by Paul Crilley
“Right,” I say. “Awesome seeing your secret torture chamber, but I think I need to go now.”
“I admit it’s a bit . . . old-fashioned,” says Smith, “but it was built over a hundred years ago, remember?”
“What is it exactly?” asks Graves. And hearing the doubt in his voice just makes me all the more terrified.
“It’s a way for him to enter the Dreamlands,” says Winston. “Instead of waiting to fall asleep and hoping he can get in, this will pull his consciousness from his body—”
“Rip his consciousness,” says Smith.
“Right. Rip his consciousness from his body and sort of . . . scatter it into the ether, sending his mind into the Dreamlands. This whole building was built as part of the machine. It’s designed to funnel a person’s consciousness out and send it in the correct direction.”
“Yeah. I just really don’t like the sound of that,” I say.
“It will be fine,” says Smith. “Hopefully.”
Graves pulls Smith aside. “It’s not as if we have much choice, do we? Come on. In you go.”
“No.”
“No? Are you mad?” Graves shouts. “The entire universe—the entire multiverse—is dependent on this. Don’t you be selfish now.”
“Did you hear what they said? Rip my consciousness from my body? Does that sound healthy to you?”
“Harry,” says Graves seriously. “If not for yourself, then do it for your daughter, Esmeralda.”
“Not even close.”
“Heather?”
“No.”
“Agnes?”
“No.” I sigh, looking around at the others. “I really don’t have much choice, do I?”
“None at all. And the quicker you get into the Dreamlands and stop Nyarlathotep, the sooner we can put this case to bed and take our rightful place at the top tier of the ICD. Come along. Hop to it.”
I climb reluctantly into the framework, trying to get comfortable as I lie down on the metal frame. Anderson uses cracked leather straps to secure my legs and arms against the cold metal.
“No gross jokes about bondage,” says Anderson.
“Don’t worry. Are the straps really necessary?” I ask.
“Afraid so. There’s no telling how a person will react when this thing kicks off. Put your head back.”
I do as I’m told, and Winston lowers a metal cap onto my head. I can feel hundreds of tiny pinpricks resting against my scalp. I swallow nervously.
“Just relax,” says Anderson softly. “It will be fine. And . . . just so you know. You’re pretty brave. For an old weirdo.”
I smile at her. “Thanks, kiddo.”
“Don’t call me that. Ever.”
“Sorry.”
“Ready?” asks Winston.
“Not even remotely.”
Winston nods and pulls a lever down with a lot more gusto than is needed, as if he’s auditioning for a part in Frankenstein. The tiny needles resting against my scalp suddenly push in, jabbing through my skin, burning my scalp.
The fluid in the jars bubbles and belches in response.
My back arches in pain and fear as I feel myself being slowly drawn from my body. That’s the only way to describe it. It’s an incredibly horrible feeling, as if I’m being sucked up a straw.
I’m aware of everything, the ever-increasing bubbling in the tubes, my skin tingling, being pulled tight against my bones, my very essence being somehow drawn through the needles and traveling along metal piping, up through the walls of the building like blood through veins. I feel like I’m stretching, stretching so far that my awareness not only encompasses the entire building, but the city as well. I’m aware of the traffic, the bustle of LA, the ebb and flow of life, babies being born, people dying, animals scurrying through garbage, rats and wild foxes. Birds wheel through the sky in sudden agitation.
And finally I’m out, erupting through the skylight that was built for exactly this purpose, to draw a person up from her or his body.
I’m out into the sky as pure energy.
My essence tries to escape, to spread itself out so thinly that I would no longer be me, just a vague remembrance of something that once was. But I rein it in, focusing my mind on Susan, remembering why I’m doing this.
I close my eyes (although I don’t actually have eyes). I block everything out: the sounds of traffic, the wail of police sirens, the barking of dogs, the smell of exhaust fumes and greasy food.
I feel a calmness wash over me. I think of Graves, of Susan, of the Inspectre, of Ash, and everything that brought me to this place, trying to hold onto who I am, remember what it is that makes me, me. I think of the Dreamlands, of Cthulhu and Nyarlathotep. I think of that city I saw, the towering prison of black glass.
And when I open my eyes again the world has changed.
It’s like a demented dream. There are islands everywhere, but they’re not rooted to the earth. They float freely in the air, hundreds of islands that drift around each other in a complex dance.
But it’s not just that they float. Some of them are upside down, some doing slow, balletic turns in the night sky, as if gravity is simply something to be ignored, like a letter from the IRS.
I float close to an island that has a waterfall soaring over the edge. The water sails gracefully into the sky, then simply vanishes when it reaches a certain point. Some of the islands are covered with heavy rain clouds, clouds that taper away to nothingness beyond the border of each isle. One of them off to my right is under a constant barrage of multicolored lightning. Red, purple, yellow. It arcs down into the rock, sending chunks and debris flying into the air.
“This is insane,” I whisper.
I stare around, wondering where I’m supposed to go. None of these look like the weird city I’d seen in my dreams.
I think myself forward, and start moving, drifting faster and faster through the Dreamlands. I turn in slow circles as I move, checking every piece of land I pass, searching for one that looks vaguely familiar.
Then finally, after what seems like hours of floating, I see it.
Deep within the heart of the floating land masses is an island much larger than the others. It’s covered with a massive ocean that is held in place by a perimeter of mountains.
And rising up from the center of this ocean is the city of R’lyeh.
I head toward it, soaring over the mountains and then over the ocean. Huge, lumbering creatures swim just below the surface, vast shadows that make me climb just a little bit higher in case any of them decide to try and pull me out of the sky.
I slow down as I approach the city walls and land on the now-familiar muddy shores. I turn in a circle, the icy stars impossibly bright above me, glittering on the ancient ocean that surges over my feet, almost as if it is trying to pull me into the inky depths.
I stare back out over the ocean, tracking back the way I’ve just come. Strangely, I can’t see any of the floating islands anymore. Just the stars in the night sky and a sickly, jaundiced moon that casts yellow-green highlights on the black water.
I shudder and turn my back on the ocean. The city is a black, jagged silhouette. As before, my eyes hurt if I stare at the buildings too long. The angles and edges just seem . . . wrong, as if they aren’t meant for human minds.
I walk toward the city walls. The silence is absolutely complete. I can’t hear Nyarlathotep or the monkeys. Or anything, for that matter. It’s like sound is being sucked away.
I feel odd in my body, trembling inside. As if I’ve had way too much coffee. I stare up at the structures towering over me, taking in the odd angles, the way the buildings turn in on themselves, twisting into never-ending modernist sculptures.
The huge tower is still there. It must be a couple of miles away, towering over the city itself. My hands are twitching. Adrenaline surges through my body, trying to get me to react. To fight or run for my life. But I can’t do either. Hell, I don’t even know what I can do. I stare at the city, feeling a deep upwelling o
f fear. I’m supposed to go in there. I’m supposed to find my way through those demented streets in order to stop Nyarlathotep from waking up Cthulhu. But I have no idea how.
I stop before the wall. A massive gate stands open before me. I reach out to touch the black surface, but my hand is repelled by an alien force. As if the city is trying to push me back.
Nothing else for it. At least I’ve got my entropy gun, something I’m incredibly glad about. Seems making weapons out of the bodies of deceased Elder Gods was a good idea after all. I hope it does the same damage in the Dreamlands as it does in real life.
I step into the tunnel that leads through the wall. I stumble, pushed off balance by the weird energies shoving and pulling at me. I break into a stumbling run, stopping only when I finally make it through the tunnel.
I stare around in fear and awe. The buildings are . . . colossal. Twisted and impossible, covered with hideous images of torture, scenes that go straight through my eyes to the back of my brain. I blink, and it seems as if the angles shift subtly, buildings changing shapes and moving every time my eyes are closed, a feeling that puts me instantly on edge, fearful, wondering what is going to happen next. I feel like an ant. Like I’m nothing. Like I’m an unwelcome guest tarnishing the city with my presence.
Keep it calm, Priest.
I take a deep breath. Then another. At least I shouldn’t get too lost. Just head for the last place any sane person would actually want to go. The massive glass tower in the middle of the city.
Yeah. Great plan.
I force myself to start moving, passing into a wide boulevard. The buildings loom to either side, leaning over me so that only a tiny glimpse of the stars is visible. I keep walking, moving along alleys and streets, turning corners and walking around the buildings until I feel as if I’m walking in circles.
I’ve been walking for about ten minutes when I hear a noise up ahead.
I freeze, my ears straining.
There it is again. The scuff of feet on the ground. My fingers curl around the gun, holding it ready. I move slowly forward. I can hear murmured voices now. Is it Nyarlathotep and his cronies? Maybe they haven’t made it to the tower yet. Can I just end this now? Shoot that bastard in the head? Or at least shoot the jewel so he can’t use it to wake Cthulhu?
I raise the gun to my shoulder, put my back up against the building (it feels oily, viscous, as if I’m constantly in danger of sliding away), and finally dart around the corner, quickly aiming the gun around to find my target.
Graves, Anderson, Winston, and Smith all turn to stare at me.
“Oh, very well done, Harry,” snaps Graves. “Honestly, you can’t do anything right, can you?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Me?” I say, glaring at Graves. “What the hell are you talking about now?”
“You drew us in here with you,” says Graves. “Again!”
“Oh.” I look around, then turn back and shrug. “Not my fault.”
“I think you’ll find it is your fault. You have endangered our lives, you cretin.”
“Oh, shame!” I snap. “So you have to take part in saving the world with me! I’m so sorry for unknowingly summoning you to help humanity in its hour of greatest need.” I stare at his hand. “What’s that?”
Graves looks down. It’s a large cocktail glass. He looks pleased and lifts it to his lips.
“There’s a bar in the Bradbury Building,” he says. “We were having margaritas.”
I stare at him in amazement. “Margaritas?” I look at Anderson and the others. At least she has the good manners to look embarrassed.
“That’s his fifth,” she says.
“I was thirsty!” shouts Graves. “I wanted one last taste of booze just in case you failed miserably to save humanity. Besides, facing those monkeys was traumatic!”
“I know!” I shout “I was there!”
“No need to take that tone,” says Graves in a hurt tone of voice. He takes a sip of his drink and smacks his lips. “Not bad.”
I close my eyes and count to five. “Right,” I say. “You’re here now. Which I’m glad for. Although God knows why.”
“So what’s the plan?” asks Smith. He’s looking pretty nervous. Jumpy and sweating. “Maybe I could stay here and guard the rear? Make sure nothing comes after us?”
“Nice try,” I say. “But you’re all coming with me.” I point to the huge tower that dominates the skyline. “Cthulhu is up there, so that’s where Nyarlathotep will be going. The plan is kill Nyarlathotep or destroy the jewel.” I glance at Graves. “Right?”
He sips his drink and shrugs. “This is your rodeo, partner. I’m just along for the ride.”
I sigh and look around. We’re all standing exposed in a wide, empty plaza. Tall pillars surround us, thin shards of black slate crunching underfoot. Some sort of ivy crawls up the pillars, gray and greasy-looking.
No one seems inclined to move. “Let’s go then,” I say, and start walking.
We move along the avenue leading away from the plaza. Everyone is twitchy, except for Graves, who is sipping his margarita and looking around with casual interest.
The city has an oppressive air. It makes me feel . . . depressed. Empty. I shiver. I suppose that makes sense for the ancient prison of the leader of the Old Ones. It’s not exactly meant to be a fun day out at the park.
As we move deeper into the city, there are strange statues everywhere. Nobody else seems interested, but I pause to examine one. They’re made from black glass, sculpted into stylized representations of men and women. But it’s as if they have been placed randomly throughout the city. Some stand on street corners, others in the middle of roads, and some in the gaping doors of ruined buildings. I wonder what they’re for. Art isn’t exactly something you expect to see in a place like this.
We pass a long street lined with more of the statues. The others are walking slowly, so I turn off the road to study the glass statues. They are all different to each other, as if each one had been carved by a different artist. One has a rough style, using the chips of the chisel to form shadows and character. Another has smoothed features, the glass carved in gentle slopes and curves so that not one line of tool work is visible. The statues are covered with the same gray creepers that hang everywhere, chaining them together in a line.
I can’t shake the feeling that they’re alive. I reach out and touch one, but nothing happens. It just feels like cold glass. Like touching a window.
I notice a small alley angling off from the street. There’s something odd about it that catches my attention, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is: the alley looks clean. No rubble. No shards of obsidian. No dust.
I glance back along the street. The others are strolling along like it’s a day at the beach. I can easily catch up with them.
I stroll over to inspect the alley. I was right. The alley has been swept clean. Banks of dirt and pebbles line the walls to either side.
Interesting, I think, and follow the alley as it rounds a corner. The lane narrows even farther, then turns a second corner before feeding into a courtyard. The courtyard is roofed with the shadowy vines; the sickly vegetation coaxed up twisted pillars and knitted together to form a dark canopy.
I step into the square and note a small house directly opposite me. It stands out because the neat pathway leads directly to the front door. I frown and walk slowly forward. How is that possible? Surely no one lives here. Or do they? Is there someone here who can help us?
I glimpse movement from the corner of my eye.
I turn around to find a wooden stick flying straight at my face. I swear and drop to the ground, the stick clattering into the wall behind me.
I catch sight of a small figure scurrying away from me beyond the veil of ivy. I push myself up and run after my attacker. I see him up ahead as he darts around a corner. He runs with a strange, waddling gait, as if he has an injured leg. He is also incredibly short, about the same size as Susan.
“
Wait!” I call out. “I’m not going to hurt you! Much,” I add beneath my breath.
“Hah!” shouts my attacker. “You’re not going to hurt me! That’s funny, that is.”
Around another corner, then another. I realize we’re simply running around the open square where I’d first been attacked. In fact, this would be the opening where I—
The stick comes swinging out from behind a wall, connecting against my shin with a sharp crack. I yelp in pain and tumble to the ground.
I roll over to find the ugliest man I’ve ever seen staring down at me, his heavy walking stick raised to strike again. The man’s limbs are disproportionately sized, his body pushed forward by a huge bump growing on his back. He looks like what would happen if Yoda and the Hunchback of Notre Dame had a baby together.
“Try it,” I snarl. “And I’ll take the damn thing from you and ram it down your throat. Understand?”
The small man hesitates.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” I say, rubbing my legs. “At least not for you. We came here to stop people from waking up Cthulhu.”
The man finally lowers his stick. “Wake him up? Don’t be stupid. If they do that then—”
“Then everything ends. Yes. I know.” I frown at him. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s my home.”
“Your home.” I look around. “You could do with sprucing the place up a bit.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. When you’re the last of your species, dusting and making sure everything smells of flowers is low on the to-do list. You know, as opposed to wailing in madness and staring into the abyss of loneliness and fear.”
“Uh . . . last of your species?”
“Well, not species, but . . . job title? I suppose that’s more appropriate. I’m the last of the Guardians. We all lived in this city and watched over Cthulhu’s prison. To make sure nobody tries to interfere with old octopus-face. Bit of a downer, if I’m being honest. Cthulhu gets into your dreams, you see. Nearly everyone committed suicide after the first couple of millennia.”
“But not you?”
