by Greig Beck
“We’ve got fucking lasers, EMP devices, microwave weapons, rail guns and a hundred other ways to mete out death to our fellow man, and we’re fighting these things with salt. Taking them out one by one. Fuck it.” He brought his fist down on the desk so hard everything jumped an inch. “Well, we aren’t finished yet.” He turned. “Ready those heavy thermobarics. Let’s see it choke down a few hundred two-thousand-pound exothermic blasts.”
Before him the screen was becoming cloudy. “What the fuck now?” It filled with dark specks like the battlefield was in a snowstorm. He turned to the room. “Get someone in to clean up this fucking image.”
“It’s not the feed, sir.”
Decker frowned. The image wasn’t getting any clearer, and in fact was becoming more covered over. Looking down from the aerial shot, he saw that the specks began to swirl like a tornado over the site.
“Give me resolution on that new mass.” Immediately, the focus pulled back to about a thousand feet above the blast zone. Decker leaned forward and snorted softly. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
The tornado of specks could now be seen for what they were – birds. The swirling storm of wings and feathers was getting thicker by the second as more and more joined in. At the center of the eye of the feathered tornado, moving almost faster than the eye could follow, were the smallest – sparrows, honeyeaters, and warblers. Then came the starlings, gulls and pipers, and furthest out, moving slower, were the cranes and eagles. There were so many, Decker had to blink to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks. The sky was now becoming so filled, it began to cast shade over the ground.
He nodded to the screen. “Yes, this thing is a threat, not just to mankind, but to all of us and every living thing.”
Beneath the swirling birds the ground finally broke open, and a red gas vented into the air – it was the bow wave of the colossal creature finally emerging from the depths of hell itself.
As if on command the birds started to descend – not fall or mindlessly strike the ground, but instead each turned itself into a missile – arrows of bone, blood and feather that spiked down into the massive center of the emerging eye.
Decker straightened, the scene reminding him of bible class from half a century before. “And on the last day, the smallest of us will rise up and join the fight against the beast.”
Decker shouted over his shoulder. “Cease fire.”
He turned to watch the hurricane of furious animals dive into the creature from below.
Chapter 29
Matt and Adira stood back to back, trying to avoid the rush of the monstrosities that swirled around them. As soon as the shadow of the Unspeakable One had moved to the red gates, the beasts of Cthulhu’s realm started to retreat back to their master – first, one by one, and then in their thousands, they went like dark rivers of shuffling horror. They poured back into the central mass, joining with it, merging and becoming yet more of the dark jellied muscle that was vainly straining to reach our world.
“It seems stuck – not moving any higher. Something is stopping Cthulhu from breaking through.” Matt grinned. “Maybe General Decker was able to halt it.”
“Then, we can do no more.” Adira spun to drag him along the sand until he managed to right himself.
Matt turned to look back at the gates. Something blood red was emerging like a mountain of pulsating muscle. Once past the barrier, it shot forward, colliding with column of black greasy flesh in the center of the dark ocean. The shockwave of the impact knocked Matt and Adira forward off their feet, and they both rolled to look back.
Xastur had wrapped itself around its brother, and, like a giant fist, it squeezed.
“Xastur will not let Cthulhu rise. It knows it is not their time,” Matt said.
The thing that had emerged from behind the red gates extended out and around the mass of Cthulhu, but its end was still lost somewhere deep inside the city of R’lyeh. Matt brought his hands up to his head to cover his ears, as there came a wailing from the million mouths, jaws, beaks and toothless maws that had formed across the dark mass of Cthulhu.
Matt looked at his watch. “Oh God, the convergence is concluding. We need to be out of here, or we’re staying.”
“Then see you at the top, Professor.” Adira started to sprint along the shoreline. Matt followed, both of them heading back to the cave mouth they had used to enter Cthulhu’s realm.
They still needed to weave around all manner of hideous creatures that poured forth from the caves – there came the Father’s priests, the shaven-headed humanoids, also stick-like insectoid things with grinning human faces. There were slithering worms with spiked fangs and sides dotted with black eyes, skinless centipedes with running sores, and lumps of muscled flesh that hopped on massive elephantine stumps. All continued to pour back into the core of their master.
The screams of rage rose, and chancing a look back again, Matt saw that the huge column had begun to be dragged from the ceiling, and was being slowly tugged toward the massive gates of R’lyeh.
Finally, from out of the darkness above them appeared the head of the beast. Matt felt an animal fear shoot through his body at the vision of the monstrous ancient being. The Al Azif’s description was accurate, but still could never fully describe the horror that Matt witnessed. He had impressions of an octopus, a dragon, and even a human caricature with a pulpy, tentacled head surmounting a grotesque and scaly body. The face, or the front of the being, carried a huge central lidless eye surrounded by dozens of smaller black orbs, and then around these were masses of feelers. The thought of their world ever having something like this on its surface threatened Matt’s sanity.
Cthulhu emanated pure evil, and perhaps its slumbering dreams had touched humankind ever since he had crawled from the swamps and stood on hind legs. It had always been there, the evil presence influencing and haunting us – Satan, Diablo, Lucifer, Baal, Cthulhu – they were all the one being…and it was real.
Cthulhu arched down. Its flailing tentacles, thicker than city blocks, bloomed apart to reveal a huge beak that it tried to bury in the flesh of its brother. Whipping tentacles smashed rock from the walls, and specks fell from its body – the servants clinging to its skin were being shaken free like fleas from a dog.
The two mighty creatures had wrapped tentacles around each other in what was far from a loving family embrace. Each exerted impossible pressure on the other’s form, but slowly, Xastur was dragging Cthulhu back toward the red gates.
A huge chunk of stone the size of a battleship fell from somewhere overhead to strike a far stretch of beach, crushing flat hundreds of the swarming creatures and creating a tremor beneath their feet.
That settled it for Matt and Adira: they were sprinting now for their lives. Gradually, the planets were moving out of alignment, and whatever labyrinthine maze had been opened to reveal this dismal place of abominations would soon be shut.
Adira had her gun up, but the beasts they passed ignored them in their haste to return to their master. Amongst the dark, reeking mass, there was a flash of red, and Matt zigzagged towards it, increasing his speed.
“Hey!” Adira angled after him.
The lump of red looked up. The twins in their dirty pyjamas clung to each other, their faces streaked. Matt jinked past something that looked like a dog-headed spider, and then bent and reached out, while trying to not to slow his pace. He grabbed up one of the girls, who immediately clung to him. The other, he snatched and just held under his arm, and accelerated once again.
“Go, go, go.” Adira pushed him in the back, and then sped to get in front of him and force open a path. The Mossad woman’s long legs pumped hard on the dark sand and Matt gritted his teeth, his head already swimming with exhaustion as he tried to keep pace.
They ran hard now, bouncing off walls as time moved rapidly against them. Adira was first to the shimmering curtain between their worlds, but when she went to run through, she bounced backward. It was now less like a bodyless separation than a wa
ll of glass. She collided with Matt and knocked him to the ground. The girls screamed, and rolled from his arms.
“Shit no.” Matt got to his feet first, the twins already clinging to him again. He helped Adira up.
Her nose was bloody and she shook her head. “Shitza. That was like hitting a wall.” She rubbed her face, smearing blood.
Matt reached out and touched the wall. He pushed at it, but his hand refused to go through. “It’s closed; we’re too late.”
“Over my dead body.” Adira planted her legs and lifted her gun, firing a dozen rounds into the wall. The last few passed right through, striking the rock tunnel beyond. She turned and grabbed Matt, and one-handed, fired again, upsetting the wall’s stabilization just enough for them all to dive through.
The distortion wall immediately reformed, and then like some sort of gigantic digestive system, the rocks walls began to soften, pulsate and ripple like the peristaltic motions of a giant animal’s gut. Then, they too began to collapse. Just like the soil in the sinkhole in Iowa, Matt thought, getting to his feet.
He sprinted now; first beside Adira and then behind as the weight of the girls slowed him and the ever-narrowing tunnel forced them into single file. In another moment, he saw a tiny dot of yellow – the dying glow stick lying at the bottom of the pit. The walls now were barely further apart than his shoulders, and he yelled until his voice was rasping.
“Dive, dive.”
Adira did just that, and Matt followed. They both landed hard. Matt spun in time to see the walls coming together like lips, swallowing everything that had been behind, and probably below them. The huge stone lintel with the carvings remained in place above them, but beneath it now there was nothing but a blank wall.
Matt remained sprawled on the ground, the girls still with their faces buried in his chest. Adira was lying on her back, breathing hard. He closed his eyes, and concentrated, reaching out with his mind, trying to feel the monstrous presence – there was nothing. The sensations he had felt after the touch of the Shoggoth, the second sight and connection with the Beast, seemed gone. He looked down at his hand – the Book was still there.
“Is it over?” Adira rolled her head to look at him.
He smiled, seeing just how battered she was. “Over? I don’t know if it will ever be over. Maybe for this millennium it is. We need to see what happened above us – see what’s left.”
“Call me a cab.” She shut her eyes.
Matt grinned, and looked across to the tiny dot of yellow that was fast fading. “I’ll call you mad, if you want to be down here when the lights go out.”
She groaned and sat up. “Suddenly, I want to see the sun again.”
Matt got to his feet and pulled her up. She pointed at the Book. “That thing is trouble, it should stay here…or better yet, be destroyed.”
Matt looked down at the cover. The glyphs, the Enochian – the language of the angels or the Underworld – none of it made sense to him any more. The power to read them was gone.
“No. It’s not for us to decide that. It is both a sword and a shield – it needs to be protected – for the next time.” He craned his neck to look upward, but felt a tug on his arm. He looked down. One of the small girls looked up solemly.
“We want to go home now.”
Matt nodded. “Good idea; let’s all go home.”
*
“What the hell?” Decker watched in disbelief as the Shoggoths retreated like army ants pulling back into their nest. They ignored the soldiers firing at them, even though they exploded into black goo when struck. The very last seemed to become confused, ambling about, and then didn’t even bother trying to make it below ground. Instead, they simply started to fall apart, becoming an oily sludge that steamed and ran into the cracks of the earth.
Beside him, Don Mancino was amazed. “Did we…win?”
Decker stared for a full minute, and then shook his head. “Win? No. We didn’t beat them, or the thing rising. We never laid a freakin glove on it. Something or someone else stopped it…and for how long?” He snorted. “Ask me again in another thirteen hundred years.”
“What happens now?” Mancino asked.
Decker exhaled. “Damned if I know. Put the world back together, might be a good place to start.” He snorted softly and then turned to the room. “Pull everyone back…and find me Major Joshua Abrams. I’m betting that he and that mad professor of his had something to do with this.”
“What about Captain Adira Senesh?” Mancino still stared at the screen.
Decker thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Sergeant Major, right about now, I wouldn’t care if we made her the next President of the United States. Leave her be.” He saluted and headed for the door.
Epilogue
Arkham, Essex County, Massachusetts
Matt walked slowly across the quadrangle of Miskatonic University’s grounds. Tucked under his arm was a prize that was beyond value – the Book. It was both a curse and a salvation for the human race.
Abdul Alhazred, the Mad Arab poet of Damascus, had been shown insights into the world that could have been, and, even though it had cost him his life, he had written down the strange symbols and words, and then ensured those words remained safe for when they would next be needed.
Where those thoughts and words originally came from was a mystery. Perhaps there were other great beings, Elder Gods, less inclined to destroy and consume life than the more odious things that slumbered somewhere deep beneath our feet.
And now, it was Matt’s responsibility to keep it safe. The original Book could never be taken back to the library of Alexandria, but it still needed to be hidden away in a repository – somewhere secure, and off the beaten path. He knew just the place. He had learned that the “ole Misk”, the Miskatonic University, had a deep vault below its old science lab.
It was strange: the university, though a prestigious one, would not have been his first choice for storage of something so valuable and, without doubt, critical to the survival of the human race. But it was if the Book had decided for itself, guiding and then compelling him to bring it here. Perhaps to be hidden away and forgotten for another thirteen hundred years.
Just touching the strange leather of its cover caused images of the abominations to swirl like mad dervishes in his mind, along with the passages in Syriac, Ancient Greek, and Arabic. There were also the symbols of the first angels, though they were now impenetrable to him. He knew he would never be fully free of them until he performed one last duty.
Matt entered the university’s stationery shop, selecting the most expensive vellum paper he could find and a fountain pen. He needed to write, to add in their battle, and how they managed to push back the Old One. He had to quickly get it down, tell the story of Cthulhu, the Shoggoths, and the other abominations. And he needed to include his own warning, before his mind was blank to it all.
He smiled as he pushed out of the store, making the small bell tinkle overhead. He headed to the Miskatonic vaults, but first he needed to find a place to write.
“Maybe one day they’ll refer to me as the Mad American – Mad Matt.” He grinned and turned his face to the sky, catching a ray of sun on his face. Overhead a bird circled, and as he watched, another joined it, and then another.
As he passed across the campus a small cloud of birds formed above him…following.
Author’s Notes
Many readers ask me about the background of my novels – is it real or fiction? Where do I get the situations, equipment, characters or their expertise from, and just how much of any legend has a basis in fact? In the case of Book of the Dead, there is one absolute reality – its real creator: the American author Howard Phillips “H.P.” Lovecraft.
My book, most of the creatures described, and even my hero being a professor in search of science and knowledge, are drawn from Lovecraft’s mythos universe.
This book is where I pay homage to the man. I hope he would have approved.
Howard P
hillips “H.P.” Lovecraft
Lovecraft was born in Providence, Rhode Island, on August 20 1890. Today, he is considered one of the most influential fathers of monstrous and macabre horror, though it was only years after his death that he received the recognition he and his work deserved.
A young Lovecraft spent his early life being cosseted by an overprotective mother, as his father was confined to a mental institution. His grandfather turned out to be a significant influence, as much of the time he was with Howard was spent telling him fantastic make-believe stories, and this soon became their favorite pastime.
It wasn’t long before an eight-year-old Lovecraft began composing his own rudimentary horror tales. Then later, when in high school, he began to involve local children in elaborate fantasy play-acting, only stopping the projects just prior to his eighteenth birthday. At school, Lovecraft abhorred many of the traditional subjects, but developed a keen interest in history, linguistics, chemistry, and astronomy, and obtained a deep understanding and knowledge of each of these. Though his intellect was being honed, his lack of interest in traditional topics led to him failing to graduate.
Lovecraft began to withdraw from the world, and soon was living a near nocturnal lifestyle. However, his writing, if mostly just personal, continued. At twenty-three, his literary flair was seen in the letter pages of a story magazine and he was soon invited to join an amateur journalism association. This was the trigger he needed and he soon began to send out more of his works. At the age of thirty-one he had his first formal publication in a professional magazine.
Lovecraft’s life seemed to be thrown open then – he lived in New York, married an older woman he had met at one of his journalism conferences, and, by thirty-four, was a regular contributor to a new fiction magazine called Weird Tales.
