The Faith

by Byron Craft

  “We take a second shot. Catch the damn thing off guard and hopefully hit it where it hurts!”

  “Are you insane!” screamed President Hampton abruptly standing overturning her chair. “The multi-national attack burned a hole in the South Pole ice the size of Texas three-miles deep. It will be a million years before anything alive will be able to set foot down there, and Cthulhu still lives! My God—I mean Cthulhu is indestructible. It is clearly a waste of time and material. I will not permit it!”

  “There is some ice you are treading on Madame President, and it is very thin. I am only going to remind you once that your Vice President is presumed dead along with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and it is highly unlikely that there is a U.S. Senator or a member of the House of Representatives still walking around. That makes me second in charge of what is left of our country. And if you don’t act on my proposal, then you leave me no choice then to enact the 25th Amendment, which provides the procedure for replacing the president in the event of incapacitation.” Major-General Jack Patterson stood tall, folded his hands together and continued, “Need I remind you of the video that went viral of you murdering a man in a psychopathic rage?”

  President Judith Hampton appeared surprisingly calm. She turned from the Major-General and asked Derek Koch, “Derek is there a chaplain in this hole in the ground?”

  “Yes, ma’am, Pastor Jack Leewood.”

  “Get him, on the double. Tell him to bring a bible.”

  Quizzical expressions abounded in all directions by all in the conference room except, of course, for President Hampton. Derek activated the intercom on an electronic key telephone summoning the Pastor.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Jack Leewood was prompt, looking dumbfounded with a bible in hand. “Stand next to me, Pastor and hold out that book,” ordered President Hampton. She wasn’t about to say, “good book or bible,” to her the only “good book” was The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft. “Kevin, come over here and stand to face the Pastor,” she instructed.

  Kevin got up from his chair and did as summoned.

  “Very good, Kevin, now place your left hand on the book, raise your right hand, and repeat after me.”

  “But?” stammered Kevin.

  “Do as you’re told, Kevin,” she coaxed. “Just follow my lead.”

  With his left on the Bible and his right raised Kevin began to shake uncontrollably. He did not know what the President had in store for him. Not another promotion. I’m just an audio-visual guy. His knees began to wobble. Right then he wished that he was in that Cthulhu fourth dimension.

  “Say,” persuaded the President, “I.”

  “I,” repeated Kevin.

  “State your name.”

  “Kevin Berry.”

  “... do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic ...”

  “Forgive me, Madame President but what is this?”

  “The oath of office of the Vice President of the United States.”

  Louisiana Bayou

  Rising + 14 hours

  Kristen Frommer entered the cave after washing Howard’s blood from her hands. The sacrifice to Tulu, now Cthulhu, had been carried out by her during the hallucinogen induced ritual. A willing sacrifice, Howard, who smiled in extasy as his life’s blood pumped out of his torso. And as Howard had prophesized she had a vision, the visage of her god Cthulhu. She now knew everything about the dark matter, the shadowy universe. Her newborn knowledge was about everything that mattered, the whole enchilada, all that Howard had understood in its entirety. Kristen had come to the Bayou for her doctoral research and straightaway became these fishy people’s chieftain. Not quite a Professor Frommer realized that she was the chosen one, the anointed one. Anointed with the blood of their former tribal leader.

  The Wolf Cave, as she was told it was called, was free of wildlife. The Tribe of Tulu had driven off the animal occupants, years earlier, when they chose the cavity as their sanctuary. The opening was big, and round and the cavern floor was littered with crushed Busch Light cans and flattened KFC buckets. The assembled tribe filed past her, single file, each extending a bowing gesture. At the end of the line four men each held a corner of a large weather-beaten sheet metal Royal Crown Cola sign at shoulder level. The junkyard jungle bearers supported the body of their former leader on the makeshift stretcher. Howard had become a crude caricature of a mummy. The fish people of the Bayou had wrapped his lifeless form in whatever scraps of cloth they could lay their web fingered hands on. If Howard’s death had not been so traumatic for Kristen the sight would have been laughable. Torn bits of old t-shirts, strips of denim, soiled terrycloth towels and what looked like burlap enveloped the corpse. She waited until the fish-faced pallbearers passed and then followed the procession into the cave.

  Several of the tribesmen in the lead lit torches with Bic lighters and the tunnel filled with pyrotechnic light. At the far end of the cave, carved into the limestone were human-sized shelves that held the remains of other dead Tulu Tribe members. The cave smelled of rotting flesh. The body of Howard, their dead sacrificed tribal chief, was given a place of honor next to the other decaying members. Kristen’s first instinct was to flee and fill her lungs with the fresh night air. But she stopped. She had an epiphany! Because outlined in the light of the many torches was an old school bus. She snatched a torch from one of the fishmen and walked closer to the out-of-date motor coach. The year on the back-license plate was 1991. Kristen came around to the front grill and noted the manufactures name plate above the bumper, “Thomas 71 Passenger,” it read. “Hmm,” she said in a low voice. “This could hold the entire tribe.” After further inspection she observed that the interior was well worn, but serviceable. She kicked the tires, turned to the man she had taken the torch from, and had remained at her side, and asked, “Does this thing run?”

  The scaly looking fellow nodded yes.

  Kristen smiled and forgot all about the carrion stench. The dying words of Howard tickled her memory, “It was my job to await the one who would spread the dark gospel.”

  * * *

  The Globe, 500 feet beneath Minot Air Force Base

  Rising + 16 hours

  Colonel Lewis Fielding looked at the three men in the spherical room. They were all that was left of the fifty-five hundred plus personnel that once were stationed at the AFB. All had either gone stark raving mad committing suicide while the few, occupying the high ground, i.e., air traffic control towers, perimeter look-out positions, and those in the mid-rise location of the upper command offices suffered stultifying pain until their heads exploded. The techs said the anomaly caused the deaths. Psionic waves they claimed from a thing they called Cthulhu. Sounded like a bunch of crap to him until he saw it on satellite. It first appeared as a glowing fog atop massive legs lumbering north. When he zoomed into the hi-def image, it revealed a winged three-eyed monstrosity with a bunch of tentacles. The Colonel also viewed the feed from Army Channel One-Zero-Five of President Judith Hampton, after an insane rant, lance some poor soul through with an iron spear. The crazy bitch chanted “IA IA CTHULHU” trailed by a bunch of mumbo-jumbo when the deed was done.

  The whole country went insane, and Fielding was trapped fifty stories below the tarmac with three tech nerds. Well, not actually trapped. The power was still on provided by solar panels topside and geothermal piping beneath. They could take the elevator topside, but he was not going to risk his brain exploding even though the nerds told him that it was, “all clear.” He had been overseeing the work in this round room for over a year. He hated the assignment. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but he was a field commander, and this duty stifled his abilities. He shouldn’t bitch when it came right down to it because he had survived the so-called psionic attack.

  The whole place had been the insane notion of a crazy ass scientist by the name of Crawford Tillinghast. The S.O.B. had somehow been awarded a billion-dollar DoD grant to build th
e hidey-hole. Tillinghast had connections far above Colonel Fielding’s food chain. At the time he had thought of him as a nut-job; a mad scientist when first briefed about the looney project. A gigantic sphere beneath the earth wrapped in layer upon layer of gold, silver, copper, lead, and multiple sheets of numerous alloys that would be impervious to psychic powers and paranormal phenomena; a control center that could house a hundred men and women, invulnerable to all attempts of psychic invasion. And eventually, when all testing was complete, an impermeable missile control center using our satellites to police the skies of the entire U.S. of A.

  Colonel Fielding peered at the computer screens monitoring the surveillance cameras. His body slumped heavily into the soft folds of his chair. The death of over five thousand men and women on the base became the weight of massive depression triggering inactivity. They were down below putting the final touches on the communications equipment when the “wave” hit. The automatics kicked in, all openings were sealed, and they were safe. No one topside survived. Not even crazy Tillinghast. His body was visible on monitor #7. Tillinghast’s white lab coat flapped outward resembling wings. He was face down. Blood splatters haloed his cranium. His head hadn’t exploded. He had fallen face first onto the tarmac and his nose burst showering the pavement. The mad scientist had been on his way to the elevator, to his “Globe,” when the psionic shit hit.

  Not long after witnessing the death of thousands on his computer screen the Colonel sent an emergency radio transmission signal ordering all surviving military personnel to report to Minot Air Force Base. He knew that it was an act of desperation, but his command choices were limited. And Colonel Lewis Fielding was not about to leave the protection of the Globe until he was certain it was safe.

  Chapter 7:

  Maisie’s Liquors

  Fergus Falls, Minnesota

  Dawn the next day

  Liquor was running low. Exit 15 off I-94 due east to Fergus Falls seemed the likely choice. The neon no longer worked, and the store was dark, but to Martin Storch, it was the motherload. The locked front entry and undamaged windows of Maisie’s Liquors was a sure sign that the inventory was intact. Sergeants Doucette and Lucky Mitchum were the keys to unlock the entrance. Mitchum pulled up the rear limping and wedged the flat end of a crowbar between the aluminum door and frame. With the combined strength of the two, the locking mechanism snapped, offering access to all. The entire entourage minus one rushed in. Horan Marmalado aka Orange Marmalade remained sedated.

  Martin Storch hijacked a shopping cart and navigated the aisles. The others followed his lead. “Manna from heaven,” he proclaimed. Looking over his shoulder, he observed Molly Gibson with her hands on her hips, a sour expression on her face. Probably didn’t like the biblical reference, he smiled. Blasphemy from an old atheist, he surmised. Why the hell did I choose that particular expression?

  In the vodka aisle, he commandeered a few choice bottles and stopped to observe an old cardboard holiday display. A waist-high sign boasted, “Give your SPIRITS a SQUEEZE.” Atop the display were the last two seasonal bottles of Smirnoff vodka. They were in round limited-edition design containers made to look like Christmas tree ornaments. Intrigued he tossed both into his cart.

  While traversing the whiskey corridor, Martin spied a locked glass case at eye level. The contents were 750ml bottles of very expensive Scotch. A small sign adhered to the glass read, ‘Ask attendant for assistance.’ “Screw the attendant!” he declared and grabbed a fifth of Canadian Club off the shelf from the other side of the aisle. Martin gripped the bottle by the neck and with one swift move smashed the glass doors. Giddy as a child on Christmas morning he carefully removed the contents of the cabinet being careful not to cut himself on the shards of glass. Martin Storch judiciously inspected each bottle he confiscated, “Johnnie Walker Blue Label at two-hundred bucks a crack,” he muttered to himself adding the valuable find to his cart. “And Cthulhu be praised, Glenlivet twenty-five-year-old single malt at four-hundred-twenty dollars a pop.” He was cautious about using a “God” reference. It was while handling the bottle of Glenlivet that’s the lights came on. Row upon row of the store’s fluorescent ceiling fixtures came to life momentarily blinding its occupants. Someone must have found the fuse box.

  “Martin,” a sultry voice beckoned.

  Storch turned and observed Molly leaning against the doorjamb indicating a backroom yonder. She had one hand on her hip feigning enticement. A May West pose he mused, except she was skinny, a brunette, and small breasted. All in all, still attractive. “What?” he answered struggling to maintain his composure.

  “Come here, Mister Storch,” she replied now reminding him of Lauren Bacall, but still the wrong figure and hair color. “This way, sir,” she added.

  Martin was facing a dilemma. Ought I leave my valuable cache and pursue, or crack open one of the bottles for old times’ sake. Should I start singing, “We should all meet up again?” With careful consideration Martin opted for a compromise; clutching the handle of his shopping trolley, he followed.

  A stockroom was on the other side of the entry and at the back of it was another opened doorway. A soft yellow incandescent light inside beckoned. Molly led the way that revealed living quarters at the rear of the store. Probably the mom and pop retailer’s one-time dwelling. Cozy, neat as a pin.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up, Mister,” she commanded.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  * * *

  “What the hell’s that?” challenged Bob Nye, the science guy.

  “A shoggoth,” answered tank commander Doucette. He had lifted the Army combat helmet that concealed the monstrosity from his passengers until that moment.

  “A what goth?”

  “Shoggoth, it’s what Mister Storch calls em.”

  “Looks more like a slug, a leech with an eyeball,” tested Bob.

  The gelatinous blob scrutinized its observers from the rounded confines of the composite floor material with Martin Storch’s amputated eye. To Doucette, it appeared to cower. Fearful of its onlookers? He quickly replaced the helmet over the shoggoth. “There’s two more over here,” he pointed removing a jacket he had draped over the hole in Mitchum’s seat cushion.

  Bob leaned closer. “These two don’t have eyes. How Come?”

  “The one on the floor severed Mr. Storch’s eye before we could contain it.

  “Really,” chuckled Bob Nye. “It appeared to be utilizing the globular organ. I’d swear it was staring at us. Did the ones in the seat bore through cushion?”

  “Yes.”

  “What stops them from eating into the deck?”

  “The interior of the Abrams is comprised of an impregnable composite material. The shoggoths entered by way of two right angles in the structure. Mr. Storch says that they may be able to traverse dimensions through sharp interior angles. I rounded off the only two corners in the tank with foam sealant. It appears to have done the trick.”

  “Trapped in a rounded room,” Bob postulated. “I love it. Nevertheless, they do resemble leeches, and that gives me an idea. I take it that you would like to remove them from your conveyance?”

  “Of course,” the Sergeant replied amused that this science guy referred to his M1A2 Abrams as a “conveyance.” The fella was self-centered, arrogant. “Whatever you do don’t touch any of them. The reaction is that of a powerful acid against human flesh.”

  “Don’t concern yourself, Sergeant, I have no intentions of handling any of these things. I’ll be right back,” he announced. The self-proclaimed scientist, Bob, exited the confines of the tank, slid down its exterior to ground level and ran into Maisie’s Liquors.

  * * *

  Martin Storch was wrapped in a terrycloth robe. The only thing he could find to cover his feet were a pair of lady’s pink angora slippers. He was warm though, and the hot shower had been invigorating. He hadn’t felt this good since the day Percy had brought him his morning Bloody Mary. It seemed like ages ago. He missed his domes
tic and old friend. Blessed Percy. Closing his one good eye Martin could almost hear his morning greeting, “Your tuh-MAH-toh juice, Sir.”

  Molly was in the next room laying out some close she had appropriated from the bedroom closet. She was humming a tune. What was it? Martin wondered. Amazing Grace? The moment was serene, a peaceful change, almost beautiful. She looked up at him and laughed.

  “What is it?” he challenged.

  “You look funny with pink fuzzy feet,” still guffawing.

  “You know you are not catching me at one of my better moments. There was a time that GQ would have complimented me on my attire.”

  “Definitely not now,” chortling. “You might get an honorable mention from Victoria's Secret.”

  Here we are laughing like school kids, Martin pondered, while over half the world’s population lay dead and rotting on the sidewalks of humanity. Oh well, enjoy the moment, he decided. Why the hell not!

  Bob, the science guy, ran into the room disrupting the mood and into the adjoining kitchenette. A sink, a microwave, a Keurig, and a small fridge completed the furnishings. “Excuse me,” he offered and grabbed a salt shaker off the counter. Bob started to return the way he came when he stopped noticing something in Martin’s shopping cart. “I’m going to need this,” he exclaimed and plucked one of the round holiday bottles of Smirnoff vodka from the cart.

  “Hey!” hollered Martin. “Leave that be ...” But Bob, the science guy, ran quickly from the backroom either not taking notice of Martin Storch’s complaint or not caring to reply. “Cretin!” added Martin and grumbled something that sounded like, “asshole.”

  “It’s obvious that you don’t care for him,” Molly avowed.

  “An understatement. The guy is not a scientist. He has a TV show where he tells little five and six-year-olds why water is wet.”