You throw like a girl," Mel commented, coming alongside him.

"Mmm-hmm," Gabe responded, reaching for a second knife.

Mel moved behind him, looking over the objects on the table, and picked up a nine-inch throwing axe. "Heard back from Cobb," she said, turning it over and examining the edge.

"And?" Gabe asked, throwing the second knife.

"Last sighting was in a field near Highway 18, heading dead southeast." Mel moved around beside him, testing the axe's weight in her hand. "They're definitely on their way here. Fourteen hours or so at walking speed." Drawing back a long slender arm, she sent the axe whistling through the air to bury its edge in the center of the board, between Gabe's knives.

He glanced sideways at her, then picked up a steel throwing dart. "What's Cobb doing?"

"Playing it down so Roseburg's Finest doesn't get skittish," Mel replied. "Last thing anybody needs is a bunch of idiot cops getting in their way and dying for nothing." She watched the dart leave Gabe's hand and hit the wood, just above the buried tip of the axe. With a soft sigh, she leaned over to pick up a trio of throwing stars.

"I don't know," Gabe replied, scratching his unshaven chin. "Enough cops turn enough firepower on them . . ."

"People have turned flamethrowers on them, Gabe. They've been blown up at least once, according to semi-reliable witnesses." Lifting her arm, she hurled the first star across the roof. "Nothing short of a nuclear warhead's going to stop them, and even that's an untested theory." The second star followed the first, briefly catching the sunlight as it went. "Slowing them down," she concluded, aiming with the third, "is as good as you're going to get." With a flick of her wrist, she threw the third star. Gabe raised his eyebrows as it landed in the wood with its two companions, surrounding the knives, axe and dart in an almost perfect triangle.

With a grunt, Gabe picked up another knife. "I guess we just keep an eye on them, then. Try to figure out who they're after." The knife left his hand in a blur, struck the blunt edge of the throwing axe, and bounced into the air with a resounding clang. The pair watched impassively as it tumbled over the roof in a gentle arc and vanished over the parapet, falling to the street below. Avoiding Mel's stare, Gabe moved towards the stairwell.

"So shall we talk about the thing we'd rather not talk about?" Mel asked, following him.

"Which thing's that?" said Gabe. "I've got a list."

"The possibility that they're coming for you."

Gabe paused at the top of the stairwell, but only for a second. "Ah. That thing." He started down the stairs.

"It's worth considering," Mel insisted, right behind him. "Molech and the Filth haven't been seen in these parts for what, over a hundred years? Then you come back and start capping vampires and assorted uglies all over town, and suddenly they're adding Roseburg to the World Tour."

"I've been back for nine months, Mel."

"And they're never in a hurry," she countered, as they passed the fourth floor landing. "Point still stands. What do we do if you're next on their list?"

Gabe seemed to mull this over on his way down the next flight. "Buy a plot?"

"I'm serious, Gabe."

"Me too," said Gabe, emerging in the third floor corridor. "You said they're unstoppable. And they've never quit chasing a mark. If they're on my trail, my options are pretty limited." Coming to the office door, he reached for the handle. "Spend the rest of my short life running, or stay here and wait for—"

Mel slipped her hand over the door handle before he could grasp it, stopping him in his tracks. "No," she said quietly. "If they're coming for you, you run. Get out of town, get an ocean between you and them. Run like hell and don't look back."

Gabe looked sideways at her. "And you?"

"I stay here," Mel replied earnestly, "and try to slice enough pieces off them to give you a decent head start."

With a sigh, Gabe gently removed her hand from the door. "Let's not start planning the last stand just yet," he said, opening the door. "We don't even know why they're here."

The house was in an uproar when I awoke. I heard several voices downstairs, which I assumed to be those of the servants. Though I could not understand the words—my command of the Slovak tongue is woefully inadequate, even if I could have heard them clearly—it was apparent that the household staff were greatly distressed. I feared some awful tragedy had occurred, and immediately thought of my husband.

As I emerged from the guest room, one of the maids almost collided with me, skirts held up as she hurried along the corridor. I tried to question her, to discover what was happening downstairs, but she spoke no English, and in any case she clearly had no time for conversation. As she dashed off in the direction of Doctor Kristan's chamber, I made my way to the staircase to investigate the disturbance myself.

The valet met me halfway down the stairs, his face gaunt and filled with a terror he was clearly hard-put to suppress. I should note that this was the first instance, in the entire three weeks of our visit, that I had witnessed that good man displaying the merest hint of emotion. In faltering English, he related the situation to me. Two creatures—netvor was the word he used—were approaching the house from the northeast, making their way through the woods. They had been seen by the girl from the kitchen, who had run back to the house in a near-delerious panic. One walked as a man, she claimed, while the other stalked on four bony limbs like a beast. By her account, the birds and animals in the woods were fleeing from the creatures' path as they came. The groundskeeper had already taken two of his boys and his shotgun, and made into the woods to apprehend the intruders before they came within sight of the house. Even as the valet told me this, the distant blast of a gunshot sounded over the grounds.

It was at this moment that Doctor Kristan appeared at the top of the stairs, hastily and clumsily dressed, one thin hand clutching the bannister even as the other fumbled with the dusty old flintlock snatched from the mantle in his chamber. Behind him came the maid I had seen earlier, fussing about as she tried unsuccessfully to shoo the old man back to his bed. "I was born in this house," he declared, as the valet hurried upstairs to help the maid, "and I shall die defending it! There is none other who can . . ." That was the last I heard, as the two servants bustled the poor man back along the corridor.

Those final words lingered with me, however, for I knew Doctor Kristan was right. There was none other who could defend the house, not against invaders such as these. It should be noted that though a dull, gnawing terror was growing inside me, it was not for myself or the good doctor that I feared—it was for my husband, three days absent from the estate. There had been no word of him, nor of the men who rode with him, since their departure in the early hours of Sunday morning. Yet the arrival of these dark creatures upon our doorstep served as an omen in itself, for I had little doubt that these were the very fiends that my husband had gone to hunt.

And so, in his absence, I resolved to take what measures I could.

Hurrying back to the guest room, I dressed as quickly as I could manage, and untidily fastened back my hair. Unlocking the trunk, I gathered up the two pistols my husband had left me, with powder and ammunition, and the silver Bowie knife. Around my neck I hung the larger crucifix, offering up a hasty but heartfelt prayer as I did so; I also took the flask of holy water, and the bag of salt. Thus armed, I made my way back down the stairs to meet the vile things upon the doorstep, and give whatever resistance it was within my power to offer . . ."

~ Personal account of Jessamine Pope
Bratislava, 1876
(taken from the Pope Family Journal)

By ten-thirty the sun was shining brightly on the cream-coloured north face of the Renfield Building, the stylish apartment tower at the edge of the city's central business district. Many of the residents were at work, though a few—given to a more nocturnal lifestyle—were still slumbering.

At ten-thirty-one, the private elevator on the east side of the building reached the thirty-first floor with a musical ding, and the doors slide open with a muted humming of well-oiled gears. Two figures alighted, one confident and nonchalant, the other noticeably on edge. Without a word, they started up the winding staircase with the red bannister, leading to the heart of the building's lavish penthouse.

Sasha, as usual, was outside the master bedroom. There was really no need for her to be, as the bedroom's occupant had often pointed out to her, since any intruder who made it to the bedroom would first have had to circumvent dozens of security and surveillance devices, not to mention numerous booby-traps and the regiment of security guards a couple of floors down. But Sasha was a loyal creature, for all her dangerous instablilities, and had more than a touch of the animal in her. Thus, for the last fifty years, she had made it her custom to sleep on the floor outside her master's door. His sleep, as a result, was seldom disturbed.

She was curled up there now, barefoot and dressed in a loose shirt and pants, gleaming white in the dim lit of the corridor. As the door at the far end opened and the two figures from the elevator emerged, Sasha raised her head a little, peering at them through long blonde hair. The light from the open door caught a glimmer of steel as she grasped the long dagger beneath her shoulder.

She relaxed as the newcomers approached, rising into a sitting position. She smiled through her fangs at the foremost of the two, raising her hand to greet him. He was a tall, imposing figure in a sleek Italian suit, blonde hair cut close to his scalp. He reached out to take Sasha's hand, their fingers briefly interlocking. "Kolya," she whispered. Her glittering crimson eyes turned to the other visitor, who was hanging back a third of the way along the corridor. He was a shorter, somewhat dishevelled individual in a black coat and jeans, with dark hair and an unshaven jaw. He tensed as her hungry gaze moved over him. "Have you brought me a toy?" Sasha asked.

Kolya's lips twitched in what, on anyone else, might have been called a smile. "No, my love. The little morsel has news for Johannes."

Sasha was still eyeing the man, who looked ready to turn and run back to the door. "Can I have him afterwards?"

"Please, Sasha," Kolya sighed. "Let's not frighten the poor thing. Come along, Deagle." He turned and extended an arm. "My sister likes her little jokes, but she knows better than to harm anyone on the payroll."

Inspector Jeremy Deagle moved forward uncertainly, ready to turn and flee at any moment. Sasha rose gracefully to her feet, the knife held casually in one hand, stepping to one side as he approached the tall ebony door. He flinched as she reached over to brush her slender fingers through his hair, but Kolya placed an iron hand on his shoulder and ushered him through the door before he could react.

The room beyond the door was large, circular, and a testament to bad taste. Surrounded by fell-length windows around half of its circumference—now covered by fibreglass panels printed with Japanese tapestry designs—it boasted a large dome painted with a copy of the Creation of Adam, and a central sunken floor, about half the radius of the room itself, accessible by three concentric marble steps. The room was hung with purple satin curtains and sixties pop art, alongside porcelain animal sculptures and a polar bear floor rug. Above Deagle's head, speakers placed abound the ceiling were piping out a piece of music which, had he been of a more cultured background, he might have recognised as coming from Monteverdi's L'Orfeo. The room was lit by dim circular light fixtures around the edge of the dome. There was no bed, as least as far as he could see.

He jumped a little as Kolya closed the door, leaving Sasha outside. The tall vampire came to stand alongside the man, hands folded in front of him, apparently waiting.

A moment later there was a humming of hidden mechanisms, and the base of the sunken floor slid gently to one side. As it vanished, a platform beneath slowly elevated to take its place as the central floor of the room, the lights coming up automatically as it did so. On the platform was a large circular bed, draped with red satin sheets and large, oddly-shaped pillows. Deagle had half-expected the bed to be heart-shaped.

There were two figures in the bed, one already sitting up. Johnny Fantôme—presently dressed in a pair of silk pyjama pants—rose from his bed with a nonchalant air, causing a slight ripple across the mattress. Of course it's a waterbed, Deagle thought, though he declined to speculate on whether it was actually filled with water. Behind him, the slender Chilean girl who presently shared his gaudy accomodations turned over, uncovered above the waist, and smiled up at Deagle as she stretched languidly across the undulating mattress. He forced himself to keep his eyes on her face, wondering if he should smile back. Her eyes were big and chocolate brown, and he realised with some surprise that she was just as human as he was.

"See something you like, Jeremy?" Fantôme smiled, making his way up the steps.

Deagle started and lowered his eyes. "Uh . . . no, Mr Fantôme." The girl in the bed sat up and pouted at him, dark curls falling across her shoulders as she leaned over her knees.

He cringed as Fantôme passed by him, heading for an ivory cabinet on the far side of the room. Deagle's eyes were drawn to the vampire's naked torso, lean and well-developed (he was in excellent shape for a four hundred and three year old) but marred by several faded scars. He had at least one old bullet wound in his shoulder, and a couple of the other scars looked to have been made by sword blades. A puncture wound just to the left of his spine was mirrored by another on his stomach, suggesting that he'd once been run through. Deagle preferred not to think about it.

"So," Fantôme said brightly, opening the cabinet. "I take it you haf information important enough to disturb me at dis time of der morning?"

"Uh, yessir," Deagle mumbled. "I do." His eyes strayed to one side, where the girl was climbing out of the other side of the bed, not bothering to cover herself as she did so. There were fresh fang marks on her shoulder, the skin discoloured and smeared with dried blood.

"Vell?" Fantôme turned, an empty brandy glass held in one hand. "Spit it out, man. You didn't come all der vay up here just to stare at Aurora's bottom, did you?"

Deagle's eyes snapped back to the front with military precision. "Um, no Mr Fantôme. I, uh . . ." There was an awkward pause as he tried to locate his train of thought. "You asked me to keep you informed of anything coming through the police channels. Anything involving-"

Fantôme gestured impatiently with the glass. "Yes, yes. Vot is it?"

Clearing his throat, Deagle kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke. "Inspector Cobb got a call this morning. On his, erm, private line. I'm pretty sure it came from Gabriel Pope's office. I got the name 'Molech,' if that means anything."

Fantôme glanced at Kolya. "I see."

"It's not just Pope, either." Deagle went on. He was uncomfortably aware of Aurora passing behind him, still naked, making her way towards the well-appointed ensuite to the left of the entrance. "We're hearing the name popping up all over the place. Whoever he is, he's arriving in town tonight, and it's got people spooked. There's occult groups and websites lighting up—"

"Yes," Fantôme sighed. He turned and reached for a crystal decanter in the cabinet, half-full of a deep red liquid. "Mr Molech und his . . . erstwhile companion do tend to have dat effect. Thank you for bringing dis to my attention, Jeremy," he added, pouring the liquid into the brandy glass. "Sasha vill show you to der elevator."

Deagle's face paled, but Kolya was already guiding him firmly towards the door. He looked back helplessly as he was propelled out into the corridor, the door closing behind him.

"Und so." Fantôme took a reflective sip from his glass. "Dis confirms it."

Kolya turned from the door with a nod. "They'll probably hit town just after midnight. Word's starting to spread. The other bosses will know soon, if they don't already."

"Any vord on a target?"

"Never is."

Fantôme nodded. "Thank you, Kolya. You'd best go und make sure your sister hasn't eaten poor Jeremy on der vay to der elevator."

As the door closed behind his henchman, Fantôme quietly moved toward the ensuite where Aurora was leaning over the sink, dabbing at her latest bite with a cotton ball. Noticing him at the door, she flashed her beautiful smile at him over her bloodied shoulder. She'd been sharing the penthouse with him for over six months, longer than any of his other human mistresses had lasted, and Fantôme had to admit that he'd grown uncharacteristically attached to her. He'd even considered the possibility of making good on his promise to turn her, risky though it was. He certainly wouldn't have minded waking up to that smile for a few more decades, though he suspected he wouldn't find it quite so appealing with fangs . . .

With a sigh, he gently closed the ensuite door. "I take it you already knew?" he said to the empty bedroom.

"I've known since yesterday." The voice whispered across the room, from the darkened curve of the east wall.

Fantôme rested his gaze on the bed, deliberately avoiding looking directly at the figure by the wall. There was a faint gleam of long white hair, and two red eyes glittering from the shadows. "Und . . . do you know who dey're coming for?"

"Not even the Fates themselves are privy to the dealings of Molech and the Filth." There was a faintly amused tone in the visitor's silken voice. "But I have theories."

Fantôme took another sip. "Should I be concerned?"

The glittering eyes turned in his direction. "You? I hardly think the Hidden Powers would wish to call in your marker so soon. Besides, it would be most inconvenient."

The vampire boss kept his eyes lowered, hoping the visitor couldn't read his thoughts.

"Don't trouble yourself, Johannes. Business as usual."

And once again, Fantôme was alone in the room.

He started, ever so slightly, as the door behind him opened, but relaxed as a pair of long, languid arms wrapped themselves around his shoulders, a warm body resting against his back. "Who are you talking to, Johnny?" Aurora sighed into his ear.

"No vun, dear." Fantôme patted her arm with a cold, shaking hand. "No vun at all."

Chapter 2

Keep runnin', keep runnin'
Your life's on a thread
They’ll never let up
'Till they’ve taken your head
They’ll follow 'cross oceans
There’s no place to hide
The beast they call Molech
The Filth by his side

The South Bank dockyards were the oldest in Rose County. Established when the city of Roseburg was a tiny copper mining settlement, they were used by the riverboats that took ore, lumber and settlers back and forth between the towns that clung haphazardly to the crooked edge of the river.

The vampires had been there then, and they were there now.

Like most lairs, the headquarters of the Uvyadayasvet clan were mainly below street level. Some of the rooms and tunnels that made up the clan’s subterranean nerve center had been built by human hands, the remains of old basements and storage rooms from buildings long since levelled. Others had been carved out by the vampires themselves, connecting and expanding on buried chambers that men had long ago forgotten There were three entrances, all of them hidden, only two of them accessible to anyone who couldn’t go more than a few minutes without oxygen.

Sverchok and Volk entered through the sewer entrance, at the south end. The ghouls watching the entrance let them pass without any harassment—the pair were well known here, even if they were not official members of the Uvyadayasvet. The numerous vampires they encountered in the narrow tunnels stood aside to let them pass, the skinny hunched-over shape of Sverchok stalking through the darkness, with Volk’s tall lean frame bringing up the rear. They paid no attention to anyone as they wound their way through the sprawling lair, not even the armed guards standing at the entrance to their destination.

The destination was a large square room of chipped brown brick, far from any of the entrances. It was ornately and tastelessly furnished, not to mention cluttered, and seemed to double as an office and a storage space for illegal contraband. The centerpiece of the room was a huge oak desk, beside which were stacked several boxes of knockoff running shoes and rifle ammunition. Beside the door was a wooden milking stool upon which sat a sickly-looking old man in a hospital gown, tethered to the wall by a slim gold chain around his neck. He kept his eyes on the floor as the pair entered, and they in turn paid no attention to him. Their eyes were on the room’s other occupant, seated behind the desk.

Vadik Orlokov briefly glanced up from the open netbook in front of him. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” Sverchok replied, “as always.” He dragged a high-backed chair closer to the desk and sat down. Volk, true to form, remained on his feet.

Vadik looked from one to the other, and slowly swivelled the netbook to face them. The image on the screen was a video playback, slightly distorted, transmitted from a cellphone. It showed a high angle of a deserted highway, running in a straight line through flat green farmland. Two distant figures—one tall but stooped, walking on its feet, the other stalking on all fours—could be seen crossing the highway below.

“This was six hours ago,” Vadik reported. “When I called you.”

Sverchok eyed the screen with a yellow-fanged smile. “Gracious me,” he breathed. “The boys really are back in town.”

Vadik pushed the netbook closed with a snap. “They’ll be here in eight hours. Half the city’s in a panic. Vampires from all over town are fleeing through the sewers.”

“Silly critters,” said Sverchok. “Why would they be coming for a vampire?”

“We don’t know who they’re coming for,” Vadik retorted. “They take who they take. Fangs notwithstanding. And with things . . . the way they are, one can never be too sure.”

He looked up as the door opened again, and another figure entered the room. The posture of all those present—especially the old man on the stool—shifted slightly as the newcomer lumbered across to the desk, his hulking frame stuffed inside an ill-fitting suit. He was fingering the the curved steel hook that had lately replaced his right hand, humming tunelessly as he walked. Sverchok looked sideways as he passed, keeping his eyes on the hook. There weren’t many things in the world that made him nervous, but Jerzy Orlokov was one of them. As he came alongside the desk, he dragged the tip of the hook along one edge, leaving a faint scar in the wood.

Vadik pretended not to notice. “What’s the word?”

Jerzy turned and leaned against the brick wall to the right of his brother’s chair. “The Kranitelya clan are closing up shop. Keeping all their people together at their safehouses until it passes.” He grinned, a little drop of spittle trickling into his bristling goatee. “Little puppies are afraid.”

“Let’s hope they have reason to be.” Vadik leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. “Now listen. If Molech and his pet hold true to their course, and they always do, they’ll be coming through Merrick Wood on their way into town. I want you two there when they arrive. Track them, keep tabs on them. Wherever they go, whoever gets in your way. I want to know every step they take. Understand?”

Sverchok ran his dark tongue over a gleaming yellow fang. “We won’t be the only ones.”

“That’s why I called you,” Vadik replied. “I can trust you to keep your minds on the job, yes?”

Sverchok glanced over at Jerzy, using his hook to scratch his beard. He was drawing blood, but didn’t seem to notice.

“Of course,” Sverchok replied. “They’ll have our undivided attention.”

iamurbanlegend.com presents:
Legend #187: Molech and the Filth

This is one of our favourite myths here at I Am Urban Legend, mostly because so many people believe it. We admit it’s a cool idea—a duo of demonic button men, endlessly walking the earth, crossing victims off their prescient hit list—but the believers are taking this one to the extreme. Books have been written about these two, songs have been sung, whole societies have been dedicated to them, along with a slew of websites. Our favourite is stepsofdoom.com, which has a map pinpointing the supposed location of Molech and the Filth, and their projected course, updated twenty-four hours a day (people who’ve followed it to the location on the map say they didn’t see anything, so even if they are real, that site isn’t). We’ve even found an online quiz called “Are Molech and the Filth After YOU?”

So where did it all start? Well, the legend’s at least five hundred years old, starting with a priest in Ireland who apparently failed to protect one of his parishoners from the pair in 1481. According to the enthusiasts it goes back even further than that, with rough accounts from the Dark Ages, and even ancient Rome. Some claim you can find stories about Molech and the Filth in Mesopotamian myth, and obscure translations of the Babylonian Talmud. One story says they were the first of Lilith’s children. Another claims that they were what popped out when Pandora opened the box.

But still, no solid evidence. No photos (that we can verify) no confirmed victims, no reliable witnesses. If Molech—or Moloc, or Meloch, or whichever version you like—and his little friend are out there, we congratulate them for staying off the radar for this long.

Myth: Unconfirmed
Credibility Rating: 2/10

Along the northwest edge of Roseburg was the suburb of Merrick Wood. It was named for the small forest which had stood there until the early ninteen-fifties, when the trees had been cut down to make room for curving streets and pastel houses. The intention had been to create a safe, clean neighbourhood for safe, clean families, but like most of Roseburg’s attempts at suburban development it had quickly deteriorated into cheap housing for people who couldn’t afford anything better. An overpass had been built through the middle of Merrick Wood in the seventies, flattening several houses like a lumbering monster as it went, to connect the city’s western road network with the main highway to the north. It had then been closed down for repairs in the early nineties, and never reopened. It was still there today, like a silent crumbling tombstone, standing over the rotting corpse of the neighbourhood below.

Midnight found Gabe and Mel waiting on the westernmost curve of the overpass, with a telephoto lens and a thermos of coffee.

“Should be here soon,” Mel reported, checking her watch. “Coming from thataway.” She nodded towards the northwest, where the sputtering lights of the suburb faded away into rural blackness, and pulled her green woollen coat around herself. It was autumn, and getting colder every night.

Gabe was checking the night vision setting on the camera. He glanced over at Mel blowing into her hands, and his eyes moved down to her bare feet poking out from beneath her slacks, resting on the cold cement. He wasn’t going to suggest shoes—he might as well recommend putting a bag over her head. He smirked and turned his attention back to the camera, scanning the streets and yards below.

“Hello . . .” he murmured, zooming in on a house about two hundred metres north. “Sloping roof, by the intersection.”

Mel lifted a pair of night-vision binoculars to her face, following his lead. “Oh, yeah,” she nodded, zooming in on the three huddled figures on the rooftop.

“Vampires?” Gabe asked.

“Nah. They look human.” Mel lowered her binoculars and shrugged. “Probably occultist fanboys. Couple of vampires in that empty lot down there, though.” She pointed to another street, one block over. “See them?”

“With the crossbows?”

“Yeah. There’ll be others around.” She looked through the binoculars again. “Heh. Old lady down there painting warding runes on her windows. Want some coffee?”

Gabe looked over to see her holding up the thermos. It was a faded orange in colour, stencilled with stylized pink and yellow flowers. “I’m good.”

A flatbed truck passed under the overpass, rattling its way up the street, its one working headlight illuminating the road ahead as it reached the intersection and turned left. Mel screwed the cap back on the thermos and picked up her steaming plastic cup, blowing on the surface. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

Albert was squatting in the back yard, head down over his notebook, scribbling madly with a jagged stub of pencil. Every now and then he would look up, head darting left and right like a frightened bird, and nibble at the bare chicken bone in his other hand. He glanced across the yard at Bosh and Lucky, squabbling over a dog they’d found. He wasn’t sure where Seth and Cleo were – they’d wandered off ten minutes ago, saying they were going to find something else to eat. Fucking under a hedge, probably.

Albert went back to his notebook, poring over the numbers. Five hundred and twenty-nine. Yes. He said it out loud. “Five hundred and twenty-nine.” He nibbled on the bone for a moment before adding, “Yes.”

Across the yard, Bosh shoved Lucky away, picked up what was left off the dog, and pulled its other back leg off. Lucky tried to grab hold of it, but Bosh gave him a backhander that knocked him onto his backside. Scrambling over onto his stomach, Lucky scuttled away like a cockroach, still eyeing Bosh with hatred.

“Five hundred and twenty-nine,” said Albert again, as Lucky skulked nearer. Lucky’s head swivelled around, his good eye glittering yellow in the faint light. “What?”

Albert looked up. “What?”

Lucky’s face screwed up. “What?”

Albert stared at him, bleary red eyes wavering. “Five hundred and twenty-nine.”

Lucky considered this. “Oh,” he said, and went back to watching Bosh tucking into the dog.

A strong scent caught Albert’s nostrils, but he didn’t look up. He knew that smell—dreamed about it, sometimes. Cheap perfume mixed with old blood and stale sex and unwashed lace, and a hint of strawberry bubble gum. It still aroused him, even after the thrashing he’d gotten from Seth. Seth was the Alpha, inasmuch as their little band had one, and Cleo was his.

“This sucks,” Cleo whined, slouching across the yard from the back gate. “Why are we here? This place sucks.”

Albert went on scribbling in his notebook, until Seth’s hand caught him across the side of the head. He sprawled sideways, notebook falling to the grass, loose pages scattering. Scribbled notes (mostly illegible) and numerical equations (mostly wrong) fluttered in the night breeze, alongside fanciful anatomical drawings and pornographic cartoons in the margins.

“Lady asked you a question,” Seth hissed. Off to one side, Lucky let out a stifled giggle.

Albert pulled himself up, hastily gathering the pages. “Molech and the Filth. They’re coming through here.”

Seth frowned. He was big, not as big as Bosh, but tall and wiry, and he filled whatever space you put him in. He was mean, too, and cunning, and even Bosh wouldn’t face him in a stand-up fight. “So?”

“So . . . ” Albert stuffed the pages back into the book, keeping his eyes on the battered toes of Seth’s steel-capped boots. “So, so I wanna see them. See it happen.”

Cleo was nibbling on Seth’s ear, but he ignored her. “See what happen?”

Albert nodded. “Five hundred and twenty-nine. Then, now. Five twenty-nine. This time. This is it. This time. See?”

Seth and Cleo exchanged glances, while Lucky stared at Cleo’s legs, skinny and pale in torn white stockings.

“This place sucks,” Cleo sighed.

Bosh wandered over, shoulder muscles glinting in the lamplight from over the fence, a chunk of dog hanging from his mouth. His yellow eyes were fixed on the overpass, four blocks southeast. “Hey,” he growled, through bloodied teeth. “Heeeeyyyyyyy . . .” He pointed, jittering with excitement. “HEEEEEYYYYY!!!”

Seth grimaced. “Indoor voice, Boshie. What’s up?” He followed the beefy, broken finger, and spied the distant figures on the overpass.

“It’sh dem.” Bosh spat out the piece of dog. “It’s them, man!”

Albert looked up sharply. “Them . . . ?”

“No,” Seth smiled. “Not them.”

Bosh was almost dancing, a jittery side-to-side shuffle. “It’s, it’s, it’s fucking Pope, man! And the tree girl. Pope and Tree Girl. Aw, —shit!” At his feet, Lucky had snatched the discarded lump of dog and was scuttling away with it.

“We better go,” Albert suggested.

“Fuck that,” Bosh spat. “Fuck you, fuck that. I want him.” He turned and stared at Seth, his eyes sharper than they’d been for months. “I want him. Yeah? Yeah? Let’s go. I want him.”

Seth was undecided. “He’s s’posed to be hard.”

“—I’m hard,” Bosh pointed out. “You’re hard. We’re fuckin’ well hard. Let’s go, let’s gooooo.”

Cleo rolled her head back, looking up at the little sliver of moon amongst the clouds. “No moon.”

“Fuck the moon, don’t need the moon.” The veins on Bosh’s tattooed neck were sticking out. “Let’s just go, man!”

A second-storey window opened in the house behind them. “Hey!” yelled a woman’s voice. “What are you little shits doing in my yard?”

“Fuck you!” Bosh yelled back. He looked at Seth, yellow eyes blazing. “I’m going!” And with that he took off at a run, leaping over the fence.

“Oh, shit!” the woman upstairs cried. “What the hell did you do to my dog?!”

Seth looked down at Cleo and grinned, showing his canines. “Fuck it,” he said, and ran after Bosh. Cleo followed with a shrill giggle, grabbing Lucky by the back of his jacket and propelling him along with her. Albert stayed still, crouched in the empty yard, desperately clutching his notebook.

“I’m getting my gun!” the woman upstairs shouted. With a groan, Albert jumped up to follow the others.

Three blocks to the north, in a messy bedroom, Sverchok twitched the curtain to one side and peered out, raising a detached rifle scope to his eye. Behind him Volk was standing impassively over the soon-to-be-former occupants of the house, who were bleeding out on the carpet. Volk’s eyes were on the woman at his feet, vaguely fascinated by the way she was trying to breathe through a torn-open throat. Her husband, as near as Volk could tell, was already expired.

“Aaaaaaaahhh . . .” Sverchok cooed, squinting through the scope. “Looks like our friend Mr Pope is also taking an interest. Up there on the overpass.” He licked his upper row of teeth, making a little sucking noise. “He has his bitch with him, too.”

Volk wasn’t listening. He was watching the dying woman’s hand as it pawed at the toe of his boot.

Sverchok rubbed his crimson eye, then returned to his vigil, angling the scope downwards towards the base of the overpass. “Looks like someone else has spotted them, too.” He grinned at the distant image of five ragged figures, climbing slowly up two of the crumbling concrete pillars. “I do love opportunists.”

He glanced back over his shoulder at a desperate gurgling sound coming from the floor. The woman was trying to sit up, grabbing at Volk’s leg. “Will you stop playing with that thing, Volk? Just finish it off already.”

With a shrug, Volk reached down to take the woman’s head in both hands, and nonchalantly snapped her neck.

Sverchok moved around, still peering through the scope, scanning the street between the overpass and the house. Suddenly, he stopped. “Oh, my.”

“There they are.”

Mel looked up from her coffee. “Really?”

Gabe nodded, staring at the camera display. “Two blocks west. Crossing the cul-de-sac.”

Mel hastily placed the cup of coffee on the lip of the overpass and snatched up her binoculars, scanning up the street until she found the small cul-de-sac Gabe was talking about. “Oh,” she breathed. “Wow.”

They were hard to make out, even at full magnification. There was a tall, thin figure, almost skeletal, walking at a steady but oddly lopsided gait. It was draped loosely in old, dirty clothes, covered by a ragged coat with a hood drawn up over the head. Beside it was another figure, even skinnier, this one clothed in rags. It had a strangely distorted shape—humanoid, or something approaching it, but with bony elongated limbs, longer than they ought to be. It walked hunched over on all fours, head held low to the ground, stalking along like a spider. Long, ratty hair hung in matted strands from the bowed head. Mel watched breathlessly as the pair moved out of sight behind a house, then came into view again by the corner, passing onto the main road beyond. Beside her, Gabe was already snapping photographs.

Molech and the Filth crossed the road diagonally, reached the other side, and climbed over a low fence without stopping. A few houses further up the street, the three fanboys on the roof were on their feet, cameras out.

Mel swivelled around, looking towards the lights of the city behind them. “They’ll be crossing High West Road once they get out of Merrick,” she predicted. “We can drive down and track them from there . . .”

“Aw, shit,” she heard Gabe murmur. Moving alongside him, she lifted her binoculars again. Molech and the Filth had passed over one lot and into the next, walking across the front yard of a ramshackle house covered with graffitti. The front door of the house was open, and a burly man with a shaved head and tattoos was standing on the porch, stripped to the waist, shouting something at the pair as they stalked across his path. They paid him no heed, even as he stomped his way down the steps and approached them. He was holding what looked like a crowbar in his hand. Up on the porch, a thin brown-skinned woman in her underwear watched fearfully from behind the screen door.

“Go back inside, you idiot,” Gabe hissed.

The tattooed man came up behind the pair, who were still ignoring him. With an angry shout, he lifted the crowbar and brought it down hard across Molech’s shoulders. The blow would have felled any man, but the skinny, hooded figure simply paused in his gait, half-turned and swung one bony arm around in a backhander. The tattooed man flopped to the ground, his bald head wrenched around by the blow, and lay still on the grass. The intruders carried on walking, crossing into the next yard, even as the screaming girl rushed out onto the lawn and threw herself on top of her fallen boyfriend. On the rooftop up the street, the fanboys were jumping up and down and cheering.

Mel watched the pair moving across the next side street, moving out of sight between two houses, still on a direct course towards the city. “We better get going.”

Gabe snapped a few more photos as the pair vanished. “Yeah.”

He was about to lower the camera when a blurry shape filled the viewer, popping up in front of him. Looking up, he saw a twisted yellow-eyed face staring up at him as its owner dragged himself over the lip of the overpass. Before Gabe could react, a burly clawed hand swung up and sent the camera flying. Bosh pressed his attack as Gabe reeled back, lunging forward with his canines bared.

Lucky sprang into view a second later, landing in a crouch on the ledge beside Mel. Snatching up her plastic cup of coffee, Mel tossed the steaming contents into his face. Lucky let out a yelp that quickly turned into a scream as she stepped back and kicked him in the side, sending him tumbling off the overpass to flail his way to the street far below. That was when Seth leapt up over the edge and over Mel’s head, landing on the road behind her.

Gabe jumped back as Bosh sprang, swinging a clawed hand at his face. Caught off-balance as the blow missed, the attacker had no time to recover before Gabe grabbed him by his torn denim shirt and swung a solid knee into his gut. A rib cracked, but Bosh barely seemed to noticed as he swung his elbow back at Gabe’s head, catching him a glancing blow across the cheekbone. Gabe spun around almost one hundred and eighty degrees, dropping to his knees, but when Bosh moved in for the kill he met a hastily-drawn knife coming the other way. He staggered back with a bestial roar, clawing at the silver blade as it hissed and popped inside the wound. Gabe jumped to his feet and dragged his silver baseball bat from the sheath on his back.

A few feet away Mel ducked Seth’s sweeping claws, almost folding over backwards, and came up to drive a fist into her opponent’s face. He fell back with a bloodied nose, but quickly recovered. Stepping backwards, Mel raised the .357 Derringer from her coat pocket and fired a booming round that punched through Seth’s stomach in a spray of blood. He staggered backwards but stayed on his feet until she fired the other barrel, shooting him clean through the heart. She had no time to congratulate herself before Cleo hurtled towards her, shrieking with bloodlust and rage, and caught her in a flying tackle. The two hit the lip of the overpass and went over it, dropping out into space.

Mel swung out a desperate hand, catching the edge, and yelped as the vampire below caught her around the left knee. Reluctantly dropping the Derringer, Mel managed to get both hands onto the concrete ledge above her and hold on for dear life, the hissing girl dangling from her leg.

Bosh was still upright, but not for long. Still trying to pull the silver knife from his gut, he desperately raised his other arm only to have his radius smashed by the descending bat. He dropped to one knee, arms hanging, and offered up no further resistance as the bat swung down to split his skull.

Kicking the body to the ground, Gabe turned and raised his bloodied bat to face his next attacker. The attacker stopped in his tracks, arms wrapped around a tattered notebook, and gave him a sheepish yellow-toothed smile.

Scrambling claws went through the fabric of Mel’s slacks and into her skin, opening scratches and drawing the murky amber substance which, for a dryad, passed for blood. The trouser leg started to give way, tearing open at the back of the knee and splitting all the way to the ankle, as a whimpering Cleo desperately fumbled for a better hold. For a second she was hanging from a jagged strip of fabric, then the fibres gave way. Mel looked down to see the dirty, imploring face dropping away into the darkness, and heard the muffled crunch as the unlucky girl encountered the road below.

Mel felt her grip on the ledge loosening, and was strongly considering the possibility of following her, when a rough hand grabbed her by the collar of her coat. Another grabbed her under one arm, and Gabe almost effortlessly hauled her back up onto the bridge, dropping her onto her shaky feet.

“I’m glad you’re skinny,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.

Mel staggered and leaned against the lip with one hand. “I beg your pardon?”

Gabe moved between the bodies on the overpass, picking up the broken camera. “Dammit.” He turned around and gave one the corpses a kick, snapping a brittle bone. Mel had leaned over to investigate the scratches on her calf. “I hate opportunists,” she muttered. Straightening up, she grabbed the thermos from the ground. “Come on, they’ve got a head start now. We’ve got ground to cover.”

Cradling the shattered camera in one arm, Gabe picked up his bat and followed her down the road to where they’d parked the van.

Sverchock lowered the scope and let the curtain drop. “Well, that was entertaining. Still, we’d best be going.” He stood up and walked to the door, passing Volk and the bodies. Volk had lifted up the hem of the dead woman’s nightie and was peering underneath.

“Volk,” Sverchok called.

With a grunt, Volk dropped the garment and followed his partner from the room.

A hundred metres south of the overpass, Albert was still running, scrambling to hold onto the pages of his notebook as it fell apart in his arms. “Five hundred and twenty-nine,” he whispered to himself. “This time. Definitely.”

Turning left, he darted into the bushes by the roadside, shedding paper and dust as he went.

Chapter 3

Keep runnin’, keep runnin’
There’s no more to do
Hell spat ‘em up
And they’re comin’ for you
King, priest or pauper
They take who they take
The creature called Molech
The Filth in his wake

Constable Dolan shifted in the passenger seat, adjusting his gunbelt, and looked sideways at his new partner. “So how old were they?”

Tunstall shrugged, swirling his coffee around in the bottom of the styrofoam cup. “Fifteen, sixteen. They were over in Augustus Park. Those trees down by the pond, you know. Where the picnic tables are.” He drained the last of the coffee, placing the cup on the dashboard. “Old lady over the fence called it in, said there were teenagers drinking over there.”

“But they weren’t.”

“Nope.” Tunstall scratched his jaw. “They’d set up one of the tables like . . . what d’you call it, an altar? Red tablecloth, candles, satanic junk. They even had animal skulls. They were all wearing these black flannel dressing gowns. Chanting and shit.” He shrugged. “Roleplaying geeks, you know.”

Dolan looked out through the windscreen as a couple of pedestrians shuffled past. “And who was the girl?”

“She went to their school,” Tunstall recalled. “Cheerleader, gymnastics team, straight A’s, you know. Apparently they gatecrashed a party at her boyfriend’s house and slipped something in her drink.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. So they’ve got her handcuffed to the altar, right, and they’re sharpening up the knife, and then one of ‘em puts his hand up and says, ‘Wait a minute, we’ve got the hottest girl at school chained to a table and drugged out of her skull, we’re gonna sacrifice her anyway, nobody has to know . . .’”

“Aawww, you’re fuckin’ kidding me . . .”

Tunstall shook his head. “The third one was having his turn when we got there. They said they were just ‘larping,’ whatever the fuck that is. Judge didn’t buy it either. This fuckin’ town, man . . .” He looked over at Dolan. “You got kids?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t have any. I swear, every time my . . .” He frowned, looking out through the windscreen. “What the fuck . . .?” Dolan followed his gaze through the windscreen, and saw the two figures approaching the car. His jaw dropped.

They passed on either side of the car, ignoring the cops inside. Tunstall stared at the hooded, rake-thin figure passing by his door, catching a glimpse of one baleful, red-tinged eye. Dolan’s lower lip was quivering as he watched the ragged thing crawling past on the other side. A long bony limb bumped the side mirror as it went by, knocking it off-center. And then they were gone, moving on behind the car and into the night.

Dolan twisted in his seat, staring through the rear window as the creatures melted into the dark. “What the fuck was that?”

Tunstall didn’t answer. His eyes were on the rearview mirror, his right hand resting on his holstered gun.

Dolan turned to him. “Do we call it in?”

Very slowly, Tunstall moved his hand away from his sidearm, and reached over to pick up the radio receiver. Holding it out to Dolan, he replied, “Be my guest.”

A moment later, when Dolan didn’t move, he carefully hung it up again.

Gabe switched lanes, speeding around a grimy station wagon with the words STEAL ME written into the dust on the back window. High West Road stretched ahead of them, a snaking river of traffic bisecting the western part of the city.

“We’ve lost them,” he said.

In the passenger seat, Mel looked up from dabbing at the scratches on her leg. “Yeah.”

“So now what?” Gabe shifted gears, slowing down a little as brake lights lit up ahead of him.

Mel tore away a flapping strip of fabric from her ruined slacks, and tossed it into the back. “We find them again.”

Opening the glovebox, she pulled out the map book.

“The legend of Molech and the Filth is . . . interesting. In and of itself it’s a fascinating myth, yes, but what I find particularly interesting is the symbolism or, as it were, the social and political concepts behind the myth. First, we have Molech—named, more than likely, for Moloch. Originally the name of an ancient and bloodthirsty god in various Middle Eastern and African cultures, the name “Moloch” is synonymous with “sacrifice” or, more specifically, with any person or institution which demands sacrifice. Now, consider the myth—the demon Molech, a remorseless executioner, striding across the world in search of his victims. All of whom, we’re led to believe, are to die not for what they have done, but for what they will do. Could it be that Molech represents our collective fears and anxieties? Our dread of war, of ecological disaster, of terrorism, of global annihilation? When Molech comes for you, he cannot be stopped. All one can do, the legend says, is to ‘keep running.’ Running ahead of social change, of technology, of the inevitable consequences of our proliferation as a species. Of the sacrifices we as humans make as we ride the freight train of progress into the future—a future which, the myth states, Molech seeks to control by his murderous actions, sucking the very soul, the very humanity, from his doomed victims.

“And then we have Molech’s ever-present companion, the Filth. A twisted, filthy, skulking beast, crawling over everything in its path, rotting and corrupting all it touches. If Molech is our fear, then surely the Filth represents our guilt—the contempt we feel for ourselves as a society, consuming all we can, indulging in gluttony and greed, perversion and decadence, the rape of the environment. The Filth eternally stalks beside and behind Molech, reminding us of our shortcomings, our base desires that stand in the way of the utopia we seek.

“Molech and the Filth are real, ladies and gentlemen. Look around you, look into the mirror, and there they’ll be, stalking us all into the future. “

~ From “The Demons are Real: A social perspective”
Lecture by Professor H.K. Stommens
Ashdown University, Harbour City, April 13th, 2006

Jared was nervous. Tyler was raring to go and Malik was right behind him, but Jared was nervous as hell.

“I don’t know about this, man,” he told Tyler.

Tyler scowled at him. “Don’t pussy out on us.”

“Yeah,” said Malik. “Don’t pussy out.”

Jared shook his head. “I never shot anybody before.”

Tyler rolled his eyes. “They’re not people, man. You saw all that shit on the website. They’re like . . . zombies or something.”

“Yeah,” said Malik. “They’re zombies.”

Jared was unconvinced. “But . . . it said you can’t kill them . . .”

Tyler snorted. “Can’t kill them with normal ammo.” He raised his shotgun. “This is silver shot. It’s like, blessed and shit.”

Jared gave him a look. “Where’d you get it?”

“My dad keeps it locked up in the back of the shop,” Tyler explained. “There’s people in this town want to buy all kinds of weird ammo.”

“’Cause of the vampires,” Malik offered.

Tyler glared at him. “Shut up, dick. There’s no vampires.”

“My mum says there’s vampires.”

“And you’re sure your dad said you could use the guns?” Jared asked.

Tyler rolled his eyes. “Yes, grandma, my dad said we could use the guns. Fuck me. Now look . . .” He pointed towards the western end of Castor Bridge. “According to the website, they’re coming south through Scarbrook, right? Which means they have to cross this bridge to get past the river. Soon as they come through here . . .” He lifted his shotgun. “We give ‘em both barrels.”

“Yeah. Both barrels.”

“We’ll be famous, dude. Fuckin’ demon killers.”

Jared frowned. “I thought they were zombies.”

“Shut up and load your gun.”

Mel shifted around in her seat, trying to reach her coat pocket. Her cellphone was ringing.

Checking the name on the display, she frowned and pushed the TALK button. “Yes?”

“I thought you might like to know,” rasped the voice on the other end. “Two little birdsh passhed by my doorshtep a while ago.”

Mel paused, then nodded. “Thanks.”

“On the houshe, dear. Have fun.” The line went dead.

“What was that?” Gabe asked from the driver’s seat.

“They’ve been spotted near the Hotel Fasteaux,” Mel reported, putting her phone away. Looking at the map book in her lap, she added, “Means they’ve probably crossed the river at the Wake Street Bridge, so they could be heading for . . . uh, hang on . . .” Reaching into the glove box for a pencil, she fumbled around and finally found a CD case, which she used as a makeshift ruler. Lining it up against the Merrick overpass and the Hotel Fasteaux, she traced a straight line across the page, then followed it with her eyes.

“Oh,” she said. “Fuck.”

Gabe looked sideways. “What?”

Mel, for the first time all night, looked genuinely frightened. “I think I know where they’re going.”

Will finished entering the data, clicked CALCULATE, and sat back to wait for the results. After a few moments, the requested information flashed up onto the monitor.

There is an 11% chance that Molech and the Filth are after you.

Will snorted. “Fine.”

Declining to take the other quizzes on the site—which claimed to reveal his chances of becoming a werewolf or being devoured by ghouls—he closed the browser. Sitting back in Mel’s chair, he stretched and stifled a yawn. Christ, he was bored. There was never much to do around the Fisher building at night, when Gabe and Mel were out working. Well, there were things, but he wasn’t allowed to do any of them.

He checked the clock on the taskbar. 12:58 in the morning. He should probably go to bed, but he was wide awake. There was a weird feeling in the air tonight, a sort of tension hanging over the city. The prospect of Molech and the Filth passing through seemed to have put the buildings themselves on edge. He couldn’t sleep. He needed something to do.

Drumming his fingers on the desk, Will looked around the empty office. The weapons cabinet behind Gabe’s desk was secured with a heavy padlock.

Glancing towards the stairs, Will smiled and got to his feet.

Volk pulled the motorcycle to a stop at the far end of Waggner Avenue, slouching over the handlebars. Perched in the sidecar, Sverchok pulled up his skiing goggles and peered down the street.

With a toothy yellow grin, he dragged out his cellphone and pressed a speed-dial number.

“What?” growled a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

“I thought you might be interested in a little progress report,” Sverchok announced.

“Not unless you know who they’re after,” Vadik retorted.

“Well . . .” Sverchok’s smile became wider and toothier. “We are quite close to the Fisher Building . . .”

There was a short silence. “What?”

“It appears,” said Sverchok, “that our good friends Molech and the Filth are on their way to Mr Pope’s place. We’ve been following them since Merrick Wood, and—”

“They’re after Pope?” Vadik couldn’t disguise the delight in his voice.

“Or one of his little chums,” said Sverchok. He looked up at Volk. “What would you like us to do?”

There was a brief pause before Vadik replied.

“Make sure they succeed.”

In the office on the third floor, the phone on Mel’s desk started to ring.

Will was on the roof, throwing things.

Gabe and Mel had locked up most of the throwing implements they used at the range, but Gabe always kept a few hanging on a rack in his bedroom on the fourth floor. Will had almost been on the receiving end of a throwing axe when he’d first arrived. He had the axe now, fetched from the rack along with a couple of knives, and was trying his hand at hurling them at the targets at the far end. So far, he wasn’t having much luck.

Walking across the roof, he passed the untouched targets and picked up the axe and the fallen knives. The axe had a small notch where it had hit the brick wall, which probably wasn’t good. If Gabe found out he’d been using it . . .

As he made his way back to the table, his eyes moved down to the street. He slowed his pace, veering towards the edge of the roof, and finally came to a halt.

“No way,” he said.

He sank into a crouch, his eyes following the two figures, as they made their unhurried way down the street. His heart pounded in his ears as he watched them turn their course towards the pavement four storeys beneath him, and vanish under the awning. He heard a window shatter, and a chill crept into his belly.

“No,” he said, “way.”

The motorcycle came to halt in an empty lot behind the old Carnegie department store, at the end of Romero Street. Pulling up his goggles, Sverchock looked up at the dilapidated building, long since converted to cheap apartments. A rusty ladder, serving as a makeshift fire escape, led to the roof.

“This’ll do nicely,” he said, beaming. “Shall we?”

Volk reached between the bike and sidecar, removed a long canvas-wrapped object, and slung it over one shoulder.

Will hit the third floor landing at a stumbling run, still holding the axe. Looking over the old banister, he saw dark shapes on the stairwell below, and heard footsteps.

“Fu-uuuuck,” he hissed. He turned and scampered across the corridor, slipped as quietly as he could through the office door, and closed it behind him. Hurrying over to Gabe’s desk, he examined the padlock on the weapons cabinet. It was no good, he knew straight away. Gabe kept the key on him, and he had no chance of picking it.

He looked down at his right wrist, at the slim engraved silver bracelet that rested there. He could feel things in his mind, if he concentrated, symbols and words and ways to make the power move, but he couldn’t . . .

“Fuuu-uuu-uuuuck,” he repeated, and ran for the stairs leading to Gabe’s apartment. Forgetting stealth in favour of speed, he took the steps two at time, slamming and locking the apartment door behind him. His eyes frantically searched the living room, hoping to find something more formidable than a couple of knives and axes. He saw bookshelves, appliances, the general disorder of bachelorhood. Gabe kept all his serious weaponry under lock and key, either downstairs or in the van. And even if he could find a gun, would it help against--?

Will stopped , listening intently. He heard something—footsteps, coming up the steps outside the door.

“Aw, no . . .”

The door shifted slightly, as if someone had pushed on it from outside. The handle turned, then snapped back into place.

A strange smell drifted through the room, stale and musty. Will’s eyes moved to the door handle, where a dark patch was forming on the wood around the lock, spreading like water. The wood began to crumble and flake, rotting away to dust. Will backed up towards the window, gripping the axe in a clammy hand. Finally the lock came loose, tumbling out of the door in a shower of dry rotted wood. The door swung unceremoniously open.

A tall, skinny figure stood in the doorway, a ragged hood pulled over its head. It was dressed in what look like an old lather jacket, torn but not patched, and ragged trousers. Will saw grey, mottled skin through the rips and holes. A pair of dark, baleful eyes stared out from the gloom of the hood, holding Will with their gaze, pinning him to the spot. Below the eyes, where the mouth should have been, something twitched and constricted in the shadows.

Without a sound, Molech stepped into the room.

The window behind Will burst inwards, showering glass across the carpet beneath it, snappng him out if the trance. Turning around, he found himself staring at the business end of a shotgun. He froze again.

“Come on, kid,” said a familiar voice. Getting the message, Will dropped to the floor.

The shotgun blast was almost deafening. Molech rocked back as a cloud of shot caught him in the stomach, a small explosion of smoke and torn fabric and blood long turned to dust. The creature made no sound, and righted himself almost as quickly as he’d fallen. Will saw a pair of scuffed silver-capped boots hit the floor beside him and stride forward, even as Gabe pumped the shotgun and fired again. A third blast sent Molech tumbling back out onto the landing, and Gabe charged forward to kick the door closed. Even as he did so, Will heard a hideous gurgling sound, and something fast and heavy thundering up the stairs.

There was a scraping sound as a gun barrel was used to clear glass from the window frame, and a green-tressed head appeared. “Will!” Mel shouted. “Move!”

Will looked back at Gabe, throwing himself against the door and struggling to keep it closed, even as it was struck form outside. Shoving the barrel of his shotgun through the hole where the lock had been, he fired another blast into the stairwell behind the door. “Hurry up!” he yelled in Will’s direction.

Will moved, leaving the throwing axe behind as he planted one foot on the windowsill and grabbed Mel’s hand. She pulled him through the door and out onto the fire escape. Looking back, he saw Gabe push from the door and run after him. Before he was halfway across the room, the door was smashed off its hinges and crashed to the floor.

Mel grabbed Will’s arm and shoved him towards the ladder at the other end of the landing. He scrambled down it without thinking, hands stinging on the metal, barely noticing as his shin crashed into one of the rungs. He cringed as he heard another shotgun blast above his head. Mel was right above him, following him down the ladder. He dropped to the next landing and fell, jarring his shoulder on the rough metal grille. Her hands were on his shoulders a second later, dragging him up and pushing him on. He got most of the way down the last ladder and dropped from there, stumbling as his feet his the cracked cement of the alley beside the building. Mel dropped a moment later, landing in a graceful crouch, like a gymnast. Almost immediately she was moving again, grabbing Will by the back of his shirt and propelling him towards the van. It was parked in the alley, engine still running. Will tried to look back at the fire escape as they ran, but it lurched madly through his field of vision and he couldn’t see anything.

Half-throwing him towards the side door of the vehicle, Mel shouted at him to get in. Already she was turning back the way they’d come, drawing a compact 1911 handgun from inside her coat. Will saw Gabe drop into the alley, not quite as gracefully as Mel, still holding his empty shotgun. As he sprinted towards them, Mel lifted her gun in both hands and started unloading her magazine at something crawling down the fire escape behind him. Bullets glanced off metal and shattered brick as the thing swung itself over one landing and grabbed the next, like a huge spider on a web. As she ran out of ammo, Mel looked back over her shoulder at Will, still standing dumbfounded by the side door. “What are you doing?” Mel snapped. “Get in!”

Will dragged the sliding door open and clambered into the back of the van. It was lined with racks and crates, containing weapons and equipment and things that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know about. He wondered if he should grab one of the guns, but they were all locked into the racks. Settling into a space behind the driver’s seat, he looked out to see Mel running for the driver’s door, loading another magazine into her handgun. Behind her, Gabe pulled a small black canister from his harness, removed the pin and threw it. It bounced and rolled under the fire escape, spewing thick dark smoke that quickly spread across the alley. The something on the fire escape dropped into the dark cloud, crouching on all fours amidst the smoke. Gabe was running back to the van, revolver drawn, firing behind him as he went. As he threw himself into the passenger seat, Mel passed him her handgun and wrenched the gearbox into reverse.

Will held on, still staring, as the van hurtled backwards down the alleyway. Gabe was leaning out the passenger window, arm extended, firing one-handed as the skinny, ragged thing lurched forward out of the smoke.

“What’s happening?” said Will.

“Hold on,” Mel replied in a tight voice, trying to navigate with the side mirror. As the gun in Gabe’s hand ran dry again, the van cleared the alley and swung out into the street beyond. Mel planted her foot on the brake as they came around, almost throwing Will onto his back. Gabe was hastily reloading his revolver.

“What’s going on?” Will demanded. “They’re after me?”

“Looks like,” said Gabe, focused on his task.

“Why are they after me?”

Mel pushed the stick into first gear. “Always said you had potential,” she said, and floored it. Will grabbed the back of her seat to keep himself upright. He stared through the rear windows of the van, watching the alley as they roared away from it.

“I only got eleven percent,” he protested.

On the roof of the old Carnegie department store, seven storeys up, Sverchok leaned against a chipped concrete parapet and stared at the grey van on the street below, speeding in their direction.

“Any time now, lad,” he said.

Beside him, Volk peered through the scope and gently flipped the safety catch.

Mel had just shifted up to third when the windscreen cracked, a hole bursting open near the top of the frame. Something whistled past her ear, and a searing pain went though her shoulder and neck. She gasped as something warm and wet splashed her cheek, jerking back in the seat. She felt her hands slip from the wheel.

Sverchok smiled , watching the speeding van veer off course. It struck the curb by the side of the road, grinding its way along the edge of the pavement. One of the front tyres burst, sending the van lurching back into the street. It finally came to rest at forty-five degrees in the middle of the road, shuddering to a halt.

Sverchock patted his companion's shoulder with a dirty hand. “Well done, that, man.”

Volk shrugged a modest shrug, taking his finger off the trigger to scratch his nose.

Will dragged himself back up into a kneeling position, staring at Mel. She was slumped over in the driver’s seat, clutching at her right shoulder. The fabric of her coat was torn, and stained by a sticky amber fluid. The same stuff was splashed across the front of his shirt. Looking behind him, he spotted the gently-smouldering hole in the floor behind him.

“Did somebody just—?”

Gabe moved, reaching across and hooking one brawny arm under Mel’s knees. Sliding his other arm behind her, he lifted her out of the seat and bundled her over it like a sack. She tumbled into the back of the van, knocking Will over as she fell, and Gabe threw himself over the seat after her.

Will lifted his head, pushing Mel’s leg off him, and tried to look at the bullet hole in the windscreen. “Did somebody just shoot at us?”

Even as he spoke, a second bullet punched through the windscreen, piercing the driver’s seat and smacking into the floor a few inches away from Gabe. He was already up and moving, lifting Mel and pulling her towards the back of the van as Will scrambled after them. Gabe popped the back doors and threw them open, jumping out to lift Mel to the ground. She steadied herself with an arm on the rear bumper, blinking as she tried to focus. “Who the fuck just shot me?”she managed to say.

“One thing at a time, lady.” Making sure she was steady, Gabe climbed back into the van, pushing Will out beside her. Will hunkered down and held Mel by an arm, staring at her wound. “Are you okay?”

Mel lifted her other hand, wincing as she examined the wound. The bullet had clipped the top of her shoulder, grazing the trapezius but missing bone. She gritted her teeth as she dragged her coat off, fumbling a handkerchief from her pocket to stem the bleeding. Beneath the coat she wore a leather shoulder harness, modified to hold a knife and three short wooden stakes opposite the holster.

Gabe was moving around in the back of the van, grabbing weapons and ammo. He tossed his shotgun to Will, who caught it with some difficulty, and Mel reached up to take it from him. A moment later Will awkwardly caught the bandolier loaded with 12-gauge shells that Gabe threw after it.

The open van door behind Mel shuddered as something tore through it and bit a chunk out of the road beyond. A distant gunshot rolled over the street, coming from somewhere on the rooftops.

“Hold this,” Mel snarled. Will put his hand on the handkerchief, keeping pressure on her wound, as Mel awkwardly turned the shotgun over and started loading shells into it. In the back of the van Gabe strapped on a machete, then stuck a 9mm handgun into the back of his belt. Grabbing another 9mm and pulling a shotgun from a rack, he clambered back out of the van and came down next to Mel, passing her one of the handguns. “Still with us?”

“For the moment,” she replied. Steadying the stock of the shotgun against the road, she managed to pump the slide with her left hand.

Gabe gave her a worried look. “Maybe Will should take that.”

“Yeah,” said Will.

“Nope,” Mel countered. Laying the shotgun on the ground, she reached down to pull the belt from her discarded coat. “Give me a hand.”

Will cringed as another bullet bounced off the roof of the van. “Where the fuck is that coming from?”

“Other end of the street,” Gabe told him. He was fastening the belt over Mel’s other shoulder, making a makeshift sling for her injured right arm. “Stay low behind the van.” There was a loud crack as another round went through the grille at the front of the vehicle.

“Gabe,” said Mel. She was looking beyond him, back up the street. Will followed her eyes, and stiffened.

“I know,” said Gabe, still fastening the belt.

Will shrank back against the bumper. “They’re comi—”

“I know.” Finishing his task, Gabe picked up the shotgun and pushed it back into Mel’s hand. He pointed to a doorway on the left side of the street, leading into a tenement building. “I’ll go first,” he said, “and draw his fire. You take the kid and go that way.” He pointed to an alley on the other side, leading between two boarded-up shops. “Wait ‘till I move, then count three and go. Don’t try anything fancy, just keep running.”

“Where are you going?” Mel frowned.

Gabe slung the other shotgun across his back, next to his sheathed silver bat. “I’m gonna go have a word with whoever’s shooting at us.” Turning towards the left, he crouched and looked up the street. Two shadowy figures—one tall and hooded, the other on all fours—were coming towards them, less than thirty metres away, moving at a steady, almost nonchalant pace beneath the streetlights. Digging his feet in, Gabe took a deep breath and moved.

It was fifteen metres to the door, but he took it at a sprint. A bullet glanced off the road behind him as he cleared the curb, and he jarred the door open with his shoulder as he tumbled through it. Another shot, more frustrated than hopeful, shattered the glass in the door a second later. Without slowing down, Gabe ran along the dimly-lit hallway inside and powered his way up a stairwell at the far end.

By that time, Mel and Will were moving. Mel sprinted as best she could across the short gap, keeping Will in front of her. They vanished into the alley mouth a second later.

Up on the roof, Volk let out an irritable growl as he swung his rifle around a second too late. Sverchok sighed and patted him on the arm. His eyes were on the two dark figures, moving across the street in no great hurry, following the fleeing pair into the alley.

“I’ll worry about them, old man,” said Sverchok, with a smile. “You stay here and see if you can’t deal with Mr Pope.” Rising into a crouch, he scurried across to the far edge of the roof, dropped two storeys down to the adjacent building, and made for the scaffolding on the other side. Without a word, Volk swung his rifle around to face the building into which Gabe had vanished, and waited.

Chapter 4

Keep runnin’, keep runnin’
‘Fore Hell claims its toll
They’ll never give up
‘Till they’ve taken your soul

They’ll never stop coming
They’ll never turn back
The demon called Molech
The Filth at his back

Molech walked down the alley at a steady pace, almost casual, never hurrying or breaking his stride. His glaring, red-tinged eyes remained fixed on one spot—the boy, behind walls and buildings ahead, but not far. The target they had walked here to find. One more step in an endless journey. One more soul to take.

He could smell him. Not far now. Not far.

Behind him the Filth stalked along on all fours, head held low, ragged hair trailing on the ground. Always at Molech’s back, bound to him forever. Tireless hunter. Faithful hound.

With a soft gurgle, the twisted creature rose up onto its hind legs and began to pull itself up the brick edifice on one side of the alley. Protruding bones shifted under the coal-black skin as it scaled the wall like an insect, heading for the rooftops.

Heedless to anything but the objective ahead, Molech walked on alone.

Not far now. Not far.

Will’s chest was burning and his legs ached, but he kept running. Mel ran behind him, seemingly tireless and oblivious to her injury, only slowed down by occasional glances over her shoulder. They ran down another alley and up a short flight of stone steps, coming out into a small courtyard lit by dirty light fixtures on the walls. Brick walls stretched half a dozen storeys above them on all sides, leaving a little oblong of starlit sky above. A pile of scrap metal had been haphazardly stacked up against one wall. There were no doors, only another alley covered at this end by a chainlink fence. Mel stopped, turning back the way they’d come, raising the shotgun in her left hand and trying to steady it with her right. “Go,” she said. “You’ll have to climb that fence.”

Will was bent over with his hands on his knees. “Gimme a minute...”

“You haven’t got a minute.”

Will caught the tone in her voice, and looked up at her. Mel had a good poker face, but he could tell when she was scared. And for the first time since he’d met her, she looked terrified.

“Where are we going?”

“I’ve got friends who can get you out of town.”

“Out of town? Where?”

She glanced over at him, avoiding looking him in the eye. “You have to run, kid.”

“What about—?”

“Run!” Still holding the shotgun, Mel shoved him with her elbow, propelling him towards the gate.

Volk dropped into a crouch on the roof of a semi-abandoned office building, five storeys high, directly opposite the tenement into which Gabe had run. He had a better vantage point from here, not as high but able to cover more of the building, and in any case it made sense to move to a new location. Volk had never been trained as a sniper—he hadn’t even been a terribly good shot with the old Tokarev rifle he’d used at the Mannerheim Line—but he’d read enough survivalist magazines to know that it paid to relocate so the enemy couldn’t mark your position.

Settling down behind the scope, he began to scan the windows across the street for any sign of his target. Many of the windows were empty or covered by blinds, but he saw a few people moving about. A grimy-looking old couple were watching television on the third floor, a man was cutting his own hair in his bathroom sink on the fifth. A chubby girl with tattoos covering both arms was undressing on the fourth floor, and Volk paused to watch for a while. He toyed with the idea of putting a bullet between her sagging breasts, just to see the look on her face, but that would have given him away. He scanned all the windows to the roof, then back down again. There was no sign of Pope.

Volk growled softly and scratched his nose. The bastard could be hiding anywhere in that building. He’d probably have to go and flush him out. Better that way anyway. He didn’t have the patience for this sniper shit.

As Volk closed the cover on his scope, he heard the faintest of sounds behind him. With a frown, he turned his head.

“Hi,” said Gabe, and shot him in the face.

Will was perched on top of the fence, one leg over the other side. Looking down at Mel, still covering the other alley with her shotgun, he called, “Come on.”

She glanced back at him. “What?”

“I’ll give you a hand up.”

She smiled, but only for a second. “I’m a dryad, Will. I don’t need help climbing things. Just get going, I’m right behind you.”

“Yeah, but your arm’s—"

“Go.”

Will turned to climb over, and a wiry black limb swung down and slammed into his shoulder. He cried out and jerked sideways, his jeans catching on the top of the fence, and for a second he dangled painfully against the mesh before tumbling to the ground. The wind was knocked out of him as he slammed into the concrete. As he landed, a black skeletal shape swung down from the wall above to perch on top of the fence.

Mel turned with a shout, desperately angling the shotgun upwards, and squeezed the trigger. The gun jerked back painfully in her weakened grip even as the gunshot roared in the confines of the yard, and the Filth reeled back as pellets tore into its arm and shoulder. It righted itself immediately and leaped from the fence, coming down in a crouch between Mel and the fallen Will.

For a moment, Mel was transfixed as the creature craned its elongated neck to look at her. Filthy matted hair concealed part of the face, but she saw a bulging bloodshot eye under a low bony brow, the torn stump of a nose, blistered lips peeling back over long, jagged brown teeth. Ugly, angular symbols marked the mottled black skin, cut or burned into the flesh long ago. The eye burned with something which Mel, had she been facing a human, might have described as madness.

Human. The thought screamed its way through her mind as she struggled to work the pump action on the shotgun. Demons couldn’t take physical form, they could only possess mortal bodies. Once upon a time, the thing in front of her had been...

The Filth reared up in front of her, nearly seven feet tall, oily skin stretched over its twisted skeletal frame. It spread its arms like some predatory insect, and Mel almost thought she saw it smile. Then the teeth parted, and something long and black and whip-like snaked out of the gaping maw. The black tongue whipped around the barrel of the shotgun and wrenched it back, and Mel fought to hold onto it one-handed. A pungent odour hit her in the face, and she realised that the writhing tongue was beginning to eat through the wood and metal of the shotgun, corroding it like acid.

With a gasp she let go, the tongue snapping back to fling the ruined weapon across the yard, but she was already drawing her 9mm. The first round struck the Filth just below the awful eye, the protruding cheekbone collapsing inwards, and a black oily substance that might have once been blood sprayed from the back of the misshapen skull. The head rolled back but immediately snapped forward again, the tongue lashing out like a cracking whip. Mel barely managed to dodge it, firing three more rounds into the thing’s sunken belly, but it ducked and twisted and swung out a bony black leg. A long, leathery foot covered in grime hit Mel in the stomach, sending her stumbling backwards. Someone caught her before she fell, a strong arm wrapping around her torso, and for a moment she almost felt relieved.

Then the cold, skinny arm swung her outwards again, lifting her feet off the ground and throwing her, and she tumbled through the air with a strangled cry and crashed to the ground near the far wall, her gun clattering across the cement a few metres away. The Filth gurgled with what might have been twisted delight, dropping back to all fours and slinking towards Mel, but Molech paid no further attention to her as he walked on through the yard. His eyes were fixed on Will, still slumped near the fence.

Mel tried to push herself up on her good arm, but hadn’t gotten her feet under her before a twisted black talon grabbed her by her injured shoulder. She shrieked as it lifted and threw her, sending her slamming backwards into the bricks, and before she could fall again the Filth grabbed her around the throat, pinning her to the wall. Its grotesque face loomed close to hers, cooing and gibbering as it nuzzled her with its mangled nose. There was no sign of the damage her bullet had done.

Over its bony shoulder, she saw Molech come to a halt, standing over Will.

“No...” Mel gasped, straining against the creature pinning her to the wall. Her left hand moved, drawing the silver knife under her right arm, and she plunged it into the Filth’s gut as hard as she could. The flesh sizzled as the blade went in.

Molech stooped and took hold of Will’s arm, lifting him as if he were a sack. He shoved the boy up against the fence, pulling his head back. Will’s eyes fluttered open.

Mel wrenched the knife, tearing and burning flesh, dragging it upwards in a widening gash, but the black skin closed up behind it. She kicked and thrashed and snarled and screamed, but she couldn’t shake loose.

Will was staring, quite literally, into the face of death. The hateful, red-rimmed eyes burned into him, locking him in place even without the aid of the strong arms holding him up. There was a symbol carved into the forehead above the eyes, like an inverted cross with bent arms, but he was barely aware of it.

Something began to unfurl around the demon’s chin. Long grey tendrils slithered out from beneath the hood, segmented tentacles waving in the night air. They began to curl their way around Will’s face, wrapping around his jaw and neck, dragging him in, forcing his mouth open. A long barbed tongue slid out from the midst of the writhing mass.

“No!” Mel screamed. She managed to get one foot up against the Filth’s body, pushing as hard as she could even as she stabbed wildly at it with the knife, but it was no use. “Get off me, you fuck! Get—"

A faint whistling sound caught her ears, and a silvery shape flashed across the yard. Molech twitched, his grip on Will faltering, the writhing tentacles retracting. The baleful eyes rolled back in the mottled grey face, and Will was able to shake loose. He fell to the ground as Molech stumbled backwards, reaching back to tug at the silver throwing knife embedded in the back of his skull. As he pulled it free, Gabe charged out of the alley behind him and fired his shotgun from the hip, shredding the back of Molech’s coat and sending him sprawling.

Gabe swung the shotgun around towards the Filth, but saw Mel in the line of fire and thought better of it. Dropping the gun, he drew the silver baseball bat from his back and charged, swinging the weapon around in a flat arc. It struck the Filth’s skull with a sickening crack, and the bony black thing lurched sideways, releasing its grip on Mel.

Gabe caught her as she stumbled, but she quickly found her feet, snatching up her fallen 9mm and making a beeline for Will. Gabe followed, retrieving his shotgun as he went.

They reached the mouth of the alley, leading back the way they’d come. Will was still a little dazed, red marks criss-crossing his face, but managed to keep his feet under him, and grip the handle of the bat as Gabe passed it to him. The demons were already getting back to their feet.

“Come on,” Mel urged, pushing him back into the alley. “Gabe...”

Gabe placed himself at the alley mouth. “Run,” he said.

“What?”

Gabe lifted the shotgun. “I’ll give you a head start.”

Mel opened her mouth to protest, but it was drowned out by the roar of the shotgun as Gabe fired a round into Molech’s face. As the scarecrow body went over backwards, he turned and fired two blasts at the lumbering shape of the Filth, spraying its chest and legs. Taking Will by the hand, Mel turned and fled back down the steps. Looking back once, she saw Gabe fire his last shotgun round, then throw the weapon aside and draw the 9mm from his belt. Gunshots echoed down the alley behind her as she led Will around a corner, heading back towards the street.

“I never actually saw them. We arrived back at the village that afternoon, two hours after it happened. The village was bustling, just like it had the previous day. The girl had been taken to the funeral hut and the people were going on with their daily business. The Hudari are a rather… pragmatic people. They’d been visited by the demons twice before, according to their oral history, and maybe more before that. They called them Mayuto and Jibwa—“Death and his Dog.”

They wouldn’t let me see the girl’s body at first. They believed that Mayuto had left his mark on her and it was dangerous to look at her face, but I managed to persuade them. She looked just like the others I’d seen—the black eyeballs, the marks across her face, the mouth locked in a silent scream. Her family were just sitting outside the funeral hut. They said nothing.

I know what happened. It was the same as in the old times, the way the old men had described it. When word came that Mayuto and Jibwa were coming, the whole tribe stopped what they were doing, gathered in the middle of the village, and sat down. They sat and closed their eyes, didn’t move or speak, they just waited. The demons came into the village, walked right past the others, and took who they’d come to take. And when they were gone, the tribe opened their eyes and stood up, and took the girl to the funeral hut, and got on with their lives.

The Hudari are a pragmatic people. They don’t fight what can’t be stopped. I sometimes think we could learn from them.

But only sometimes.”

~ From the journal of Doctor Marcus Byrne
Koti region, northern Ugendi, 1972

Gabe fired the last round from the 9mm handgun and threw it aside, drawing his revolver. Molech strode towards him, riddled with bullet holes but barely slowing down. The shotgun blast had torn up his hood, leaving his head uncovered. Gabe saw a skull-like rictus, mottled skin stretched over sharp bones, glowering eyes set into deep sockets. The ears had been burned away, and the crown of the head was twisted into a dozen knotty, misshapen horns. The mouth and jaw were a mass of small, writhing tentacles, working like the mandibles of an insect.

Gabe raised the revolver one-handed, aiming at the eyes. Guns hadn’t worked up until now, but Old Webley wasn’t just any gun. Old Moses Downwright had done a lot of work on it back in the day, engraving the frame and saying words over it, making it what he’d called “a formidable weapon against darkness.” Seventy years later, Gabe’s father had given a different description of the gun’s properties. “It fucks things up,” he’d said. “Fucks ‘em up proper.”

The bullet struck Molech in the left eye, snapping his head back. Smoke billowed from the wound, and the demon paused. Gabe fired again, hitting him in the forehead this time, and he took a stumbling step back. The Filth moved forward on Gabe’s right and he swung around, firing three bullets into the creature’s face. Gabe backed up towards the mouth of the alley, but no further. He couldn’t lead them away from Will, couldn’t sway them from their course. He had to hold them here, for as long as he could.

On a rooftop above the yard, a small figure sat in the moonlight, watching the conflict with delight.

“Oh, Mr Pope,” Sverchok murmured. “Always fighting the good fight.”

Another gunshot rang out, the sound bouncing off the brick walls. His gun empty, Gabe quickly holstered it and drew his machete as Molech closed in again. The blade arced down over his shoulder, slashing the creature across the face. It put Molech off-balance long enough for Gabe to drive him back with a kick.

Up on the roof, Sverchock idly picked his teeth.

The Filth was moving away, rising up to scale the wall off to Gabe’s left. He knew better than to imagine the creature was retreating—it was simply going around him, setting off after Mel and Will before they could run too far. Gripping the machete, Gabe rushed after it and swung the blade, slicing through the back of its knee. The Filth hissed and—almost casually—swung out its other leg, driving the heel of its foot into his shoulder. Gabe stumbled backwards, trying to keep his feet under him, and before he could renew his attack he saw Molech striding towards the alley again. With a curse Gabe rushed after him, leaving the Filth to continue its climb up the wall.

Molech was almost at the alley when Gabe cannoned into him, catching him in a tackle and bearing him to the ground. The body was surprisingly light, despite its frightening strength. Gabe tried to hold on, keep the monster down, but Molech easily shook him off and began to get up.

The Filth had reached the roof of the building, pulling itself up over the edge. It passed a few feet from where Sverchock sat, paying him no heed. The vampire smiled and gave a little wave as the creature crawled by, slinking away over the rooftops. Then he turned his attention back to the battling figures below.

As Molech rose to his feet Gabe lunged with the machete, swinging the blade downwards. It drove into the back of Molech’s head, splitting skin and cracking bone, and stuck there embedded in his skull. Gabe tried to pull it free, but his hand slipped from the handle.

For a moment, Molech didn’t move. Then, very slowly, he turned around and fixed his glaring eyes on his attacker. For the first time since the fight had begun, Gabe felt he had the demon’s full attention.

A long arm lashed out, aiming a bony fist at his head. He ducked under it, swinging his own fist upwards in a body blow. He followed with right cross, snapping Molech’s head back. The demon righted himself instantly, only to catch a left hook a second later. Hoping to take his opponent off his feet again, Gabe swung a kick up into his body, then pressed his attack with another punch.

Reaching up, Molech caught Gabe’s arm with both hands. Gabe tried to pull back, but the grip on his wrist was stronger than an iron shackle. Dragging him off-balance, Molech twisted the arm around and wrenched, and the sound of cracking bones filled the air. Gabe let out a scream, dropping to one knee, but Molech dragged him back to his feet by his broken arm and delivered an almost nonchalant blow to his body. A rib cracked and Gabe doubled over, growling with pain. Finally releasing the arm, Molech grabbed him by the shirt, hoisted him into the air, and threw him away like a piece of trash. He hit the cement hard, tumbling like a broken doll, coming to rest near the wall.

Without pausing, Molech reached back to grip the handle of the machete, and awkwardly ripped the blade free from his skull. Tossing it away, he turned and walked back towards the alley, picking up the trail.

Up on the roof, Sverchock watched him go with a broad, yellow-toothed grin. It was now clear that the demons weren’t after Gabe—the dryad then, or the boy. It didn’t matter. Sooner or later they’d catch up, and bring the chase to its inevitable end. They always did.

Sverchok leaned further over the edge of the roof, looking down at the fallen body in the yard. Let Molech and his pet hunt the others. That was Gabriel Pope down there, weaponless for once, beaten and broken, and probably unconscious. The very definition of a sitting duck. The Orlokov brothers would pay a small fortune for the chance to use his head as a wall ornament.

Whistling a cheery ditty, Sverchok drew a small handgun from his belt, stepped off the edge of the roof, and dropped down into the yard.

Chapter 5

Keep runnin’, keep runnin’
Though others might stand
They’re comin’ to take you
Your fate’s in their hands
No bullet can stop 'em
No fire or steel
The man they call Molech
The Filth at his heels

Sverchok dropped lightly into the courtyard, with surprising grace for a creature who looked as though he’d spent most of his life sleeping in the sewer. Glancing back at the rooftops, he began a slow and cautious shuffle across the yard to where Gabriel Pope lay face down on the cracked cement. A .22 Ruger pistol was clutched in Sverchok’s clammy hand.

“Why Mister Pope,” he cooed softly. “You have come a-cropper.”

Gabe groaned, trying to lift himself on his broken arm. With a gasp, he slumped back to the ground.

Sverchok tutted in sympathy. “That looks painful, old man. Still . . .” He gave a little sigh. “That’s what one gets for standing up to the hounds.” He glanced down the darkened alley. “We’ll leave Molech and his chum to their own affairs, I think. I have other business this fine evening. With you, as it happens.”

He moved closer, jittering slightly, almost dancing. “Mmmister Pope. Scourge of Roseburg, bloody avenger, etcetera and what have you. Now look at you.” Sverchok dropped into a crouch, prodding at Gabe’s shoulder with the muzzle of the Ruger. “Brung low at last. All it took was a run-in with a fucking demon.” He scratched his jaw, dislodging flakes of peeling skin. “I understand your grandfather went much the same way.”

Gabe tried to get up again, sliding his good arm beneath him.

“Well, never mind. Our man Vadik should pay a princely sum for the chance to display your head on his desk.” Rising to his feet, Sverchok lifted the gun. “I’m sure he won’t mind terribly if there’s a hole in—”

Gabe pushed himself up sharply, bracing himself on his knees. His arm swung upwards, clutching a broken length of rebar that struck Sverchok’s gun hand and shattered two of his fingers. The Ruger went upwards, firing a stray round into the wall before spinning from his hand, and even before Sverchok could muster a scream Gabe was swinging the bar back the other way. It caught the vampire across the face, ripping his cheek open and dislocating his jaw. He reeled back with a squawk, but managed to keep his footing until Gabe lunged forward and kicked him in the stomach. Sverchok bent over double, and had time to appreciate that things had gone badly awry before Gabe drove the broken end of the rebar down through his back, skewering his heart like a meatball. Kicking the dying vampire away to collapse into the pile of scrap metal, Gabe stumbled and slumped back against the wall.

Clutching his broken wrist, he took a long moment to clear his head and get his breath back. By the time he looked up, Sverchok’s twisted body had collapsed into a dried-out husk, like a fallen leaf.

Gabe gave the dead vampire a sneer. “When you have to shoot, shoot,” he muttered. “Don’t talk.”

Retrieving his machete from the ground, he left the yard at a fast limp, following Molech’s trail.

Mel made three turns on her way through the little labyrinth of alleys, pushing Will ahead of her the whole way. Finally coming to a halt, she motioned him down a short flight of steps towards a door with peeling brown paint. The door was sealed with a heavy padlock which, had she the time and the full use of both hands, Mel would have had little trouble picking. As it was, she merely shot the lock off with her 9mm and shoved the door open.

Will stumbled into the room beyond as Mel closed the door behind them. It was a basement, not much larger than the living room of his apartment. Standing wooden shelves were lined up along three of the walls, some of them locked behind steel mesh. The shelves with filled with electronic equipment, wristwatches, bags and boxes, and all manner of other mismatched paraphernalia; Will dimly registered that they were in the basement of a pawn shop. This hardly surprised him—Roseburg had more pawn shops than grocery stores. Light from the street above filtered through a row of slit windows above the opposite wall. The only other way out of the basement was a rusty spiral stairwell in one corner.

A creaking sound came from behind him, accompanied by a strange smell, like freshly cut wood. He turned to see Mel leaning against the door, head down, her tangled mossy hair covered her face. Her good hand was pressed against the wood, fingers spread. As Will watched, the edges of the door shifted and split, growing itself into the wooden frame, fusing the two together. Mel dropped her hand and slumped a little, as if catching her breath.

“Wow,” Will managed. He’d never seen her do that before.

Straightening up, Mel swept her hair back and picked up her gun. “Come on,” she urged. “Hopefully that’ll slow them down.”

She started towards the stairwell, but Will didn’t follow. He was still staring at the door.

“I can stop them,” he said.

Mel stopped. “What?”

“I can—”

“I heard you,” Mel snapped. “But no, you can’t. You can’t stop them.”

“Sure, I can.” Turning from the door, Will raised his arm. “You just have to take this off.”

Mel looked down at his outstretched arm. The light from the windows glinted off the silver bracelet on his wrist.

Mel gave him a look. “Don’t make me smack you, kid.”

“I’m serious, Mel—”

“So am I.” Mel reached for his arm, but he shook her off.

“You know what I can do,” he insisted. “Fuck’s sake, I’m not playing you. Those things are gonna kill me. Nothing else’ll stop them.” He moved forward, clutching her shoulder. “I’ve got more . . . whatever it is. I’ve got more than anyone’s ever seen. I felt it that night at Caleb’s. So did you.” Lifting his arm, he shoved the bracelet in her face. “I harnessed it then, I can do it again. Just take this fucking thing off. Let’s see them stand up to that.”

Mel opened her mouth to spit back a reply, and gunshots filled the air.

She ducked instinctively, pulling Will down with her, and a moment later she realised the shots were coming from the floor above. There was a muffled shout, a crash, and a strangled scream.

Mel’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling of the basement even as she pushed Will away. “Move.”

“But—”

“Move!” She stared at the door, permanently sealed shut, and motioned towards the windows. “Go. Climb those shelves and get the windows open.”

Another cry rang out, then a deafening crash as the door above gave way. Light spilled down the metal stairwell as a body tumbled down the steps, a middle-aged woman in a quilted dressing gown. If she’d been alive before going through the door, she was dead by the time she came to rest on the basement floor.

With a shrill cackle, the Filth came crawling down the spiralling steps.

Mel raised her 9mm one-handed, but didn’t shoot. She looked over her shoulder at Will, frozen to the spot.

“Go!” Mel shouted. “Get through that window!”

Will hesitated, but finally turned and began climbing awkwardly up the shelves beneath the narrow windows. Mel moved the other way, eyes fixed on the Filth as it slithered its way down the steps. After a second’s thought, she lowered the gun and shoved it into her belt.

Will reached the top of the shelving and held on one-handed, fumbling at the latch on one of the windows. The latch didn’t budge a millimetre; it was welded shut. With a curse, he looked down at the shelves he was hanging from, and found a heavy-looking metal flashlight. Turning his head, he swung the light against the pane to shatter it.

Mel moved over to one of the shelves, eyes still on the creature as it reached the bottom of the steps. Its misshapen head swung around, nostrils sniffing the air. Mel lifted her arm and rested her hand against the side of the nearest shelf.

With a gurgle, the Filth moved forward. Gritting her teeth, Mel channelled all her energy into one place, and pushed.

The entire wooden shelving unit hurled itself away from the wall as if it had been thrown by a giant. Cellphones, cameras and MP3 players spilled through the air as the hurtling bay of shelves smashed into the Filth, taking it off its feet and crushing it against the metal stairwell. The shelves broke and splintered, spilling onto the floor as the twisted body collapsed.

Mel stumbled, weakened by the effort, but was already running as best she could. Will, momentarily startled, went back to using the flashlight to clear broken glass from the frame. Urged on by Mel’s shouting, he began to drag himself through the gap.

Mel was almost across the room before the Filth slithered around on the floor, one sinewy arm snatching up a broken shelf from the floor. It hurled the heavy chunk of wood with remarkable accuracy, sending it spinning through the air to strike Mel across the shoulderblades. She screamed and pitched over forwards, her head striking the cement as she sprawled onto the floor. Will, only his legs visible as he clambered through the window, hesitated as he heard her cry out.

Lunging to its feet, the Filth rushed forward and thrust its hideous head out. Its long black tongue snaked out like a whip, coiling itself around Will’s right ankle. The boy let out a yelp, scrambling for a hold on the ground below the window, but a second later a pungent smell filled the air as the corrosive black slime coating the creature’s tongue began to eat its way through denim. Pain tore its way up through Will’s leg as the cuff of his jeans crumbled away, the slithering coils of the tongue coming into contact with naked skin.

On the floor, Mel managed to lift her head as Will’s screams cut through the throbbing haze in her skull. Fumbling her hands and knees beneath her, she dragged herself from the floor, ignoring the jagged trails of amber blood seeping down one side of her face. As she got her feet under her, one hand was desperately scrambling at the back of her belt.

Will was already being dragged back through the window, thrashing and shrieking as the tongue tightened around his tortured ankle, burning through flesh like acid. The Filth stepped back, putting all its weight into pulling the boy back inside. It was still leaning backwards when Mel darted forward, half running and half falling, swinging one leaden arm downwards. There was a glimmer of light on steel before the knife in her hand sliced through the tongue like a ribbon, spraying sizzling black slime across the room. Mel hit the floor even as the Filth reeled back with a squeal, sucking the appendage back into its mouth. Will was still crying out even as the severed tongue dropped from his ankle, drying up as it fell, curling up like a dead snake.

Mel was already getting up again. “Will!” she screamed. “Run!”

For once, he didn’t argue. As he crawled backwards through the window and into the street beyond, the last thing he saw was Mel turning back to face the Filth, pulling the handgun from her belt.

Then he was up and moving, stumbling away down the street on one scorched and bleeding ankle, the enraged screams of the demon echoing in his head. As he broke into a fast limp, he heard gunshots ringing out behind him. By the time he reached the corner at the end of the street, the shooting had stopped.

Will fell against a rough brick wall, gritting his teeth as he tried to hold himself up. His lungs were burning, his legs and back were screaming at him and he couldn’t feel his right foot. He felt something hot and wet running down his face, and it took him a moment to register that he was crying. He looked behind him, fighting the voice in his head that was yelling at him to go back. Mel had stood her ground to give him time to run. So had Gabe.

Looking ahead, he saw a shape emerge from the alley ahead. It was tall and skeletal and dressed in ragged clothes, and it was slowly walking towards him. A noise came from Will’s throat, a ragged growl that could have been terror or frustration; he couldn’t tell which. Pushing away from the wall, he half-fell around the corner and staggered on down the next street, no longer caring where he was or where he was going. He had to keep running. It was all he could do.

A chain-link fence swam into view beside him and he grabbed at it, the rough wire cutting into the joints of his fingers. He went through an open gate without even noticing, stumbling into the empty lot beyond. Dim yellow lights lined the dirty cement wall of a looming industrial building at the far end of the lot, only half of them working. On either side there was nothing but dust and shadows and a suggestion of tall fences. Will didn’t know if there was anywhere left to run; he wasn’t sure he cared any more.

His foot came down on a discarded beer can, faltering just enough for him to lose his balance, and in his weakened state that was enough to send him crashing to the ground. He almost didn’t bother to pull himself up, but something dragged his arms under him and forced him to rise to his hands and knees. He crawled the last few feet to the building, gravel cutting into his palms. Reaching the base of the wall, right under one of the guttering yellow lights, he dragged himself around and settled down, resting his back against the cold cement. Brushing his eyes with a dirty hand, he looked up.

Molech was walking across the lot, his torn leather coat flapping in the breeze, his hateful gaze fixed on the boy by the wall. The Filth was three paces behind him, skulking on all fours.

Will looked down at his ankle, the flesh turned mottled and black. The bracelet on his wrist glittered in the dirty yellow light, and he grinned.

Come on, then, you fucking—

They were halfway across the lot when a shape detached itself from the edge of the roof, fifty feet above where Will lay. It fell silently, upright and still, a black coat billowing around it like broken wings. It came down a few feet in front of Will, worn boots kicking up dust and gravel, dropping into a crouch as it absorbed the impact of its landing. Will blinked, looking up through blurred eyes as the figure rose to its full height. As it lifted its head, long white hair spilled around its shoulders.

Molech and the Filth kept coming, never breaking their stride, but their baleful gaze was no longer on Will. Both of them were looking at the figure that stood between them and their target, staring back at them through glimmering crimson eyes. As they drew closer, the figure raised a black-gloved hand and spoke a single, quiet word.

“Mine.”

For an instant, Molech paused, his stride faltering. Then he came on, at a slower pace than before, the Filth closing in alongside.

The white-haired figure took a step forward, squaring his shoulders. His voice dropped to a dangerous rasp. “Mine.”

Molech took three more steps, each slower than the last. Finally, with a dozen feet to go, he stopped. The Filth crouched behind him, lowering its head. They stood there for a fleeting eternity, Molech’s gaze moving past the white-haired creature to where Will lay. The Filth let out a low keening sound, like a cat.

And then, without ceremony, they turned back.

Will pulled himself up against the wall, staring after them. Molech walked away towards the gate, resuming his unhurried pace, never turning his head. The Filth looked back once, the light catching one mad eye, before it fell into step alongside him.

The white-haired figure watched them go, until they passed through the gate and were swallowed up by the darkness in the street beyond. Then he half-turned, looking back at Will.

It was the eyes he would remember later, deep-set and gleaming red, staring through the ragged white hair turned yellow by the light above them. There was a face, or an impression of one, gaunt and scarred and marked by shadow, but Will would only remember the eyes. Glimmering crimson eyes, staring out of a shadowy face. The white-haired figure looked over the broken boy behind him, gazing down with an almost fatherly air.

And he smiled.

It took Mel forever to drag herself up through the window, climbing the shelves one-handed. Her head was still pounding; she had no idea how long she’d been out cold after the Filth had flung her against the wall. Her wounded shoulder was bleeding again, but she ignored it. By the time she managed to haul herself through the narrow window and into the street, the sleeve of her jacket was dark with sticky amber blood. She had blood in her hair too, seeping from a cut on the side of her head.

She ran down the street, or tried to. She could barely keep her feet under her, and when she reached the corner she had to stop and steady herself, worried she might pass out again. When her head finally cleared enough to get her bearings again she looked around, trying to find the right path. She had no idea which way Will might have run.

Then, looking right, she saw them.

Molech stepped into the street, coming through an open gate in a chain-link fence. He immediately turned right, moving away down the street at an even pace. The Filth was beside him as always, head held low to the ground, stalking along like a spider. As they walked away into the night, Mel hesitantly moved towards the fence. She broke into a run before she reached it, fingers clutching at the links. Beyond it was an empty lot, dust-blown and scattered with rubbish. A tall factory building stood at the far end, the blank wall lit with dirty yellow lights. A body was slumped against the wall.

Mel cleared the lot at a blind, staggering run, bare feet kicking up gravel as she went. She didn’t feel the rough stones cutting into her knees as she fell to the ground beside the fallen boy, already grabbing at his shoulders. She pulled him up and shook him and screamed his name until his head rolled upwards, coughing and gasping for air as he forced his eyes open. The first thing he saw was Mel’s face, streaked with blood and tears, matted green hair clinging to her forehead, lips parting in a desperate grin.

Mel pulled him into her chest, her good arm wrapped around his shoulders, her chin pressed against his temple as he slumped against her. She was gasping for breath, tears streaking through the blood, trying to force her voice up out of her chest. “What,” she choked, and with no small effort managed to add, “happened, what… what the fuck. What the fuck happened?”

Will raised one weary arm, lifting an index finger. He seemed to be trying to point upwards, towards the roof of the building behind them. Mel lifted her eyes, but saw nothing beyond the harsh glare of the yellow lights. Will mumbled something against her shoulder. “What?” she gasped.

Will took a breath. “Saw him,” he murmured, his arm dropping. “I saw him...”

Mel looked up again. “Saw who?”

Will coughed, his head drooping. “He… he smiled…”

“What?” Mel moved her hand to his fallen head. “Will? You saw who?”

Will didn’t answer. He’d lost consciousness again.

Still holding onto him, Mel looked around as she heard boots shuffling on gravel. Gabe was walking across the lot towards them, moving with some difficulty, one arm tucked against his side. He still had his machete in his other hand, and was staring at the huddled pair with what might have been disbelief.

Looking up at the yellow haze of the lights one more time, Mel lowered her eyes, resting her head against Will’s.

I remember very little after my brief fight was done, and the creatures gone upon their way. It was three days, or so Doctor Kristan told me, before I awoke. It was longer before I could find the will to speak, much less raise my head from the pillow, but I was able to guess the extent of my injuries even before the good doctor explained them. My right hand was all but destroyed; I would lose all but the index finger and thumb, and those were broken. My left leg was also hopelessly damaged, crushed by a single blow from the vile things that had invaded the house. Doctor Kristan had already removed it, or rather supervised while the valet had followed his instructions, cutting it away below the knee. My other injuries were grievous, but they at least would heal in time. I gave them little thought after word reached us that my husband was on his way back to the estate, injured but very much alive, with most of the men he had ridden out with.

The creatures—the netvor—were long gone, having claimed the one they had come for. The girl from the kitchen had been an orphan, with no family to mourn her, but Doctor Kristan had buried her in the family plot behind the house and the servants had wept for her, even the cook who had whipped her for the slightest transgression.

Doctor Kristan, despite his failing health, stayed at my bedside until my husband returned, and was there to report to him on my condition. “Your wife fought as valiantly as any soldier in the Povstanie,” he declared. “A braver woman I’ve never seen. But those things . . . there was no stopping them, not for any woman or man. No force on this Earth could turn them back.”

I knew the doctor was right. It had been folly to stand against the creatures; I knew it then, as I had known it before I had taken up arms. Yet I did not regret my efforts, then or since, despite what it had cost me. For to stand against those demons, knowing I could not stop them, was all I could have done. How much more would it have cost me to stand aside?

~ Jessamine Pope
Bratislava, 1876

It was a grey morning on the woodland plains to the south of the city, overcast and damp, and no one would see the sun for hours. There was no traffic on the Gnarlwood highway this early, and most of the farms were out towards the west of the city. There was no one there to see Molech and the Filth as they crossed the highway, two black figures in the grey dawn air, walking in a straight line to the southwest. They were moving towards the distant south coast, towards Harbour City. It would take weeks to walk there, to reach the next one, the one they were going to take. But time didn’t mean much to them. They had all the time in the world.

And a dozen miles north, at the western end of Castor Bridge, Jared lifted his chin from the top of his shotgun and let out a yawn. “I don’t think they’re coming,” he said.

Tyler looked up from rubbing his eyes. Malik was huddled against him, gently snoring. “Shut up,” he growled.

“What was the name of that website again?”

“Shut up,” Tyler repeated, and pushed Malik’s head from his shoulder.

END