Alex had waited in the flat for as long as she could but finally realized that she had lost her target. She had also lost sight of Brockmann, which implied that those two were together now, and hiding. Simon had either a very forgiving nature or he was not being told the true circumstances of Sandra’s death. A bullet had killed her, and the monster certainly didn’t shoot people.

The police had not yet caught up to Brockmann, but soon they would and that would take him out of the picture. Simon probably would not pose a danger if alone. So, all that was left was getting rid of any traces she had left.

She decided that standard procedure would work fine. The kitchen had a gas stove. She opened the lower plate of it, took out the plastic tube, and then took her spring knife from her pocket, allowed it to snap open, and severed the tube with one cut. Next, she used it to break out the valve controlling the flow and turned all four of the oven burners. The smell of gas filled the room right away. She opened the fridge and put the toaster on. Then she quickly packed her bag, pushed Simon’s tablet into it, and left the flat. With quick steps, she climbed down the stairs, left the building, and walked over to the bakery opposite it, where Simon had always got them fresh croissants in the morning.

She had enjoyed the part of the job where she got breakfast in bed. Ah damn it, she had to admit the whole thing had been enjoyable. It was a shame she would say goodbye to him like this. She ordered a coffee and waited. Five minutes later she saw the window two stories above burst and flames hiss out of it. The flat would probably burn pretty fast with all the furniture in it. She drank her coffee and then left the bakery. When she was at the street corner, there were still no sirens. She was sure they would come too late. They would know it was arson by the next morning, but by then she would be on a plane to the US.

There was someone she had to find there.

Another poor soul who might have drifted too close to the truth. There would probably be a lot less fucking and a lot more killing involved in that one.

****

The sun was going to come up in a few hours, Simon realized. His adrenaline began to wear off and he felt tired. Terribly tired. He wished they had brought caffeine.

Brockmann seemed mostly unaffected by this. He was in pain though, maybe that helped. When this was done, Simon would definitely have to convince him to go to a hospital, if he was still alive. If Simon was still alive too. He felt he was the over-eager rookie that usually died tragically in a horror movie.

“Do you think it will come back? Maybe it has more than one lair,” Simon asked. Brockmann looked at him. “The wait is the worst part.” Brockmann turned again to the opening in the floor.

“Really? I’d say we should judge that one once we’re done with the monster,” Simon said. Brockmann answered this with a thin-lipped smile. A smile. So, he could smile, Simon thought. Actually, this was good to know.

“What do you think this all is?” Simon whispered. “What do you think happened here?”

Brockmann sighed. “I am not an occult expert. We had people for that,” he answered. Simon sighed, a little unnerved.

“Well, share your theory between partners,” Simon insisted.

“I have no partner,” Brockmann said. Simon looked at him with his brows raised in surprise.

“What am I then? A trainee?” he asked. “I think I did my part in getting here. Don’t you think we’ve worked together quite well so far?” Brockmann said nothing. “You know, you're a grumpy old bastard.”

Brockmann turned to him and lay his head to the side. “Yeah, been told that one before.”

“I saved you, didn’t I?” Simon asked. “I got the whole thing with the Persian demon worshipper; I got us the subway and sewer connection.”

“Technically that was Sandra,” Brockmann replied.

“Yeah, sure. You would have hacked her back-up password without me because you're such a tech-wizard. Right?” Simon sighed and leaned against the box.

Brockmann knew he would never have found this place without the boy. The thing was, he had learned to respect him. He was resourceful and smart. But attachments were not good in this job. The boy would probably not make it out of this. Neither would he. If one of them did, they were better off not feeling that he had let his partner die.

“Temporary partner,” Brockmann said, and was a little surprised at himself.

“Oh well, that’s a start, I guess.” Simon sighed. A sound ran through the warehouse and he quickly turned his head towards the entrance on the floor. Brockmann did the same, taking the torch and Molotov cocktail up.

They waited in absolute silence. Not a sound was heard. Nothing. Simon barely dared to breathe.

And yet, nothing happened. No monster appeared. After five minutes, he relaxed.

“Well, I’ve got a theory about what happened here,” Simon said. Brockmann relaxed and put the torch down.

“I’m listening.” He didn’t take his eyes off the entrance.

“The book you saw, the one with recipes for cooking human flesh, that was one of the books stolen by you guys in London. You probably didn't want some students stumbling over a book that made it possible to create a monster by becoming a cannibal serial killer. So, you stored it, or whatever you do with it. Then the Nocturne Society fell apart and you guys lost it or sent it to Argentina. There Sandra got into contact with it, was scared like hell, and fled from her family, who were probably involved in something. She came here and thought this was far enough away. Of course, people who turn others into monsters are not the kind of people who leave loose ends, so they send a book to someone here, and that someone starts using it. He turned into the thing and all he had to do in return was kill Sandra,” Simon said. “Sounds about right?”

Brockmann bit his lip and then nodded.

“Makes sense,” Brockmann said and then remembered the cannibal.

“Sandra knew who and how the book got here. She tried to make me find it. But if the monster had not passed it on, I’d say they sent more than one book,” he wondered, whispering.

Simon nodded. “So they make copies,” he concluded. The thought was terrifying. Copies of this book. Hundreds of people eating human flesh to become hundreds of monsters. “They can hardly expect everybody to go through with the plan. We talk about giving up your life, becoming a serial killer, and then one of those things. Even for hardcore occultists, this is a bit too much.”

Brockmann nodded again.

“How does Alex fit in there?” Simon asked. “I mean she obviously hasn’t fallen victim to my superior good looks.”

“Almost unbelievable, isn’t it?” Brockmann replied in a dry tone.

“It is,” Simon said and then turned his head suddenly. He felt as if something had moved; something inside the warehouse. He looked around and saw nothing. Probably the nerves.

“Cleaner,” Brockmann said. “She was here to make sure Sandra didn’t reveal anything, or if she did, that nobody was left with this information.” Brockmann knew that this was something he had been sent to do back in the days. Almost an NSC strategy.

Simon nodded. “So, she would have killed me?”

“Don’t make me regret intervening,” Brockmann said. Nothing in his tone indicated that this was a joke.

“Very funny. Did you make your second joke today?” Simon asked.

“Maybe,” Brockmann simply replied. Simon took the water bottle and smirked as he drank. When he put his head back, he saw it.

The monster. The thing was right above them. Hanging from the ceiling high above, its tentacles wrapped around the metal bars holding the building together. It seemed to consist only of interwoven, meaty tentacles, building a roughly human body in shape, although nothing about it seemed human anymore. The head, however, had irritating human features. The small black eyes stared down at them. He froze and the water slipped out of his mouth and onto his clothes. He put the bottle down realizing that any hasty movement would betray them now and lead to an attack.

“Brockmann.” He gasped and swallowed.

“We should be silent now,” Brockmann said. Simon nodded.

“It's here,” he whispered. “Don't turn.” Brockmann looked at him and nodded.

“Where?” he asked.

“Above,” Simon said. Brockmann closed his eyes and silently cursed.

“Maybe you take these for a minute,” he said and handed Simon the torch and the bottle.

“Sure,” Simon said out loud. He almost felt the tentacles above twist and turn. Brockmann turned back to the opening and grabbed his assault rifle. He gave Simon a look to get ready and the boy nodded.

****

It had felt the death of a part of itself and the pain had made it howl in anger. They had found its lair. They had somehow tracked it. These pesky unworthy humans made of weak mortal flesh. The old man had escaped it once before and also it was hard to remember now. The anger about this felt fresh. A fury that made it crawl faster, its form twisting and adapting to the sewers. The tentacles forming legs and pushing it through the mud and stinking water.

But it was not stupid. Killing them had not been easy before. This time they would come prepared. The thing passed the entrance and made its way deeper into the sewer system. It would take the other exit. It would not be surprised or ambushed. No, it would not be hunted. It was the hunter, and the prey would never see it coming.

****

“How long do I have?” The question the doctor heard most and hated most.

“This is hard to predict, but if the therapy fails, most patients don’t survive the next six months. As the cancer has already spread through other organs, I assume you might have less.” The answer came out cold. Maybe one had to be cold when messages like this are delivered. Maybe you had to build an armor around you. Richard didn’t care. He wanted to jump over the table and rip out the doctor’s throat. He hated Doctor Fuhrmann for several reasons. He hated him for not saving him. He hated him for surviving when he had to die. Most of all, he hated him because he was simply there. It was his fault. His incompetence would kill Richard. There was not much they could do, he had said. This was his life. It was his damned life.

“I won’t die,” Richard simply stated. It was not a statement up for discussion. He wanted the doctor to shut up and accept this fact. Of course, this babbling fool didn’t do him the favor.

“It is good you have a fighting spirit. I cannot underline enough how much mentality influences your chances,” Doctor Fuhrmann said.

“No, you don’t understand. I will not die,” Richard said. The doctor only looked at him.

“Okay,” he said, probably worrying about the psychological condition of his patient.

“You will see,” Richard said, “I will not die.” He smiled and got up. The doctor did the same, offering his hand and some farewell words. Richard didn’t even hear them. He wasn’t bothered about anything the man had to say anymore.

****

The chemotherapy was what they called aggressive. He lost 30% of his weight, his hair, his dignity, and most of his hope.

So, he turned to the one place that provided answers. The one place that provided hope. He had searched the darkness for solutions since the day he was diagnosed. He had dwelled in such places before, but this time he went deeper. He spent money bribing people for access. He got ripped off several times, but he didn’t give up. Until he found the right place, the one he had often heard of in forums, which he had thought was just a prank or at least a sophisticated attempt at creating an urban legend. Turned out, it was quite real.

I AM 37 AND I AM DYING OF CANCER. IS THERE ANY SOLUTION TO MY PROBLEM?

He was not wasting time. Not taking any slow approach in this community, if it was to be called that.

WHERE ARE YOU FROM MY FRIEND?

The reply came from the administrator of the boards itself.

MANNHEIM.

What did that have to do with anything?

WHY DO YOU NOT MOVE TO HAMBURG?

He wondered if these guys were playing a prank on him. He wanted to believe. If so, he would find them and rip their damned hearts out, but these days he knew he had a hard time doing his shopping. Truth was, he was alone, and if the thing got any worse, he would probably starve to death or end up in a care home. No, not a care home. A Palliative facility. A place for the dying.

WHY? THINK SEA AIR CAN CURE CANCER, ASSHOLE?

He waited for an answer and was half expecting to be expelled. He should not have called the guy running this an asshole.

SORRY ABOUT THE ASSHOLE, MY MOOD IS NOT AT AN ALL-TIME HIGH.

The answer took another minute.

THAT IS ALRIGHT. IF YOU WERE IN HAMBURG, YOU COULD DO SOMETHING FOR US AND WE COULD DO SOMETHING FOR YOU. IF YOU ARE READY TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THE CANCER.

What nonsense was this?

WHAT CAN I DO ABOUT THE CANCER?

The answer came promptly.

HEAL IT, OF COURSE.

He smiled. He knew this was probably not serious, but if it was?

ANYTHING.

He wrote this and felt a wave of pain. The excitement came with pain. Everything came with a bit of pain nowadays. He remembered when he had been riding his bicycle or fucked an expensive hooker. He remembered when not all food tasted like shit and he had enjoyed his burgers with fries.

GOOD. A FRIEND OF MINE IS WORKING ON SOMETHING IN HAMBURG, BUT HE IS NOT SUCCEEDING. I THINK HE IS NOT COMMITTED ENOUGH. HE DOES NOT HAVE YOUR MOTIVATION.

Richard shivered, as he realized these guys were taking it seriously. Maybe what he had read was true. Maybe science was not the last answer to everything.

WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO?

He asked.

TERRIBLE THINGS.

The answer came right away.

GOOD. He wrote. I FEEL LIKE DOING TERRIBLE THINGS RIGHT NOW.

There was a break and then the answer came.

WONDERFUL.

****

The ritual was secret. It was only shared through a number of encrypted messages via phone. They had a lot of questions about him. He seemed to meet all the criteria. They were looking for someone like him. Someone who was alone, desperate, and angry.

When they finally revealed what he had to do, he was not even shaken by it. Murder was not that frightening anymore. What could they do to him if he got caught? He would be dead before the trial began. Cannibalism was not exactly anything he had ever been interested in, fascinated maybe, but not wishing to try it. Now he found it a small price for survival. The victim would be dead anyway. Everything else sounded like he might even enjoy it. Sexual escapades in ritual form. If he paid a hooker enough, they usually let you do anything, why not sing while fucking them?

He was not in any way worried about the daily ritual routines. Chemotherapy was the worst daily act of self-sacrifice imaginable. What did worry him was the result. This was not about healing, they explained. Healing would be the side effect of the transformation.

Transformation into what?

A God. They had really answered this with the words, A GOD.

Then came the final requirement. They were obviously most worried about that. He needed to eat someone with whom he had a deep connection. Indeed, he had no more family except a half-brother he barely knew. His funeral would be a pretty empty matter. But when he asked about what this connection was, they explained that it had to be an emotional bond.

Like love? He had asked.

Or hate, they had answered.

Richard had smiled and told them he might have just the guy.

So, he packed his things, putting so many painkillers into his body he barely felt anything, and in this heavily intoxicated state, he drove to Hamburg. Well, not right away. First, he visited Dr. Fuhrmann with a gun he had ordered on the dark web. He rang the door and a beautiful wife opened it. He had killed her and his two children, barely teens, and then finally killed Dr. Fuhrmann by shooting him in the head. It had been too quick, but he had been afraid neighbors might hear the shots and call the police. So, this had to be quick. Richard had to find his satisfaction in the things he would do to the doctor’s body.

The brutal murders were all over the news. Funny enough, they suspected the missing Doc and went looking for him. They would never find him.

****

He settled in the cheap flat on the edge of town. He had taken it because of the huge cellar with a sink and water. Then he waited. Waiting was hard when you were running out of time. The doctor was already cut into pieces as instructed, and stored in a large fridge in the cellar. He was worried he would not have enough time to complete the ritual. It would take weeks. He was already beyond his predicted expiration date. Only his will kept him alive now.

Two deliveries finally arrived via the courier service in separate packages. The first held a small leather volume in a language he could not identify. The second gave Richard a USB stick which contained a rather unique tool. It was a translator for the book that was easily installed on his laptop. The translation tool was great, but strangely he didn’t need it for long. Once he had read the book, he felt he began to understand those glyphs, as if they were crawling into his brain and establishing themselves as a new language. The true language of his new world. It almost became hard to listen to German or English. Only the glyphs made sense.

He lost no time and began. It began with the eyes. He had to eat him whole, so why not the eyes first?

****

They said the pain experienced while dying of cancer was the worst pain one could have. But he had painkillers for it. They, whoever “they” were, had no idea what real pain was.

When he began to feel it, it was an incredible sense of being uncomfortable in his body. Then when he reached the later stages, this feeling began to turn into constant agony. It was as if something was growing inside of him, and it crawled into every part of his body. The flesh changed first, then the skin and finally, when he could no longer go outside, he felt it in his bones.

Every day he reported to the benefactor and every day he was assured the progress was great, outstanding even. The words kept him going forward, as he felt the change finally reach his mind. His perception itself changed. His hand seemed suddenly wrong. It felt as if it was not his hand. He had to get rid of it. He would definitely get rid of it.

The final stages needed quite some preparation. His legs were no longer there. As he slowly transformed into long meaty tentacles that he could not control yet, he had to use a wheelchair. He had one delivered to him. His health insurance even paid for it. He started working at night because his eyes could now see in the dark, better than day time. Light blinded him; even the light of a torch was unpleasant.

Finally, his arms changed and he had to use his elbows to arrange the prepared meal on his plate in the cellar and then eat it by leaning forward and biting it and chewing on it. The taste was sweet. It was the only thing that tasted sweet. His teeth were still there, but more than once he found it hard to use them. Until he felt they grew less in his mouth, but sharper. He lost his ability to speak, at least to speak like a human. He had no fingers to dial the phone anyway.

The benefactor watched him through a webcam that had been installed now.

YOU ARE ALMOST THERE. DON’T GIVE UP MY DEAR FRIEND.

He found it hard to read and comprehend the words. His mind had become adjusted to his new form. The pain was ceasing, and he felt as if he was expanding, growing. When the landlord opened the door, he already had enough control to strike him down with the tentacles that had replaced his arm. He devoured the screaming man and then his neighbor.

YOU HAVE TO STAY HIDDEN. BURN DOWN THE HOUSE.

He did as he was told, using the gas he had bought for the ritual, and left the flat. He was crawling still, but with every victim he devoured, he gained more strength and control. He found a homeless man sleeping by the river and dragged him into the sewers. There he found rats. So many rats. They were delicious. Not as delicious as humans, but delicious.

Finally, his benefactor demanded the price for all he had said. They needed no laptop anymore now. He could hear voices; voices of others like him. Through them, he received a name. A name and a place where he would find the girl who had such name.

He hated the girl. He hated her for having a name. He had no name anymore. He had become something humanity had not given a name to, because it didn’t know it existed.

****

Brockmann ripped his assault rifle up and fired. The shots were so loud it was as if thirty thunderbolts ripped through the silence of the warehouse. More than half of his shots hit the unspeakable horror hanging up there, and the body of the creature fell, mutilated by the shots.

Simon would have been buried under it, had Brockmann not thrown himself against him just in time. The massive thing crashed to the ground, its tentacles whirling around and a long and inhuman scream emanating from it. Brockmann reloaded immediately and stepped back.

“Out of the way!” He shouted and Simon realized he was standing there staring at the thing. It was almost impossible to make out its shape now. It was a wild plethora of moving arms. Simon managed to jump aside, and this time every shot Brockmann fired hit the thing. He loaded another magazine into it and then dropped the rifle and drew his gun.

Blood streamed from the creature and it lay still. Its tentacles flailing one last time before lowering and finally resting on the ground.

Brockmann breathed heavily and Simon quickly stepped to his side.

“Is it dead?” Simon asked. At that moment, the tentacles began to spasm again, like an answer to the question. Two had been severed and even those two moved now and began crawling in their direction.

“The Molotov! Now!” Brockmann yelled as the creature began to rise again, its tentacles arranging in a roughly human form made of two legs and two arms that split each into many smaller and larger tentacles. Simon lit the torch and held it against the cloth that was hanging from the bottle. It caught fire and with all his strength he threw it at the thing, as it rose to its feet. It slashed out and the Molotov cocktail exploded mid-air, setting the right part of it on fire. Screaming, the tentacles began to whirl. He could hear it through the peeping that was now filling Simon’s ears. He stepped back and fumbled to grab his gun out of his belt.

The thing threw itself to the ground and began rolling over, to put out the fire. Brockmann approached it with a grim look on his face. He seemed angry and in a strange way happy as he began firing all six rounds of his guns into the wounded creature. A spasm ran through it with every shot as it was trying to pull itself up with a metal container. A shot hit the tentacle grabbing the metal and severed it. Then his gun clicked. The thing was still alive. Its tentacles winding into a new shape of a three-legged thing, dead meat falling from its burned and mutilated body as some of its arms died off. Simon raised his gun now. He felt the trembling of his hands and Brockmann stepped aside. Simon looked at him and all he got in return was a nod.

He aimed and fired, as Brockmann got out an automatic pistol and loaded it through. Simon felt the gun jump up in his hand, but the shot had hit the thing’s neck. His ankle hurt, but he aimed again and fired once more. Then a third time. Every shot hurt it a little more, but he knew they had to kill it now. Not just for Sandra, but simply to put an end to this. Something that should never have existed. Brockmann joined him and emptied the magazine of his gun with shots in quick succession. Simon fired a fourth time and missed, took aim, and stepped one step forward. The spasms of the thing and its screams of agony now filled the warehouse. It tried to get up but was, again and again, ripped to the ground by shots.

Finally, they were out of bullets. Simon gasped as the gun made two clicks and the painful recoil didn’t come. Brockmann let his gun drop to the side, and then grabbed his revolver, opening it and quickly taking bullets from his pocket to reload it.

The thing was still alive, now peeling away its dead parts and getting up on the tentacles it used as legs. It rose like it was fighting for a stable stand. Simon had nothing to attack it with anymore. He slowly stepped back. Brockmann looked up at it and then turned quickly again to his gun, putting the last bullet in.

“Shoot it!” Simon yelled, feeling the panic rising within him. How could this thing still be alive? Could it not be killed?

Brockmann pushed the cylinder in and Simon saw it was too late. The thing leaped forward and shortened the distance between itself and Brockmann in one single jump. One of its legs was wrapped around Brockmann’s leg and it ripped him off his feet. With a painful gasp, he fell, as the thing let itself fall onto him, with its tentacle wrapped around his arm and neck. Brockmann went red immediately, coughing once more before he gave a gurgling sound. Simon suddenly was ripped from his frozen state. He knew he had to do something, anything. In his desperation, he threw his gun at the thing, and then he did something he would have considered impossible. He charged and threw himself at the mess of tentacles, ripping it off Brockmann and landing on the ground. Brockmann gasped for air and rolled aside, aiming at the thing, which quickly rose to its feet, now one tentacle was wrapped around Simon’s torso. Simon felt the air being pressed out of his lungs. The thing was incredibly strong. His rib gave a cracking sound and in his brain, through the panic, he realized it had broken.

Brockmann could not shoot without hitting Simon, who was now being shaken from one side to the other.

Brockmann knew he should take the shot. He knew the bullet would rip through Simon into the monstrosity. Yet, he his finger didn’t do it. He could not kill the boy. But he could not watch him being killed by this thing, pressing him together like an empty beer can. With a hiss, he grabbed into his pocket and took out his last resort. His hand grenade. With a cling, the pin jumped out of it and the monstrosity held Simon still and turned to him.

Then the thing suddenly stopped the process of killing Simon and let go of the boy. It leaped back and Simon gasped for air, as he fell to the ground. With a speed that was fueled by its fear, it fled on its remaining three legs and Brockmann waited for it to be a few meters away, before throwing the grenade right into its path.

“Cover!” Brockmann shouted and threw himself over Simon to shield him. The grenade exploded and filled the warehouse with its noise.

Then a moment of silence filled the world, followed by a loud beep. Brockmann lay on the ground and felt the warm blood from his reopened wound slowly soak into his shirt. He was clear enough to press his hands on the wound and gasp out into the air.

“Simon. Are you alright?” he said and turned aside. The boy looked at him with widened eyes. He could not understand him. Finally, he got what Brockmann was asking and put a thumb up. He pressed himself to his feet and helped Brockmann up. A concerned look to his wound was ignored by the old man, as he grabbed his gun from the ground. This was something that caused a wave of pain to flow through his body. He raised the gun at where the monster had been, and Simon followed his gaze.

The grenade had ripped a hole in the ground and ripped apart a rusty metal box, but there was nothing that looked like the remains of a monster.

“No, no, no,” Simon whispered. He looked at Brockmann who leaned against a wall.

The beeping got better now, but even without it, Simon would have known what the wounded old man was saying.

“We gotta find it.”