It was trying to pull itself out of the concrete, like a dinosaur trying to escape a tar pit. And it wasn’t precisely an ironer any more. It was still changing, melting. The 550-volt cable fell, spitting blue fire, into the rollers and was chewed away. For a moment two fireballs glared at them like lambent eyes,
eyes filled with a great and cold hunger.
Another fault line tore open. The mangler leaned towards them, within an ace of being free of the
concrete moorings that held it. It leered at them; the safety bar had slammed up and what Hunton saw
was a gaping, hungry mouth filled with steam.
They turned to run and another fissure opened at their feet. Behind them, a great screaming roar as the
thing came free. Hunton leaped over, but Jackson stumbled and fell sprawling.
Hunton turned to help and a huge, amorphous shadow fell over him, blocking the fluorescents.
It stood over Jackson, who lay on his back, staring up in a silent rictus of terror – the perfect sacrifice.
Hunton had only a confused impression of something black and moving that bulked to a tremendous
height above them both, something with glaring electric eyes the size of footballs, an open mouth with
a moving canvas tongue.
He ran: Jackson’s dying scream followed him.
When Roger Martin finally got out of bed to answer the doorbell, he was still only a third awake; but
when Hunton reeled in, shock slapped him fully into the world with a rough hand.
Hunton’s eyes bulged madly from his head, and his hands were claws as he scratched at the front of Martin’s robe. There was a small oozing cut on his cheek and his face was splashed with dirty grey
specks of powdered cement.
His hair had gone dead white.
‘Help me . . . for Jesus’ sake, help me. Mark is dead. Jackson is dead.’
‘Slow down,’ Martin said. ‘Come in the living room.’
Hunton followed him, making a thick whining noise in this throat, like a dog.
Martin poured him a two-ounce knock of Jim Beam and Hunton held the glass in both hands, downing
the raw liquor in a choked gulp. The glass fell unheeded to the carpet and his hands, like wandering
ghosts, sought Martin’s lapels again.
‘The mangler killed Mark Jackson. It. . . it. . . oh God, it might get out! We can’t let it get out! We
can’t. . we.
oh -‘ He began to scream, a crazy, whooping sound that rose and fell in jagged cycles.
Martin tried to hand him another drink but Hunton knocked it aside. ‘We have to burn it,’ he said. ‘Burn
it before it can get out. Oh, what if it gets out? Oh Jesus, what if -‘ His eyes suddenly flickered, glazed, rolled up to show the whites, and he fell to the carpet in a stonelike faint.
Mrs Martin was in the doorway, clutching her robe to her throat. ‘Who is he, Rog? Is he crazy? I
thought -‘ She shuddered.
‘I don’t think he’s crazy.’ She was suddenly frightened by the sick shadow of fear on her husband’s face.
‘God, I hope he came quick enough.’
He turned to the telephone, picked up the receiver, froze.
There was a faint, swelling noise from the east of the house, the way that Hunton had come. A steady,
grinding clatter, growing louder. The living-room window stood half open and now Martin caught a
dark smell on the breeze. An odour of ozone. . . or blood.
He stood with his hand on the useless telephone as it grew louder, louder, gnashing and fuming,
something in the streets that was hot and steaming. The blood stench filled the room.
His hand dropped from the telephone.
It was already out.