Shoggoth

by Byron Craft

  Captain Eastwater was nearby observing the action. He was wearing NWU’s looking like a seabee, which he was not. Gwen came to attention. She saluted and the Captain returned it. “Petty Officer Gilhooley reporting, sir.”

  “Excellent,” he replied. “As you can see we have a barrier to break through. I had your equipment brought here. It is topside. I want you to blast this obstruction to pieces. Is that understood Petty Officer Gilhooley?”

  “Aye, aye, sir but I am unable to do that.” She was shaking slightly but still standing at attention, Gwen was not one for disobeying orders.

  “Explain,” demanded her superior officer.

  “My blasting skills are limited, sir. I am only experienced with light to medium charges for geodetic surveying.”

  “I am well aware of that Gilhooley just get your nitro down here now and bust this thing to bits!”

  “I respectfully decline, sir,” she responded still shaking. “I am not certified to do that kind of work.”

  “Petty Officer Gilhooley that is a direct order,” he shouted.

  Gwen could see her cell door slowly closing, locking her into the brig, but she had no choice. “Again with all due respect Captain I cannot. I don’t know the first thing about that type of work. It is beyond my duty scope. You will need a certified demolition expert. I could easily blow us all up along with that big rock.”

  The Captain issued a few more threats and promised to put her on report. Gwen still had to respectfully deny his request. Sitting in her car, later, she knew that she would soon be up in front of her C.O. and hoped the write up she would get wouldn’t be too severe. It was insubordination for a lowly Petty Officer to disobey direct orders from a Captain a million pay grades above her, it will be an A-grade fustercluck. There was one bright spot in the lousy day though. Jason Riggs had asked her out. He took her back to the waiting chopper and before the pilot fired up the engine, which could drown out their conversation, he asked her to dinner. The condemned woman was granted a last meal, she cheerfully recalled.

  Gwen wondered what all the rush was about. Why was Captain Eastwater in such a hurry especially when a Bureau of Land Management archeologist should have been contacted about the big rock with all that writing on it? The Captain, evidently, chose to ignore that protocol. She got out of the Neon and slammed the car door. Gwen was ensnared in an emotional conflict. She was both angry and happy. Upset about a possible black mark on her, up ‘til now, spotless record and overjoyed that she and Riggs were going to be breaking bread together. She was looking forward to their date, but in contrast, she was not looking forward to a load of wet, mildewed laundry sitting on her kitchen counter.

  Walking towards the front steps to her house, Gwen stopped suddenly. The pest control guy’s truck was still parked alongside the house? After all this time the compressor, fastened to the truck’s bed, which enabled the service contractor to spray his repellent, was still running. Gwen went to the driver side window of the Toyota small truck. No one was inside. Following the hose, which trailed from the compressor where it terminated under the house, she got down on her hands and knees and ambled on all fours into the crawl space. Cobwebs and spiders’ eggs encrusted the floor joist above her head. Clambering a short distance beneath the house Gwen noticed, to her amazement, that the compressor hose disappeared into a hole within the earthen floor. Edging closer she could see that the opening in the ground was large enough to swallow a man or a woman. She also noticed, with a shudder, that the hole was positioned directly below her bedroom. She stuck her arm into it up to the shoulder but couldn’t feel the bottom. Grabbing a clump of dry soil Gwen dropped it into the hole. The noise of the dirt ball hitting bottom in less than a second told her that the nethermost area was not that far below. Oh my God, she thought. Was the pest control guy down there? Did he fall in? Maybe he had a heart attack or he had breathed too much of his pesticide. The chemical fumes from the hole were almost unbearable. “Hey Mister! Are you down there?” she hollered. Several times she yelled but there was no reply. Starting to back out the way she came, she thought she heard the sound of movement coming from the hole and stopped. Was something being dragged through the dirt? “Hey Mister,” she shouted again. Only silence followed.

  Backing out from under the house Gwen immediately knew what she had to do. Within a few seconds she was charging through her front door, her living room, the hall and into her spare bedroom. She could call base security for help but there might not be enough time. If the pest control man was truly down in that hole, then seconds could be precious. May be a matter of life or death. Flinging open the spare bedroom’s closet door she removed a large aluminum suitcase and tossed it onto a twin bed. Below a yellow and black emblem on the case in bold letters read, “Bio Hazmat Suit.” Gwen was attached to the Bio Hazzard Unit on the base. The “Unit” was created shortly after the Ebola outbreak in the states. She had trained extensively with the suit in various simulations and situations. It was a flash spun high-density polyethylene encapsulated suit that would keep out every deadly microbe known to man as well as toxic gases and radiation. It wasn’t the Cadillac; it was the Rolls Royce of protection. It was also equipped with a Dark-Light Cowl for night vision.

  Gwen flicked the catches on the case to “Open” breaking its air-tight seal. The aluminum case hissed as the self-actuating vacuum protection was disabled. Her training had been thorough. Gwen could get into the hazmat suit and sealed up in less than five minutes. Before donning the suit, she decided to leave a note.

  ***

  Residential landscape irrigation was strictly verboten ever since California’s water restrictions had been enforced, so when Gwen walked across what was left of her parched lawn in the yellow protection gear she felt like she was trekking the surface of Mars. The Hazmat suit had its own built in air supply adequate for thirty minutes providing she didn’t over exert herself. With each step, Gwen could hear her breathing magnified within the suit’s helmet.

  Detouring briefly from her destination, Gwen obtained a length of tow rope from the trunk of her car. Approaching the foundation of her home it took her longer to wriggle into the crawlspace than it did for her to don the hazmat suit. Because of the bulk of the suit, she had to be cautious about catching it on any protruding nails from the floor boards above. Twisting and worming her way towards the hole she startled a field mouse that was seeking refuge from the afternoon sun and watched it scurry out from under the house into the dry grass. She realized at that moment that she should have turned off the compressor on the pest control truck before crawling under the house, but it was too late. She had already reached her objective. The Petty Officer, in protective equipment, hesitated briefly trying to decide if the best way to go down the hole would be head first or feet first? She decided to go feet first. Tying the rope to a cross beam overhead, she dropped the other end into the hole. Stopping her downward movement halfway into the cavity with her elbows and forearms, she switched on the LED headlamp on the cowl of her suit and activated the night vision display. Whatever the LED torch failed to illuminate, at a distance, the night imaging system would hopefully enhance. The light revealed the rope, short of the crater’s bottom side, dangling several feet above the ground. “Okay Petty Officer Gilhooley here we go,” she said to herself.

  The hole was at least fifteen feet deep. Grasping the rope with her upstretched arms Gilhooley was able to slow her descent, initially, by sliding down it. Reaching the ropes end, she dropped the remaining distance. The soft soles on the Hazmat suit’s boots helped to cushion the landing and kept her from falling over. Loose dirt rained down and around her. She was in a tunnel. Within seconds she recognized that it was the same five-sided configuration as the one they had discovered in the desert, where she had been earlier. What the hell, that is at least fifty miles from here, she judged.

  To Gwen’s left the tunnel appeared to terminate a short distance beyond the street where she lived above ground. The tunnel’s ceiling had panca
ked down in that area and she could make out the remains of a crushed storm sewer pipe that had once conveyed the drainage for her subdivision. On the rare occasions that they experience rain at the navy base the storm drain would always back up. Now she knew why. To her right, a northerly direction she estimated, the tunnel seemed to stretch on forever. Forever, she knew, was an exaggeration because even with the head lamp and the night vision her perception of depth was limited to around thirty feet.

  The odd shaped tunnel became unbearably eerie when she thought of it running under her house. It reminded her of “something lurked.” The night vision displayed the underworld in green and made it all the more unnerving. The human eye, Gwen knew, was more sensitive to green than any other color, and the monochromatic green of the image display offered the most accurate view for the user. Even so, she felt like she had entered the sinister portion of a fun house and she wasn’t laughing. There was a hissing sound that she could here over the soft puffing of her suit’s oxygen regulator. To the left of her feet was the end of the hose. There was a trigger release valve on the end that rested against a loose piece of tile from the tunnel’s ceiling. It had become half-cocked and slowly releasing pesticide into the tunnel. Picking it up, Gwen fiddled momentarily with the mechanism shutting the valve off. The hissing ceased. She tossed it onto the tunnel floor. That was when she heard it. The audio amplifier in the suit was highly sensitive. The sound of movement directed her eyes towards the north.

  It was a dark inhuman thing with too many eyes and too many mouths. A shapeless entity composed of a viscous jelly. It filled the tunnel. The massive unending body glistened. It was smooth, pale and slimy, like an oversized intestine. Within its flesh something moved. It was as if someone was trying to erect a tent from the inside. It rippled and shifted.

  Gwen retreated from the approaching mass but stopped abruptly realizing that she was backing into a dead end. Time would probably be too short for her to climb back up the rope in the bulky suit. Her feet became rooted to the tunnel floor with fear. She became conscious of the colorless and translucent quality of the thing. It actually wasn’t a dark consistency. It churned with the reflection of the tunnel’s walls, floor and ceiling as it moved. She cursed herself for not having the foresight to bring her Glock with her.

  A light pulsed within the transparent flesh. There was movement within the jelly-like form. It was the slow flailing of arms and legs. As the grotesque bulk came closer she could make out the writhing form of a person in a white shirt and slacks. The white shirt had a red collar, red piping ran along the top pocket and the pockets on the slacks were also red. “She screamed inside her suit. It was the uniform the man from the pest control service wore. He had become an insect trapped in malleable amber. She was only a few feet away from him and it. The man appeared to be screaming but no sound ensued. A fleshy tube dangled above and through it Gwen could barely make out the garbled cries of a man in excruciating pain. From her vantage point it looked as if his face was melting. A deafening screech, “Eeeeeeee! Eeeeeeee! Wawk Wawk Wawk Wawk!” emanated from the monstrous thing. The snorkel tube extended to twice its length and formed into a tentacle. It lashed out with lightning speed and wrapped around her waist.

  Gwen saw her reflection in the greasy tissue just before the creature of the tunnels consumed her.

  CHAPTER 19

  UNEARTHING

  Admiral Jack Hawkins snatched up the smart phone and pressed the “Home” button. He had been meaning to upgrade to one but he hadn’t gotten around to it. He was still using a flip phone. He wasn’t entirely technology ignorant though. His son had an iPhone and he had used it on several occasions. And for this occasion he had practiced extensively with his son’s phone. This was Clayton Eastwater’s phone and time was of the essence.

  He had challenged Eastwater to a game of racquetball and relying on the Captain’s over inflated ego he knew that he wouldn’t turn down the contest. Eastwater beat him badly. The wiry Clayton found it easy to outmaneuver Hawkins’s substantial frame and with the twenty years’ difference in their ages the younger Captain definitely had the advantage. Admiral Hawkins wasn’t concerned about the results of the game. He had planned the encounter very well. He was sitting on a bench in the officer’s club locker room. Eastwater was taking a steam, which Hawkins hoped would buy him enough time to complete his task. The Captain’s uniform along with his cell phone was in locker number 37 and the Admiral had the passkey. Rank doth have its privileges, he waxed philosophically. He also had another advantage. Hawkins knew that the only places on the base where security cameras were not allowed were the men’s and women’s locker rooms.

  Admiral Hawkins opted for the “Camera” icon on the phone’s display. Choosing the “All Photos” option he watched as a collection of pictures popped up. “Eureka!” he whispered to himself. What he hoped to find was glaring back at him in full color. There was a series of twelve photographs of old yellowed documents all in crystal clear focus. The navy base transmitted 4G mobile broadband Internet access. He hoped it would be fast enough. Selecting the photos, along with the email option, he entered his email address along with Ironwood’s. Safety in numbers, he told himself. He pressed “Send” and waited. In what seemed like an eternity, he anxiously watched the phone’s readout. The agonizingly slow messaging system put him on edge. Maybe he had attached too many photos than the broadband could handle? A few seconds later he received the “Delivered” notification. Only one more thing to do, he thought as he remembered what his son had taught him. Locating the “Sent” selection in the phone’s index, he deleted the record of the email. Not taking any chances, the Admiral wiped his fingerprints off the smart phone with his gym towel and returned it to Eastwater’s belt holster before securing the locker door.

  Less than a minute elapsed when Clayton Eastwater entered the locker room drying his hair on a towel. “Admiral, this is no place to rest. You should take a steam,” he announced. “It will do you a world of good.”

  “I’m good Clayton, I’m good,” he answered with a smile.

  ***

  Jason Riggs face was one big grin. If you asked him, “What makes life great?” His answer would have been simple, “Gwendolyn Gilhooley and how she could be devastating in jeans and a tee shirt.”

  He drove his Ford F-150 up to her house fifteen minutes early. He was anxious about their date. He was off duty and out of uniform. Jason wore a neatly pressed pair of beige Dockers slacks, a brand new Polo shirt and white Converse High Tops. He was going to take Gwen out to dinner. He had reservations at the Grape Vine in Ridgecrest. It was a four-star restaurant with an excellent wine list.

  Walking up her front steps Jason was nervous. He had known Gwen for quite a while, but this was to be their first date. His anxiety lessened when he noticed that the front door to Gwen’s house stood open and the screen door rested loosely against the frame, unlatched. “Gwen, are you there? Anybody home!” he shouted repeatedly only to be followed by silence. Roused from his loving caprice he noticed the Toyota small truck parked alongside the house for the first time. He also realized that Gwen’s silly little car, the Dodge Neon, was also parked in front.

  Leaving the porch and walking up to the truck Jason spotted the hose leading away and into the crawlspace. The compressor on the back of the truck switched on and he jumped with a start. Whatever the compressor’s system was feeding, he assumed, it must have been triggered by a drop in pressure. Squatting down he observed that the hose continued under the house and disappeared into a large hole. Overhead a thick rope that had been tied to a joist was suspended into the same opening in the earth. The dirt floor of the crawlspace had been disturbed as if someone had left a trail while slithering across the ground towards the hole.

  The thought of someone down in that dark hole made Lieutenant Riggs tremble. There were two things that made him feel uneasy; swimming in the ocean at night and dark enclosed spaces. This was his abnormal fear of not having enough room for him to fe
el comfortable. He ran back to the front porch of the house and up the steps. Opening the screen door wide he yelled for Gwen once more. Still no answer. Feeling like a cat burglar, he slowly crept across the living room carpet. “Gwen, anybody home!” he offered again, louder than the other times. He was confident that nobody was at home, but he had to be certain. The kitchen was void of any personnel. There was a laundry basket on the Formica counter over flowing with wet clothes. The dining area was equally empty and so was Gwen’s bedroom. He felt uncomfortable about going in there and was glad when he saw that it too was empty. Jason lived in an apartment off base but he was familiar with the post war housing on Nimitz Avenue. All of them were two-bedroom Cape Cods so he had one more room left to explore. The spare bedroom in Gwen’s house was used as an office of sorts. There was a small desk up against one wall with a laptop resting on its wooden surface and a mesh-back chair on castors under it. A twin bed and night stand were on the other side of the small room. What immediately caught Jason’s eye was the aluminum case that was laid open on the bed. He was also acquainted with the Bio Hazzard Unit on the NWC. He was not part of that team but he had observed the hazmat suits in use during training. The large aluminum case was used to contain the hazmat suit when not in use and this one was empty. Stuck to its lid was a Post-it note with writing on it. Printed in black felt marker were ten words that screamed at Jason’s dreaded phobia, “IF YOU CAN’T FIND ME I AM UNDER THE HOUSE.”

  ***

  After reading the note five times and then breaking free from its spell, Jason dashed from the house and to his F-150. Light, light I need light he kept telling himself. Light was the weapon that at times could help to dispel his fear of being trapped in narrow places. Light gave him courage. In the glove box of his pick-up truck he kept a two million candlepower rechargeable spotlight. Turning it on momentarily he was assured that it was fully charged by the green indicator light in its handle. There was not time to think. Thinking only stirred him into panic. He ran to the crawl space with his light sabre in hand. “So much for my Sunday go to meeting clothes,” he said as he proceeded to crawl through the dirt calling the Petty Officer’s name, “Gwen, Gwen.”