The Iscariot Sanction by Mark Latham

raced to the top of the stairs, but one of his pursuers scurried up the wall beside him with jerking, spasmodic movements, like a hideous crawling insect.
    John barged into the door at the top of the stairs, but it was locked. He kicked at it, feeling it give, trying to ignore the pain that flared up his leg. The monster dropped from above him, its marble-white face twisted with fury. John smashed the wrench into the head of the creature. It fell with a crunch. With one last effort, he kicked open the door, and flung himself through it. Too late, he saw another creature had almost caught up with him, and it sprung at him with terrible force, sending the two of them crashing through the doorway in a deathly embrace.
    They ploughed into the midst of a workshop of some kind, and half a dozen night-shift workers were standing gobsmacked at the sudden intrusion into their world as John skidded across the room, flat on his back with a ravenous beast atop him.
    John raised the wrench, using it to push the creature off him by its throat. He scrambled upright. He fumbled for a weapon atop the nearest workbench, finding a large glass bottle, smashing it and jamming the broken glass into the creature’s throat. With a bird-like screech, the creature released its hold and scurried away towards its fellows that were already cautiously entering the workshop. John waved his empty gun around threateningly.
    ‘Now look here, you’d all better—’ he began. But he did not finish. Another creature tore into the room, crashing into a workbench, before leaping upon the first workman that crossed its path and tearing into his throat with its large, uneven teeth. Another monster entered close behind, and then another, to cries of terror from the workers. John raced for the exit with the rest of the men, who were taken one by one by the creatures. The workshop was hot as hell, with smelters and peculiar apparatus set up all around; vials of bubbling pinkish fluid boiled away on workbenches, discarded ammunition moulds scattered alongside them. John realised at once that he had stumbled upon yet another of the Majestic’s dark secrets, but there was no time to explore it further, or to gather evidence. Instead he flung open the workshop door and staggered into the courtyard beyond, wrenching free of a labourer who clung to him pleadingly with calloused hands.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ John grimaced. He kicked the man hard in the midriff, sending him crashing backwards into the press of his colleagues. John pulled the door closed on the scene of terror. The last thing he saw was the creatures feasting upon human flesh. This time, the flesh of the living.
    ‘It was you or me, old chap,’ John whispered.
    But he soon saw that he had more pressing concerns. Dozens of factory workers were gathered in the yard, and were staring at him. Some looked merely curious at the sounds coming from the workshop, although they were fast subsiding.
    A group of burly fellows began making their way over to John; he half hoped they would rush to his aid, seeing the state he was in, but he knew at once that was not to be. The closest man brandished a sledgehammer with menace.
    John stepped backwards to the door of the workshop, an insane plan forming in his mind. As more workers plucked up the courage to advance, and their shouts began to ring out in the night air, John surveyed the courtyard. A main thoroughfare; two factory buildings, one large, one small; a row of five workshops similar to the one behind him; sundry sheds and shacks. Most importantly of all, a stable.
    As the men drew almost within arms’ reach, John flung open the door. The factory workers suddenly checked their advance on the shed, from which the smell of meat and death wafted into the yard. Then the growling came. A pair of violet eyes appeared; then another. John regretted his decision the moment he had reached it, but it was done. He leapt aside, scrambling for cover before the workers knew what