by Byron Craft
Standing upright, he was met with a pounding in his chest. It felt like someone was hammering on the inside of his ribs.
***
Ironwood parked his Willys on the roof of his house. He was dead tired. The sun was setting. The horizon-grazing celestial body poured its reddish rays over the mountains. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight,” he told himself. He walked the slant of the tar and gravel gable to the ground level and hesitated before taking the few steps downwards to his front door. There was a light on in his courtyard behind the house. Circumnavigating the left side of his home, he strode across the flagstones of the back patio. The light came from the inside of his Airstream trailer at the end of the courtyard. Approaching the old travel trailer turned study, he heard the sound of muffled voices. Ironwood placed one foot on the lower rung of the aluminum steps, with a hand gripping the staircase railing he propelled himself into the trailer’s interior hoping to catch his intruders off guard.
“Hello Professor,” cheerfully hailed Congressman Neville Stream. The member of the U.S. House of Representatives was sitting behind Ironwood’s desk casually looking through a stack of papers. Two men in dark suits stood on either side. They were big, very muscular looking and infinitely menacing. Ironwood quickly surveyed the situation. He thought that in a fair fight he might be able to take one of them out, but he would have little chance against the both of them.
“What the hell are you doing here? Those papers are mine. They’re personal.”
"I like to understand people. It puts motive into context, and then I am better to predict them."
Stream’s mockery fell flat. The inside of the trailer was marked by an atmosphere lacking in cheer. “Tell us about the shoggoth, Professor?” he said with a malicious smile.
Professor Thomas Ironwood was at a loss for words. He hadn’t heard the name “shoggoth” since his days at Miskatonic. Many of the “new age” associates in the Mythos Department didn’t subscribe to the belief that they actually existed. They would refer to the legends about them as Necronomicon fairy tales. A terrible, indescribable thing vaster than any subway train. A shapeless jumble of protoplasmic bubbles, with myriads of temporary eyes, bearing down on their victims crushing and devouring them. Most of the stories about them came from the imagination of a writer by the name of H.P. Lovecraft. Unless he conjectured, it had something to do with that old top-secret report. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Oh come now, Prof. I know that you received that email forwarded from my nephew’s cell phone,” he countered, getting angry. “He was clumsy and downright stupid to let it fall into the wrong hands. Be that as it may, I’m not sure who got a hold of his phone; probably Hawkins, but it doesn’t matter because he wasn’t so clever either. You see he did delete it from the phone’s ‘Sent’ file, but he failed to remove it from the ‘Delete’ file.”
“Shoggoths are nothing but a mere legend.” Ironwood was not about to acknowledge that he had received the email with the photos of the old top secret document, let alone confess that Admiral Hawkins had sent them.
“Not so Prof, the evidence is overwhelming and has been backed up by some of your old colleagues from Miskatonic U.”
Ironwood was aware of the ‘Inner Circle’ within the Mythos Department, a cabal of elites that kept the darker days of our planet secret. Although he was an associate member of the department, he was not part of that faction. What he did know, however, was that followers of this Inner Circle were sworn to absolute silence about its purpose and would never divulge its innermost secrets.
“Highly unlikely, Congressman. They don’t communicate with the outside world.”
"Cthulhu fhtagn!" the Congressman bellowed out. His face turned red, and he was overcome with laughter, a demonic nearly hideous guffaw.
Astonished might have been the word that the Professor would have chosen to speak if he hadn’t been at a loss for words. Flabbergasted was even more appropriate because Congressman Neville Stream had just uttered two words that are taken very seriously by not only the staff at Miskatonic University but his old colleagues within the Mythos Department. “Cthulhu” is a gigantic cosmic entity worshiped by cultists and “fhtagn” is a shortened prayer of its worshippers' to awaken him.
Recovering from his merriment, but still smiling, Stream pointed out a chilling fact, “Oh you’d be surprised how effective a little physical torment can be when extracting information. You see Prof; I know all about your little shoggoth. A long, long time ago there were these elder things that inhabited the earth, and they created these slaves to do their bidding. They were indestructible. Only they have now outlived their masters and one of them, maybe more, I hope, live in the tunnels beneath the Mojave Desert. They are known to consume every living thing in their path, and they grow bigger with every gobble. We found Isaac Morley’s underground study over a year ago. His work is well known to me and a few colleagues. My goal, because I know you are interested. . . Oh, I can see that you are on pins and needles Professor . . . My goal is to set the shoggoth free. Hopefully, your pal Alan Parker Ward’s nosing around will do the job for me. Never attribute to a good plan what can be accomplished with incompetence. Even if Ward doesn’t release it, we have other means at our disposal, but we’ll still blame it on you and him.
“This is ludicrous. Shoggoths do not exist. This is all a sick joke.” Ironwood knew that logical reasoning with one who had chosen absurdity was never easy. He looked about his study carefully searching for the right words to use next, convinced that the Congressman was insane. At the far end of his book-lined wall, Ironwood noticed, for the first time, his housekeeper, Mrs. Murchison sitting in a chair. Her face betrayed nothing. She couldn’t be part of this scheme?
“Truly, Professor, they do exist. Believe me when I tell you that we know everything about these creatures and the ancient world that produced them.”
“Oh, you have a systematic understanding of the world we live in do you?” challenged Mrs. Murchison, her eyes becoming a steely glare. “Like, why is the sky blue? Where does the flame go when you blow out a candle?”
Stream casually looked over his shoulder in the housekeeper’s direction. “That is enough out of you. If I want any information from you Mrs. Murchison, I’ll have my men beat it out of you.” Returning his attention toward Ironwood, he sighed with the aspect of heavy exasperation. The Congressman removing a large smart phone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, touched a few icons and turned it in the direction of Ironwood. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”
What unfolded on the five-inch screen was a video that appeared to have been shot in one of the tunnels. A Hispanic man in the uniform of a seabee was holding a thick electrical cable. Two wires, stripped bare at the leads, protruded from the end. Two other men similarly attired stood by observing. The man with the wire thrust the two exposed prongs into a cigar shape on the tunnel floor. Sparks flew, and within seconds, a horrible spectacle took place. Thomas Ironwood looked on with both revulsion and amazement. The shape on the floor swelled, slithered up the cable and engulfed the seabee in a gelatinous mass as it grew. The whole thing occurred in only a few seconds. The man writhed in enormously noticeable pain. His mouth formed a hideous scream, but there was no sound to the video. He kept screaming until, shortly, the bulk of the thing covered his face and head. Numerous vile, pustule arms erupted from the consuming slime and lunged for the other two men.
Stream turned off the video. “I enjoy watching this, but I muted the sound. The screaming gives me a migraine.”
Ironwood was slowly putting the pieces together. He realized that what he had just observed was a video of Chief Petty Officer Domingo Mercado and his men. There was no longer any mystery as to what happened to them. He was sickened with grief for them and the terror they must have felt. “How on earth?” he started to say.
“It’s simple, I’ve got eyes everywhere,” the Congressman interrupted, his self-esteem bristling. “There is
always the right man for the job at my beck and call; he conceals a small camera for me, and voila, it’s movie night. We don’t even need Netflix.”
Stream sat casually with his hands folded and both of his elbows resting on the desk. Ironwood wanted to grab the smug bastard by his bald head and smash his face with all his might into the desktop, not once, but a dozen times reducing it to a bloody pulp. He knew, however, that he wouldn't be able to get within a few feet of the Congressman before his two goons would be all over him, and then he'd be the one beaten to death. “Why in Heaven’s name would you want to release a thing like that?”
“Because Prof,” he chortled. “It will create a lifestyle change, a political opportunity presented by chaos. Just think, a shoggoth, hopefully, an army of them, foul creatures the size of wooly mammoths consuming the locals like grains of rice.”
“You're insane,” he shot back.
“Unequivocally, no! It is political acumen. I need all the victims I can round up. Victims are great Professor! Victims need government. My poll numbers are very high. There will be a presidential election in eleven months, and I will be Número Uno for my party.”
“This is about money?” he challenged.
“When isn’t it about money? More importantly, it is about power. What is money without power?” he sighed. “What is power without money? This economic malaise we are in is good for my career. Most people derive their self-worth from their work. Without such, an internal emptiness evolves and becomes a life without meaning. So a shoggoth-infected world is a perfect act to follow in their already miserable existence. A separate menace is now growing and lurking in the corners. And I am the one to reveal the cause of this malaise of horrible death. I know the culprits, I will be the white knight, taking revenge for the people and I will be the one to save humanity, i.e., my political platform.”
Infuriated, Ironwood shouted, “Thousands of people could be killed.”
“Perhaps millions.”
“This is cruel and ruthless, all for your own personal gain,” he answered back fury rising in his voice.
“Only the cruel and ruthless are ever successful.”
“Pure madness, no one will ever fall for your scheme. They will stop you, and you will spend the rest of your life in a padded cell!”
"Nibble sparingly at the mushrooms Professor, lest they turn out to be toadstools. It will not be considered the ravings of a few so called clairvoyants or conspiracy theorists. It will, most assuredly, succeed because people will embrace the cynicism all due to the willingness on the part of the gullible because everybody is predestined to believe pessimism. Whether it is the acceptance of global warming, acid rain or economic collapse orchestrated by a new world order, everybody is predefined to believe that something will be the end of all of us.”
“So this is where your blame game comes into play?” he challenged understanding the psychosis of the plan.
“Oh yes, I am so glad that you are beginning to understand. You see it is all the fault of the military and, of course, you meddlesome scientists. Prying and snooping around to create the ultimate weapon. Uncovering things that humanity was not meant to know.”
With both fists clenched tightly, Ironwood disputed the Congressman again, “And if you release this scourge upon the earth how do you propose to destroy the indestructible? You said you knew how.”
“I don’t know. At this point, it is just pure rhetoric. Part of the old platform you know. Eventually, someone will figure it out, and my administration will, naturally, take the credit for it. In the meantime, martial law will be declared across the country, and there will be no further need for elections.”
“And you will be the first dictator of the United States. A cruel and ruthless one.”
“Not so harsh professor, I like to think of it as ruling with a velvet glove over a steel fist.”
“So now comes the obvious question. Why are you telling me about your murderous plans?”
“To shut you up, Prof.”
“You intend to kill me?” he dared for the last time.
“Oh no Professor Ironwood,” he laughed. “I reserve such actions for people higher up on the food chain than yourself. I would prefer not to leave a trail of bodies behind me but, of course, if I have to I will. You are simply a mild nuisance, a fly in my ointment. I knew that you were close to unraveling part of our plans and I merely wanted to have the fun of filling you in on the whole picture. It is no secret that I dislike you immensely, and I was looking forward to seeing your face when I broke the news and warned you to stay away. I’m a busy man Professor, and I don’t have the time or patience to deal with your pathetic attempts to stop me.”
“I can go to the press and on the internet exposing your plot.”
“You can try. We own the data flow. The sycophantic media will follow whatever lead I give them. It will just appear as a pathetic attempt, on your part, to shift the blame of the shoggoth scourge from yourself to me, a good and conscientious civil servant. I suggest that you find some deep hole of academia to crawl into Professor before some angry mob rips you apart.”
There was a .38 revolver in the glove compartment of Ironwood’s Willys Jeep. At that moment, he wished he had it with him. A bullet through the head of Congressman Neville Stream would be a blessing for an unsuspecting world. There is no death penalty in California, and he would end up spending the rest of his natural life behind bars if the Congressman’s two bodyguards didn’t shoot him after the deed was done. The bulges caused by the shoulder holsters beneath their jackets spoke well of the men’s concealed carry. “Since this is a tell all,” he said trying to maintain his composure, “why the overt attempt of yours to construct a solar energy zone on the NWC base?”
“The acreage needed to accommodate it was just another thing to take away from the military as well as that space based laser of yours. You know that thing might have ended up being an effective shoggoth killer. It also gave us the convenience of searching the area for additional tunnel sections.”
“And that’s where Captain Eastwater comes into play?”
“Ah yes, my nephew. As I told you Ironwood, there is a plan ‘B’ to release our super-sized subterranean hobgoblin, in case your Alan Ward’s maladroit explorations don’t do it for us.”
“Where is Captain Eastwater now,” he asked.
“Looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
***
The sound of the two Colt M16A2 rifles and Eastwater's .45 caliber Heckler & Koch shattered their eardrums. It was upon them in seconds. The horror was swift. At first, they heard a muffled musical piping that reminded Clayton Eastwater of the sound the wind in mountain caves can make. Then a twisted mass that slithered came abruptly into view. Its immense mucous-covered bulk undulated like a crawling leech, quickly stretching and contracting as it moved. Over fifty-rounds were fired between the three men within a matter of seconds. Pieces, blown away from the creature by the gunfire, regrouped in an instant, leaving trails of dark fluid that rapidly coalesced back into its body. Speedily moving forward, hunger drove it onwards. There was no time for the Captain to feel fear, to be repulsed or even for his skin to crawl; they were consumed within a blink of an eye. Their screams became a constant obbligato to the keening cries of the shoggoth.
CHAPTER 22
MOONRISE
Ironwood drove the Willys across the desert floor peddle to the metal. It was midnight, and the moon was full. After Stream and his henchmen had left, he spent a few minutes comforting Mrs. Murchison. She was a strong woman and didn’t need much in the way of comforting, nonetheless, the professor’s interest grew beyond that of an employer versus an employee. He appreciated strong women. She had been with him for over a year taking care of his household needs, and he realized that he didn’t remember her first name, until that moment, when he asked.
“Amy,” she answered with a smile.
All he knew about his housekeeper was that she had been widow
ed, like him, and that she had a daughter living somewhere in Oregon. If he came out of this with his skin intact, he would make it a point to learn more about “Amy.”
The cloudless sky accompanied by the full moon, and the Willys’ headlamps illuminated the desert floor. Visibility was a little better than decent for a night drive. Ironwood knew he was reckless, driving so fast, but he had to get back to the Morley house and get Alan out of there. Stream’s story of a mammoth shoggoth scarfing up humanity under any other circumstance would have been rendered ridiculous if it hadn’t been for that damn video. Ironwood couldn’t get the images of the unsuspecting seabee being consumed by a translucent greasy thing out of his mind.
Distant mountains, as enchanted cities, flew by while the Professor tried to turn a one-hour drive into a forty-five-minute run. Chocolate brown bits of exposed basalt rock dotted the landscape adjacent to the limestone roadway. Flat land, occasionally interrupted by large pyramid shaped knolls sprinkled with sagebrush, were visible in all directions. Some, also, were inverted cones while others were rectangular. They looked almost architectural, shaped by centuries of wind and shifting sand. It was times like these that Ironwood would entertain a fantasy that he had been blessed with x-ray vision so he could explore their interiors in hopes of finding the vestiges of a lost civilization. Now that fantasy felt more like a reality. Since Alan Ward’s visit, he had been reacquainted with some of the legends from the Necronomicon, because within the course of one day he had explored the relics of an ancient sunken city and seen a man horribly killed by one of its inhabitants. If everything the crazy congressman said was correct then there is a primal force in play here, an element as destructive and as empty of thought as a tsunami.
