by Byron Craft
“It’s magic. Now shut up, I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Jessica Esterhazy and I are handling this remote alone,” continued Carl Pursell. “Very little personnel surviving to operate our network and others. And soon there will be none. When that occurs, all television and radio transmissions will be dead. Which means that these recordings we are making are for the sake of future history ... if any.
As if foreshadowing the outcome, the screen went snowy white followed by the electronic hiss of a lost connection. Martin pointed the remote at the TV and fingered the “Power” button. A new image appeared halting him from pressing the button. A woman, thirty-something, stood behind an altar in an amphitheater, it looked to Martin like a lecture hall. The altar appeared cobbled together out of several wooden desks. The woman wore a floor-length robe, one vertical half black the other white. Behind her stood several men and women, barely clothed, with bizarre antediluvian features. “Greetings, my subjects” she announced staring steadfastly into the camera. “We have interrupted this broadcast so that the world can witness the coming. You have already witnessed the rise of our great god Cthulhu, and now you will behold the opening of the sacred portal. The unlocking of the gateway to R'lyeh, welcoming the Horde of Cthulhu and his minions, his brethren. Yibb-Tsill, the Gaunts, Yig, Azathoth, Yog-Sothoth, Shub-Niggurth, Hastur, Ithaqua, the banished servants and all the serpent children. I hold the power, the geometry, and the words of the Elders.”
Martin was still pointing the remote at the TV, frozen in absolute disbelief. Who the hell is that? Had her brain been fried by the psionic waves and who are the fish faces behind her? He couldn’t help referencing the Innsmouth look. Was this truly a Lovecraftian episode? Or an affair of madness?
“I feel the power building. I can hear the calling.” A small urn rested on the makeshift altar. Kristen Frommer lit its contents with a Bic lighter. It burned with orange fingers. Kristen raised her arms above her head. “I am forming the nine angles with my hands. Kraken ... Poseidon ... Sabazios ... Typon ... Dagon ... Setheh ... Xicarph ... Yath-Notep ... Cthulhu!” She turned from the camera and fell to her knees. Looking ceilingward she screamed, “Kiah ... Kiah ... Rignum Hastur ...
The living room went black, and so did the TV screen. A harmonic resonance, more like a tune than a simple vibration resonated in Martin Storch's brain. There was a stabbing pain over his right eye or where his right eye should have been. Like before, during the presence of Cthulhu's psionic wave. He opened his eyes and focused, fighting the fugue in his mind. The alcohol had safeguarded his sanity once again. He was reasonably certain that everyone else in their group was imbibing on a regular basis and should survive another wave. Bob Nye activated the Flashlight App on his iPhone. Molly was cradling her head in her hands then looked up with a sigh of relief. It to had passed for her. “That was a doozy,” she professed.
“Yeah,” answered Martin. “Thank your stars for Perrier-Jouet.”
“Who turned out the lights?” asked Bob Nye.
“Probably a power failure. Most likely nationwide. The grid can’t keep running without people to maintain it.”
“Was that woman for real?” Molly asked Martin.
“I hope not.”
“Was she able to open that portal?”
“I don’t know. If she is not a raving lunatic and she did accomplish it, then what’s left of humanity will be running around like pigs from a gun.”
Molly looked astonished by his declaration.
“A fab four metaphor,” he smiled, a feeble attempt at lightening the mood.
“God help us,” she moaned.
Martin Storch didn’t believe in God any more than he believed in hobbits and elves. But then again there was Cthulhu, shoggoths and a possible horde of minions. Food for thought.
* * *
Louisiana State University
Precisely the same time
It first started when Kristen Frommer smashed the urn against the wall. It was a major league pitch. The flaming vessel caught the mahogany paneling on fire. The fire would have spread if it had not been for one of the Tulu clan. The fish face fellow shook his Bud Light can. The dissolved carbon dioxide inside the container, no longer forced to be a liquid, turned back into a gas, and the tribesman extinguished the flames with a beer can spray.
At the feet of Kristen Frommer lay the lifeless form of Josephine Schmeckpeper, one-time head of LSU’s Department of Communication. She became the victim of Ms. Frommer’s rage. In a fit of anger, she plunged a knife (the same one she stabbed Howard with) into Josephine’s left eye jamming it deep into her skull. The power failure had rendered Kristen’s gateway attempt mute. The power of the geometry and the words of the Elders were useless without the world witnessing the coming.
Kristen and her Tulu troopers swooped down upon the University with very little resistance. The few that were still in residence were easily swept aside. And the scarce numbers that opposed them were either strangled or beaten to death by her followers. Kristen didn’t give a rat’s rear end about the remainder of the campus, only the Communication Department. Over the entrance to the building, engraved on a bronze plaque, were the words, “We encourage the study of communication, the art of persuasion, community-building, and journalistic reporting that support the Greek ideal of the ‘agora’ as the center of a democratic, diverse society.” She ripped the inscription from the wall dropping it to the pavement. “To hell with that! There is a weary journey ahead without an end.”
Josephine Schmeckpeper was persuaded at knifepoint to hack into a satellite uplink overriding H.U.N.’s broadcast. However, with the power failure came an end to the “end” and without electricity in the building, so be it the failure of the coup d’état. With finality came outrage; hostility, and aggressive outbursts. “The bitch was no longer of use!” thundered Kristen glaring down at the stilled remains. There was another electrical system that was affected; it was the electrical system of the heart. The emotions of anger and hostility ramped up Kristen's “fight or flight” response. Stress hormones, adrenaline and cortisol, sped up her heart rate and breathing. There was a burst of energy. Kristen Frommer’s blood vessels tightened, hypertension ensued, and her skin perspired. She was suddenly overcome by dizziness staggering backward, grasping the edge of the altar to steady herself. Abruptly the Cthulhu psionic wave leaked through the void and clawed at the inside of her skull.
“I am immune!” screamed Kristen Frommer as she fell to her knees crying.
The Tulu tribespeople watched on as their fallen leader writhed in agonizing pain.
* * *
Fergus Falls Fire Station
Next to Maisie’s Liquors
10 minutes later
Staff Sergeant Doucette had a helluva idea. Li Clarke and Norm Tyson flanked him. Betty Baker and Len Sibbald stood behind. Before them stood the equipment yard of the Fergus Falls Fire Co. Doucette pointed at one of the trucks, “Ain’t she a beaut? We’re bringing her with us.”
“You want a hook and ladder truck?” asked the dumbfounded Li.
“Not that. Over there, the tender truck.” A shiny red tanker truck parked on the asphalt reflected the morning sun. A specialized fire appliance for transporting water to areas where municipal water supplies, fire hydrants, are not available. “It is a weapon of opportunity.”
“What on earth for?” asked Betty Baker equally confounded.
Doucette turned and smiled at her. “For killing shoggoths, ma’am.”
“But I thought you and Bob Nye took care of the ones in your tank?” added Li Clarke.
“We did, but we will probably run into more of them on the way to North Dakota.”
“How do you know?” Norm Tyson asked.
“Just a short while ago I picked up another emergency radio transmission from Minot Air Force Base. Several of the things have infiltrated the base, and they’re big ones.”
Li Clarke walked over to the truck. She started reading the specificat
ions on the tank and pump. “It says here that the tender is capable of holding up to 7,600 liters,” shouting over her shoulder.
“What’s that in gallons?” asked Doucette.
“2,000 gallons. The pump has a flow rate of 200 gpms. What do you plan on doing, hosing the buggers out of the way?”
“Nope, we are going to hose them with a saline solution.”
“You've got my attention,” answered Li grinning from ear to ear her long hair waving in the afternoon breeze.
Doucette pointed away from the fire station. “Across the street is a hardware store.”
A sign hung on the building that read, “True Value Hardware - Your Local Home Improvement Experts.”
“Five will get you ten that we’ll find bulk bags of rock salt in there.”
“To dissolve the suckers,” added Li completing Doucette’s picture. “I can drive this baby too. Put myself through college driving semi-trucks. I have a CDL, a Commercial Driver's License. This will be a piece of cake.” In her country it was not unheard of for women to drive trucks or to work construction alongside the menfolk. Li walked around the fire engine pumper truck. A 6-inch diameter hard line perched horizontally atop the vehicle resembled a giant gun. she opened the driver’s side door an inspected the interior. There was a joystick protruding from the main console that operated the water cannon. This is going to be fun, Li thought.
* * *
Maisie’s Liquors
Fergus Falls, Minnesota
A short while later
For a moment Martin sat in the darkness, the only light in the room had been the TV. Molly opened the Venetian blinds covering the living room window letting in the morning sun. He kept staring at the black television. When it came down to it, Martin realized he wasn’t as brave as he liked to pretend.
“Well that was one hell of a show,” remarked Martin still rubbernecking the blank flat screen. “Makes one wonder what happens to your local sorcerer when the lights go out?”
“She scared me,” added Molly. “I hope she was nothing more than some poor unfortunate soul off her rocker.”
“Lovecraft once wrote, ‘Almost nobody dances sober unless they happen to be insane.’”
“I don’t think that applies here,” she retorted visually irritated by Martin’s sarcasm.
“Well, I think it is the perfect appellation.”
“All aboard who’s going aboard,” shouted Sergeant Doucette while entering carrying a LED lantern dispelling the gloom and startling everyone.
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” avowed Bob Nye.
“Time to leave folks. Time’s a wastin.’”
Martin Storch rose from his comfy seat on the sofa while taking Molly Gibson by the arm and proclaimed, “Come, my dear, we mustn’t forget the shopping trolley.”
* * *
Interior M1A2 Abrams Heavy Battle Tank
Outside Maisie’s Liquors
Prior to departure
Orange Marmalade aka Horan Marmalado eyes began to open slowly. He gazed beyond comprehension at the tank’s curved ceiling. He was also not aware of the Sergeant rolling up his shirt sleeve. Doucette spurted the air out a syringe, found a vein below the bicep, and injected the morphine. The escaped lunatic’s eyes became glassy once more before nodding off in a sitting position. “Off to lullaby land, Pal. Sorry to do this to you, but we need to keep you sedated until we can get you some medical attention.”
Orange Marmalade’s unconscious form began to slide sideways. Not wanting him to fall over and bang his head on the deck, Doucette grabbed him by both shoulders and eased him into a rounded corner. Something crinkled? The sound of paper crumpled? Was there something concealed in Horan Marmalado’s shirt? Sergeant Doucette reckoned. He undid a few top buttons exposing a manila envelope. Printed on its surface were the words, “Manhattan Psychiatric Center.” Doucette removed the envelope and examined the contents. There was a plastic wrist band like hospital patients wear except cut in half. Numbers on it read, “Inpatient 02-05-9691-B."
There were several legal documents inside, patient commitment forms, he presumed. The feel of a bulky item through the paper packet next attracted his attention. It was a wallet. A big expensive looking pigskin one, a pocket secretary, the type corporate executives might carry in the breast pocket of their suits. Staff Sergeant Francis Doucette didn’t like being a snoop. It made him feel uncomfortable.
Nevertheless, for the safety of his mission and his passengers, it deserved a look see. There was a driver’s license, a corporate ID card, and another license, of the sort. Doucette was both amazed and amused. He leaned against the adjacent wall and laughed. “I’ll be damned.” Deep in the folds of his jacket, he produced a pint of Jim Beam. Doucette unscrewed the cap and took a swig, “Whaddaya know, the nutcase was tellin’ the truth all along.”
Chapter 11:
Death Comes to POTUS
Raven Rock Mountain Underground Complex
Same time, different time zone
“Where the hell is Judith Hampton?” Major General Jack Patterson shouted at the rock ceiling.
“I don’t know, General. The President became upset and left the room when you attempted to inform her of the capabilities of an F-35,” answered the V.P.
“Damn it, Mr. Vice President, I need her here to complete the briefing, and the mission, unless you would care to take charge?”
Kevin Berry could read Jack Patterson easily. He could tell it was uncomfortable for the Major General to call him, “Vice President.” Kevin was getting used to the title, though. It gave him self-confidence. Something that he lacked all his life. However, Judith Hampton was still in charge even if she was against the “Cthulhu Shoot-and-Scoot.” The operation was simple but could be filled with multiple flaws if the General was overly optimistic. An F-35 Lightning flying above 50,000 feet traveling at Mach 1.6, according to General Patterson, can carry a 15,000-pound payload. Except all that he needed for this mission was one 50 megaton nuclear cruise missile. A flying smart bomb, laser-guided. Patterson had said, “The F-35’s unparalleled stealth capabilities will enable it to deliver the package without ever being seen.” That was when President Judith Hampton stomped out in a huff.
Could Cthulhu be killed? The Vice President of the United States doubted. It was no longer on Earth in his “heralded form,” rather the Old One had risen and was now the bodily Cthulhu, the physical form. Maybe it was in a vulnerable state, but Profit Hampton was not about to find out. And Kevin was not about to go over his boss’s head. Turning to Derek Koch, he asked, “Mr. Koch would you be so kind as to locate President Hampton and ask her to join us?”
Derek saluted, “I will do my best, Mr. Vice President.”
* * *
Judith Hampton was on the upper level of the Raven Rock Mountain Complex. She was still fuming when overcome by the psionic wave. Cthulhu's psychic phenomena, although diminished considerably by the double steel entry doors of the Raven Rock Mountain complex, still had influence. The command center had been immune, a mile below the Earth’s surface but not ground level. President Hampton fell to her knees in tears and prayed, “Oh, my lord and savior I thought you had forsaken me! Please give me the guidance during these troubled times.” The President’s childhood years of catechism became a confused conglomerate when offering devotion to her deity. Her supplication wasn’t enough. She needed to feel the full force of her Lord’s favor.
Madness soon replaced sanity. The President knew that she had the key. She knew of many keys. Keys to unlock the gateway, keys to open the portal to R'lyeh. All these entranceways lay before her, but she must free herself first of the physical bonds of this prison. Standing, Judith Hampton approached the security doors. The President had all the keys. Even the “Go” keys to start a nuclear war; the Football. She laughed out loud, “The puny bastards can’t shoot at my God without my handprint on the Football’s tablet. Must leave now before they get wise.”
The President of the United St
ates placed her right hand on the biometric palm print reader marked, “Authorized Personnel Only.” Facial recognition software kicked in, and the first door slid to one side. An alarm blared. The second door stood a few feet away. Hampton walked toward it and reached for the next reader. Behind her, down the hall, the elevator’s doors opened. Lieutenant Derek Koch emerged visibly shaken when he observed the President attempting to leave the Complex. “Madam President don’t!” he shouted. “It’s not safe,” was all he could think to say while running after her.
A second alarm made a racket followed by the “clack” of tumblers falling into place. The next set of doors unlocked, slid open, and the afternoon sun greeted Judith Hampton. She squinted against the bright light. It felt warm, reassuring against her face. She could feel Cthulhu now in all his glory. And she knew that he was heading north. She could taste it. She would commandeer Marine One and order them to fly her to her god and savior.
Judith Hampton felt something warm on the back of her neck. Then it was hot, no acid! She screamed as the shoggoth slowly mounted, covered and began absorbing her body. The crew of Marine One heard the blood-curdling screams and came running but stopped dead in their tracks when witnessing the horror.
Derek halted his pace as well and turned to fetch one of the blunderbuss-weapons. With weapon in hand and running as fast as he had ever run in his life, he let loose with a volley of white salt granules. The President’s shrieks were muffled by the shoggoth’s Eeeeeeee! Wawk! Tekeli-li! Eeeeeeee! Wawk! Tekeli-li! A multitude of eyes and mouths terminated their forming and un-forming revolutions and then motionless. It ceased devouring Judith Hampton. The enormous gelatinous blob burned to grimy slivers of goo. Briefly, a darkened stain on the concrete walkway shimmered and became still.
