was ghastly: red eyes glaring, crooked lips drawn back over protruding fangs. His hands were extended claws, the nails long and talon-like. There was a supernatural horror about him that filled all of them with fear.
“What the hell?” exclaimed Maxwell, rushing up and discharging a round of bullets at the hideous thing.
The bullets had no effect whatsoever.
‘Muscles’ opened fire, emptying a drum of submachine gun bullets. And then ‘Weasel’ was shooting. Crates were splintered and blown asunder. In the resulting chaos, Maxwell fell forward, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He had been shot three times in the back.
Murphy turned to look. Crawling forward, a smoking revolver in its hand, came ‘Two-Bellies’—the deformed, dummy-imp in the convict costume. What manner of perverse sorcery Chung-Fu had used to transform the fat gangster into this foul abomination, he had no idea, nor had he any desire to stay around in order to find out. He pulled back, eyes staring as Chung-Fu rose into the air. A dark cloud began to form around him. His eyes became lambent, red fires of pure evil.
The terror-shadows began to grow, snuffing out the light.
This was an enemy Murphy knew could not be beaten. This was an ancient, demonic thing, no doubt an entity that had existed for centuries, its power derived from the horror it instilled in others; a vampire of sorts. He turned and ran for the exit. ‘Weasel’ was already there, his face chalk-white, his body trembling.
There came a scream as something terrible befell ‘Muscles’.
The thing that had been Harry ‘Two-Bellies’ Lafayette fired, bullets whining past Murphy’s head.
“There’s some dynamite in the car,” shouted ‘Weasel’. Together he and Murphy dashed outside into the natural dark of evening and ran to the parked vehicle. Several curious dockhands, alerted by the gunshots, watched from a safe distance.
Heart pounding fiercely, Murphy stood trying to gain his breath, waiting as ‘Weasel’ flung open the boot and removed several sticks of dynamite. He handed them to Murphy before taking out some more.
Murphy glanced back at the warehouse. Hideous, unnatural things were happening in there within its shadow-filled interior. For an instant, his vision blurred, veiled by the falling rain. He blinked his eyes clear. Then horror burst out anew as he saw the demonic thing that stood in the doorway of the warehouse, grinning at him with a leering smile. The features were indistinct, half-visible through the black, suffocating shadows that billowed out around it.
Then ‘Weasel’ was lighting fuses and throwing his sticks of dynamite.
An almighty explosion destroyed the doorway of the warehouse. A second and then a third blast went off, the powerful detonations throwing fire and wood skywards. A wall of fiery heat struck Murphy as he hesitated before hurling his explosives. The two men then pulled back, waiting, hoping that nothing would emerge from the conflagration that now raged before their eyes. Thankfully, nothing did.
They then got in the car and sped off, leaving behind the madness of Chung-Fu and the bodies of Maxwell and ‘Muscles’.
* * * * * * *
Hang-Lee, the government appointed investigator, examined the poster that had appeared overnight on the wall of the rundown cinema. There had been a rash of disappearances in the Poor Quarter of Beijing.…
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