Ichthyic in the Afterglow

by Jason Allen

  A blast like close thunder startled Clem and Tina. They stared wide-eyed at a small window with a beaded curtain.

  “What are your plans, sweetie?”

  “I have no choice,” Clem groaned. “I'll have to join the military. At least for once my dad won't be totally ashamed of me.”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” said Tina, adjusting Clem's artificial ears. “You are preaching to the choir about fathers and their shame. My dad not only was ashamed of me, he disowned me, and furthermore put himself and the rest of the family in a sort of witness protection program. The Order of Nosarii paid a pretty penny for someone to repair the family's reputation after his only son came out queer.”

  “I'm sorry that happened to you,” said Clem.

  Tina lit a cigarette. “No, sweetie,” he exhaled. “I'm lucky to be alive. The Nosarii's don't play. There was a kiddie-diddler, priest high in the Nosarii ranks. Someone respected. I won't name names. Your typical young boy, priest scandal...you've heard the rumors.”

  Clem nodded the affirmative.

  “Well, that man who would sneak into my room of a night with that Doberman mask...we fell in love. As inappropriate as the relationship was, it blossomed into more than a victim and predator situation.

  But, I got stupid. I came out, being the dumb punk that I was. I was set to be executed, but the man in the Doberman mask, my love, saved me, by confessing our relationship. His status in the ranks of the Nosarii was so prestigious they couldn't slander themselves and let the scandal out, so it was suppressed, of course.

  A Repairer of Reputations came in and recovered the family name. I was sent to the streets of the Imperiam. I, naturally, took up hooking. And that's that. I sometimes think of my father, my sister, my mother, but that was another life a million miles away. And,” Tina exhaled another plume of smoke. “As long as I live I'll never forget the man in the Doberman mask.”

  Tina leaned into Clem's face, put his hand over his. “My advice, sweetie, is you do whatever you want to do, on your own terms. Sure, it'll be a struggle. Sure, you might even be homeless here in the Imperium, forced to sling your ass for cash like me, but even if you go down alone, and miserable, you'll at least go down on your own terms. Don't join your father's army.”

  The gunfire and rumble of bombs got closer.

  “Do with your life, what you, and only you deem best.”

  The beads on the window rattled and a sheathing sound cut the air.

  Tina's face lost substance, eyes rolled, and his head fell into Clem's lap. The stray bullet had taken the back of Tina's head. Clem sat for seconds in paralyzed shock staring at the fractured skull and exposed brain. He pushed the head from his lap.

  Clem slung open the door of Tina's sex den and made his way into the hall, determined to do what he failed to do that morning.

  Chapter Eight

  CAMILLA LAUGHED, COUGHED, AND SPAT BLOOD as a figure in a white mask and yellow hooded robe with a dagger, sawed from her groin to gullet. She laid stark nude on a slab of red and black checker board. Doctor Syndrome stood in line, completely ignorant to numbers he had no idea if his turn would come sooner or later. He felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. The display read: 'Cassilda'. He raised the white mask, annoyed. He answered.

  “I hope you're calling to tell me you got the abortion.”

  “Nope and I'm not getting it either,” said Cassie. “But, I'll make you a deal...”

  “I am not negotiating this, young lady. Get your ass to the clinic!”

  “Listen daddy. Please daddy, listen.” She broke into soft baby talk. Syndrome melted.

  “Okay, what is your proposal? Wait, just a second.” The orchestra in the background swelled with pure din. Not a hint of melody or anything resembling music. Syndrome made his way to an antechamber.

  “Okay. What?”

  “What was that?” said Cassie. “Are you at a party?”

  “Yes,” said Syndrome. “Your mother gave a great performance tonight. After being out of work so long! Camilla Mahoney—your mother, dear, is back! It was a huge deal, the crew is celebrating. Now, what is it?”

  “I'm keeping my baby. Get me to Carcosa, that's where Carl is, and I'll leave you and mom alone forever. You won't hear a peep out of me.”

  Syndrome sighed. “Dear, you have never wanted for anything. I've never really put my foot down about anything, but I can not allow you to have this baby. Your mother's family is part of a...bigger plan, it's hard to explain. This baby will mess up the order. You said the father is in Carcosa?”

  Sobs from Cassie. “Yes, daddy. I want to be with Carl! I want to go to Carcosa!”

  Laughs from Syndrome. “Dear. You are never going to see Carl again. Trust me. I'm telling you. He chuckled, get the abortion.”

  “Fuck! You! I hate you,” Cassie spat and hung up.

  Syndrome shook his head at the phone and chuckled. He put on his mask and walked back into the party.

  The orchestra was deafening, violinists and other strings, bled from the mouth as they played with their teeth, and through self-sodomy woodwinds and brass blew.

  There was no more line at the checkerboard slab. Camilla Mahoney's body was being removed in pieces by white masked and yellow-robed figures.

  A figure pulls Syndrome's mask from his face. Another figure holds out a gold plate with a mini-mountain of yellow powder. Syndrome buries his face in the powder. A figure indicates he strip. Syndrome goes into spasms of laughter, stripped nude, and lay on the checkerboard slab.

  As the 'Dalos peaks, Syndrome is ignorant to the penetration of the dagger. Oblivious as the masked figure reaches inside his stomach and takes out ropes of entrails.

  Ignorant to anything outside the fourth dimensional vortex. As ignorant of death as he was to numbers.

  Chapter Nine

  CRANSTON SAT UP IN BED SMOKING A CIGARETTE. Thok lay next to her snoring. The black and white television flickered light in an otherwise pitch room.

  “...Reports are in that Nosarii forces have neutralized the Ultharians. Earlier, a splinter group of Ultharian terrorists calling themselves the Calico Militia attacked a crowd gathered for the announcement of the Imperiam's new lethal chamber. This is the second attack in one day. The first being when a Melvin Grossman, age seventeen, detonated a bomb this morning inside a black skull suicide chamber. Our sources tell us that The Order and The Nosariis are splitting into vigilante groups, raiding resident's homes, and executing any and all Ultharians without discretion. Terrorists or not...”

  Cranston sent a bony elbow into Thok's snoring face. “Wake up!” Thok moaned and rolled over. “Get up! They are going to be here any minute. We have to take the dog and get to the Carp District. We have to hide out until this blows over.”

  “Why?” Thok mumbled.

  “Because they are raiding houses and killing Ultharians.”

  “How would they know we're Ultharians?”

  “You moron. The sign out front!”

  The sign displayed out front read 'Cranston Suites' with a Star Claw sigil shadowing backdrop behind the text. A bullseye.

  Cranston shambled out of bed and put her nightgown on. Thok sat up and struggled with socks and boots.

  Cranston shoos away the cats surrounding Chico, and scoops him up. He growls in her arm and she spats the dog's face. “Whatever happens, they don't get the dog. And they're here,” Cranston split the blinds. Outside a mob of armed figures in assorted dog masks surrounded Cranston's Suites, flashlights breaking the Imperiam's pitch. Cranston looked at Thok, and nodded. A silent understanding.

  The apartment door cracks and splinters as armed Nosariis make their way inside. Thok tackles the first one he sees and pins a Doberman-masked Nosarii to the floor. A blast and Thoks's skull fragments. Brain splatters the wall adjacent. Thok falls over. Cranston lets go a scream.

  “Put down the dog!” a muffled voice from a Doberman mask. Cranston holds Chico out by the neck. His tongue lolling from the strangle. The Nosariis raise t
heir rifles. There's no way out but the window. A ten-story drop. She throws Chico at the wall covered in her son's brains, and dives for the window. Blasts from rifles ring with the sound of tinkling glass.

  Three Nosariis look down from the shattered window. Their flashlights break the pitch below, and Cranston's frail body is contorted in the street.

  A Nosarii picks up the shaken dog. He pulls the Saint Bernard mask over his head. “I've never seen a real one before.” The others gather around Chico, petting him. “He has to be one of a kind!”

  Another Nosarii removes his mask. “He'll go to the Kennel, and be dipped in the marble solution.”

  Chico whimpered.

  ***

  The Colonel felt defeated and old when reports of the second attack came in. Tears boiled in his bulbous eyes, he ran his hand up and down his scaly head, and prayed.

  The Colonel had declined his return to deep Y'ha-nthlei. As a soldier he had defended the Imperiam. He was responsible for establishing the city, and he lived with the guilt of denying his destiny.

  He declined flocking with his brethren into the depths of Y'ha-nthlei and standing before father Dagon in all His majesty. Worse he had left pregnant Lavinia still pubescent gold, and ichthyic from the neck down. Her fins prominent at the neck like all young ladies of The Esoteric Order. Her skin golden before gray.

  Lavinia his wife. She had died giving birth to the boy, and the Colonel had never truly forgiven him. He tried to love the boy she named Clem. She didn't even bother making him a junior. He had refused to join, and defend his birthright. Pure laziness. The boy was whatever he was because of the Imperiam, and he wouldn't stand up for her? Pathetic. The boy was a clown. Hilarious, yes, but a clown no less.

  The guilt haunted the Colonel through the years, but the Imperiam was home. All of his prayers started with pleas of forgiveness.

  “Iä! Iä! Unworthy, on my knees before you Father Dagon! From the depths of Y'ha-nthlei to the depths of my treacherous heart, I beg guidance!” On his knees in his one bedroom apartment, the old fish-headed man went on.

  “Y'ha-nthlei, Iä! Iä! I have declined my destiny to mingle with heathens and mortals. This is true, but Father I beg strength to defend these misguided souls in the name of Y'ha-nthlei!

  In the name of Dagon!

  Praise Mother Hydra, I beg guidance!”

  The prayer stirred his guts, tears sprayed, and in trance the Colonel went into Aklo-spasms, similar to Tongues.

  “...Oftu bkda D’khee Y'ha-nthlei Ia! Mother Hydra! Iä! Iä! Father Dagon...”

  Old knees creaked as he got to his feet, and stumbled like a somnambulist to a closet. The door flung open revealing a shrine of ichthyic skulls, and a photo of Father Dagon. The fish god looming monolithic in silhouette.

  Prayer meant barter, sacrifice. Any God. To ask without sacrifice...

  The Colonel took a ceremonial dagger jeweled at the hilt, and a jeweled diadem.

  Back to his knees, he took down his sweatpants, unfurled his flaccid manhood, and started to saw.

  “Iä! Iä!”

  He put the diadem on his head, and sawed until the trepidation subsided, sawed until the blood came, and then sawed until the tears came.

  “Iä! Iä!”

  Outside the roar of sea: “...Iä! Iä!”

  The knocks came insistent, startling the Colonel. Sweatpants around ankles he stumbled, fumbled with the knob, and opened the door. The limp body of an Ultharian in a Siamese cat mask fell through, twitching. Its hands bound behind him. Two Nosariis entered.

  “Sir, you're bleeding.”

  “What is this?” said the Colonel.

  “The Nosariis need your help,” The soldier with the mask of a German Shepard leaned down, held out his hand, and hoisted the Colonel to his feet. The soldier noticed the Colonel's crotch fountaining blood, and stepped back. His member dangled on a string of skin. The Colonel winced as he pulled his sweatpants to his waist.

  “What's going on?”

  “We retaliated immediately after the second attack,” said a soldier in the mask of a Chihuahua, “Our own war.”

  “Has your counter measures been sanctioned by the Imperial Dynasty?”

  “No sir,” said the soldier. The Colonel sighed.

  The soldier reached down and wrenched the rubber mask from the head of the Ultharian.

  “He can't be more than fifteen,” said the Colonel.

  “Exactly. This Calico Militia, we've heard, are seducing kids in as young as ten. It's led by some freak, calls himself, Elder Talon.”

  “Where is this Elder Talon?” said the Colonel.

  “That's why we need your help,” said Saint Bernard mask. “We raided Ultharian's homes, tortured their families, and did everything to get them to talk. Some committed suicide before we got to them. Over at Cranston Suites some of our men confiscated a dog.”

  “What? Some Ultharian piece of shit was hoarding a K-9?” said the Colonel.

  “We couldn't believe it either. It's at a Kennel waiting for the marble mixture.”

  The boy on the floor went into spasms; he writhed like a fish, trying to break his bonds. The three looked at him.

  “So, what do you want with me?” said the Colonel.

  “This kid is straight from the Calico Militia, look at his teeth,” said Chihuahua mask.

  The Colonel reached down and pinched open the young man's clenched lips. The boy's terror amplified as the Colonel got closer.

  “Fangs,” said the Colonel.

  “Exactly,” said Saint Bernard mask. “These are extremist orthodox Ultharians. This kid knows where The Calico Militia operates; we need you because of your reputation, but mostly, um your heritage.”

  The Colonel gave a puzzled look.

  Saint Bernard mask sighed. “The Innsmouth look, I believe it's called. These kids think they're fucking cats! We need your intimidation factor...the look!”

  The Colonel reached down, grabbed a fistful of the boy's hair, and shook him.

  “The base! Where is Talon?” The Colonel pressed his flat nose to the boy's cheek. The boy's swollen eyelids, thick with tears opened slowly, and he panicked seeing the Colonel.

  “The fucking base!” The Colonel screamed.

  Futility set in and the boy went limp.

  “Near Carp. Yellow sector,” the boy groaned, like a death rattle. The Colonel let go, and stepped back. The back of the boy's head fell with a thud. Saint Bernard mask reached behind, and leveled his rifle at the boy's head, and fired.

  “Seriously?” said the Colonel. “Right here in my living room? You're cleaning this shit up!”

  “Sorry sir,” said Saint Bernard mask.

  “Well, you heard him,” said the Colonel. “We are going to the Yellow Sector, and killing these bastards. Call in some more Nosariis.”

  “We?” said Chihuahua mask.

  “Damn right. The Imperiam is my city, and while I don't agree with going over the Imperial Dynasty's head, and taking matters into your own hands, maybe we don't need another war. These assholes can be flushed out quick...and tonight. Right after I see a medic.”

  Chapter Ten

  CLEM FELT HIS WAY THROUGH PITCH. He tripped over debris and potholes, letting memory guide his way to the suicide chamber. He had lived his entire life in the Imperiam, but the city was so war-torn, and through the pitch—nothingness of its dead moon, was like navigating foreign land. “Sorry,” he said, bumping into sparse passing bodies.

  Ahead, he heard Mac and knew where he was “...Your Southern can belongs to me...” That old Blind Willie McTell song, over and over. Mac never missed a note.

  Mac, overcoming his disabilities, never letting his lack of arms gets in the way of his passion to play that song until the end of his days had given Clem some vague hope. Hope, but vague, and fleeting nonetheless.

  Clem's passion had always been the art of pantomime. It was a lost art, but he enjoyed seeing smiles on those as he mimicked solid air. If only miming brought in
some cash. The pressure, so much to live up to. Standards.

  He saw Mac, and saw freedom. Freedom was for the brave. Clem didn't have the guts for freedom. He could pursue his passion at Whosit Whosit Party Corp. and in virtual poverty live under a cloud of disappointment with himself and from his father, and live lonely, grow old, and migrate with the few left of his kind to deep Y'ha-nthlei. There was no way that was happening. The migration might be a myth, anyway. The Colonel was still here.

  How did Mac live? Did he eat? Sleep? He wasn't a typical panhandler, he never even asked for cash. He just played, day in, day out, driven by...something, maybe supernatural. The elements had long taken the clothes from his back, and Clem could never remember a time Mac was not outside Cranston's Suites playing. He had probably been there since the establishment of the Imperiam.

  Chaos all around him that day, and he played on, oblivious. It seemed if he no longer played, the Imperiam would be no longer. Good old Mac, the heart of the city.

  Ahead, Clem saw spotlights. A new black skull was to be erected by morning, and from the sound of the jackhammers, and other tools progress was being made.

  Clem's plan was to be second in line. Get inside the black skull before it closed its teeth. If the watchmen in the second tier got to him before he got inside he would have to act erratically enough, pose a threat, and hope the guard shoots him.

  Anxiety at the thought of this caused Clem's heart to flutter. This would be the boldest move he had ever made in his life. He had never stood up to a bully, a boss, or his father. He would stand up to his life: this futile infliction.

  Clem felt his way through, and his hand fell on a face. The face was soft, and his thumbs felt the empty eye sockets. The pregnant belly, it was Chloe. “Do you have a dollar?”

  “I'm sorry Chloe, I don't.”

  Dear Chloe. Beautiful for what she was, pregnant and eye-less, wandered the Imperium seemingly forever, like Mac's song.