XLIII.

Hillman stood on one of the gangways and looked down at the assembled people below him. He had noticed Captain Dale up here a little earlier and had felt envious of the air of strength he projected from this vantage point, so he had followed him up. He pursed his lips, trying to think of what the best course of action might be—if it was any different from what Rachaels and Captain Dale seemed to be doing. He knew there must be something better, but it had not occurred to him yet. 

Hearing the stomping of boots, he turned and saw two of his men approaching. It was the two men who had stayed behind in the MQ earlier.

“Hey, boss,” one of them began. “That Dr. Burnstyle wants to talk to you—in person. Says he might have figured something out. He wants to talk to you.”

“Just me?” Hillman asked, surprised.

The men nodded.

“Let’s go then.”

Hillman led the way out of the loading deck, escorted by the other two men.

When he stepped into the MQ, Burnstyle pointed at a table with two chairs, inviting him to join him there.

There was the acrid smell of burnt flesh in the air, but the bodies of the two man-creatures that had been immolated here were nowhere to be seen. Someone must have cleaned them up. There was a strong smell of cleaning fluids in the air.

Hillman took a seat then waited for Burnstyle to join him. The Doctor finished up whatever he was doing, then came and joined him, taking a seat at the table.

“You wanted to talk to me, Doctor?” Hillman asked.

Burnstyle took a deep breath and leaned forward conspiratorially across the table. “Yes. I think I’ve discovered something about the creature that you’d like to know.”

“Oh? And why aren’t you telling your Captain?”

Burnstyle sucked his teeth and looked uncomfortable. “Normally I would, but I’m beginning to think… I’m not sure I can trust the Captain. Also, I’m not sure he’s intelligent enough to understand. You, on the other hand…”

Hillman leaned forward, eagerly. “Yes, go on.”

Burnstyle pulled back slightly. “Now, you have to bear with me here. Here’s the thing—I don’t think this is the first time the human race has encountered something like this.” He paused.

Hillman waited eagerly for Burnstyle to continue. The Doctor seemed extremely uncomfortable, and Hillman decided not to rush him. Eventually the Doctor continued.

“Are you familiar with the name Victor Sullen?”

Hillman frowned. The name tickled something in his mind. It sounded like something from the history books. Then the answer—or what he hoped was the answer—came to him. “One of the early Colonists. Baptist, I think.”

Burnstyle nodded. “Yes. He wrote quite extensively. Many of his books have not survived to the modern day, particularly his earlier works, but there’s one where he talks quite a lot about demons.”

Hillman stared blankly at the Doctor and began to wonder if the man had lost his mind. “Demons?” he asked, slowly.

Burnstyle shook his head and made a face that indicated he understood how bizarre what he had just said sounded. “Yes… Or something he referred to as demons.”

“The early Colonists were insane,” Hillman explained.

Burnstyle shook his head, ignoring the comment. “You know, in the early days of space travel, the human race thought that demons were something out of myth, a fantasy dreamt up by primitive man. Not something that has any real presence in our universe. Not something that anyone thought the human race would ever actually have to face again. Anyway, I recently started reading about the early Colonists. There’s a passage in Victor Sullen that stuck in my mind. I can recite it for you.”

Burnstyle paused, then began subtly waving his hand to indicate that he was reciting something from memory.

“What do we know about demons?

“They are creatures of mindless destruction. But when I say ‘mindless’, I do not mean to say they are not intelligent.  For them, intelligence is merely a tool—a means to an end.

“Even if the devil were to win God’s throne, he would soon grow to despise it, because it would be a constant reminder to him of the thing he hates most, the One who sat it before he. His end goal therefore cannot be to rule, but to gloat over an empty, evil universe filled with nothing but pain—a screaming void, in which not a single intelligent thought is to be found, in which not a single articulate word is placed in front of another.”

Burnstyle paused. Hillman's eyes moved from place to place as he tried to find what relevance this esoteric bit of speculative theology had to the current situation, but nothing really came to him. Noticing the stains left on the floor from where the two man-things had been destroyed earlier, he remembered their screaming and howling, and decided that must be the connection—the screaming void. He leaned back, unimpressed. “Please, go on,” he said.

Burnstyle seemed to catch Hillman’s air of incredulity, and his demeanour changed, perhaps betraying a bit of annoyance. “OK. I think this is important. In my opinion, Victor Sullen’s portrayal of the demonic may be a bit too… concrete. I think it is rather arrogant of him to presume to know the devil’s mind better than the devil himself. In my experience, the devil’s mind is a lot more… slippery, uh, transigent, not committed to any particular end goal.”

Hillman blinked at the Doctor, thinking that perhaps he should ask what he meant by ‘in his experience,’ but refrained from doing so. “You think the creature is a demon, then?” he asked.

Burnstyle exhaled sharply and squinted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You know, this intelligence thing is quite exhausting. Trying to figure out when something should happen; trying to remember who knows what and when they found out; trying to remember the rules you’ve made up for yourself. It’s very irksome keeping it all straight, particularly since I don’t really care that much. I’m just here for a good time.”

“What?” Hillman demanded. A great rush of irritation filled him. Without being entirely sure why, he was reminded of various times in his childhood and school years when older boys who were bigger and better looking than him had made him feel small. He had no idea what Burnstyle was trying to say.

Hillman stood up and beckoned his men to come closer.

Burnstyle eyed the two men who had stepped forward and frowned. Then he turned back to Hillman, with a more placating look in his eyes. “Sorry, I got a bit off track there. What I was trying to say was… forget Victor Sullen. I have a personal creed that I think will help you understand the behaviour of this creature.”

“You sound crazy,” Hillman informed him.

Burnstyle raised his palms earnestly. “I’m being perfectly honest here, Hillman. You’re going to want to hear this. This isn’t from Victor Sullen. This is me—my way of viewing the world.”

Clearing his throat, the Doctor began to recite.

I give birth to myself as I walk upon the earth.

I give birth to myself in Love.

I give birth to myself as I move among the people,

And I show myself the way.

Burnstyle looked at Hillman expectantly at the conclusion of this recitation, but the man did not respond, only stared at him with wide eyes.

Eventually, however, Hillman opened his mouth and said, “I think we’re finished here Doctor. I’ll go get Marlowe, and he can continue the tests for you. I think you need some rest.” He began to step away.

Burnstyle stopped him though, leaning forward for a moment and grabbing his sleeve. “Just one more thing, Hillman! Please, sit!”

Hillman was pretty fed up with this exchange, but the Doctor seemed very insistent, and in spite of himself he took his seat again.

Burnstyle leaned back and smiled. “You know how the villain is never supposed to reveal his plans?”

Hillman grunted. “Yes.”

The Doctor continued smiling. “Well, I say, what’s the good of this intelligence thing if you can’t flounce it once in a while, right!?”

Hillman stood up angrily. “That’s it! This is over!” He began to step away from the table again.

Without acknowledging the outburst, Burnstyle said, “Would you like to see me do something cool?” There was a menacing tone to his voice that Hillman could not ignore.

Hillman turned and watched as the Doctor made sure he had his attention, then pointed at something. Following the direction that Burnstyle was indicating, Hillman’s eyes came to the four men who had been left to guard the MQ, the two crewmen and two Feds. They stood between him and the exit. They seemed to be standing unusually close to each other. 

All together, they suddenly opened their mouths to an unnaturally wide angle and began to howl in unison. It was an inhuman and ear-piercing sound, which no doubt could be heard throughout the entire ship. They seemed to collapse partly in on themselves and stood crookedly as if all their bones were suddenly out of joint.  Burnstyle remained seated and grinned.

Hillman flung himself against the wall in panic to get as far away as possible from these screaming horrors. As he watched, their skin began to boil and flow. He would have lunged for the door, but they blocked his path. He raised his hands and crouched in terror, unsure of what to do, his heart pounding and his eyes bulging. So far, the man-things were just standing there.

Calmly, Burnstyle stood up and came toward him. His movements were languid and relaxed, and when Hillman caught his gaze, the Doctor gave him what in any other circumstance might have been a reassuring smile. Hillman desperately tried to figure out what was going on, his staring eyes trying to make sense of the expression on Burnstyle’s face. The smiling man slowly reached out and took hold of one of Hillman’s hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Then, with a movement almost too fast to be registered by the human eye,  Burnstyle plunged a sailor’s knife into the side of Hillman’s head. 

Instantly the screaming stopped. The man-things seemed to shudder and heaved themselves back up into normal human postures. Their transformation halted as well, and they regained their human shape.

Leaving the knife where he had plunged it, Burnstyle let Hillman fall lifeless to the floor, then turned to the not-men. “I think it’s time to start having some fun!” He moved past the not-men toward the door and they followed him.

XLIV.

Captain Dale and Rachaels casually strolled around from group to group on the loading deck, offering a few words of encouragement and inquiring into everyone’s wellbeing. Rachaels, of course, stuck to the Feds, and Dale to the crewmen.  Rachaels’ revolver was holstered, and his rifle was slung over his back. He took long puffs on a cigarette and tilted his head up to stare at the ceiling whenever he exhaled, as if he had not a care in the world. Dale had his hands resting comfortably on the butt of his rifle, which hung from his shoulder on a strap. He went up to each group of crewmen in turn and asked them about trivial matters in the attempt to get their minds off their predicament. All this seemed to have a calming effect for a time, but then a sense of agitation began to manifest itself again despite the best efforts of the Captain and Rachaels.

People could not help talking amongst themselves, and those who had witnessed the rapid transformations of Lombard and Lovecraft found themselves with a steady stream of listeners wanting to hear their first-hand accounts. Eventually people began casting shifty glances at everyone around them, their minds filled with wild imaginations and misgivings about each other. The sinister lighting in which they were all bathed did not help either. Although their eyes had very quickly adapted to the red emergency lighting, the occasional white glow from someone using a flashlight served to reveal the predominant color around them.

Somewhere far off in the ship, howling erupted. This was not the screech of an engine purge. This was the sound of something monstrous. There were several cries of alarm from all over the loading deck, from both crewmen and Feds, but they very quickly quieted down as the howling continued. It was impossible to tell what direction it was coming from. The crewmen and Feds, who until this point had been generally facing towards each other, in postures which would allow them to quickly bring their weapons to bare on each other, now spun around to face whichever entrance to the loading deck happened to be closest. Some even trained their weapons on the openings that led onto the gangways above them. Instinctively, everyone began constricting into the centre of the room, away from the dark entrances around the perimeter. Eventually many groups of Feds and the crewmen were standing back-to-back.

The howling ceased. The following silence was palpable.

Rachaels took charge. “Cover those entrances!” he called. “But be cool! Be cool! Get some space!”

If anyone had any doubts about what they had been told about transforming monsters, those doubts were now rapidly dwindling. The sound really was disturbingly alien.

Nothing happened for quite some time. Eventually Dale tried to put another call through to the CIC, but was unsuccessful.

There was a stirring in one the dark entrances onto the gangways above them, and the sound of feet.

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey!” one of the Feds shouted, his rifle pointed upward. Four men stepped out onto the gangway—two Feds and two crewmen. Instantly every weapon in the room was aimed at them, but they held up their palms defensively

“Did anyone else hear that?” the foremost of the newcomers called out, one of the Feds. “What was that?” 

Almost everyone lowered their weapons as the four men started coming down a set of stairs toward the loading deck. They did not look threatening. When they reached the deck, they moved in different directions out into the crowd. Rachaels beckoned one of them, one of the Feds, over to him.

Rachaels had his rifle in his hands, pointed at the floor. As the other Fed approached him, Rachaels half-raised his rifle in his direction, then immediately lowered it again. Then he slung his rifle over his shoulder again and pulled out his revolver, but he kept it pointed down.

“Didn’t I leave you with Dr. Burnstyle?” Rachaels asked. “Where’s he at?”

The other Fed pursed his lips and eyed the revolver his superior had drawn. He opened his mouth and paused for a moment as if thinking, then locked eyes with Rachaels and smiled for the tiniest fraction of a moment. Suddenly he swung up his rifle and fired directly into Rachael’s chest. 

Rachaels was struck only by crowd control rounds, but they hit him with such force that he was knocked down.

At the same moment that the other Fed opened fire on Rachaels, all chaos broke out on the loading deck. Other weapons were fired at nearly the same instant, and an ear-peircing howl began. This was not far off in another part of the ship though. This howling erupted from the midst of the crowd on the loading deck. First three or four inhuman voices could be heard, then three or four more, then perhaps another dozen. The howlers, some of whom were firing into the crowd, seemed to be about equally spread out among the crewmen and Feds. Those around them scurried away in terror, covering their ears. Then the howlers threw down their weapons and began to shake violently. Almost immediately their flesh began to transform and erupt.

Not everyone understood immediately what was going on. Some people began fighting each other instead of the howling things. Some of the crewmen and Feds presumed both sides had returned to fighting each other. Many of them only caught a glimpse of one or more of the howling figures, their flesh and limbs twisting in bloody contorted shapes—illuminated only by the red glow of the emergency lighting. An even brighter red light erupted as someone fired a flamethrower up into the air. The howling continued, combined with screams of surprise and agony, the whoosh of flames, and the ratatat of rifle fire.

It was unclear how many crewmen and Feds were transforming, but it was certainly more than the four men who had only just arrived.

In the red glow, the howling man-things eventually completed their transformations and were revealed as heaving mounds of quivering, ambulatory flesh, waving tentacles and sharp white stingers. Unlike the thing that Constantini had turned into, however, these things did not retain their human heads. They had something vaguely in the place where their heads should be, but if these protrusions had eyes, ears, or any other sensory organs, they were indistinguishable. Each of the creatures began lurching toward the closest potential victim. Finding itself facing off against a small knot of crewmen and, surprisingly, one or two Feds, one of the monstrosities heaved itself up into the air like a gigantic polyp and extended all its appendages and tentacles to form an enormous fan. Then with yet another ear-piercing shriek, it began vibrating and whirling all its extensions about in a horrifying display.

A mad scramble began to vacate the loading deck—to escape the monstrosities and madness.

The man who had opened fire on Rachaels, however, did not transform. His face became transfixed with an inhuman expression of glee. With his superior down, he turned and strafed a nearby group of crewmen, striking many of them with painful crowd-control rounds.

Crouching, Dale swung his rifle about, trying to make sense of the situation. He caught sight of a near-human face, the flesh of which might have been rippling and moving, but then he lost it again in the crowd. Turning, he was just in time to see one of his own crewmen, his face bizarrely expressionless and his movements strangely languid, plunge his sailor’s knife into the back of another crewman as if it was nothing.  There was something impossibly alien about the expressionlessness of the first crewman’s face compared to the agony painted on the face of the other man as he fell. Dale began to raise his rifle toward the attacker, but then he tripped on something and was sent sprawling on the floor. It was Rachaels.

Rachaels sat up, clutching his chest and part of his neck where the rubber bullets had struck him. He could barely breathe. 

Sizing up the condition of the man, Dale scrambled over to him then grabbed him by the back of his shirt to drag him out of the middle of the room. Together they came to a stop next to a crate near the wall. With a start, he realized Havisham and two crewmen named Jones and McManus were crouched nearby, their eyes bulging with fright, and shaking with adrenaline.

Eventually Rachaels  recovered enough to rise from a sitting position to kneeling. He peered over the top of the crate. Men and monsters were chasing each other around the loading deck. As he watched, one of the creatures caught a member of the crew, pierced him though with a spike, then began to infect him, creating another monstrosity. In other parts of the room he caught glimpses of newly-made not-men rising unnaturally from the ground.

Dale and Rachaels looked at each other, both knowing the other’s thoughts. There was no salvaging this situation whatsoever. This was a threat to the human race beyond anything anyone had ever heard of.

Dale turned to the handful of crewmen who were with them. “Have any of you seen Marala?” he asked.

They shook their heads.

“What’s going on?” Havisham squeaked. “Everyone’s gone mad!”

Dale ignored the question. “We have to get out of here. Off the loading deck.”

Partway across the room, one of the lurching monsters caught sight of them, howled hideously, and began moving in their direction.

Rachaels stood and opened fire on the creature as Dale and the others began moving toward an exit. The creature stumbled a bit, but kept lurching forward. Rachaels hurried to catch up with the others. Together they formed a tight knot, keeping low to the ground. Then one of them tripped over a body that was sprawled on the ground, and they all fell together, dragging each other down.

The creature sprang forward and howled triumphantly, raising a white boney spike above  the mass of people tangled up below it.

Then, just as it moved to strike, there was a loud crunch and the creature bent nearly in half as something struck it from the side. It stumbled a few steps and collapsed, its body broken.

Morala stood there, just behind where the creature had been, holding a piece of fabrication rod with which she had just smashed the creature. The rod was slightly bent from the impact. She rushed forward to help them up.

Scrambling to his feet, Dale was just about to say something to Marala when, looking over her shoulder, he saw that the creature she had smashed was still alive.

Hauling itself up on a few arm-like appendages, it looked in their direction and began to howl again, but the howl had a different quality to it this time—more of a gurgling. Its head began to vibrate, and two fleshy sacs appeared in its neck area, which then began to inflate with some sort of liquid.

Grabbing Marala, Dale pulled her out of the way as the thing spat. A stream of smoking acid flew through the air and missed them by only a few inches..

“Come on!” Dale shouted, and began pushing people toward the exit. The last one to leave the loading deck, Dale turned to get one final look at the fallen monster. It was crawling towards him, painfully dragging the broken lower part of its body along behind it. The creature’s head had transformed to resemble one of the spitting creatures from Shropshire, though the rest of it had not changed. The creature pulled back its head in preparation to spit one more time and Dale dove out of the way.

At the front of the group, Rachaels led the way down a circuitous route of wandering corridors away from the loading deck and into the bowels of the ship. He did not know his way around down here, but that did not concern him as much as leading the group away from the creatures he knew were behind them.