by Byron Craft
* * *
Bob peered at the two little shoggoths burrowed beneath the folds of the seat cushion. “If a sudden high concentration of salt comes in contact with the skin of a leech, the salt drags the water out through the cells lining. It causes dehydration, and the result is that the leech will be no more.”
Staff Sergeant Doucette was bored with the lecture. He listened pretending to be attentive to Bob Nye, the climatologist, and philosopher of science, until now. “Proceed,” he directed. “We haven’t got all day, Professor.”
Bob Nye appearing to have his ego pumped by the Sergeant’s professorial salutation unscrewed the top off the salt shaker with the exaggerated gesture of one handling a dangerous substance. He slowly poured the contents over the two small shoggoths. The reaction was instantaneous. The two jelly-like lifeforms wriggled and writhed trying to escape the salty attack. Both shriveled and imploded simultaneously. Due to osmosis the salt dragged the moisture from the two alien slugs and finally the mucus, that shoggoths use to propel themselves, dissolved and straightaway dried to a powdery residue. All that was left of Cthulhu’s progenies were two greenish brown stains. They were dead, if shoggoths were ever living things, to begin within the sense that we consider life.
“Good show Mr. Nye,” Doucette congratulated. “You are out of salt, and you’ll have to get more to take care of the eyeballed one on the floor.”
“I have something else in store for that little fellow. It was your idea actually, or maybe it was Storch’s.” Unscrewing the cap from the Smirnoff bottle, Bob Nye carefully poured the vodka contents into an empty scotch bottle. “Martin will probably consider this blasphemous, but we are going to need a round container if my idea is to work.” He handed the perforated salt shaker top to the Sergeant and instructed, “You will notice that the underside of that cap is encrusted with table salt.”
“Yes,” answered Doucette turning it over in his hand and inspecting cap.
“I want you to quickly remove the Army helmet covering the little sucker while sprinkling the remainder of the salt behind it. At the same time, I’m going to shove the round bottle in front of the thing.”
“And?” questioned Doucette appearing a bit uneasy. “You know that it could jump on one of us and after what I saw what they did to Mr. Storch and Lucky Mitchum I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“You’ve got the least to worry about Sergeant. You’re the one with the salt. I’ll be the one in its path.”
Reluctantly Doucette rubbed the remaining salt loose from the shaker top and poured it into the palm of his hand. With a deep sigh, he volunteered, “Ready when you are, Bob.”
Their movements choreographed well. The eyeballed shoggoth was sequestered behind the helmet against the rounded corner and the curved bottom where the bulkhead wall met the floor. Staff Sergeant Doucette deftly removed the Army helmet with his left simultaneously showering salt behind the jellied creature with his right. Bob Nye was equally quick shoving the holiday Smirnoff bottle toward the fleeting mini shoggoth. Swifter than returning a genie to its bottle the gelatin in possession of an eye slurped into the round glass container. Nye hurriedly screwed the bottle cap in place.
Holding the Smirnoff bottle at eye level, they surveyed their captive. It sloshed around in a clear liquid. “There was a small amount of vodka left in that bottle,” observed the Sergeant. “Do you think it will have any effect on the thing?”
“Considering that a portion of the creature is from Martin Storch. It will probably feel right at home.”
***
Molly dressed the wound on the back of his head and removed the gauze covering Martin’s right eye. “Ooo! That’s a nasty wound,” she exclaimed.
“Better to see you with,” he winced.
“I can improve the looks of that,” she declared.
Molly pulled the bottom of her t-shirt loose from her jeans and snaked both of her hands up her back. The shirt rose up slightly with the movement exposing her bare belly. Her stomach was flat, she probably works out, thought Martin, a waste of time. She was fiddling with something behind her. What the hell, he realized what she was doing. Molly brought her arms down, and she was holding a black laced brazier. The impression of her nipples was visible against the tight tee. Martin became aroused. It had been a while for him, alcohol doth numb the senses. Maybe he needed a couple more drinks. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’ve laid some clothes out for you. While you get dressed, I’m going to make a snazzy eye patch for you out of this.”
“I’m glad you weren’t wearing a shoulder holster.”
Chapter 8:
The Wheels on the Bus
Interstate 10, East of Lafayette, Louisiana
One hour later
If they didn’t stop singing, she was going to go crazy. Kristen Frommer had torn strips of cotton from her blouse and stuffed them in her ear canals, but the improvised earplugs did little to assuage the hideous malformed mouthings of a children’s song. It was her fault, she realized. She taught them the damn ditty. Kristen did it to stop them from jabbering at her with their frog-shaped maws. She also couldn’t put up with their continually fawning all over her. “Master, Master,” they would hiss. Some spit on her when they talked. Their breaths were disgusting. Besides that, their combined voices had the tonal annoyance of a thousand fingernails scraping on a chalkboard. They were also incapable or just too damn ignorant to pronounce the words correctly let alone understand there simple meaning.
Kristen (almost a professor) Frommer, the new leader of the Tulu/Cthulhu Cult became additionally mortified by sight of their feeding. Everything they ate was raw or rather alive; their main food source when out of Kentucky Fried Chicken and Bud Light. Stinky squirming fish. A lot of the flopping sushi looked like catfish or carp, but the most disgusting entities they consumed were tentacled things. Octopi or squid, Kristen was not sure. The mouths of the Tulu people from the Bayou were dark orifices, usually toothless that they stuffed small bodies with cephalopod limbs. Several of the Tulu tribe smiled at her with bulging cheeks sucking in the writhing tentacles like thick strands of spaghetti. Kristen had pilfered a supply of breakfast burritos, protein bars and Bud Lights at an abandoned convenience store while journeying, but her stomach churned with revulsion leaving her without an appetite. Thus, teach them something to divert them from their repellant eating habits and their constant pestering.
The choir practice on the old bus began with their stop at the store’s gas pumps. Fortunately, the power was still on and she was able to top off the bus’s tank. After the Tulu tribe consumed several Buds, the music lesson went something like this; “Okay, my children I am going to teach you a hymn to our great God Cthulhu. Are we ready?”
The reaction was overwhelming, and it took Kristen Frommer several minutes to get them to quiet down and settle in their seats. Waving her arms to an imaginary orchestra she proceeded:
“The wheels on the bus go round and round,
Round and round,
Round and round.
The wheels on the bus go round and round,
All through the town.
(Then rolling her hands around each other)
The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish;
Swish, swish, swish;
Swish, swish, swish.
The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish,
All through the town.”
(Swishing hands in front of her like windshield wipers)
Unfortunately, their pantomime was somewhat dissimilar;
“The meals on the bus go down and down,
Down and down,
Down and down.
The meals on the bus go down and down,
All true da town.”
(The rolling of hands became difficult as the webbed fingers
kept interlocking.)
The divers on the bus go fish, fish, fish;
Fish, fish, fish;
Fish, fish, fish.
All Tulus drowns.”
(They didn’t even try to swish their hands.)
Kristen gave up and returned to the driver’s seat. She would concentrate on her plan and try to take her mind off the tribal chant. They headed toward Louisiana State University. Her original thoughts were to journey to Washing D.C., but she was uncertain if the old bus could make it there, moreover, if the news reports she just heard on the bus’s radio were true, then the nation’s capital had been reduced to a radioactive slag heap. One report she heard about a few bigwigs that survived the psionic waves, while vacationing and partying in Florida, were attempting to set up a provisional government in Tallahassee. They were a bunch of ignorant politicians. They would never succeed. The world would soon learn the power of the Great Old One if they hadn’t already. And she, Kristen Frommer, would be the consort. The second in charge. All she needed now was to get out the word; say the words that would not only beckon their Lord and Master Cthulhu but also open that dimensional gate once more to R'lyeh, summoning his brethren. First, the minions shall come; the Deep Ones, Yibb-Tsill and the Gaunts of Dark Night, Yig and its serpent children of Valusia, and all the others. Then shall follow the rest of the Old Ones: Azathoth, a powerful Ancient One who blasphemes at the core of infinity, Yog-Sothoth, the all-in-one and conqueror of space and time; Shub-Niggurth, the black goat of the woods with a thousand young; Hastur, the unspeakable; and Ithaqua, the wind walker. They shall all come again to regain their foothold on Earth! All of it came crashing in on her moments after the sacrifice when she stabbed Howard, and as he predicted she had a vision, the visage of her god Cthulhu. Cthulhu imbued her with a purpose. The first real purpose she had in her life. Not that petty twaddle she had previously embraced called academia. A purposefulness driven by her devotion to her one true God! And with that single-mindedness came the words. Words that were set down by the ancients that she would utter in the new world. Only this was something that must not be heard by only a select few. Oh no! Not for a small number of worshipers in a temple. No, these ancient phrases must be bellowed out to the multitude. All or as many as possible must hear the sermon for it to be totally successful. That is why they were traveling to the University. She had her army of Tulu worshipers with her, and it should be a simple matter to take over the entire campus. Most were probably dead or fleeing for their lives. Louisiana State University had an excellent state of the art communications center with an awesome satellite link up. It will be there that she will broadcast.
Kristen had also sensed something else. Her Cult did too. Cthulhu was heading north. The time of his coming was ripe.
Kristen took a deep breath and relaxed. Louisiana State University’s campus is one of the most beautiful in the country. It is known for having such notable alumni as Shaquille O'Neal and James Carville, she smiled. Behind her, the Tulu choir rose in volume. Shaking her head, she contemplated their sing-song once again and wondered if she should have taught them, “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer” instead.
Chapter 9:
The Northern Route
The Globe, 500 feet beneath Minot Air Force Base
Minutes later
Long after the numerous mushroom clouds dissipated the anomaly, now in its physical form, headed due north. By orders of Colonel Lewis Fielding, they were no longer allowed to refer to it as, “Cthulhu,” at least when he was within earshot.
“Status Mr. Romero,” ordered the Colonel. This waiting game was getting the best of him. The damn thing had been traveling for quite a while, now that it had reached land, and it was picking up speed. No longer skimming across the icy waters then, in due course, the warmer seas of South Africa, its massive legs lumbered northward. His emergency radio transmission signal ordering all surviving military personnel to report to Minot Air Force Base, so far, was not mustering any troopers. Security cameras gave the Colonel multiple views on flat-screen monitors of the military base. The many dead left the gates to the base unguarded. Massive green blobs with flowing eyes and mouths had oozed through and over the entrance barricades. They were now slithering over the tarmac as if in search of something. Was it a feeding frenzy? The things didn’t appear interested in the numerous cadavers littering the area. He was damn sure that he was staying put with them topside. Maybe they’d give up the hunt and eventually leave. They should be safe in the Globe. Wait and see.
“Still going north, Sir. Straight as an arrow,” said Romero in reply to Colonel Fielding’s query. “Captain Hambling was alerted to the—anomaly’s location. He had the GPS coordinates.”
The U.S. military has no bases in South Africa that the American public is aware of currently. Yet there is a Niger operation that, in many ways, typifies U.S. military missions underway in roughly twenty African countries. The missions tend to be small, they are carried out largely below the radar and are focused on a specific aim; rolling back Islamist extremism.
Fielding detected Romero, and the other two tech nerds surprised expressions when they learned about our presence in the region. Anticipating their inquiries, he offered, “In most of the missions, our boys are there to advise, assist and train African militaries and not to take part in combat. Still, those supporting roles can often take U.S. forces into the field with their African partners, as is the case in Niger.” Captain Hambling was a blood and guts platoon commander. Fielding admired his fortitude. The ones that served under him called him, “Ammo Hambling.” From what he knew of the soldier, his men were dedicated and would follow him into the bowels of hell, and that was where they headed.
A first lieutenant and two Staff Sergeants assisted Captain Hambling. The principal subdivision of the platoon consisted of fifty men organized into two squads, led by the noncommissioned officers. They had been hunkered down on the southern Niger border training African new recruits in the use of the high tech, bomb proof bunker built by our armed forces engineers when the psionic waves hit. They had been called to arms when Cthulhu made landfall. Ammo Hambling set up a front on the southern boundary. It was a “V” shaped front, “a reverse wedge maneuver,” they called it. When Cthulhu entered it, it would come face to face with Hambling’s platoon as well as flanked on both sides. The ground forces were backed up by four M777 Light Towed Howitzer 155 mm field artillery with air support from two F/A-18 Hornet fighter-bombers. Hambling would have preferred more, but that was all that was at his command let alone all that was available after the Cthulhu crisis. Even with his limited resources, Ammo Hambling was determined to blast the anomaly to hell! The battle, or rather the slaughter, took place at Oh Six Hundred hours.
“Sir, Captain Hambling is on Satcom, the scrambled com-link.”
Colonel Fielding picked up the red phone putting it on speaker. What the hell, most everyone was either dead, dying or living in the dark ages. The nerds deserved to hear what had happened. “Go ahead, Captain.”
Ammo’s voice was unnervingly panicked, he sounded out of breath. “I'd say our effective losses were nearly sixty percent men, ninety percent material. The jets went in, but not one of them came out. I watched them drop everything they carried ... They were knocked out of the sky, and their bombs did nothing. Nothing was effective against it. It was flanked by these giant ameba things. They absorbed over half of my men. Our artillery was useless in stopping them. They just kept advancing, rolling over us!”
“Where are you now, Captain?”
“The few of us that are left have fallen back to the bunker. We are going to regroup, take another whack at the thing. There is something else though! I think it’s what took out our pilots. There is this pain. Must get into the bunker. Oh my God, my head feels like ...”
“Romero!” Fielding shouted. “The line is dead. Did we lose the com-link?”
“No Sir. The link is still connected. I am afraid we have lost Captain Hambling.”
Chapter 10:
TV Time at Maisie’s
Fergus Falls, Minnesot
a
Still morning
Martin Storch leaned back into the comfort of the sofa. He refilled his glass from a bottle painted with flowers. He was nursing a very nice buzz. Molly looked comfortable as well sitting next to him. The black eyepatch she made utilizing the elastic from her bra fit snuggly over his right eye. Molly had procured a pair of tan slacks and a red and yellow Madras shirt from a closet in the living quarters behind the liquor store. The previous owner was not a snappy dresser, but they were a good fit. He had to laugh though. He reminded himself of an old magazine ad for Hathaway shirts.
Dish Network serviced the TV in the little living room where they sat. Molly and Martin surfed through the 190 channels that the provider at one time boasted having furnished only to discover six that were still broadcasting. “I am surprised that there were any still on the air,” Martin observed leaning in Molly’s direction while watching the H.U.N. logo rotate on the screen above the words, “Breaking News.” A man with a full pate of pure white hair wearing a dark suit appeared wandering the abandoned streets of a large city.
“Carl Pursell, Heads Up News reporting.”
This was the second time the jerk came on the air telling us the same thing over and over, Martin brooded. “The newsholes are calling it ‘The Event.’” He liked to mock the talking-heads for sport. Although H.P. Lovecraft was his favorite fictionist and he loved his unnatural gift for the macabre, he had to admit that the eerie atmosphere graphically depicting the dead metropolis on the telly was even more unsettling. You think it will always be here, he fretted; people, cars, and concrete. Nothing lasts forever.
Bob Nye entered the room and stood behind the sofa. “What the hell!” he proclaimed in a raised voice. “I didn’t think that after ‘The Event’ anyone would still be broadcasting.”
