Shoggoth

by Byron Craft

  Alan wanted to turn the Taurus around and head back to the Red Mountain Inn. Anything was better than this. Ironwood needs to have his head examined. No one in their right mind would live here. At the lighted intersection, he saw the sign post. Ironwood had said to watch for the sign post that marked the intersection of Fulton and Main. Alan thought he was eccentric, or it was his old New England school tie showing through when he had said “sign post.” People nowadays say “street sign” but there to his right, at the edge of the pavement, was a 4 x 4 wood post approximately 6 feet high. The post had been chamfered on the top and painted white. Faintly he could make out faded black letters running vertically up two sides. “Fulton” and “Main,” they spelled out.

  He was on Fulton, and he turned right on Main as per Ironwood’s instructions. O.K. Alan, now whose head should be examined?

  Passing a collection of what had once been businesses on his left he noted the badly weathered remains of an old bank that looked like the kind that Bonnie and Clyde would have knocked over in their day. A post office, or what had once served as a post office, looked ancient and abandoned. The low fluorescent glow of a soft-drink machine on the front porch of a desert weary general store looked out of place. The store was closed for the night. “No need for a 7-11 out this far,” thought Alan.

  The asphalt ran out, and he found himself driving on gravel. A little farther ahead and on his left, he saw what looked like a roof and part of a foundation rising out of the ground. The roof was flat and stood only a few feet above ground level. Alan drove the car parallel to it, saw that a section of the earth had been terraced away and a few stone steps led to a door. He realized that the majority of the house was beneath the ground and that you had to step down into the front entry. What he could see of the foundation was field stone, not concrete work, and the flat roof was constructed with heavy timbers. The door, with a raised wood panel below and a frosted glass pane above, shone with the lights from inside. The frosted glass was about two feet square, and it had a wildlife setting with a mountain lion, an eagle in flight, and a large Joshua tree etched into its surface. It looked warm and inviting. Mounted to the door, below the pictorial setting, was a varnished wood plaque. The word “lignum vitae” had been burned into its surface.

  Alan smiled. “Lignum vitae,” he said. Wood of Life, strictly translated from Latin. A tropical American tree, of very hard and heavy wood, also known as ironwood. He had come to the right place.

  CHAPTER 8

  NIGHT SHIFT

  Mingo and his night crew broke through the end of the tunnel a little after midnight. It took them three hours to remove the rubble that had blocked the narrow artery and another three to get a major portion of the rock debris through the hole in the ceiling and outside.

  Chief Petty Officer Domingo Mercado sat on one of the larger basalt projections that had been too heavy to move topside and looked at his watch. He was tired but had expected his relief within an hour. Hot, sweaty, and covered with rock dust, he kept entertaining thoughts about a long, sudsy shower followed by several cold Heinekens.

  He had pulled lousy duty again. His last great tour of duty was alongside the Iraqis. There he helped construct 150 temporary latrines and two tent cities. When his tour of duty was over, he put in for reassignment. As his luck would have it, he ended up in the desert again. The Mojave Desert. Although at times like this he felt unlucky, he never complained openly. He regarded the Seabees as his family and with all obligations of the family; you had to take the bitter with the sweet.

  If asked, he would say that he had no relatives. In reality, both his parents were alcoholics, and he had a wife that couldn’t stand him. He had walked out of that life years ago and never looked back.

  He glanced at his watch again, more like an hour and a half before they would get here, he corrected himself. They were just goofing off now. It was a well-deserved rest for his crew. They had worked long and hard uncovering the other section of the tunnel. Other section, hell, it looked like it went on forever. Dexter and Rinaldi were exploring some of it by flashlight. He had told them not to go very far until they had strung some more lights.

  When they had first brought the generator on its trailer and set it up outside, they drove steel hooks along the cave wall and strung electric cable and lights. It was as bright as day in what had now become their staging area. When they all had their second wind they would start hanging some more lights, he decided.

  Mingo dribbled some water from a five-gallon Igloo cooler into his hands and splashed his face. The palms of his hands felt like dry paper. Must be something in the soil that made them chap, he thought. They had brought enough cables, sockets, and LED bulbs to light a half a mile of tunnel. The big diesel generator upstairs could power four times that if they needed it. He had no idea why the top brass required all this equipment. He didn’t even know why he was here at this hour. Oh sure, he could understand their curiosity, the interest everyone had for what may lie on the other side of the cave-in. But what was the rush? Why three crews around the clock? It didn’t make sense to him. Why the brass wanted in there so quick when he could have mobilized their Komatsu track hoe with a four-yard bucket and tore the top of this tunnel and been through to the other side in an hour. Eastwater had torpedoed him on that one. They wanted to “Keep as much of the tunnel intact as possible,” he had said, concerned that there may be some historical value to this place. It would be something if this place became as famous as the pyramids in Egypt. Sure would play hell with their secret weapons testing, though, Mingo grinned. He liked the thought. Maybe he could write a book about it. “I Helped Discover the Tunnels beneath the NWC,” he imagined the words spelled out in front of him and framed the title in mid-air with his two hands.

  “Hey chief, come here! You gotta see this,” shouted Dexter from an area just beyond the reach of their lights.

  Mingo slowly got to his feet, stretched, and on legs made of rubber walked towards Dexter. He must be getting old he thought. This assignment was wearing pretty heavy on him. It was taking longer to get the kinks out of his joints.

  Dexter stood in the shadows of the recently discovered tunnel section, his flashlight directed at the ground. The little exploring that they had done, always careful to keep the staging area within view, revealed multiple passages branching off of a tunnel that appeared to run perfectly straight for Lord knows how many miles?

  “What’s up Opie,” Mingo asked?

  Seaman Jonathan Dexter was from Oskaloosa, Iowa, the son of a Baptist minister and just starting his third year in the Navy. He was tall, broad shouldered, with red hair and freckles. Chief Mercado, who enjoyed doling out nicknames, said that he looked like Opie Taylor, “all grow’d up.” He had been referring to the fictional character who was the son of Sheriff Taylor on the old Andy Griffith television show. Dexter wasn’t very pleased with the comparison.

  “Check this out,” he replied, ostensibly ignoring the comment and using his flashlight as a pointer.

  Mingo squatted down on the smooth tunnel floor and stared at a blob of tree sap. Pine tree sap, he thought. The color of amber, about three-quarters of an inch wide and no longer than his index finger. Mingo reached out to touch it with his left hand, and it moved. The Chief Petty Officer jerked his hand back with a snap. Not because it had moved, but when he had reached for it, it had lunged towards him.

  “Madre’ Mia,” he shouted. “What in the hell is that thing?”

  “I don’t know sir,” said the puzzled seaman.

  “We noticed it on our way back,” added Rinaldi standing to the Chief’s right.

  “It seems to be moving toward the light.”

  “It stops whenever I direct the beam of my flashlight on it,” countered Dexter with incredulous eyes reflecting the light.

  “Hmm, let me see. Turn off your light,” ordered the Chief.

  Dexter snapped off the light. A pale luminescence filtered in from the staging area. Mingo, still squatting down,
was in the strange thing’s path. His eyes strained against the gloom. He was between it and the staging area. The little blob, some sort of animal, he realized, moved straight toward him. Leaning closer he could see that it glided along on a fringe of fine hair. A thousand eyelashes propelled it towards Mingo, sepping back quickly he ordered Dexter to turn on the light.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of desert snail,” said Rinaldi.

  The little amber blob had stopped dead in its tracks, and it did leave tracks. A narrow, moist trail glistened in the beam of Dexter’s light. It moved on a current of mucus similar to a snail, but it didn’t resemble any snail or slug that Mingo could recall.

  “Wait a minute,” said Dexter handing his flashlight to Rinaldi. “I’ll get something to turn it over with,” he announced as he ran to the staging area and returned in half a minute with one of the steel hooks they used to string the electric cable along the walls.

  Kneeling down alongside the thing Dexter reached out with the metal hook and gingerly touched it. Dexter screamed in pain. Mingo wasn’t sure what had happened. It had moved so fast. When Dexter had prodded the slug-thing with the pointed end of the hook his hand couldn’t have been more than six inches from it. It sprung upwards the moment the steel hook made contact and flew to Dexter’s right hand.

  The young seabee rolled around on the tunnel floor, his arm racked with pain. “My hand’s on fire! Feels like acid.”

  Chief Mercado reacted quickly to the situation and wrestled the young man to a seated position holding his right arm in a steel grip around his biceps. “Bring the light over here,” he shouted. The amber goo started to spread. It was growing bigger around the kid’s hand. The thing was transparent, and Mingo could see red welts forming on Dexter’s skin where it clung. The top layer of his flesh started to crack and shrivel as if it was held over an open flame. Mingo tried to pluck it off, but it stuck to the kid’s skin like epoxy. The tips of the Chief’s fingers burned with blistering fire, and he pulled back.

  Trying to ignore the pain in his own hand, Chief Mercado pulled a bone-handled pocket knife from his slacks. With a well-practiced flick of his wrist, a four-inch blade snapped open. “Hold the damn light still,” he roared at Rinaldi, who was shaking badly.

  Dexter was becoming hysterical, and Mingo had to firm up his grip. “Hang on son. Let me get this thing off of you.” He prayed that he could. He liked the kid, and his hand was beginning to get real ugly. Keeping his left arm tightly around Dexter’s and his right hand steady, he applied the sharp edge of the knife to just above the wrist. The outer skin had peeled away, and the thing was starting to work on the subcutaneous layer. It was swelling up, increasing in size a little and a faint yellow radiance flickered beneath the goo. Mingo’s hand moved swiftly, and the blade sparkled with reflected light. The slug-thing tumbled a couple of times in the air and landed in the sand. Just like whittling, he thought. Mingo had scraped or, more appropriately, shaved the slug-thing off the young man’s hand with one quick movement.

  The oversized slug rolled only once then, apparently unaffected by its fall, slithered towards the staging area. Mingo got to his feet and moved to step on the thing. Grind it under the heel of his boot. He stopped the moment he raised his foot. The thought of contact with the thing, even with the sole of his boot, was discomforting.

  Dexter was recovering his calm and Rinaldi took him back to the staging area and a first aid kit.

  “How ya doing Ole Dexter?” asked the concerned Chief Petty Officer.

  “A lot better Chief,” he answered, quivering.

  “Rinaldi,” he snapped looking past Dexter, “call the base and sick bay and get a medic down here on the double.”

  “Aye, Chief.”

  Mingo turned and grabbed a miner’s pick off of a pile of tools and impaled the slug-thing to the tunnel floor with one swipe. With determination in every step, he went to the staging area and quickly returned with a shovel and a camper’s light.

  The yellow blob had retracted itself from around the pick and remained intact. There was no hole where the pick had been driven through it, only in the tunnel floor.

  Mingo placed the battery-powered lantern on the ground to one side of the thing. His insides shook. The old nerves of steel have turned to cardboard, he told himself. He had scored a direct hit with the pick. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of it for more than thirty seconds. It should have been stuck to the ground like an insect pinned to a specimen board, but it looked unharmed. Not wanting to think about it any further, he tightened his grip on the shovel handle and brought it down on the slug severing it in two. The shovel made a “ka-chunk” sound as it penetrated the soft layer of sand coming to rest against the hard tunnel floor. The two halves of the thing bumped and groped against both sides of the shovel scoop. As if realizing the limits of their barrier, both halves darted around the metal blade and instantaneously rejoined upon touching like quicksilver.

  There wasn’t any blood, nor was there any fluid that could pass for blood. There wasn’t even a scar where the thing had been cut in half. Mingo was transfixed. He raised the shovel again and brought it down with another hard ka-chunk. It was momentarily chopped in two again. Fueled by a growing fear, he raised and lowered his arms with mechanical precision. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk the shovel went, cutting it into four sections. He had become one of his pieces of construction equipment. Ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk went the Mingo machine. Over twenty pieces of the slug-thing skittered in momentary confusion, and then came together at a common point. The entire rejoining took no more than a few seconds.

  “Damn, will you look at that,” said Rinaldi coming to an abrupt halt at the Chief’s shoulder.

  Mingo turned and stared at him. He hadn’t seen him walk up. “He’s one tough little son-of-a-bitch.”

  “I wonder,” nodded Rinaldi, “how the little bugger likes fire?” Taking a disposable butane lighter from his top pocket, he cranked the tiny wheel just below the orifice to “maximum” with his thumb. “Phasers on kill, Mr. Spock,” he said with a smile and bent close to the slug-thing. A three-inch flame shot out of the lighter, and the slug thing sizzled and popped. Mingo felt partially relieved. At least the thing wasn’t fire proof. The end that was touched by the flame shriveled and turned black. The slug had reversed its course with lashing movements and skittered back towards the darkness. A sooty stream of black smoke curled upwards from its charred flesh. The smell reminded him of burning plastic.

  Dexter joined them holding a bandaged hand. Mingo decided that finally some retribution was being given out for the seaman’s discomfort. Mingo focused his attention on its retreat and a cold chill crawled up his back. The thing was growing. As quickly as the flame of the lighter charred and disintegrated the little creature on one end, the other end would enlarge and develop at an equal rate. It was as if the thing was meant to be a certain size and volume and wouldn’t vary no matter what happened to it. If that was the case, then what was it? It certainly wasn’t one of God’s creatures. The thought terrified Mingo. He was an engineer, of sorts. He was a seabee, a practical man that didn’t believe in ghosts, UFOs, or creatures from the bottom of the sea. If he hadn’t been standing there and someone had given him an account of this, he would have dismissed it saying that it had been done with mirrors or that they all must have been drunk. But he was there, and he believed in real things, and one thing he knew was that all things can be destroyed. Even this tough little bastard.

  The fire seemed to be doing it at first, but maybe there wasn’t enough. Engulf it in flames so that it can’t grow out on the other end. Cook it in a bath of flaming gasoline, liquid fire, diesel fuel was better; it wasn’t as dangerous. It didn’t have as high a flash point as gasoline which was a safety consideration within a confined space. Best of all, there were five-gallon cans of it topside next to the generator.

  Rinaldi shut off the flow of the butane and pulled away from the thing. The lighter had become too hot to handle.

&nb
sp; “Hold that thing in place with your flashlight,” commanded Mingo. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”

  In the few seconds, it took for Rinaldi to pick up his flashlight the slug-thing had completely regenerated itself and started moving towards the staging area. Rinaldi switched on his incandescent light. The thing abruptly stopped as if it trapped in the beam. Before turning to leave Mingo noticed that there wasn’t a trace of a burn scar.

  Running towards the ladder, Mingo could hear the soft chug-chugging of the generator through the hole above. He stopped with his right foot on the lower rung. Several coils of electrical cable rolled up next to the ladder grabbed his attention. Coiled black snakes, he thought, snakes of fire. The twelve-gauge wire was used to handle 110 volts, primarily to power the LED’s and the light duty power tools. The eight-gauge was for 220 volts; they had used that for their jack hammers to bust rock. About 220 volts should fry that little son-of-a-gun faster than a bonfire, and with a lot less mess, he thought, smiling. The idea intrigued him. Stepping away from the ladder, he grabbed one of the cables that had been strung across the floor and unplugged it from the large electrical outlet that hung through the hole in the ceiling. He disconnected the other end of the heavy-duty extension cord from a jackhammer. Pulling out his pocket knife he skillfully cut the receptacle end of the cable off and stripped the copper ends bare. Making sure that the ends of the positive and negative wires were spread a safe distance apart he returned to the area surrounding the ladder and inserted the three-pronged diagonal blade back into its outlet. The 220 receptacle hung off of a portable 1500-amp breaker box. Mingo knew that it would “pop” a breaker shutting that line down on the system the moment the wires made contact with the thing. The breakers would not tolerate an electrical short. Opening the door on the box, he taped the 220-volt breaker switch in the “On” position with two heavy pieces of duct tape.