The Adventures of Andrew Doran: Box Set

by Matthew Davenport

  Keeping just out of distance of the chunk filled goopy remains of the shoggoth, I collapsed as well, hugging the pistol to my chest.

  I laid there, like that for what seemed like an hour, but was much more likely only a minute or two, when Dean Brandon Smythe stepped into view.

  I didn't hesitate as I aimed the pistol right at his head.

  The smug bastard smiled a half grin and raised both of his hands. "I heard the alarm go off." He glanced

  around at the mess that my fight with his pet had caused. "You're the reason we can't have nice things, Dr. Doran."

  Taking my gun off of Smythe, I stood up and collected the sword from where it had fallen. Grabbing the scabbard, I strapped it to my waist. I would need to get a holster for the pistol, but for now, my waistband would do. I had found my weapons.

  "What happened here?" The Dean was no longer attempting humor, and was genuinely concerned as to the mess in his armory.

  "Unfortunately," I answered, grabbing a case of .38 ammo from a shelf. "I probably just saved your life."

  Chapter 2: The Shadow Over Barcelona

  The puddle of shoggoth hadn't finished congealing and Dean Brandon Smythe was already making demands. They all seemed more clinical than anything, demanding that I recount the events of the fight. Did I provoke the shoggoth? Did I inadvertently break the magical leash that Smythe held on it? Wasn't there a better way to go about this than killing his little minion?

  The questions came, but no answers did, as I hunted among the shelves and tabletops for a holster. Finally, the Dean threw his hands into the air and said that he'd be in the library when I was ready before storming off toward his secret entrance into this incredibly large armory. It wasn't long after he left that I found my holster. There was nothing special about it, other than being the perfect fit for the gun I had found. On my way towards the very same exit the Dean had used, I grabbed a sack large enough for the two weapons, sword and pistol, and then exited the armory.

  I decided to attempt making nice with the Dean long enough to get my ticket overseas, and returned to his library. The Dean was still flustered by what had happened down in the armory and was pacing the room as I entered. I'm sure he was looking for a way to blame me for the battle that had ensued, because to do otherwise would be to admit some sort of fault in himself, and the Dean could never allow that.

  Looking inwardly, I was proud of myself. Aside from my recent tussle with the Night Watchers, I had been far removed from any sort of battle for much too long. While I had always prided myself on being an educated man with an outstanding knowledge of cultures across the globe, I could not deny my love for battle. I made no illusions about it. I was a warrior, yet I had gone too long without a fight. I had grown clumsy physically, and my mental discipline was no longer as sharp as I would have liked. I sensed that my world was about to change, and hoped that I would be capable of finding my comfort zone in battle once again.

  Seeing me enter, the Dean composed himself as best he could. Much to his credit, he chose to ignore the previous confrontation in the armory and instead spoke directly to the business at hand.

  "What are you going to do now?" He prodded.

  I was happy for this prodding, as it meant that he was ready to give me whatever I asked for. "I'll need a ticket to Barcelona, Spain."

  "A plane ticket?" He asked.

  "No. A boat ticket. I don't trust planes." I swung the sack that I'd found down on the nearest table, ignoring the items that rolled out of the way and to the floor.

  The Dean grimaced at the mess I was making. He said nothing about it, and thundered on with the details of my mission. "Fine, a boat ticket. I'll have it within the hour." He walked to the other side of the table I was at and faced me. "Why do you want to go to Barcelona?"

  I worked at the buckle on the scabbard and slid it off of me, wrapping the belt around it. I did my best to hide my annoyance at the Dean's question. An educated man in 1941 should have at least some idea why I would be choosing Barcelona. I chose to placate him.

  "Barcelona is the closest city to Nazi controlled territory that I can get to without any sort of notice. When I get to Barcelona, I'll cross the border into France and work my way through and to Germany, before working my way through the final push into Berlin." I slid the scabbard into the sack and then moved my attention to the pistol.

  "Alright," the Dean said. "That's logical, but why Berlin?" Much to the Dean's credit, and I'm always hesitant to give him any sort of credit, this was actually a good question. There were a lot of places that the Nazis could have taken the book and they had a lot of reasons not to take it to Berlin, as any would be rescuers, such as myself, would assume that the book would be taken to the seat of power. The evidence at the Dean's disposal only supported that taking the book to Berlin would not be the wisest course of action. I had more information than he did.

  "Oh, it's definitely in Berlin." I pulled the pistol out of my waistband and slid it snugly into the holster. "Berlin is where the Traum Kult resides."

  "Traum Kult? I'm not aware of this group." The Dean placed his hands behind his back as I worked at wrapping the belt of the holster around the pistol.

  "That's normal. They are Hitler's personal psychic assassins and Berlin is where they are headquartered." I slid the gun into the bag, the handle still readily accessible in its newly wrapped holster, and placed my hands on the table. For the first time since killing the shoggoth, I looked the Dean directly in the eyes. "The word Traumer is German for Dream. Taking the book to the Traum Kult is the only sensible decision. Anyone else in Germany would have no idea how to properly use it and wouldn't be able to do any more damage than a bumbling alumni." I watched his face make no notice my slight jab and continued. "The Traum Kult would be the only people under the Nazi's control that could access all of the book's secrets. If they were so inclined, they could use it to summon the Great Old Ones or possibly command and compel the demons of the void. It's even very conceivable that they could use the book to walk the Dream Lands to control, interrogate, or assassinate anyone in the world. The Necronomicon in any of its translations is a tool of incredible power."

  "Then why not use their own German version of the book?" The Dean asked.

  I couldn't hide my annoyance at this line of questioning. "Use your head. You know why. The English version of the text is the only copy with a complete set of diagrams and schematics for every spell and ritual. That includes all of the incantations and blood sports discovered or invented since the German translation had been written. Miskatonic University's copy is a weapon, a gun with extra ammunition, but there's an even better reason to take our copy." I had started orating against my better judgment and took a breath to continue. "At any one time the Traum Kult could use their version of the Necronomicon to walk the Dream Lands and confront American targets. They can use it to kill us, control us, or simply spy on us, but they don't. They don't do this because we would be alerted to this activity within moments, if not before, it was happening. Our own psychics would feel them out and then what would they do?" I asked him as if I were a teacher asking a child to reason out the very obvious answer. In a way I was.

  Dean Smythe scowled at me, but took my bait. "Our psychics would alert the appropriate authorities in Miskatonic and we would then use our book to retaliate."

  I jabbed my finger at Smythe and said, "Right! By taking our copy of that damned Arab's book, no matter how special it might be, the Fuhrer has severely crippled our defenses."

  Smythe's eyes widened in panic. "How long will it take you to get the book back?"

  I turned from the Dean, and paced away from him. "As long as it takes." I turned back to him, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Let's get something clear now, before you get any more silly ideas. I do not report to you. Not now and not ever. You are not my boss, foreman, or commanding officer." I pulled a hand from my pocket to jab my finger in his direction once again. "You're an idiot who ignored every warning that you ha
ve ever been given and therefore are responsible for the largest mistake since..." I sought for it and found it fairly quickly. "Since trying to compel shoggoths!" I threw both of my hands into the air. "It didn't work for the damned red coats during the Revolution, why the hell would you expect better results. I'll tell you why, because on top of being an idiot, you're arrogant." I allowed myself a breath and returned to the table to grab my bag. "So, no, I will not report to you, and you will have to trust in the fact that I will save the world from your ignorance."

  The bag packed, I swung the strap over my shoulder with the bag under my arm. The opening was towards the front and I could see the scabbard and the gun inside. I had finished saying anything that I felt needed to be said, and my anger at the man was at its peak. We were done here and I knew that the details of my passage to Spain would be handled by Dean Smythe soon enough. I was ready to leave, and turned to do so.

  To my surprise, the Dean grabbed my arm, spinning me back to face him. "We're not done-" he started.

  He didn't finish.

  My reactions weren't as slow as I'd previously feared. Without remembering making the movement, the pistol was in my hand and pressed to Smythe's forehead.

  "Don't push me." I said. "You are a monster and I am no fool. How many bodies have been piling up in the basement of Miskatonic during your tenure?" I was speaking through gritted teeth. I had no idea if I planned to pull the trigger or not. "All that you ever had to do was hide that damned book." I pressed the gun harder into the Dean's forehead. "I've seen it before: you think of the void as a big treasure chest, and, instead of looking inside yourself, you just wait to see what these poor confused students pull out for you to play with. You're addicted to your own morbid curiosity. I. Should. Put. You. Down!" I ended each word of that last bit with a slightly harder push of the pistol.

  Smythe's fear was suddenly gone and a small smile showed that he didn't expect me to shoot. "Yes," he said. "I am a monster, but please, tell me how your chosen line of education and heroism is in any way an altruistic act?" He slapped the gun away from his forehead, and I let him. "The difference between you and I, Dr. Doran, is that while I was too afraid to peek into the void, you were only too eager."

  I put the pistol back into its holster and tightened the bag's draw string. I had no want to hear any of this, no matter how true it was. In the end my body count wasn't people, it was monsters, and I would be damned if some traitor to his own species was going to lecture me.

  The gun secured, I stomped away to the exit of the library. As I grabbed the door, the Dean threw another barb in my direction, and I had to wonder how closely it came to striking home.

  "A man like you makes a man like me wonder, Dr. Doran. How much of yourself do you lose every time you take that peek into the void?" ***

  The only communication I received from Dean Brandon Smythe after I stormed out of his office was a messenger that evening. He had come with information on my departure, and no, he was not a compelled evil from the void. Only a young, and perhaps well paid, student. The boat would be leaving early in the next morning and the entire trip would take three days. I was to be riding on a freight barge that would take port in Barcelona. It was exactly what I wanted and I was packed and ready to leave an hour after receiving the departure information. I was packing light and only bringing some clothing and general hygiene needs that managed to fit in my bag with the weapons. I would most likely lose some of the more personal items the closer that I came to Berlin, but the saber and pistol would be in my possession as I confronted the Traum Kult and reclaimed possession of the Necronomicon.

  I boarded the freight liner the next morning, before the sun had opened its eyes upon the world. The boat was similar in make to many of the earlier European steam ships, mostly for transporting people and mail, but at about a quarter of the size. It only had one smoke stack and the deck of the boat was about twenty-five feet above the dock. In the morning light, I couldn't see too many details of the ship, but I knew enough to say that the boat looked like the Titanic's orphaned child.

  Climbing the steep ramp to the deck, I passed several other passengers. Much in the same way that its much larger compatriots would carry mail as well as passengers, this vessel would be carrying passengers as well as freight. I passed several of them in the dark as I boarded and was unable to see their faces. That didn't stop me from feeling their eyes on me.

  I spoke to some of the crew in hopes to find my cabin or where I might be bunking and was soon swept up in the preparation. I spent the next several hours working and laughing with the crew as we moved crates on board and secured them in the hold. It was an hour after the sun had risen before I had found my way to my sleeping quarters.

  I found it through horrible directions given to me by my newly discovered friends within the crew. As I

  entered the small cabin I found bags had already claimed a bed from each of the two bunk beds except for the top bunk on the bed to the right of the door. The bags were not unaccompanied as each of their owners were standing in the tight space. They hadn't been speaking, or at least hadn't been speaking loud enough for me to hear, but they stood closer together than even the tight room required. They had been facing each other, but turned as I stepped in.

  As my eyes took in their appearance, I found myself searching my catalog of cultural ethnicities for a definition of what stood before me. They were dressed as port workers in simple wools, yet the odd differences from the average New Englander were all physical. Their mouths were wide, almost twice as much as one would expect, and their eyes seemed equally disproportionate. Large glossy eyes and equally large damp lips did not equal an enormous nose, as each of them had a small, almost nonexistent nose. Two of them wore hats, but their near fraternal similarities allowed me to assume that they all housed large naked craniums.

  Each of these exaggerated features were oddities on their own, but they were nowhere near the most inhuman of their characteristics. Their skin itself was the exclamation point in this scene before me. These were pale men. While their clothing assumed a port-like vocation, each of the men lacked any of the sort of pigmentation that long hours in the sun would imply. Added to that fact that their skins were all glistening with a damp look, as though they had some sort of sweaty film covering their bodies. I found myself surprised that they had no sort of overwhelming smell.

  I mumbled a quick hello and received no further acknowledgment from them as they returned to their own bunks and sat. The one who's bag was on the other top bunk opted to sit on that bottom bunk with his companion. I threw my bag onto my bunk and turned to eye them each again. They hadn't moved after sitting and now all stared at nothing in particular. It was as if they were waiting for something or had maybe fallen asleep with their eyes open. I was concerned for my next two nights on board the ship.

  I gave two more college tries to talking to my new roommates before surrendering to their silence and choosing to explore the boat a little further than my work with the crew had allowed.

  While the Lush Delusion was small compared to its more famous cousin, the Titanic, it was large to my perception. The inside consisted of three cabins for the crew and then two extras for any passengers that might come aboard. That did not include the Captain's small cabin as well. The rest of the ship was deck, engines, and storage.

  In this newly christened venture of roommate avoidance, I climbed my way down to the hold. The engines were already spinning with a ferocity and I decided to avoid the heavily (five or more) populated areas for a more peaceful exploration. As the vessel churned against the ocean, the poorly lit hold, with its tied down crates and creaking masses, was incredibly peaceful. For the first time since I'd been discovered by the Night Watchers, I allowed myself to relax.

  As I walked, I saw many different types of crates and manufactured goods. At one end of the boat were two, very solidly secured, cars, and as I moved further from the noisy turbines, I found even more of the larger sized crates, each wi
th a label in a different language.

  In my time since leaving Miskatonic University, as a student, I had traveled the world around and seen many such oddities on board craft that, like me, were headed to similarly odd locales. The Lush Delusion was no exception. She had many such relics and statues, or so I assumed them to be, as they were each wrapped in the most gentle of ways with straw and newspaper. Only their weird and indecipherable shape gave way to them being anything more than just another piece of machinery. Unlike my previous journey's abroad, I found myself somewhat surprised by the volume of these oddly shaped statues and works of art. While there were hundreds, if not thousands of crates on board, there were at least an equal number of these carefully wrapped statues.

  I was examining a large row of these near the front of the ship, when I almost ate a large quantity of

  bullets.

  I had been inspecting the shape of an odder looking statue when I bumped into a large man. There was no give as I bumped into him, and it took me a moment to realize that this was a man at all. Recovering and recognizing him as not being a wall, I at first thought that he was one of my newly discovered roommates. His forehead held the same slant and his skin was glistening as if wet. He also had the large eyes, which still held no real expression. His odd features and lack of personality only supplemented my incorrect assumption that this man had come from my cabin.

  He said nothing to me as I regained my composure, but he didn't need to. He held a pistol at my abdomen and in moments after our initial collision, he wasn't alone. Several more of the similar looking folk came to his aid, stepping up behind him with each of their pistols drawn.

  I raised both of my palms in defense and stepped back, almost tripping over the statue I had been looking at previously. As I leaned backwards, trying to keep upright. I noticed that the three new men who stood before me were surrounding another of the statues. It stood taller than anything else in the hold of the Lush Delusion, and curved with an almost organic look, as though it were about to move, but had frozen in the middle of its movement.