by Byron Craft
“Thank you, Desh,” she said, candidate’s smile once again plastered on her face.
“And this,”Derek said, motioning to the female official, “is the executive Chief of our Emergency Actions Operation Center, Doctor Orfhlaith Ó’Súilleabháin.”
Good lord already, Hampton thought, but shook her hand and said, “I like your sartorial style, Doctor Ó’Súilleabháin.” She muddled through this Irish name and felt relief that the official was, like the others, going to share her preferred nickname.
The official smiled and said, “Same to you, Madam President. And, please, call me Orfhlaith.”
“Great,” Hampton said. She would have used the name, but its exact pronunciation had already flown from her mind. “Great, great … so, okay! Shall we get down to business?”
* * *
“Thank you, Madam President,” Colonel Shankaracharya said and took the lectern. An A/V tech, Berry sighed at the Marine PFC operating it, wishing he could tell her Don’t say a freaking word, activated a projector that showed the images on all four screens: the one across from Hampton was a map of the continental United States, most of which was awash with red. The one behind the colonel was a map of the entire Earth, also mostly red, although its predominance lessened the further on the globe it was from The Event. The other two screens showed Russia and China, which were less red but still pretty damn red.
“As we all know, a black swan event two days ago resulted in massive fatalities around the globe. More than a billion killed immediately; another half a billion dying in traffic accidents caused by driver impairment during the initial psionic signal; and at least four billion lives lost during subsequent periods of intense psionic energy over the past two days. I trust everyone present is familiar with this term, ‘psionic’?”
“Yes.” This was uttered simultaneously by the president, Patterson, Berry, Huey, Dewey, and Jennifer. The A/V tech nodded. Berry saw it and was this close to giving her the “ixnay” gesture.
Derek Koch was happily surprised. “That saves time! At present, the exact nature of the signals’ source is undetermined. We know where it was, and we’re hoping our inability to detect it within the nuclear cloud over the South Pole means that the threat has been eliminated. Volunteers have tested the environment outside our facility for psionic influence and, since the attempted destruction of the source of the signal last night, have reported it to be absent.”
* * *
Hampton nodded. It agreed with what she experienced all morning. It appeared that she wouldn’t have to choose between Cthulhu and humanity, because Cthulhu was dead. The herald form, the corporeal form; neither was ‘transmitting’ anymore, she felt so empty; she thought she might just put her head down on the burnished table and cry.
“We understand the effect of what the entity, that you Madam President, have called ‘Cthulhu’; we were able to track it and, in concert with other nuclearized nations, attack it, maybe even destroy it. But we have no intel on exactly what this entity is or was, where it came from, or how it suddenly appeared. We also don’t know, and we may never know, why this entity attacked Earth.”
The president and Berry exchanged a glance. They certainly knew, but Major Berry sat on his hands. She, by now, recognized his body language, and he was going to keep his trap shut.
However, Hampton said with confidence, “We do know what this ‘entity’ is, Derek,” she interrupted a bit condescendingly to the ears of those in the room. “Kevin, please say a few words regarding what we have learned from studying,” she wanted so bad to say the gospels, “the texts.”
Derek’s eyebrows went up, and all looked at Berry.
In a move that would’ve made General Patterson proud if he knew how much this Marine didn’t want to do it, Berry made himself rise and say, “What the president is, um, referring to is the Cthulhu Mythos of the writer H.P. Lovecraft. Really, it should be called ‘the Lovecraft Mythos,’ but …” He trailed off, the many sets of eyes trained on him making him almost wish for the gaze of a shoggoth. “Um, anyway, the stories written by Lovecraft in the 1920’s and ’30’s seem to predict, you know, freakishly accurately what has really happened to the world in the past couple days. The drone images from near R’lyeh, I mean, Point Nemo, are of something that looks exactly like Cthulhu. Like, exactly like Cthulhu.”
“And what is Cthulhu, Major Berry?” Hampton asked in exactly the tone and cadence she used to prompt hesitant students in the classroom.
Berry was very uncomfortable and looked like he wanted to leave the room but steeled himself. “Cthulhu is a powerful alien, so powerful that, to us humans, he’s essentially a god. He isn’t evil, necessarily, but he isn’t concerned with human affairs.”
“He isn’t evil at all,” Hampton interjected.
“Of course, Ju—Madam President. He’s just other. Lovecraft now seems to have been a kind of psychic prophet ...”
“All right,” Derek Koch said, cutting Berry off in a measured tone, even though Berry out ranked him, he could not have looked more relieved about as he retook his seat. “I believe President Hampton made that viewpoint clear in her addresses to the nation.”
Hampton immediately scanned the faces of everyone at the table and standing near the lectern. They watched her murder that man the night before. They had to have seen her manic ‘address’ during which she called for blood sacrifices and then, always the teacher, shown what it meant by example. Her face reddened: she looked like a complete loon, which hadn’t bothered her when she felt full of Cthulhu’s grace. Now, however, she wished she could crawl under the table.
“I believe everyone here saw the president’s address via the Army webcam last night. I know everyone did. If I may, Madam President,” he said, meeting Hampton’s eyes, “I’d like to use the incident that followed your impromptu speech as an opportunity to discuss the effect of these psionic waves.”
Chapter 5:
Inadvertent Rendezvous
Highway 50 near Kenosha, WI
42.5847° N, 87.8212° W, 1,429.7 km (via I-94 W)
from Minot AFB
Rising + 10 hours
Staff Sergeant Doucette chose a circuitous route with the M1A2 Abrams tank. He selected I-70 out of D.C. as a less congested, and hopefully a less traveled way west. Congested was an understatement. The pile-up along Interstate 90 (normally the preferred route) was a wall of devastation. Once north of Chicago, which he ignored like the plague circumnavigating the Windy City, he longed for more pleasant scenery. Before the Rising, Chi-Town was known as the murder capital of the world. After the mayhem and deaths created by the psionic waves, he dared not imagine what that hell hole had become. Mitchum and the rest of his passengers were snoozing the results of drug and alcohol-induced states. A slight but psychologically needed detour along the shores of Lake Michigan was a welcome relief.
Doucette did not wake his fellow commuters. Their questions and constant bickering would be a pleasurable view spoiler. When reaching Kenosha, he’d take Highway 50 due west joining up with I-94, and head toward Minot. Hopefully, his persons along for the ride would sleep through the deviation.
Sergeant Doucette brought the Abrams tank to an abrupt stop when entering Highway 50. A stalled car blocked the right lane. It was a black SUV. The hood was up, and steam was billowing skyward. Six forlorn individuals stood gaping at the radiator geyser. Three women and three men. Two wore white lab coats.
* * *
Martin Storch was first of the passengers to rise. “Why are we stopping?” he asked, pressing his right hand against his makeshift eyepatch. Doucette threw open the hatch and stood up. “Is it safe to do that? Martin demanded.
“We were a safe distance from any fallout hours ago,” he answered. “Up ahead, some people have broken down on the highway.”
“That is their damn problem. We are not the welcome wagon.” He was hungover, and his eye socket hurt like hell. Martin needed a drink.
Sergeant Doucette ignored the cantankero
us Martin Storch, turned off the Honeywell AGT1500 gas turbine engine, and pulled himself topside to stand on the tank’s turret. Storch, close behind, banged the top of his skull on the hatch opening, “Christ,” he grumbled. “Can I get a couple of Purple Hearts for my wound and now this?”
“Not unless you enlist, Mister Storch.”
Surprised that the Sergeant had overheard his bellyache, Martin crawled out of the hole and joined the tank commander. “Are you the ones that called AAA?” he sarcastically shouted to the lost souls gathered around their derelict transportation.
The three men and three women by then gaped at the U.S. Army battle tank. “It’s the hose to the radiator. It ruptured,” one of the lab coats shouted back.
Staff Sergeant Doucette jumped down from the turret onto the main deck, grabbed the 120mm cannon barrel with both hands and swung to the ground. Martin trailed behind with a slow, deliberate shimmy to road level. After a quick look under the hood of the Chevy Suburban Doucette announced, “Sorry nothing we can do for you. Nothing on board to repair the hose and besides your radiator is bone dry. We only carry potable water for survival purposes.”
“But we need to get to Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota, it’s urgent,” replied an attractive young lady with short curly brown hair.
Doucette glared at the lady suspiciously and glanced in Storch’s direction. Martin Storch, with his one good eye, scrutinized the woman up and down. She was about five-foot-two, thin, around thirty years of age, an opened lab coat displayed a tight-fitting t-shirt displaying a tentacled mollusk and the words, “Cthulhu Lives.” Appropriate, he thought. “Why Minot?” he challenged.
“We tuned into an emergency military broadcast requesting all active personnel to report,” a tall man, also in a lab coat, interrupted.
“You are Bob Nye,” offered Storch. “I have seen you on the telly.”
Nye straightened up beaming with pride, but before he could say another word the curly haired brunette piped in, “We are with the Office of Science and Technology... Washington D.C.,” she added when a cloud of confusion overcame Martin Storch’s features. “We may be able to help.”
“Offer our services,” added an Asian female.
Martin Storch was having difficulty removing his one good eye from the brunette’s close-fitting t-shirt. He forced himself to consider the six stranded travelers and enquired, “And what might those services be?”
“Cosmologist,” offered one.
“I am, of course, a climatologist and a philosopher of science,” beamed Bob Nye.
Yeah, and the asshole TV guy, Martin was tempted to say but kept his trap shut.
“Cognitive science and biology,” presented a tall redheaded lady.
“I am Molly,” she added with a smile, “and this is Li,” pointing to the Asian woman. “We are both theoretical physicists.”
“And I am impressed,’ proffered the grinning Storch.
“You are also Martin Storch,” Molly declared. “I saw you on Colbert last year touting your latest book.”
“Guilty as charged my lady,” he answered bowing. “That tome is now a worthless rag considering the current predicament.”
“Predicament is an understatement, Mr. Storch.”
“A poor choice, I must admit, to describe the present disaster,” he re-joined, coming closer.
“I am sorry—Martin, but your breath is horrible.”
Storch just smiled. He was well aware of his state of untidiness. An unshaven face, a stubble of salt and pepper, clothes that he had slept in that smelled of puke, blood, and sweat, not to mention a horrendous patch of gauze and adhesive tape over his right eye. He was an absolute Gentlemen’s Quarterly reject. It was a wonder that the cute little thing had recognized him at all.
“It appears that we share a common goal,” announced Staff Sergeant Doucette. “We are on our way to Minot Air Force Base as well. We may be able to squeeze one or two of you below, however, if you want to share the ride, the rest of you will have to journey topside.”
“We can take turns riding on top, Sergeant,” volunteered Bob, the TV Guy, Nye.
“I will be one of the first up top,” Storch offered. “It is high time that I aired out my attire.”
The very little gear the scientists had brought was easily stowed and secured behind the tank’s hatch. Martin Storch sat up front with his back resting against the gun turret, his left arm casually draped across the cannon barrel. The position afforded him the opportunity to grab hold of the big gun barrel to steady himself in case of any sudden movement generated by the tank driver.
Molly Gibson had plopped down on the opposite side of the cannon next to Storch. Instead of grasping the barrel, in kind, she secured her right arm around Martin’s waste. The move both startled and pleased the middle-aged atheist.
Martin removed a pint of vodka from his jacket pocket, held it up to the afternoon light and surveyed the last few remaining swallows in the bottom of the bottle. “Our salvation, my dear. It has kept our gray matter from turning into Jell-O. The psionic waves don’t you know. Vodka is the easiest of all to get plastered. It would be better with grapefruit juice and a pinch of salt, a salty dog.” Contemplating the contents of the bottle once again he declared, “Oh, screw the citrus, we have work to do.” He unscrewed the cap, took a swig, and handed the remainder to Molly. “What did you consume to ward off the evil effects of our soon to be lord and master Cthulhu?”
“We inhaled mercury vapors,” she sheepishly answered.
“Ah, the mad hatter disease! Did it have the desired effect?”
“It kept us from succumbing to the Old One’s influence but not the impetus of neurological disorders which affected our central nervous systems.”
“I can well imagine. It was the curse of my countrymen. The use of mercury to treat animal fur for the manufacture of felt hats known as 'felting' in 17th-century England. The resulting conditions were extreme behavioral changes that in the Victorian era fostered the popular expression ‘mad as a hatter.’ In America, in the 1940’s, within the hat making industries of Danbury, Connecticut, gave rise to the expression the 'Danbury shakes.’”
“Our exposure gave rise to delirium,” Molly replied hesitantly. “Hallucinations, even suicidal tendencies, it was a broad range of functional disturbances, mental confusion... It became fatal to one of our members.”
“I am sorry.” He had no idea why he was so sympathetic. He didn’t even know the fellow. Oh, well he decided, it was good to have an intelligent drinking companion. “Drink up, my dear. No more mercury for you in the future.”
“Thank you,” she responded and took a swallow.
By the look on her face, Martin could tell that she was not accustomed to imbibing hard liquor. “Our supply is running low. We will have to locate another liquor store soon.”
“I will keep an eye open,” she smiled not realizing her single eye double entendre.
Oblivious to her comment, Martin asked, “One thing I am dying to know, my dear. Why the Cthulhu chemise?”
“It’s a t-shirt,” she laughed, perceptibly glad that he had changed the subject. “It is from my college days. We were in a hurry to leave D.C., and I threw together the first few things I laid my hands on; I guess I was destined to wear it.”
“I don’t believe in fate, he answered derisively. “Only random chaos.”
“How sad.”
Chapter 6:
The Deep State
Raven Rock Mountain Underground Complex
Rising + 12 hours
“That is crap!” Shouted President Judith Hampton.
“Not at all, Madame President,” Major-General Jack Patterson shot back, sarcasm dripping from every word. The satellite info is rock solid. Koch!” he shouted. “Tell her damn it, tell her!”
Derek Koch (Cook) fumbled with an iPad and peered cautiously at the President. “Well Ma’am,” he started to say, cleared his throat then swallowed hard. “It is pure theory, but it does
have a strong basis for our assumptions.”
“Assumptions based on crap!” still shouting. The psionic waves had ceased hours ago but not Judith Hampton’s loyalty to her god and savior, Cthulhu. To her, he was all-powerful, indestructible, and she did not want to hear anything to the contrary.
“Madame President,” Derek managed to cough out. “We can review the satellite images on my iPad if you like.”
“Proceed,” she commanded tapping the eraser end of a pencil on the conference table. She was back in school again dealing with an unruly student.
“It occurred before the first missile struck—or... I mean detonated. The anomaly—Cthulhu—simply disappeared!”
“How is that possible,” she pretended to challenge but did not think it was impossible. A god can do anything, right?
“We have clear views from three separate satellites,” Derek continued, summoning up the courage. “When the anoma ...” he stopped mid-word detecting an annoyed look fuming on the President’s face. “When Cthulhu reached the southernmost tip of the Antarctic he … it … vanished.”
“Where did Cthulhu go?” Major Kevin Berry asked appearing suspicious as to what the answer might be.
“We don’t know for sure. We suspect that it was some kind of dimensional manipulation or teleportation.”
“Your theory is that Cthulhu traveled between dimensions or universes crossing over different planes of existence?” Kevin interjected.
“Precisely.”
“Madame President,” interrupted Major-General Patterson. “I know this dimensional travel idea is difficult to wrap your head around, but it makes sense in two ways. Both have to do with the entity’s survival. It had to go someplace because nothing in the universe could survive 10,000 megatons of firepower!”
Judith Hampton leaned back in her chair. They are setting me up for something. What the hell is it? “So where does this lead us, General?”
