The New Pulp by Simon Spurrier

Author:Simon Spurrier
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction
Publisher: Rebellion Publishing Ltd

FATHER JESUS SANTIAGO sat in his front room, enjoying the sunlight streaming through the window. He'd pulled the wooden boards down to allow the light in and was sitting at his desk, collating a list of the disappeared - one of the many tasks he set for himself every week. Someone had to keep track of these things.

He'd been afraid that the addition of sunlight would show up the old, broken furniture and layers of dust, but to his surprise the room still had a rustic charm, despite its abandoned quality. In the back of his mind, he knew he was taking another risk, but there hadn't been a soldier within a mile of the house in years. It was time for him to start enjoying life again - the small things that most took for granted, morning sunlight, fresh air. There was no sense in denying himself the most basic joys life had to offer because of misguided paranoia -

- there was the sound of clanking metal in the distance.

Jesus' eyes narrowed, and he turned to the sound, listening intently. The clanking and creaking of metal was nothing new in these parts, but there was something different about this. The sound was heavier, somehow. Louder, more insistent. As though made by something very, very big...

The adrenaline hit. Jesus leapt out of his chair, grabbing the paper he was working on and hurling himself at the trapdoor. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel the blood rushing, his chest tightening as he burrowed under the rug. Working quickly, he levered up the catch with slippery fingers, lifting the heavy wood of the trapdoor enough for him to squeeze through, then letting it drop and hoping the rug stayed enough in place to fool the intruders. He couldn't breathe - he had to consciously work his lungs, trying to keep from panting, to keep as silent as possible. The sweat dripped down his neck and back and the scraping of the wooden door against the barely-healed scars had set them screaming once again. They seemed to burn as he lay with his spine pressing on the stairs just under the trapdoor, unable to move a muscle in case his shifting weight made them creak. Over his head, there were thudding footsteps and the sound of German being spoken.

Like a fool, he had dropped his guard - and they had come for him.

The floorboards overhead were creaking. Not just the floorboards, but the supporting beams in the cellar, as though they were being forced to bear some unimaginable weight. The noise was deafening. Not just the creaking and clanking, but a terrible clicking like a thousand insects trapped in a metal jar - all sandwiched between terrible claps of thunder, hard metal impacting on dusty wood. Occasionally he heard the crack of one of his floorboards breaking under the strain. There was a very real possibility that whatever thing was up there would simply crash through the floor under its own awful weight.

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