Shoggoth

by Byron Craft

  Ironwood grabbed the ladder with both hands and noticed that the opening had been widened by several feet and reinforced with four-inch by twelve-inch oak framing.

  Lieutenant Riggs noticed the Professor’s interest, and volunteered, “We’ve had problems with it closing on us. I guess the earth shifts a lot in this area.”

  A couple of yards away stood a large trailer mounted diesel generator belching carbon monoxide into the open air. Several heavy duty electrical cables ran away from the generator leading down into the hole that Ironwood was descending.

  Dropping down the last two rungs of the ladder to the tunnel floor Professor Thomas Ironwood was astonished by what he saw. The interior of the tunnel was brightly lit. The short section that he had examined the day before appeared to stretch on forever. Electrical cables strung along the top of the tiled walls followed his line of sight. Spliced into the cables every thirty feet or so were sockets that held high-wattage light bulbs brightly illuminating the passageway.

  Jason Riggs tapped Ironwood on the shoulder. He was wearing cotton work gloves. “Welcome aboard Professor. I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”

  “What is all this, Lieutenant?” He said amazed by his surroundings.

  “We have been working in shifts, 24/7, and have uncovered a lot.”

  “But this is amazing. The debris that you encountered must have been enormous? How did you get it out of here?”

  “The cave-in wasn’t as extensive as we thought. It only went for a few yards. When we cleared it, we found what you see. The small amount of dirt and rock we dug out so far was taken topside by way of a makeshift rope elevator Chief Petty Officer Domingo Mercado fashioned together,” the young Lieutenant pointed in front of them. With its many ropes neatly curled up was the “rope elevator,” a flat bottom with three-foot-high sides constructed of thick plywood.

  “Your Chief Petty Officer needs to be congratulated. He’s quite the engineer,” replied Ironwood.

  “I would,” said Riggs, “but he’s missing. We think we found him a few minutes ago.”

  “Missing?” answered Ironwood but decided not to press it any further when he noticed something unsettling in the Lieutenant’s countenance. Was it fear or just fatigue?

  “Follow me, sir,” he said looking straight ahead.

  Riggs led the way with Ironwood close behind. “How far does the tunnel go?” Ironwood asked.

  “About a mile, sir. It makes a gradual turn to the east and then stops up against another obstruction of rubble. But there are also branching tunnels off of this artery.”

  “Branching tunnels?”

  “Yes, sir, fifteen to be exact, we haven’t had the time to explore them all yet.”

  ***

  The tunnel did indeed seem to stretch on forever, with various sister tunnels branching off at random intersections. Ironwood walked a good quarter of a mile before encountering the subterranean anomaly. There were two, one on the right and the other on the left, both facing each other. The walls of the main artery, at each, interconnect, gradually curved outward with fifteen-foot radiuses joining to the adjacent tunnels. All the walls and ceilings of the regular polygon tunnels were laminated with the five-sided notched tiles he had observed the day before. The same design Alan showed him in the Necronomicon. A definite sign of advanced engineering skills, he thought.

  Stopping several yards further in, they had to step over a short, but passable, debris field next to a much narrower artery that was entirely blocked by rubble. “What happened here?” he inquired.

  “Another cave in, sir, we’re not sure, it must have happened during the night. We found one of our electric cables sticking out of the rocks. It had been ripped loose from its socket. I thought it looked as if something too large for the opening had been rammed through, but Captain Eastwater thought it was incidental in light of pushing forward. The men haven’t had a chance to clean this up yet.”

  Advancing deeper in he couldn’t help noticing that every time Lieutenant Jason Riggs came upon one of the dark connecting tunnels he would widen his gait and hurry past it.

  Ironwood stopped and stood where there was an intersecting tunnel immediately on his right and another on his left. This time they were of the same width and height as the main tunnel, but the interiors were devoid of any light. The seabees hadn’t run any electric cables in them, having the color of outer space, the darkness was complete. A faint breeze blew across his face; it made a barely audible noise as if it were whispering or chirping or was it a squawking sound? Lieutenant Riggs didn’t seem to detect it. It gave Ironwood a chill to peer into the side tunnel’s depths. He rolled the sleeves down on his denim shirt and buttoned the cuffs. For a brief instant, he thought he caught the faint whiff of gardenias.

  “This way Professor,” pleaded the Lieutenant.

  Ironwood stayed within the main artery, ignored Lieutenant Riggs’ request and swept away years of dust and sand from the tunnel floor with the side of his boot. Squatting down he observed that it was the same five-sided tiles that adorned the walls except they were smooth and shiny, they looked slippery. Professor Ironwood reached out to touch the floor’s frictionless surface.

  “Wait Professor,” implored Lieutenant Riggs. Removing an extra pair of cotton work gloves clipped to his belt, he handed them to Ironwood. “Put these on, sir.”

  “Why?” countered the Professor.

  “When touching the wall or the floor tiles, it’s like frostbite,” Riggs answered, pulling the glove off his left hand. The tips of three of his fingers were wrapped with Band-Aids. “I don’t know why,” he said puzzling over his hand. “They’re not even cold.”

  Ironwood did as he was told and donned the offered gloves. It’s like glass; he thought running his now protected hands over the floor tiles. “Polished glass,” he said in a low voice.

  “What was that sir?” asked the Lieutenant.

  Ironwood stood up straight, stretched and examined a portion of a side wall. “The tiles on the walls, although the same size and color as the ones on the tunnel’s floor are of a different texture. The floor tiles are like polished glass. If they were not covered by all this dust and debris, it would be like walking on ice.” His hands still explored the walls. There was a tingling sensation that penetrated the cotton gloves. Something tugged at his sense of self. Had they stumbled upon an ancient gateway to secrets of the inner earth and vanished eons? An image flashed before his consciousness, a glimpse of giant trumpet shaped plants reaching several stories into the sky and towering buildings made of a thick elastic material. Was this a psychic image? An ancient residue that had been left behind?

  “Professor please, we need to get going,” Riggs implored again.

  Suddenly aware of his surroundings, Ironwood responded with a nod and slowly started to follow. Is this some monstrous lair of elder secrets which is echoing for the first time, after uncounted epochs, to the tread of human feet, he theorized. He shook his head clear of the fanciful notion and walked on.

  ***

  Another quarter of a mile in Ironwood and Riggs came across four men gathered around what appeared to be a dark bundle on the subterranean floor. He came closer and was able to see that one of the four was Captain Eastwater.

  Becoming aware of Ironwood’s approach, the Captain eyed him up and down noticing, with a look of disapproval, the cowboy hat, and denim. “Ah Ironwood, glad you could make it.”

  “Captain,” he replied. “You wanted to see me. . .” his words trailed off. He became immediately aware of the dark thing on the floor. It was a man. Or what was left of a man. He was drawn up into an embryonic position huddled against the wall. The skin of the corpse was dark brown and stretched thinly over the skull. It reminded Ironwood of dried leather. Fine wisps of hair stood straight up on the head of the emaciated, skeletal remains. The dead man’s features exhibited pure horrifying agony. Pinned to his shirt collar was a small gold anchor entwined in chain superimposed with the letter
s “USN” in silver, the insignia of the Chief Petty Officer.

  “Is this the missing CPO Domingo Mercado?” Ironwood said in a somber voice.

  “Most likely,” Eastwater snapped back. “But it won’t be official until there is an autopsy. That is the Chief Medical Officer’s duty. Until then Professor, mum’s the word. Loose lips sink ships,” he added with a wry smile.

  “Then why in Heaven did you ask me here,” Ironwood countered not bothering to conceal his irritation.

  “Oh!” the Captain replied. “This isn’t it. What I want you to see is further down.” As he turned to march away he said to one of the three remaining men, “Ensign, let me know when the CMO arrives.” Eastwater turned to Ironwood, “There are two more lads missing, Seaman Jonathan Dexter and Petty Officer Anthony Rinaldi. I have requested additional personnel. In the morning we will start searching the rest of these tunnels. Until then I have issued orders to clear more rubble. We will see just how far this cavern goes.

  “What do you think happened to the CPO and the other men?” asked Ironwood.

  “I have no idea Professor.”

  ***

  Ironwood walked on a good distance with the Captain, passing several more intersecting tunnels until they came to a raised platform. The area was also lit by the spaghetti arrangement of electrical cables and high-wattage light bulbs. The platform didn’t disrupt the architectural flow of the tunnel. Instead, it was recessed. A large rectangular hole in the tunnel wall stood about four feet above floor level. Studying it in all directions, the Professor guessed that it was approximately thirty feet in width and at least ten feet in height. Its depth was impossible to ascertain because of a considerable amount of dirt and rock at the back of the opening, most likely due to a collapse of the tunnel ceiling, obscured any further investigation.

  A half a dozen men wearing patches on their shirts of a Disney like cartoon bumblebee wielding a hammer, a wrench and a machine gun with the words stitched below, “SEABEES CAN DO!” worked to clear the rubble. All of them wore cotton gloves. At the edge, and to the center of the opening stood a solitary post with a conical base that had been wiped clean, revealing a shiny surface. Ironwood guessed that it was made of chrome or polished stainless steel. The flared pedestal tapered upwards to become a tubular limb four feet tall. At the top of the post were the remains of a peculiar mechanism. Brown wires spewed from a smashed receptacle. The shape and size of the vessel were also impossible to ascertain because one or several falling rocks, from the cave in, had rendered it indistinguishable from its original shape.

  Still wearing his white cotton gloves, Ironwood lightly squeezed the tubular post between his thumb and index finger. The shiny non-metal substance cracked with a soft “pop.” It was very brittle, only a shell. A yellow silt material poured from the crack. Touching a few of the brown wires they crumbled and turned to powder in his gloved hand. As if all the life had been sucked out of it like the corpse of CPO Mingo, he thought. Ironwood jerked himself free of the morbid thought. “Any idea what it is Professor?” Captain Eastwater sarcastically inquired walking up from behind.

  Momentarily startled, Professor Ironwood turned and glared back at the Captain. Lieutenant Riggs stood to his right. “I will need more than thirty seconds to voice an opinion,” he answered.

  “What a pity. I was hoping for more from you.”

  Ironwood responded, “It is not my job description to satiate your needs, Captain.” He recognized that this was one more of Eastwater’s strong arm political ploys. For some reason, Eastwater wanted him, and probably his crew, away from his Space Guard Program as well as the mystery of the tunnels. Ironwood would not give him the satisfaction; he was not going to cave. He smiled at his double entendre and turned to closer examine the odd device. Littered around the chromium base were handfuls of greenish soapstone fragments like the ones that Marinus Willett had found. He picked one up in his left hand, Ironwood un-holstered his iPhone and touched the “MAG LIGHT” app icon on its screen. A bright LED light from the smart phone shone on the stone fragment. With the magnification at 100%, Ironwood could observe it in full detail. Under the glare of the LED light, the stone looked more gray than green. It was five sided, like a chevron, and it dawned on him that it was the same shape as the tunnel. It was also the same outline as the floor and wall tiles minus the interlocking notch at the bottom. The stone was the size of a nickel, but it looked huge under the magnifier. Across the surface of the object was a series of five indentations, dots. The impressions were close to each corner of the five sides. It reminded Ironwood of a face. It became apparent to him, at that moment, that this was also a replica, in miniature, of the petroglyph he and Alan Ward had observed earlier that day. Touching the camera icon within the “MAG LIGHT” app screen, he sent the magnified image to his photo stream.

  “I’ve sent for some of the boys from the Mike Lab to examine this thing, so don’t touch any more of this stuff,” ordered the Captain.

  Rather than slugging the arrogant S.O.B., thought Ironwood, I will try to remain nonchalant. When Captain Eastwater looked the other way, he pocketed three of the green stones. Still undetected he placed several of the brown wires and some of the yellow silt between the folds of a handkerchief and returned it to whence it came.

  Alan and I need to examine the old Morley house again, Ironwood decided.

  CHAPTER 15

  MEANWHILE

  It was 110 degrees in the shade. Zachary Taylor Harris was glad that the glass cockpit he sat in was air-conditioned. He flew the SH-2G Super Seasprite helicopter with the precision of a well-trained Navy pilot. The two computer smart displays in the cockpit kept him within the boundaries of the Naval Weapons Center. Zach held the chopper at an altitude of five hundred feet, sometimes dropping down to one hundred if an anomaly needed closer inspection.

  The Seasprite was designed to house a three-man crew; two pilots and a sensor or SENSO operator. Due to the flexible integrated tactical avionics guidance system, it could also be flown by a single pilot. Zach didn’t need tactical because his duty was to keep an eye out for interlopers.

  Sitting in the additional pilot seat was Warrant Officer Biddles. Biddles was in training as a Navy chopper pilot. Zach didn’t have the heart to tell him that their jobs would soon be rendered obsolete along with the Seasprite. Seasprite helicopters had been mothballed by the Navy a few years back, but the NWC kept a handful of them around for patrolling the perimeter. Like the Seasprite, its pilots would also become outmoded when the use of drones retired them to other duties. The boundaries of the NWC, by then, would be traversed by unmanned aerial vehicles. The UAV’s would be controlled by geeks, with joy sticks, in their comfy little offices sitting in front of their computer terminals.

  Zach Taylor looked over to where Warrant Officer Biddles was sitting. He was from Idaho and, since potatoes came from that state, naturally, the boys at the base called him “Spuds.” “Another boring day at Black Rock, Spuds,” grinned Zach. His face mask was unsnapped so ground control wouldn’t be able to overhear their conversation.

  “Do you ever catch anyone trying to sneak onto the base, sir?”

  “Nothing to email your sweetheart about, ever since 911, they’ve put us regular naval aviators on extra alert. I’ve never tagged a terrorist. The only trespassers I’ve spied besides dust devils and tumbleweeds were a couple of drunks hunting jack rabbits.”

  “Maybe today is your lucky day, sir,” replied Spuds pointing down and to his right.

  About five hundred feet below was a figure. It was a man walking stiff legged. “What the hell!” exclaimed Zachary Taylor Harris. “He’s walking deeper into the desert. In this heat, he must be nuts.”

  “Maybe he’s delirious, sir, sun stroked,” added Spuds Biddles.

  The Seasprite passed over the stranger. Zach adjusted the controls of the chopper, turned hard to the west and brought the craft down to one hundred feet in front of the interloper. Sand mixed up with bits of tumbleweed ch
urned around the mystery man. Ignoring the flying debris, he kept on walking. He wore the desert pattern camouflage utility uniform of the United States Naval Mobile Construction Battalion, minus hat or helmet.

  Zach set the Seasprite down fifty yards away from the man. Zach and Spuds ran towards the interloper as the blades of the chopper wound down. Approaching the advancing serviceman, they stood in his path. The man in desert tan continued his pace. He stared ahead, as he walked, oblivious of the two other men. Backing up Zach put a hand to the chest of the delirious walker. “Hey, seabee stop! Attention!”

  The seabee stopped and gazed intently into the afternoon sun. His uniform was soiled as if he had been crawling around in the dirt and his sleeves were torn. There were second and third-degree burns on his face from being out in the desert sun too long. Even with the massive sunburn, he looked pale, extremely anemic. Along his neck and arms were distended welts. The red pustules made Zach think of the sucker marks that squids make on their prey. Above the right shirt pocket of the comatose derelict was the name, “Dexter.”

  ***

  Gwen Gilhooley pulled her car into the driveway. There was a small Toyota pickup truck parked alongside her house. It was painted white. The sign on its door read “License to Kill Exterminators.” Below, the company’s phone number ended with the last three digits “007.” Cute, she thought. Getting out of the car, she lugged a laundry basket filled with wet clothes. She was greeted by the sound of a compressor running. It was mounted on the bed of the Toyota. A hose trailed away to under the crawl space. “Good,” she said out loud and to herself. The exterminator must be under my house in hot pursuit of the bugger that kept me up last night.