Brockmann spent the next couple of days recovering, while Simon began to form the empty flat into a headquarters. Maps went on the walls, pictures, post-its. He had one wall for Sandra, one for Alex, two for the monster, with one including sightings and potential whereabouts, while the other held all clues to the origins of the monster.

He had bought a used couch and slept and worked on it all day. He was not even sure how long he had been working when Brockmann entered the room with slow steps. Without a word, he passed the walls, grunted at certain posts, especially when his defeats were subject on them. He stopped at the largest map, or really just several maps, pinned to the wall. Blueprints with layers, numbers, and horizontal and vertical placements. “Those are wrong,” Brockmann said as he began to sort them.

“Yeah, wanted to learn later how to read them. Sewer systems are more complicated than I imagined.” Simon put his laptop aside and stepped next to Brockmann.

“Yeah, old-fashioned mapping. Once you get the general idea, it becomes rather easy.” Simon tried to make sense of what Brockmann had changed.

“Why do you have the map here? You think it moves through the sewer system?” Brockmann asked and turned to Simon.

“Not me, Sandra. She worked on it. I was looking into strange crimes and found two mutilated bodies in the harbor. She looked much deeper and found that a lot of rats have recently died and been found at the exits of sewer entrances.” Simon went back to the couch and got a printout. “So I got two. We have Königstraße as the only possible exit from the subway system, and an entrance from subway to sewer system through a maintenance tunnel near Diebsteich, just out of Altona.” Simon looked up and saw Brockmann pinning red needles into the spots.

“Good. Next?” Brockmann asked. Simon turned back to the list. “We’ve got dead rats at Ottensen, at Harbor City and then some at the other side of the Elbe. Waltershof had them swimming in the water.” Brockmann put the pins there. “That’s all we got?” Brockmann asked.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Simon said.

Brockmann put more pins into his flat, the motel, and Sandra’s flat. “It had its territory here in the harbor. It strikes from here in the short term, seemed to be able to move freely between houses and vanish at will. It was most confident and most careless here, so I assume it knows the region well.” Brockmann made a circle around the area between the Alte Königstraße and Reeperbahn. “Populated, but there’s also an overlay. A modern sewer system and an old one, right on top of each other. Many tunnels are no longer used.” He looked at the map. “It must have been an effort to get to Sandra. He had to go above ground.”

Simon nodded and got his laptop, showing Brockmann the photo of the entrance Sandra had photographed. “She didn’t say where it was, but I think she suspected this was his exit. See the bent metal plate sealing the exit?” Simon looked at Brockmann, who nodded.

“We need suits down there. We don’t want to walk through the mud in our usual clothes,” Brockmann said. Simon looked at him.

“You want to go down there?” Simon asked, surprised he had not considered it himself.

“Well, it might not know we found out how it moves, so we might actually have an element of surprise down there. Above the ground, it will be careful, cautious. Down there, probably not so much. You need to get us some stuff.” Brockmann went to the bag and got out one of the leather etuis, opening it. In there was about 20k in Euros and 10k in US dollars. His getaway funds. It had been the standard procedure of the NSC to have those when the Nocturne Society still called itself the NSC and had these standard procedures. He gave half the money to Simon and sighed.

“We need gasoline and three bottles of wine. And I know a guy who is selling old NVA gear,” Brockmann said. Simon looked at him and got out his mobile.

“NVA was the army of the democratic German republic, the DDR. Eastern Germany, as you called it over here.” Brockmann said and nodded. “No need to ask the internet, boy.” Simon smiled and nodded.

“Was that a sense of humor?” Simon asked. “You must be getting better.”

“I am said to have no sense of humor, just got annoyed by you reading me stuff you found on the internet,” Brockmann said. “Buy us two ABC suits, two gas masks, and the things that enveloped the whole face.” Brockmann looked at him. “Don’t pay more than two hundred apiece. It’s already a rip-off, but that guy has fantasy prices.”

Simon nodded and made notes in his mobile. “Roger that,” he said, trying to sound professional.

Brockmann just gave him an annoyed look and sighed.

****

The NVA ABC suits were one-piece overalls made of plastic. Basically, plastic bags in the shape of the human body. The hood could be adjusted, so with the mask on, it sealed off the body completely. It was incredibly hot in them, so Simon understood why Brockmann had decided to go by night. They picked a sewer cover near their flat and not too far away from the next rat finding. Brockmann had gotten them a car, a van usually used to move, and in the back of it they dressed up. Brockmann had also brought the gun, now assembled. Even Simon recognized it once it was put together.

“That is a Kalashnikov,” Simon said as he looked at the weapon. Brockmann looked silly in the suit, but so did Simon. The older man looked up at him and then nodded.

“A MPIkS. German version of it. Never thought I was gonna use it again.” Brockmann sighed and put it on his back. Simon watched him putting the wine bottles with the pieces of cloth into his back. Molotov cocktails. Brockmann had made them with admirable ease. Simon had been surprised that he had poured the cheap wine into the sink. He had expected him to drink at least one bottle of it. Then Brockmann tried the lighter, which was a small torch, easy to use even with the gloves on. Finally, Brockmann put it into the pocket of his suit and looked at Simon.

“You’re good?” he asked, like it was something of concern.

“Yeah, it’s hot in this thing,” he said. Brockmann nodded.

“You’re gonna appreciate it, it is cold down there. The water from the Elbe cools the whole sewer system,” Brockmann said. Simon nodded.

“You’ve been down there?” he asked.

“Yeah, 25 years ago. Guess it won’t have changed much. Shit and piss and us.” Brockmann gave him the plastic-coated backpack. Simon took it and put it on his back. Brockmann was still wounded, so he guessed it made sense for Simon to carry it.

“Check your light,” Brockmann said. Simon did. It worked.

“So if we find it, what do we do?” Simon asked.

“We kill it,” Brockmann said, not even looking at him.

“If we don’t find it, what do we do then?” Simon asked.

“Probably go down there again tomorrow night.” Brockmann opened the van doors. “Let's go.”

****

Climbing down the stairs into the sewer was more difficult than Simon had imagined. He slid off the stairs once and Brockmann watched from down below as he struggled to regain his footing.

“Take your time,” was all he said. The old man sounded spooky when he talked through the mask. His breathing was heavy and could be heard in the dark below. Simon managed to push himself back on the stairs and was happy when he arrived down on the ground. He activated his flashlight and the first thing he realized was how dark it was down there. Outside the cone of light, he saw nothing.

They stood up to their knees in some brown fluid. Even the gasmask could not filter the smell completely.

“Smells a little like your flat,” Simon said.

“Very funny,” Brockmann replied.

“You recognize funny things; you just never laugh. Interesting,” Simon said. Brockmann took the rifle from his back and attached the light to the barrel. Then his cone of light joined Simon’s and at least doubled the range.

Simon slipped on the ground and landed in the muddy water. He was happy these suits were waterproof. Brockmann shone light on him to help him get up and he did as quickly as he could.

“Slippery ground,” Simon said.

“I know.” Brockmann began to move forward. It was exhausting moving through knee-deep water. Simon sighed and followed him.

“If I shot you down here nobody would ever find you, you know?” Brockmann suddenly said.

Simon looked at him in the dark. “Was that a joke?” he asked. Brockmann didn’t look at him as he answered.

“Maybe,” he said and began to move. For an old, wounded man, he had remarkable energy. Simon realized he was in his element now. The hunt was what he lived for. He leaped at the chance after decades of inactivity just like a starved animal. For Simon, this was a nightmare. The smell, the darkness, and the outlook of probably dying down here made this probably the worst thing he had ever done voluntarily. Actually, he could not remember anything worse.

Brockmann led the way. They quickly came to a T-crossing, and he took the right path as if he knew exactly what he was doing. He must have memorized the map, Simon realized. If they got divided, he would probably never find the way back. He wondered if he could lift a sewer cover alone or if he would be trapped down here. He could yell for help. Guy saved from sewer tunnel. Surely, he would make headlines.

Brockmann stopped suddenly and put his cone of light to the wall. A sign was there. Drawn with mud to the wall.

“Familiar?” Simon asked.

“He was down here.” Brockmann nodded. “Silent now,” he said as he began to move again. Simon nodded and followed the instructions, getting a better grip on walking through the water and breathing loud and heavy through the mask. A rat passed them, and Simon looked at it. Were there supposed to be this few down here? He looked at Brockmann who seemed to have had the same thought and nodded as if confirming his thought.

Simon gasped and checked just to be sure he had his gun ready to grab. Down here shots would be deafening, he assumed. But he could barely hear through the mask and maybe it would keep him from going deaf if a situation arises where there was a shootout with the monster.

They finally arrived at a tunnel. It was round and above the ground. He heard water nearby rushing. The tunnel looked clean and large cables were attached to its walls. “What is that?” Simon asked. It didn’t look like a sewer tunnel.

“A düker. An underground tunnel going below the river. Connecting both sides of the city,” Brockmann said.

Simon always thought the tunnels for cars were the only ones below the Elbe river. The tunnel was large enough to stand in it if someone was not too tall. Simon saw him gasp in pain as he had to lean forward. The suit pressed against his wound. He hoped the old man would not collapse. The suits didn’t help either. His oxygen saturation was probably pretty low by now. He climbed up into the tunnel.

“Sure he went this way?” Simon asked. Brockmann turned his light to the wall and showed that the sign was there too. Brown on concrete grey.

“Alright.” Simon thought the signs were very convenient. He hoped they were not walking into another trap this time.

****

Lurking.

Few people have a deep understanding of the word.

IT knew exactly what it meant. It was the art of obscuring your presence for a long time, having patience, and not making a mistake when the moment arises to become active. The anticipation would rise until it turned to anxiety and when this anxiety finally unleashed itself on the unsuspecting world, you would feel the need to rush, and also feel unreasonable thoughts come to you in absolute clarity. A good lurker knows how to resist this urge. A good lurker knows he needs to stay calm, especially at this moment.

IT was a very good lurker. It had never been one before. It didn’t remember much about before, but it was sure it had not been a good lurker. Probably someone who enjoyed attention. Or maybe someone who liked the headlights and didn’t value the darkness.

IT was a lurker now. Not a raging lion and not a powerful shark, but a patient and deadly spider.

He had waited for his latest victim for a while. Oh, he was so proud; this black African prince of a man in his tailor-made suit together with his expensive gadgets. IT felt satisfaction that he was his tonight. But no rush, he reminded himself as he waited for the man to drive his Mercedes into the underground garage. Then, it dropped from the ceiling and slipped through the closing gates.

Amon Noriega used his remote to close the car, took his suitcase under his arm, and walked to the exit, yawning. He was irritated for a moment when the lights went out. “Hello?” He sighed. Someone had probably put the sensitivity of the motion trackers too low, so they didn’t recognize him. It was completely dark in the garage as he fumbled for his mobile and put the lights on.

What stood right in front of him defied any logic, any sense of reality. His brain didn’t accept it until a claw had ripped open his throat. He grabbed his neck and blood came from it. His voice failed to provide a scream as the thing brought him to the ground and began ripping him to pieces.

****

The walk was long, but the ground was much less slippery. It had to be almost a mile to cross the Elbe and they were slow with their limited light and their protective suits.

When they were ten minutes in, Simon tapped Brockmann’s shoulder. “Short break?” he asked. Brockmann grunted under his mask and then nodded. He took it off. Simon was glad to see that he was sweaty too. He felt the fluids run down his body. He took off his mask and grabbed a water bottle from the backpack. Quickly, he drained it half empty and gave it to Brockmann. The older man took it and looked to both sides of the tunnel with his flashlight.

“He uses this to enter the city. I guess we find his lair at the end,” Brockmann said. Simon nodded. He drank and leaned against the wall.

“Was it always like this? Back in the good old days when the world was full of monsters?” Simon asked. Brockmann gave him a look.

“It is different every time. Every one of them has its own ways to hide and hunt.” He drank from the bottle. “Or simply hide. They were shy. The modern age with portable cameras and video was a challenge for those trying to keep mankind blind.”

“How long did you do this?” Simon asked. Brockmann gave him a look and then sighed. “Forty years,” he said.

“Twenty years and a twenty-year break, I guess?” Simon smiled in the dark.

“Yes, more or less,” Brockmann said.

“Why do you think they vanished?” Simon had been trying to come up with an explanation, but with the little info he had, he had not been able to come up with any.

“I don’t know. I have been thinking about it for twenty years and I have no explanation. One day they were there, and the next they’d all just disappeared. We found no trace, received no reports. We still had those we studied, though,” Brockmann said. “They didn’t vanish.”

“You kept them imprisoned?” Simon asked.

“Yes.” Brockmann threw the empty bottle away. “Until we decided to kill them all.” He was not in agreement with this decision. Even twenty years later he could not hide that fact.

“Oh my God. How many were there?” Simon asked.

Brockmann shrugged. “We should get going again.” He left his mask off, as they began their march again.

“How many were there of you? The Nocturne Society?” Simon asked.

“Hard to say. We were spread all over the globe. A few hundred, maybe two thousand? We had been actively recruiting in the years before the vanishing.” He stopped and looked around. Then he continued with quick steps.

“You didn’t know?” Simon didn’t understand how an organization could be so opaque.

“No, I was not high enough in the organization. I was just doing what I was told. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others.” Brockmann turned to Simon now. “Quiet.”

They got to the end of the tunnel and there was a small room with a ladder going up. Light came from above. Brockmann looked up. There was no cover to protect the entrance. Someone had taken it away.

Putting the rifle on his back, Brockmann began to climb. Simon felt uncomfortable alone down there and followed Brockmann as fast as possible. He was prepared for the climb with the slippery shoes this time and when he reached the top, Brockmann offered his hand and pulled him up.

Simon thanked him with a nod and looked around in what appeared to be a large warehouse. Rusty boxes stood around, relics of a gone area.

“The old warehouse fields. They wanted to rip them down and create flats here,” Simon said and Brockmann nodded.

“Next year,” Brockmann said. He had read about the project in the newspapers. Simon sniffed.

“What is that smell?” he asked.

“Us. And rotting flesh,” Brockmann said. Taking his assault rifle down again, he began walking in the direction he assumed the smell was coming from.

They passed around the boxes and both men stood still. Before them lay a nightmare. A nightmare made of flesh. It looked as if the boxes and ground there were overgrown with corpses. A head was embedded in the ground, human and female. A leg looked out of it and it was still spasmed. Brockmann grabbed Simon and drew him away from a box as an arm extended suddenly, as if trying to grab him. No, not as if trying, it tried to grab him. Next to the arm was a single eye, spamming.

“Is this alive?” he asked.

“Yes. In a way. Animated flesh. Imbued with some sort of life.” Brockmann pointed to the floor, where the flesh growth ended. The flesh was pulsating there as if it tried to stretch. On the ground were symbols. Strange symbols.

“Enochian?” Simon asked. Brockmann nodded.

“What is this?” Simon had never seen anything like this in the real world. It was stuff that could only be seen in dark horror movies. A tentacle rose from the ground, almost two meters tall. Silently it stretched. Brockmann grabbed Simon, who watched in horror, and dragged him back, as the thing seemed to feel its environment and look for something. As if looking for them.

“Give me the backpack,” Brockmann said.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Simon asked. Brockmann shook his head. Simon sighed. He took out his mobile phone and took a photo of it. The whole scene was lit by a single lightbulb above. A red fog seemed to lay on the ground, but not thick enough to hide the now pulsating flesh. The tentacle began to slash out, hitting the box to its left. The rusty metal crumbled.

“No,” Brockmann admitted. “But it knows we're here.” Simon looked at him as he took out one of his self-made Molotov cocktails. Brockmann lit it with his torch and the piece of cloth began to burn. Then he threw it into the center of … IT . . . And the tentacle hit it mid-air with frightening speed. The fire spread immediately, and Simon expected a scream. But there was none. Silently it burned, as the tentacle slashed in all directions now until the fire consumed it and it fell. Brockmann lit a second one and threw it at the far end. The smell of burning flesh was almost as bad as that of rotting flesh. The two men stood there and waited for it to burn. The flesh pulsated and flashes of the fire danced around it until it turned black. Parts of bones became visible in the fire. It was a nightmarish view, underworldly. Something that should not exist. Simon would never forget this. He would never forget how this tapestry of flesh died in the fire. The arm that had tried to grab him was last to stop moving, roasted by the fire below it, slowly melted away, the skeleton crashing to the ground.

“I got photos,” Simon said.

“Congrats,” Brockmann replied. Then he turned around and sighed. “We gotta look to see if there’s more of it.” He said.

Simon cleared his throat. “We’ll stay together though, right?” He asked. Brockmann looked at him. That had not been his plan, but he nodded in agreement.

****

They found no more of this abomination. The warehouse was mostly empty, though the small cabin nearby contained a blanket and the floor was covered in a strange fluid.

“The lair,” Simon said. Brockmann nodded. “What now?” Simon asked.

“Now we wait,” Brockmann said. “It will come back, and I assume it will be really pissed.” He took his position behind a metal box. Simon took out his gun and leaned against it.

“If this is all reanimated, maybe so is the monster,” he said. Brockmann looked at him. He nodded and took out the last Molotov cocktail. He lay the torch next to it and knelt in front of it.

“We should have brought more,” Simon said.

“Yes, we should have,” Brockmann said. “One shot will have to be enough.”

Simon nodded in agreement. Then he breathed out and peeled himself out of the protective suit. It was a handicap and he wanted to be fast. He would have to run. Brockmann did the same and took the waiting position again in the corner.

The waiting began.

****

Sandra’s funeral was set on Sunday. Fornby had just been informed by his contact within the city administration. Her father had arranged for it. He was her last living relative.

Manninger. Sebastian Gustav Manninger was her father. He had married a German woman, Maria Folkert, and Sandra had taken up her second name and citizenship.

Looking out over the harbor, the old Ringmaster of the Nocturne Society regretted how little he had done to keep the Society from falling apart. He had not fought for it. One by one he had let them go. There was nothing to do anymore, they had all said. They are gone.

THEY were never truly gone. Fornby had always believed in that.

The monster was proof that he was right, but there was nobody left to share it with.

Nobody? Some of them had to be around. He had to find them. Brockmann had to find them if he had to. Someone had to be out there.

Lighting his third cigar that night, he felt the tobacco burn in his mouth as he breathed in. It gave him surprisingly little comfort.

At one time, he had considered leaving Nocturne behind himself. Seal the vaults, change his name and forget about it entirely. Just close the chapter. He had almost done it. For two years the thought had occurred from time to time. Yet, he had not been willing to do it, not yet. He had been the last member, until Brockmann showed up.

It was probably time.

Now that he was back in charge, it was time to find out what the hell had happened twenty years ago.

First, they needed to understand what was happening now.

He felt Manninger would be the key to that.