by Tim Marquitz
I put the flyer down on the flattest spot I could find. I did not need to get out to supervise the drilling; the on-board bot handled that. But I could not come all this way to merely sit in a bubble. Even despite the glowering stars overhead, my curiosity won over my fear. I put on a helmet and ventured outside, aware even as I did so that I was probably the first human to walk above ground for three centuries.
I had to turn up the suit heater after just two steps. The helmet told me I had two hours of power left, but I wasn’t worried. I just wanted a short walk, just enough to be able to brag about it back in the warren.
The only sound was the steady grinding of drill on rock. My heads-up told me that the strata being drilled was sedimentary on top of schist, the drill currently penetrating rock that was over two hundred million years old, and going through a million years of sediment a second.
All of which was secondary to the fact that I had just found a cave.
~
The heads up told me that drilling would take another thirty minutes. And with the heater turned up full, I was cozy enough, despite the outside temperature of minus 65, a figure which meant nothing to me. Besides, I could always rationalize my decision to enter the cave mouth by telling myself I needed some respite from the lowering stars in the sky above.
I stepped into the darkness, and got a sudden fright when my helmet switched on a bright light to show me the way. I felt my heart pound in my ears and had to steady myself to quell the impulse to flee. But two more steps took me in to the cave proper, and I almost felt at home. The walls were smooth, some weathering process over the millennia was my assumption, and the light from the helmet was bright enough to light my way for twenty yards ahead. The cave floor sloped downwards, and as I proceeded the temperature rose. It was when it reached minus four that I was given pause for thought.
I might have discovered much more than just a source of ore. There was obviously heat here. And plenty of it.
I went in further.
Fifty yards in I had to turn off the suit heater. I also got the first indication that this was more than a simple cave. I found a number imprinted on the wall. It read:
SUB LEVEL 25.
The passageway was man made.
As you can imagine, my heart rate was elevated as I went in further. We know from our history that we were not the only ones to go under; indeed we were communicating with some of the others for the best part of a century. But there has been no contact for more than two hundred years. The thought I might be close to meeting another human being made me descend even faster.
There was still no sound beyond the increasingly distant grind of the drill searching for ore. Neither was there any light beyond what my helmet provided. But it kept getting warmer. The heads-up told me there was only the thinnest of atmosphere beyond my visor, but it felt almost as if I walked a corridor in the warren.
I came to a junction and chose the right hand fork, heading deeper into the system.
I found the first corpse seconds later.
~
We are inured against death by our merit procedures. That, and the walk to the chamber when our time has come, means I have lived my whole life in the warren without seeing a dead person.
It is not pretty.
Pieces of dried skin hung in flaps from white bone. I was so appalled that it took me seconds to spot the important fact. The dead man had not been wearing a suit. He had died while there was still an atmosphere in the cave system.
Not being an expert, I had no way of telling how long ago that might have been, but judging by the decomposition of the clothing, I guessed that many years had passed.
I kept going, but I was no longer convinced I would meet anyone yet alive.
The corridor opened into a wider chamber, an eating area of sorts.
Bodies lay strewn everywhere, lying on mounds or pairs. Skeletal arms were wrapped around broken necks, skulls showed signs of having been bashed in against tables and floor. They had all killed each other in a frenzied melee.
As I bent to inspect the closest, I saw the cause.
The darkness danced in their eye-sockets, a deeper shadow. It was full of stars where the sky had fallen in and got them.
The more I looked, the more I saw it; there in the shadow where a body hung over an overturned chair, there in the corner under the food processors, but mostly in the eyes, dancing and twinkling, mocking my horror.
I stumbled past more bodies than I could count, searching for a reason, an answer as to what had happened. The empty eyes followed me everywhere I went. There was a door opposite me, and I went through, hoping for some small escape from the terror.
~
I recognized where I was. The corridor structure almost exactly mirrored the structure of the warren here. Indeed, I began to fear for my sanity, thinking I had inadvertently returned home to find you all dead, all taken. There were no bodies in this part of the system, just long empty corridors, but that somehow only made matters worse.
I went deeper.
Although I was still safe inside the suit, the air seemed somehow thicker here, more oppressive; a faint trace of blue mist hanging in the air. If I were home, I knew I would be approaching the bionic plant. Despite the terrors of the eating area above, I was almost eager to visit the working parts of the site, as there may even be something salvageable there, something that would further prolong our own time here in the warren.
I descended a stairwell and walked out into their bionics plant.
Scores of eyes turned and looked at me, reflecting like twinkling stars in my helmet light.
They had once been human, that much was obvious. What was equally obvious was that they had not been so for some time. The skin was pale, almost translucent, their eyes large, like saucers in heads too small to hold them. They scrambled, on all fours, amid a pile of slurry that seemed thicker in places.
I gagged when I saw the first rib cage, the first thighbone.
They started to crawl towards me, piteously mewling like hungry kittens. Stars danced in their eyes.
I fled.
~
I will not tell of my flight from that place, save to say that I have deleted the coordinates from the systems. If you want the ore, you will have to send out another flyer.
But I would advise against it, for the darkness will come back with them. The sky will fall, and your eyes will fill with stars. The darkness will get inside, and it will consume you, as it did to those poor things in the bionics lab … as it has started to do to me.
It is vast, it is empty, and it does not care.
It just does not care.
Degenerates
DL Seymour
“The time would be easy to know, for then mankind would have become as the Great Old Ones; free and wild beyond good and evil, with laws and morals thrown aside and all men shouting and killing and reveling in joy. Then the liberated Old Ones would teach them new ways to shout and kill and revel and enjoy themselves, and all the earth would flame with a holocaust of ecstasy and freedom.”
“The Call of Cthulu”
-H. P. Lovecraft
It could be said that it is an unfortunate turn of events that would lead anyone to the community of Dunwich, and it was my unfortunate luck to do just that. Looking at it you would think it a peaceful place, beautiful in a small homely way, though up until recently few would have wanted to call it home. Nestled in the quiet Massachusetts countryside, Dunwich is the kind of town one could easily overlook, passing by the unnamed road that led into the small nestled valley it lay in, or that used to be the case.
Until recently the entire Dunwich area had been abandoned, and even the neighboring towns of Aylesbury and Deans Corners had been nothing more than a few ramshackle shacks. It is amazing that Dunwich has survived at all since its near destruction during the great depression in the late 20’s , though some blamed it on something more supernatural making obscure references to a particular event they dubbed “The Ho
rror of 28” which is still kept alive in Dunwich folklore, but in the summer of ‘68, when I visited Dunwich for the first time, it was quickly becoming the fastest growing community in Massachusetts thanks to the work of Thomas Chifford, its newly elected mayor.
Taking advantage of a racially divided America, Chifford took out advertisements within major newspapers from Chicago to New York advertising Dunwich as the new model American town, completely integrated and dedicated to the ideals of equality for all. It was while reading an article in the Arkham Advertiser that I first heard about Mayor Chifford’s efforts to revitalize Dunwich, and it was a general call for teachers who strongly believe in a new racially integrated America that drew me, and when a personal invitation to teach at Dunwich academy arrived, I jumped at the chance. As a recent graduate of Miskatonic University, this was just the break I had been looking for.
It was mid-August when I first drove the 30 odd miles through the deep Miskatonic pass, a drive I would only repeat twice more. On either side steep rising ridges surrounded the lone winding roadway sheltering the valley. Evidence of former rockslides dotted the side of the road, and above future rockslides menacingly loomed over the pass below.
On driving into the valley below one needs stop at a lone gas station sitting on a small mountain pass near Harsen’s Peak. Owned and serviced by one of the old denizens of Dunwich, this small station offered a picturesque view of Dunwich in the valley below nestled between the Miskatonic River and the base of Round Mountain with a nest of gabled houses nestled within the misted copse of trees.
The planning had been meticulous. Where only two decades before there had been a handful of ramshackle burned out shells of lone farmhouses, a dead town struggling to survive, new houses were now sprouting out of the ruins below, and new paved roads replaced the dirt trails of ages past. This was the Dunwich I would come to know in the next few months, one that for a brief time I called home.
“Beautiful sight, innit?”
Startled out of my sightseeing I turned to see an old man giving me a furtive side glance as he began to fill my tank. He was a fossil of the times, deep carven wrinkles proved evidence of decades of hard service. Now his station was the welcoming sentinel guarding and serving the growing town at its feet, and this was the town’s self-appointed gatekeeper. His voice was that of a rusty door, low and grating as if rarely used and equally frail. His steel blue eyes looked out from deep thick brows that had long ago decided to stick out as far from the old man’s face as possible. His hair had ceased attempting to keep any pigment and decided to take on the pure white of old age.
“Comin ta stay, I see,” he said in that queer accent I would soon learn was particular to the Miskatonic valley. Having grown up in Maine, I was accustomed to that peculiar New England accent so nasal that deciphering every other word was the best many visitors to the area could accomplish. Even to my practiced ear this man’s way of speaking was difficult to understand at first.
“Why, yes I am,” I replied. “How did you know?”
“Well, not many come roun’ here too of’en. Visitin’s not somethin’ many come here ta do.”
While staring at this fossil, I started to wonder how long he had been here at this tiny gas station meeting all who visited this valley. His lean and bony body hovered over the pump as it ticked away the coins from my purse.
“Well, there’s been plenty of you folks comin’ in o’ late anyway. So, where’s yahs plannin’ ta stay?”
“Well, the mayor has arranged to lease me Whateley Manor.”
At the mention of Whateley, the old man’s face seemed to lose all pigment and became as white as his hair, but I tried to ignore this as I had been warned by the realty agent of the local superstitions behind the Whateley family.
“I’ve heard it has been re-built,” I said in an attempt to break the awkward silence that had fallen over us.
“Much been re-bilt sin’ then,” he replied, facing the pump in his hand but his eyes turned toward me. “Not tha’ I think tha’ place ought a’ been re-bilt. Leave it a burn’ pile a’ rubbish I say.”
He spat out his view of the name of Whateley, and I couldn’t figure out if he was spitting in disgust or to ward off any ill fortune at mentioning the name. At that time, he stopped pumping and placed the pump back in its holster and twisted my cap back on with his other hand, which proved to be more dexterous than I had anticipated.
“Well, that’ll be three-fifty fo’ the gas ma’am,” he finally replied while holding out his hand. “An yah take care out there a’ the ol’ Whateley place. You seem like a nice enough lady t’ me. By the way, what’s yah name agin?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t think I mentioned it. It’s Collins. Diana Collins.”
“Well, yous take care of youself now, Miss Collins, and if you need anythin’ at all, you just see my boy Jimmy at the livery downtown. He’ll get you set up straight with anythin’ you need.”
“Livery?”
“Oh yeah, forgot you city folk talk funny down there in Arkham. He runs what you would call a … ” he paused for a second trying to think of another name. “I guess yah coud call i’ a growsowry store?”
I laughed at his over exaggeration of the word “grocery” but quickly checked myself afraid of offending the old man.
“Anyways, he sell more than just fruits an’ otha vittles. You can ge’ mos all yahs need there, an if yah evers need any work done a’ th’ house my granson is pretty good with a hammer an’ saw. Good hard worker too. Just tell ‘em that ol’ Joe Osborn sent yah. They’ll take care o’ yah.”
At that he pocketed the money and waved goodbye. I couldn’t help thinking that I was going to love it here if all of the people were like “Ol’ Joe”.
When entering Dunwich proper, one passes by one of the most iconic of New England environs, that of a wooden gable bridge crossing the Miskatonic, just south of the town. The constant creaks and groans as my car traversed its span testified to the bridge being ancient of both design and craftsmanship, but that craftsmanship was both solid and secure.
When passing by the end of the bridge, and making the final turn onto main street, the first impression that came to mind was how quiet and quaint this place was. The street was cobbled in an old fashioned style that reminded me of a painting I had once seen; a wooden, horse-drawn water wagon, which drizzled cleansing water down the street, barefoot children playing behind it. It was a unique blend of the old country that, unfortunately, had been dying in America with its urban sprawl and modern ways.
On the right hand side, I saw the store that ol’ Osborn had spoken of. In bright red and gold letters was the sign “Osborn Sundries and Livery.” The store was small and full of the basic needs of country life from large bags of sugar and flour, to loaves of fresh baked bread, and fresh laid, off-white eggs carefully laid in pallets lining one wall.
One thing that I found interesting was the fact that the local butcher also had a stall to the side of the store, and seemed to be doing a large amount of business. Ranging from ground beef to many cuts of pork loins and various other cuts of meat his cornucopia of meats seemed to be the largest draw within the store. For me the one drawback was in the fact that though this butcher had all of these varieties of meat, he was lacking that one source of protein that I did eat, that being fish. This being the case, this home grown Main-ite walked away sullenly.
Though I did not find my fish, I did find practically everything else I needed, and many things I would never probably need but would be quite understandable that they would carry. I found it interesting the variety of items one would never consider necessary in the city, but out here in the sticks would be essential. Not needing such things, I silently bought some old fashioned sticks of licorice to chew on while I acquainted myself with the rest of the town.
While waiting in line, I was approached by a young man who did not fit in with the rest of the people I had seen, so far. He was at complete odds with the town in the same wa
y a Ford Mustang would be out of place in a parking lot of Model-T’s. While most people I had met, so far, were clothed in ragged denim overalls, this man had new blue-jeans and was wearing a buttoned down India style Nehru tunic similar to those I had seen when I had visited the Haight-Ashbury district in San Francisco. In essence, he looked like a hippie.
“I take it you are not from around here,” were the first words I heard him utter. I assumed it was also my own way of dressing that pointed this out to him, but his next statement proved me wrong.
“Welcome to Dunwich, Miss Collins. I hope you enjoy it here.”
This man calling my name shocked me. Who was he? How did he know me?
“Don’t be so surprised, I would be a very poor mayor if I couldn’t recognize my newest schoolteacher whom I personally selected. By the way, you can call me Thomas.”
At this realization, I smiled broadly back at the man before me. Where I had been expecting an older gentleman, at least in his forties if not fifties or sixties, here was a man just reaching the prime of his life
“Let me show you around, Miss Collins.”
“That is kind of you,” I replied softly and walked down the sidewalk.
“It is quite the town you have here.”
“Yes, it is,” he said while casting side glances my way. “Quiet and peaceful, unlike most of the country right now. You know, I just heard there was another riot in Miami, just last week.”
“Liberty City? Yeah. I heard about it. Everything has been very volatile lately. You know the situation in Chicago is also getting worse, and with the convention starting next week, everyone is on edge. Mayor Daley stated the entire Chicago police force will be on alert throughout the convention.”
“Heh. Those Yippies are pushing his buttons. One thing I can say about Abbie is that he is very persistent.”
“You know him?”
