Shoggoth

by Byron Craft

  Ironwood drew his revolver from his belt and emptied all six rounds into the advancing greasy flesh. It was a useless effort, but it was all that he had left. Since the explosion only detained the creature for a short time, his .38 caliber slugs were no more than bothersome gnats to the thing. The only avenue left to him now was to run. How long and how far the tunnel continued before it came to a dead end, he had no idea. He would only prolong the inevitable.

  A second explosion rocked the subterranean corridor. A large piece of the ceiling over the platform collapsed from the concussion followed by an outpouring of dirt and rock. A six-foot diameter hole chock-full of sunlight appeared to pierce the darkness. Seconds later a rope unfurled from above and dangled onto the raised deck. Two helmeted soldiers with metal tanks on their backs, carrying peculiar looking rifles, immediately slid down the rope. Six more followed in rapid decent each wielding a service rifle.

  One of the weaponized men jumped down off the platform and taking Ironwood by the arm hustled him back towards his rescuers. Two of the other men reached over the edge of the raised platform and helped him up.

  A giant orifice forming on the side of the shoggoth opened stickily. In a sweep of one of its tentacles, it lashed out. An oily gray lasso flung up and wrapped around the neck of the soldier still standing below the platform. He screamed. The soldier, dragged from where he stood, was then stuffed inside. The hole closed over him.

  The remaining M16A2 Rifles discharged in unison bashing the eardrums and filling the tunnel with the pungent smell of burnt nitroglycerin gunpowder. The two flame throwers immediately ignited. The weapons Ironwood thought were strange looking rifles, spewed liquid fire. Backing away, the Professor put the soldiers between him and the shoggoth. He could feel the backwash of heat from the flamethrowers on his face. The creature no longer advanced. Just like the experiment Willett had conducted within the containment area, the shoggoth did not stay and become a toasted marshmallow. It retreated, quickly.

  Behind him, an aluminum extension ladder slid down from the opening in the ceiling. Ironwood turned and hurried up the ladder. Out of the hole and topside, he was encircled by Willett, Riggs, and Gilhooley. Gwen gave him a big hug and cooed, “Oh Professor I’m so glad we got you out of that hole.”

  “You saved my skin, sir,” Lieutenant Riggs added.

  “Save it,” he replied abruptly. “These men can’t keep this up forever down there. Gunfire has, literally, no effect on it. The creature will return, re-grown, once they run out of fuel for the heat, they’re throwing at it, and it will head for that hole in the ground you just made. Remember it wants the sunlight and that means ‘escape’ for the shoggoth.”

  “The Marine’s NCO did bring additional tanks for their flamethrowers,” recalled the Lieutenant, “considering the thing’s possible number of retreats and advances we might be able to hold it off for a half an hour. I also don’t have any heavy equipment on site to fill in the pit. We could do it by hand, but that would take too long.”

  Professor Ironwood stared at Riggs and then turned his attention to Gilhooley. “How much explosive gel do you have in that containment trailer of yours, Gwen?”

  “Over two-hundred-pounds, sir, but wait! I know what you’re driving at! To set off a charge of that size you’d need a long distance remote detonator. All I have is a twelve-volt truck battery. I’d need two miles of wire to be at a safe distance.”

  “You have blasting caps?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, we’ll put your two-hundred-plus pounds of explosives at the base of that ladder down there, and I’ll supply your remote detonator.”

  Looking around, Ironwood realized that he was standing a short distance from the flat basalt stone with the five-sided icon engraved upon its surface that he and Alan Ward had observed only two days before. In the distance he could see the remains of the Morley House, its foundation still smoldering. He next aimed his point of view at Marinus Willett. He was still wearing Ironwood’s cowboy hat. Ironwood handed him the AIS Helmet and announced with the utmost gratitude, “Doctor Willett this is a great invention of yours. It saved my life on more than one occasion. Thank you very much.”

  The look on Willett’s face was as if he had just handed the stone tablets from Moses. “You’re welcome Professor,” he choked back. “Here’s your hat, Professor.”

  “Keep it,” he answered.

  ***

  More seabees joined the fray, working as a human chain. They formed bucket brigade. They started a line at the containment trailer and gingerly passing one plastic wrapped parcel of dynamite gel to the next across one-hundred-feet of desert sand and down to the base of the ladder. Gwen climbed down the ladder when the last tubes of explosives were in place and pierced the plastic of all their wrappers with every blasting cap in her inventory. The blasting caps were metal, the diameter of a pencil but only half the length. They protruded halfway out of the blasting gel looking like so many silvery bristles. She squinted up into the sun shining through the hole in the earth and recognized the Professor looking down at her. His face was grim. He outstretched a hand to her. Both of them were within hailing distance of the Marines.

  The soldiers maintained their fortification of fire and bullets. The NCO was holding one of the flamethrowers in a defensive posture, scorching the shoggoth back into its lair. Glancing over his shoulder, he shouted above the mayhem, “Down to our last tank of gas, sir. Only minutes left.”

  Gwen climbed the ladder and looked at Ironwood with fear in her eyes. “You better come up with that detonator soon Professor.”

  As she climbed out of the hole and past the Professor, he answered, “I will, Gwen, I will.” Then he reversed course clambering half way down the aluminum steps and yelled, “Be prepared to get out of here damn quick when I give the word, Chief. You’ll have very little time to move you and your men to safety.”

  “Aye, aye, Prof!” he hollered back.

  Standing next to the pile of explosives and with three bars on his iPhone, he called Cac.

  ***

  Cac was wearing a faded Superman tee shirt that was unattractively tight on his greatly obese frame. He answered his cell phone on the first ring. “Hey boss,” he said excitedly, “I got those Type One Fresnel lenses in today. They should increase the efficiency ratio by at least three-point-two-percent,” he rambled on.

  “Stop talking Cac and listen,” commanded Ironwood. “I’ve got my GPS turned on. I want you to Geo-Locate my mobile phone's position and lock on to it with the Space Guard Transmitter.”

  “Are you kidding boss? After I lock the SGT on to your phone then what do I do?”

  “You transmit, of course.”

  “What! I can’t do that; it would fry you as well as the phone!”

  “I’ll be a safe distance away Cac. There is no time to explain; it has to be done right away. Don’t ask any questions. Just do it and do it now Cac!”

  Charles Augustus Chase consulted the Norsat Satellite Locator App on his laptop. “Number two Lithium satellite won’t be in position for ten minutes.”

  “Then ten minutes it will be,” he answered disconnecting the call.

  “Oh Pokémon,” exclaimed Cac. “One of the top brass must be demanding a demo. Well, phasers on kill, Cac out.” Pulling up Ironwood's cell phone number on his laptop, he activated the location app. Within a few minutes, it locked onto his boss’s current position. "That's it!" he cried almost jumping up and down. His tech geek excitement abated when he recalled that in situations such as this, hackers refer to the people they geo-locate as victims. When the SGT kicks in, he hoped that his boss didn't become one.

  ***

  Ironwood tossed his iPhone on to the pile of explosives. The smart phone looked out of place surrounded by a tiny forest of blasting caps. Starting up the ladder, he saw Ensign Turco peering down at him from above. When their eyes met, Turco jerked back from the opening and disappeared. “What the hell is he doing here?” he asked himself.
Ironwood turned to the Marines and yelled, “All right gentlemen, it is time to leave. We have ten-minutes before this place is nuked!” Scrambling up the ladder, he could hear the seven Marines falling in behind him.

  Reaching the surface and in the hot rays of the afternoon sun, he saw that Lieutenant Riggs had followed his lead and was ordering everyone to “bug out” as fast as humanly possible. Already people were running; helicopters were firing up their engines and Humvees were racing across the desert. Everyone was moving fast except for Ensign Turco. He was standing next to a troop transport frantically tapping the screen of his smart phone with both thumbs. Ironwood recalled what Congressman Neville Stream had told him about his network of informers. He said that he had, “eyes and ears everywhere.” Could Turco be a mole?

  ***

  Congressman Stream looked out the side window as a tumbleweed danced across the gravel road. It had reached 110 degrees that afternoon, but it was a cool 72 in his limo. The car was parked with the engine running. He was alone in the back seat. His driver waited for his next instruction. Stream’s burner phone chirped. It was a text message from Turco. After reading it, he almost threw the phone against the bullet proof glass partition. That bastard Ironwood, he lamented internally, I should have had him, and his geeky pal killed when I had the chance. Hesitating briefly, he smiled and pulled up Travis’s number on the phone. “I’ll just text a few additions to the plan that’s all,” he boasted.

  A few minutes later Neville Stream exited the vehicle and placed the disposable cell phone under the right front tire of the limousine. He returned to the car’s interior, slammed the door and ordered his chauffeur to “drive on.” Everything should go as planned now, he decided. But as a little insurance, he’d transfer some of his accounts offshore; the campaign season might get warm after all. He could feel the burner phone crunch under the tire of the limo.

  ***

  Caught up in the frenzy, Ironwood was about to put one foot forward toward the Sikorsky helicopter he arrived in, when, looking down, he caught sight of something that made his blood run cold. The tiles on the tunnel walls glowed, dark lines appeared on their surface pulsing with a capillary action and the shoggoth had returned. It was peering up at him from the base of the ladder with a thousand unblinking eyes. They had run out of time. He profoundly wished, at that moment, that one of Cac’s Lithium satellite’s orbit could have been in line to transmit sooner. Witnessing the speed in which the thing stalked and fed beforehand, he was certain that his time was up. His woeful expectation met with delay. The star-faced visage of the shoggoth projected a tendril from each of its five-points but did not reach out for the Professor. Instead, it spread them wide to the sun’s rays resembling a Joshua tree. Realizing that further scientific study of the phenomenon did not warrant additional time, Ironwood ran like hell.

  ***

  Travis loved to kill, and torture, and do it often. Never could a more suitable job be found for a psychopathic profile. He had just received a text from Mister Money Bags. He added another quarry to their list of targets. “It’s double coupon day,” he whispered in Dorian’s ear. His life, after this, was going to be filled with sunny beaches and awesome recreational drugs. He could almost hear the pounding of the surf.

  Getting past the Master at Arms at the Michelson Lab was easy for the two professional killers. They both approached the security officer’s dais, in their dress blues, pretending to ask for directions. That was when Dorian sneezed in the officer’s face, and Travis popped him on the side of the head with his automatic. The suppressor silencer barely made a noise. Perfectly choreographed moves.

  ***

  “Hot dog!” Cac exclaimed to the empty laboratory, “satellite number two is within our hemisphere. Enterprise to Captain Cac, we are ready to deploy the Space Guard Transmitter,” he fantasized. Charles Augustus Chase had set the app for the trigger mechanism to the “D” for drive position on the 65 Mustang shifter attached to the old-fashioned plywood control panel. The honors were, originally reserved for the Admiral, but now Captain Cac was at the helm.

  The double doors to the lab swung in, and Cac watched as two naval officers pointed guns at him. Before he could say a word, they opened fire. The low decibel pops of their 9mm's delivered round after round into the unsuspecting tech’s body.

  ***

  A tech by the name of Barkley at the Q-Section had adjusted all the propane jets in the containment cell to full pressure. The shoggoth, the size of a VW Beetle, jumped when engulfed in flames. For the protoplasmic monster, there was no up or down to escape the searing heat. Within a matter of minutes, it was cooked down to half its size and a moment later, nothing remained but a golf ball portion of black slime. Q-Section smelled of burnt plastic.

  ***

  Their rules of engagement were simple as usual, leave no one alive, and leave no evidence. For Travis, there was one extra rule, Jack Hawkins was to be his. He hated authority figures, and next to assassinating the president of the United States, the Admiral would do just nicely. He made Dorian holster his 9mm. He would holster his as well. Travis wanted to do it quick draw style just like they do in the westerns, mano e mano.

  Their sugar daddy had sent them an excellent set of plans for the building. Travis had poured over it for hours memorizing every detail. Walking to the Admirals office was like he had done it a hundred times before. Hawkins’ name was displayed on his office door in brass letters. They didn’t knock.

  When Travis and Dorian opened the door, Hawkins was at his desk writing on some papers. He didn’t look up. The jerk doesn’t even notice us, probably filling out some stupid reports, Travis sneered. He came closer and couldn’t believe it could be this easy. Then he realized the Admiral was writing with his left hand. He had read his dossier. He wasn’t left-handed. With an uneasy feeling, he noticed that the Admiral’s right arm was at his side, and his hand was under the desk.

  The front of Admiral Jack Hawkins desk exploded sending a .50 caliber hollow nose slug and coarse splinters of mahogany into Dorian’s left knee. He screamed and fell to the carpet holding his leg.

  Attempting the sought after “quick draw” Travis reached for his gun. The large bulk of the Admiral rose out of his seat impossibly fast. In the blur of an instant, he watched as the long barrel of a Desert Eagle automatic pistol pointed at his face. When the weapon discharged, the top of Travis’s head was blown off.

  ***

  There was blood everywhere. Cac knew it was his. Sinewy strips of fat dangled from his torso shredded away from his belly and back by the multiple gunshot wounds. He should have been writhing in pain but guessed that one of the bullets probably damaged his spinal cord. Using his arms only, he crawled across the floor, made slippery by his bodily fluids, and reached upwards towards the gray plywood control panel. A bloodied hand took hold of the T-bar Mustang shift lever. Pushing the black thumb button on the top of the bar, he slid it down to the “D” position before collapsing face forward.

  ***

  Just outside the Michelson Lab, a pair of giant steel doors in the pavement opened. The elevator below was activated, and the Space Guard Transmitter rose unfolding its solar collector. The Fresnel lenses and the ingester juiced up by Cac's quantum processors beamed the energy skyward.

  ***

  Vice Admiral Hawkins rushed around his desk. Travis’s blood splatters and brain matter were all over the opposing wall and entry door. To the left of the corpse, Dorian lay curled up on the floor cradling his injured leg, crying. Eying Hawkins’s approach, he reached for the gun in his shoulder holster. Hawkins stepped a size-thirteen shoe onto the pulp that was once Dorian’s knee and pressed down. Dorian screamed and dropped his 9mm. “Don’t try it, son,” implored the Admiral.

  Glancing over at his computer monitor, he could see that the hallway to his office was free of any more intruders. The hidden security cameras, he installed, had Wi-Fi images to his desktop PC.

  ***

  The low orbit Lithi
um satellite number two was in the appropriate hemisphere. Its solar-pumped laser redirected the energy beam transmitting it to the predetermined target. A shaft of amplified light, from outer space, skewered the clouds heading towards its chosen spot on earth.

  ***

  Ironwood started to rest easy as the Sikorsky lifted off. Jason Riggs and Gwen Gilhooley occupied the two seats in front of him. From his window, he could easily see that no one was left behind. Thank God, he praised, that there had been enough aircraft and ground transportation to evacuate everyone safely away.

  Reaching an altitude of five-hundred-feet and climbing Ironwood witnessed a huge cloud of debris eject from the earthen hole. Some of the ground fell in, and a split second later the helicopter was buffeted by a shockwave followed by a loud “thump.” The force of the massive explosion was probably much larger, by comparison than the tiny orifice in the tunnel's ceiling was able to discharge, he decided. No sooner had he completed the assessment, when a jet of intense heat erupted from where the hole was, gushing lava over the area that, just a short while ago, they all had occupied.

  “What on earth is that?” Gwen asked over the sound of the helicopter’s rotors.

  “An enormous volcanic vent must have been torn open by your dynamite explosion,” he answered. “It is probably filling the tunnel right now with molten fire.”