The light bulb flickered briefly, dangling on the end of its electrical wire from the basement ceiling. Then the light fizzed and died. Peter made a face, looking down from the top of the stairs. Beside him, Andrew Griffith fidgeted nervously.

Black tendrils had snaked their way up the staircase, along steps and walls and low ceiling. Black slick muck, bubbling pockets blooming where the larger strands crossed. They had almost reached the doorway at ground level, and were nearly invisible in the dark but for the sheen of the thin film of grease that covered everything. Ground zero indeed, Peter thought. Getting down there would be difficult.

"You're sure you want to go", Griffith repeated the words for the umpteenth time, incredulous as when he'd said it first. "I have to see", Peter declared. The flashlight Griffith had offered him would have to suffice. That in one hand and his handgun in the other, Peter gingerly made his first step down. "Close the door", he said. There was no answer but for the creak of rusted hinges and the clack of a lock shutting.

Slowly, carefully, Peter made his way down. He was careful to place his foot on bare spots, where he could still see the wood of the stairs between the sea of black. Far more often than he would like, Peter's shoes brushed against the outcrops of filth. As he progressed, there were less and less safe places, and Peter had to resort to feeling for the spots that seemed least infected.

Most of it felt like a thick slush of muck and gruel, giving way to his feet with squelches, but here and there it was solid, or liquid as clear water though it kept a grasping form. Before long, it clung to his shoes, and crept inside to cover his socks. At one point, a bubble burst while he stepped around it, and spattered over his trouser legs.

The flashlight bounced, bobbed and searched in Peter's hand. Eventually, it found the center of the basement, as Peter found the bottom step of the stairs. The grasping black strands came up through a hole in the floor, he saw. It must have been a crack first, small and inconsequential. But as the filth came pouring through, it opened up to its relentless assault, like water breaking through a tiny prick in a ship's hull and tearing it open.

The guardian's iridescent white eyes stared at him from the far end of the room. It shrieked at him, and Peter heard the thump before he saw what made it. Its slick dark arm stretched and whipped clear across the basement, crashing into the wall behind Peter. The wall buckled, the arm burst apart before reforming and pulling back, and a droplet of the filth landed in Peter's neck, slowly sliding down beneath his clothes.

The Templar shivered as he felt the foul cling between his shoulderblades, felt it bite and gnaw at his skin. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned the flashlight on his attacker's eyes. The thing no longer had any humanity left in it. Its vaguely humanoid form was all covered in blackness, writhing protrusions wriggling from what had been arms and chest. Its babbling was no longer in any human tongue, but a series of grunts, hisses and shrieks. The only thing not black about it was the yellow fluorescent jacket it still wore, torn at the seams. It read security on the chest. Peter would have thought it easy progress, if the thing wasn't barreling down on him.

Peter wasted no time in retreating up the staircase, vaulting two or three steps at a time. Behind him, the thing lurched at the spot he'd only just vacated, crashed into the wall and momentarily flattened against it before bouncing back into form and letting out a long, curdling howl.

Peter didn't have time to stop, nor was he particular about where he put his feet any longer, but the filth around him was intent on slowing him down and pointing out what a bad idea this had been. The dormant filth had awoken, and all along the staircase there were strands grasping at his legs, his arms, his hair.

Ahead, the strands of black muck had grasped on the chance to tear down the basement door and slowly slide into the house. Andrew griffith stood gaping at it, clutching his axe when Peter burst from the doorway, covered in gobs of filth that itched and pestered and nibbled at his flesh. "That won't help you", Peter warned, discarding the flashlight and snatching up his rifle as he thundered past Griffith and made for the door. "We have to go." "I have nowhere else to go", Griffith complained, but he came anyway.

On the porch, Peter skid to a halt, faced with a red haired woman and the barrel of a handgun. "Templar", she snarled. "No time!" Peter wailed, and broke back into motion. "Run!" Griffith followed, axe in hand, and nearly barrelled the Illuminati off her feet.

Three blocks later, they stopped in an alleyway. The woman came after them, and immediately she raised her gun again. Peter only sighed.

"That thing... We gotta keep moving", Griffith insisted. "It's there to guard the well in your basement. It wouldn't have come far beyond the door", Peter said, shaking his head. "Andrew Griffith", the Illuminati cut in. "Why's everybody know who I am?" the man seemed near desperation.

The woman took her eyes off Peter for a moment, and that was all he needed. Now there were two of them, each with a handgun pointed at the other's head. "Mine's bigger", Peter announced as he pulled back on the gun's hammer. "Men", the Illuminati grunted.

Peter grinned. "Doesn't have to be this way. Cross and pyramid tearing at each other's throats with tooth and nail. That's all fine out there, but we have bigger problems here. I'm Peter." Neither of them lowered their arms for half an inch, though. "Florentine", the Illuminati said after some hesitation.

It was all too much for Andrew Griffith. He didn't understand these people, with their words and their magic guns. As he watched these two, something bubbled beneath his skin. Black and hungry, there was fear and jealousy and desperation, but mostly there was the itch.

Something cracked, and suddenly Andrew's shoulder was awash in filth, bursting from his skin and washing over him, conquering flesh and consciousness in a flash. "Mister", he said. "Are you my mommy? Have you seen my mommy?"

Peter and Florentine both turned at the same time, weapons turning on the unfortunate Andrew Griffith. A shotgun blast to the man's back burst him apart before they could react, and Griffith burst apart in a wash of slime and muck.

Joseph leveled his shotgun at the Templar and the Illuminati. They were standing standing side by side, both of their guns aimed squarely at him.

"Well", Joe said. "This is new."