Shoggoth

by Byron Craft

  Reaching the hole under Gwen’s house Jason switched on the spotlight and leaned into the opening as far as he could. Shouting her name again he shone the powerful beam of light below. There was no reply. Hanging upside down in the cavity he waited in the silence that followed. The torch of his light flung far, but beyond that was total blackness. The pitch dark caused the quiet to become unbearably eerie. There was no escape down there he sensed. There is suffocation residing in that darkness. He felt the cold pressure of claustrophobia.

  In the moments that followed, the dark pit was filled with a shuffling. The sound resembled a heavy object being dragged across gravel. Jason also imagined a faint sucking gurgle mixed up with the dragging. He shouted, “Gwen!” one more time. The mention of her name became a talisman. He realized that his need for her was greater than his claustrophobic panic. Placing the spotlight’s wrist strap between his teeth he grabbed the dangling rope in a sudden burst of courage and slid down it.

  Dropping to the tunnel floor into a squat, all symptoms of claustrophobia in Jason vanished as he stared at a jelly-like monstrosity. There was a sweet sickening smell. A shapeless mass of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly luminous with myriads of eyes forming and un-forming filled the tunnel as a piston fills a cylinder. It was bearing down on him. As it came closer he could make out the source of its luminescence. Inside the thing was a soft golden glow that seemed to grow stronger as it approached him. The transparent bubbly flesh glistened brightly under the two million candle powered glare of his spotlight. It was slimy like an oil slick and he could see through parts of it. Nearer by every second and knowing that his fear of “no escape” was not unfounded he was unable to move from where he stood. He was both terrified and mesmerized by what was surely about to crush him to death.

  Then he saw her. At first, she looked like an astronaut clad in a yellow space suit floating within the thing. Initially it wasn’t there and then, upon coming closer, it materialized looking as if it was suspended in a weightless state. Good God, he grasped what he was seeing. It was the yellow hazmat suit. It was Gwen.

  A tentacle the diameter of a man’s arm lashed out of the shifting contours of the creature and snatched the spotlight out of Jason’s hand. Jason fell to his knees as he watched a mouth, which instantly formed within the putrid mass, swallow the electric torch. “Jesus it wanted the light,” he cried out. His instrument to dispel the dreaded darkness had been taken from him and its radiance was slowly diminishing as it was absorbed by the creature. He had no weapon now. Backing away from the impending doom, on his hands and knees, he touched something with his left hand. It was a hose nozzle with a trigger release on the end. Picking it up he pointed it at the horror that hovered just above him. Knowing that it would be like using a squirt gun against an M1 Abrams tank he laughed out loud at his futile attempt as he pulled the trigger. The hose was under pressure and filled with insecticide. The walls of the tunnel filled with a deafening wail, “Eeeeeeee! Eeeeeeee! Wawk, Wawk, Wawk, Wawk!”

  Expecting to be swallowed up like the flashlight, Jason looked towards the ceiling as though he was trying to see the blue sky above. In his mind’s eye, he could see Gwen by candlelight. She reached across the dinner table and touched his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger again on the pest control sprayer. Slowly Jason opened his eyes expecting to see the monster from a sailor’s worst drunken nightmare begin to tear him apart. Instead, he was astonished to observe the giant organism retreating back into the confines of the tunnel whence it came. Jason got to his feet. Keeping the pressure release valve pressed in the open position he waved it back and forth saturating every inch of the creature with the pesticide. The more he sprayed, the faster it retreated. At once he observed that it was also retreating from around Gwen in her hazmat suit. If he kept at it, he might have her free from the jelly mass.

  ***

  Gwendolyn Gilhooley had the wind to her back. The clear night sky was black velvet charged with a brilliant array of stars. A faint breeze ruffled her blond hair; she handled the wheel of the 37-foot Catalina with expertise. The sails were down and the single diesel inboard kept them at a steady six knots. Her dad was in the galley below preparing dinner. They would eat after they docked. She could hear the rattling of pots and pans. It made her smile. It had been a while since she had last visited her parents. Mom would be at the dock waiting for them, but you couldn’t keep her dad away from the water. Although retired, he was Navy through and through. It was a joyful homecoming.

  Gwen and her dad were heading towards their yacht club. The channel was clearly illuminated by the lighted buoys. The green ones on her left and the red ones on the right. Red right returning, Gwen recited to herself. A loud crash of cutlery, pots and pans erupted from the galley followed by cursing. Leaning to one side of the wheel she wanted to shout down to her dad to find out what had happened but nothing came out of her mouth. No matter how hard she tried no sound emanated from her lips. Endeavoring to draw in a lungful of air so she could attempt to call out again, Gwen was unable to breath. She was gradually losing consciousness. The light from the galley below was dimming. She could no longer see the star lit sky. Losing her balance, she slid to the deck barely holding on to the boat’s wheel with one hand. Try as she may she was unable to get up. The sailboat shifted to port and headed towards the green markers. She knew that the Catalina’s draft was seven foot and outside the markers it would surely run aground. At six knots, it would be a devastating crash. There was nothing she could do. She stared into a night sky comprised entirely of a bubbling mass.

  ***

  Jason had removed the helmet from Gwen’s hazmat suit. The only light in the tunnel now came from his cell phone. He had taken it out of his pocket after the protoplasmic horror had retreated. He was sitting on the dirt strewn tunnel floor and Gwen’s head was cradled in his lap. The light from his phone made her look deathly pale. Parting her lips, he began applying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After a few seconds, Gwen gasped and gently pushed him away. She smiled. Then grabbing Jason by the back of his neck she looked as if she changed her mind. Gwen pulled him down on her and kissed him hard on the mouth. “Hi,” she said. “You found my note.

  “You know," responded a smiling Jason. “I used to be afraid of being in small spaces.”

  ***

  Admiral Hawkins opened the laptop in his study and powered it up. He had emailed the images from Eastwater’s phone to his personal account where it would be safe from prying eyes . . . he hoped. The NSA had the ability to secure information from any source it desired. He just prayed that Congressman Stream didn’t have them in his back pocket or at least they hadn’t thought to hack his laptop, yet.

  He looked around the room with the satisfaction of accomplishment. It was a beautiful house and his wife, Katherine, was an expert at creating a homespun atmosphere. The mahogany book shelves and desk that she had picked out in Ridgecrest, along with the subtle earth tones she had the walls painted, gave his study a welcoming warmth. A picture of the two of them fishing in the Adirondacks sat on his desk. It was his favorite. On the wall in front of him was a Thomas Kinkade painting of an old farmhouse. It was their dream picture. The kind of place where they would like to live when he retired.

  Waiting for his Gmail account to boot up Hawkins unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. He removed a .50 caliber Desert Eagle. Originally designed by the Israel Military Industries it is the most powerful semi-automatic handgun in the world. Even though the Desert Eagle had a huge triangular barrel and gaping muzzle, it looked just the right size for the Admiral’s ball mitt sized hands. He kept a loaded clip in its grip. Chambering a round, he slipped it between the folds in his briefcase. He had spent over thirty years in the service. He had always done his duty with honor. If the bastards tried to take that away from him they were going to have a helluva damn fight.

  The email was in his Inbox. He stared at the first attachment. It was a photo like the others. The first page of a ver
y old document. Moments passed before he realized what he was looking at.

  In the midst of World War II, adequate facilities were required for the test and evaluation of rockets. At the same time, the Navy wanted a proving ground for the analysis of aviation ordnances. The military needed a site that would meet both their needs. The Navy established China Lake as its testing station in 1943, which today is known as the Naval Weapons Center, the NWC. Its mission was the research, development and testing of weapons, with the additional function of furnishing training in the use of such weapons. What Admiral Hawkins scrutinized was the digital photo of a report written in 1942 by a seabee surveying the area. His name was Lieutenant Hayward Phillips. It appeared to be written on a typewriter of the period.

  Amphibious Force, Pacific Fleet,

  Camp Elliot, San Diego, California

  July 7, 1942

  From:Lieutenant Hayward Phillips

  To:The Commandant, U.S. Navy

  Subject:(A) Discovery of China Lake Anomaly

  (B) Action Taken with China Lake Anomaly

  (C) Waiting Further Orders

  Disclosure:Lieutenant Hayward Phillips reporting as ordered with only three remaining in my command. Originally seven in my Construction Battalion. Petty Officers Matthew Delaney and Albert Gedney were killed and Seaman Joshua Neely is missing. Carroon, Reichenheim and Green comprise the balance of my crew. Seaman Victor Carroon was my survey assistant, Reichenheim and Green are locals we hired as laborers. Original mission was to survey the million plus acres of the area known as China Lake for the future establishment of the Naval Ordnance Test Station and to investigate an abnormal structure (anomaly) at northwest parcel #37-0073 previously discovered and photographed by an SO3C Navy reconnaissance plane on June 5th of this year.

  Day 1:Outside temperature over 115 degrees and the humidity at a moisture sapping fifteen percent. Diesel Ford transport truck overheated first day. Can only use it for two hours at a time and will be unable to maintain a large enough water supply to replenish its radiator if it keeps boiling over. We have hung a water bag over the truck’s radiator in hopes of cooling its engine. Set up camp approximately 47 miles from parcel #37-0073. Will begin initial surveying of proposed boundary tomorrow. Heat is grueling. Men became dehydrated quickly. If there isn’t a break in this intense desert climate we will only be able to perform our duties during the cooler hours of the morning.

  Day 2:Surveyed and charted 30 miles along the northwest perimeter. Heat is unbearable. Battalion and truck are overheated. No more work today. We have stretched a canvas from the back of the truck to some spare tent poles to make shade. I made a serious miscalculation. I am from Providence, Rhode Island and my experience in arid climates is minimal. I had my crew leave our camp where we had pitched it on day one believing that we would return before evening. The morning was briefly overcast and taking advantage of the gray skies I had my seabees work longer than we should have. Within a few hours the sky cleared and once again were greeted by the merciless desert sun. We had traveled too far. The diesel truck was unable to make the trip back without roasting. The radiator water bag sprung a leak emptying its contents. Each of us only had enough water that we could carry. Not enough to cool down the truck’s engine. I planned to correct my error the following day by spending the next morning traveling back to camp and vowed that all of our supplies and tents would move with us, from then on, like wandering Nomads. Fortunately, we had a good supply of c-rations in the truck.

  At sunset Seaman Neely drew my attention for the first time to the anomaly. It was silhouetted on the horizon. The ground in China Lake is very flat for long expanses dotted occasionally with only a few outcroppings of sage brush and rabbit brush. Where we were there was nothing to obstruct our view for miles. What we saw was a tall dark form to the west. It was blackened by the setting sun but what we could make out was striking. It was a huge monolith that, from our point of view, it must have been several stories high and appeared to be very precise in its form. We all wondered if it was a manmade structure.

  Day 3:Lost an entire day of work traveling back to our campsite. Too hot to return to our last surveyed point to the northwest. We would have wasted another day driving back the following morning but Joshua Neely volunteered to drive us all back that evening. Neely has keen eyesight and he assured me that he could easily find our way back by following the truck’s tracks in the sand. At night the temperature drops down to the mid-sixties in the desert. The merciful cool evening temperature was a blessing for us all cooped up in the truck. I sat next to the seaman in the passenger seat and the rest of the crew was holed up in the back under the truck’s canopy.

  The trip back was a lot longer at night than it would have been in the day because Neely very seldom exceeded twenty miles per hour and many times drove considerably slower. Trailing our tire tracks in the dark was a wearisome task. Joshua Neely navigated the majority of the way with his head and left arm hanging out the side window steering the truck with his right. The Ford’s bright lights only illuminated our pathway for about fifty feet in front of us eliminating any opportunity to go faster.

  Around about 2 a.m. we heard a chilling sound. Neely straightened up in his seat with a start and slammed on the brakes. I had dozed off and banged my head against the passenger’s side window upon being jolted awake. “Did you hear that!” he shouted.

  “Hear what? I said.

  “Roll down your window,” he answered. Forgetting all protocol in regards to my navy rank I did as ordered. I only heard the evening breeze, at first, playing amongst the scrub wood. Then a sound crept up out of the desert. It was faint, to begin with, rising to a definite screech.

  “Oh my God,” I cried out, neglecting to maintain my officer’s composure. It was an animal sound, wide-ranging. Eeeeeeee! Eeeeeeee! It resonated in my brain and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Initially, I was unable to discern what kind of creature could make such a noise nor what direction it came from. It was all mixed up in the wind. At first you could scarcely tell them apart. Each time it would begin again it would start out low competing with the wind of the barren region growing in intensity until you could hear nothing else. Eeeeeeee! Eeeeeeee! It continued to wail. “A seagull,” I said out loud. It would utter its keening screech followed by the clucking or rattling common with the seabird except we were within a million square miles of an arid desert hundreds of miles from the Pacific Coast. “There shouldn’t be any gulls out this far,” I reasoned out loud and besides I had never heard any voice their call with such magnitude.

  Our entire crew was awake by this time and we got out of our transport and stood dumbfounded staring in all directions. Neely had turned off the truck’s engine to save on fuel and to allow us all a clear listening field. The next interval the screeching sound came forth several of us jumped. Except for Neely, we had all been sleeping and the prospect of being roused from our slumbers by an alien scream would have made anyone jumpy.

  Petty Officer Matthew Delaney observed that the wind was coming out of the northwest and he believed that that was also the direction the sound was coming from. He also thought that since the sound started out low and then raised in volume that it was not unlike a coyote’s howl that could carry for miles. Therefore, whatever made it was probably a good distance away. We accepted his theory but still did not venture beyond the lights of the truck. After behaving like brave stalwart companions through each succeeding screech after screech, the wind shifted from the south and all unearthly sounds ceased. Subsequently we all climbed back into the truck, I said a little prayer to myself that the rest of the evening would be uneventful.

  Day 4:Only five miles from parcel #37-0073 and the anomaly. The stone megalith, or “monolith” as the men of our Construction Battalion preferred to call it, was now clearly visible at all times of the day. We had set up camp facing the south. Even in the insufferable heat the men seemed to work harder and for longer hours than before. I chalked it up to a driving des
ire on their part to get the job done and back to cooler climate. However, there appeared to be an underlying meaning for their motivation but they never talked about it, at least not in my presence. Could it have been that the strange screeching wails of the mysterious night creature had put them so severely on edge that they yearned to return to civilization as soon as possible?

  Joshua Neely’s enthusiasm for work was of another sort. He confessed to me that after the war he hoped to return to school and get a degree in archeology. His longing to unlock the secrets of unsolved eons had appealed to him ever since he was in his early teens. Neely would be pursuing that dream even now if it hadn’t been interrupted by the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. There was talk in Washington D.C. that to help out our servicemen, in the future, that they might craft a piece of legislation to be called the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act known as the G.I. Bill, that provided a range of benefits for war veterans that included cash payments for tuition and living expenses to attend a university. Neely hoped to take advantage of just such a benefit, when the war was over, if the bill was ever passed. A lot of “ifs.” So, as it unfolded, the seaman wanted to bridge the distance, and explore the anomaly at parcel #37-0073, also as soon as possible.