Geoff cocked his ear at the scratching - a ‘skrtt, skrtt’ sound coming from downstairs - but it was the smashing of the kitchen window that caused him to jump out of bed. Grabbing his dressing gown, he put two shells into the twelve-gauge and headed for the staircase. "Jesus, Geoff, take the crucifix!" screamed Amy, his wife of thirty years.

‘A crucifix,’ Geoff thought inwardly, ‘for a fucking burglar - things have really gone to shit.’

He knew it was probably one of the scavenger species, much less powerful than the predators - but it didn’t stop Geoff’s guts churning like a cement mixer.

On entering the kitchen, Geoff almost vomited instantaneously - these creatures gave off a stink that made shit smell sweet. The place looked like a whirlwind had ripped through it. Cupping his hand over his nose and mouth, he surveyed the kitchen.

The cookie jar was smashed, the steaks were shredded and the walls were covered in something Geoff didn’t want to think about - where was the little bastard?

What felt like a bird dumping on his head caused Geoff to look up - the last thing he seen before his skull was crushed like an eggshell was a living, dripping trap jaw descending at lightning speed.

Amy ran downstairs when she heard the crunch - she assumed her husband had stood on a plate - and the sight of what looked like an oversized greyhound with teeth to rival a great white enjoying it’s first warm meal in months almost proved too much for her. She managed to get to the phone before passing out in the hallway.

By the time the squad arrived - two ex-Delta operators and a priest - the creatures belly was grossly distended from gorging itself on Geoff’s body. One shot from Col. Mike Stewart’s modified CAR-15 took the Gorok’s head apart.

His partner, Mullendore, went to work with the machete - some of the scavenger species, despite their apparent weaknesses, had a nifty line in regeneration. The priest was there to look after the women and ensure the remains - both the creature’s and Geoff’s corpse - were sanctified and incinerated.

This was the third ‘domestic’ Stewart had pulled tonight and even for such a hot night, it was unusually busy.

"The heat really brings the fuckers out, eh?" he remarked to the priest, Fr.Kelly, a slightly built 30-year - old from upstate New York.

Kelly, who had yet to get his head around the idea that creatures who had previously only existed in nightmares were now part of an almost daily routine said dryly, "It’s not the small ones we’re worried about, is it Stewart?"

Stewart knew exactly what the priest was referring to.

When the event now commonly known as "The Rip" occurred and the population went through the roof, albeit courtesy of what the tecs referred to as ‘para-dimensional beings,’ the smart ones quickly adapted to their surroundings - leaving the less intelligent scavengers to fend for themselves.

One of Stewart’s first missions had been to lead a task force into the ghettoes, where one of the most powerful creatures and gone to ground in an abandoned industrial district.

Air strikes had proven fruitless - the creature, reported by eyewitnesses to be over 20 feet tall, appeared to be able to burrow underground.

It had been snacking on the local population for quite some time before Stewart’s team of operators tracked it to a stretch of wasteland.

Using barbed poles to hold it done, the six-man team had pumped countless rounds into the thing - one rifle barrel almost melted - before the demon started coming loose at the seams.

It appeared that the legions of Hell- now bound by Earthly physical limitations - were simply no match for superior firepower.

The brass could barely contain their delight when Stewart’s buddy Fillmore turned up at the Pentagon with the creature’s head.

"Have you identified the creature yet son?" the Joint Chief of Staff enquired.

Some Vatican hotshot demonologist had come up with a list of bad guys currently on the loose, and Fillmore answered,

"I met that nerd on the way in, he said Abraxor, Abraxas, or some shit like that."

The team had laughed out loud at this point -here was a combat veteran, respected and revered in all the Special Forces families, trying to recall the name of one of Hell’s chief Lieutenants before the President - it was fucked up.

The sharp crackle of the radio brought Stewart back to the present.

"Come in Unit 4, over."

"Unit 4 responding, over."

"Mike, we have another one for you, sorry pal. It’s a big fucker out at the turnpike ripping people out of their vehicles."

Joe Kalis, the dispatcher, was an old friend of Mike’s - he took the desk job after losing an eye while fighting a nest of succubi.

"Jesus, Joe, gimme a break here, its almost fucking midnight!"

"Be advised Mike, this bastard’s as big as a house"

Sighing, Stewart answered resignedly, "On my way."

Strapping on the min-gun, Mike turned to his partner, Staff Sergeant Mullendore.

"Wanna get a taco after this?"

"Nah dude, trying to get healthy," he replied, "what about a salad at Gill’s?"