Department Zero

by Paul Crilley

  I take a deep breath and step beneath the archway onto the glass floor.

  And as I do so the stars stop spinning.

  Nyarlathotep triumphantly pumps the air. “Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, thank you. Hail to me, everyone. The grooviest person alive.”

  The prison holding Cthulhu starts to fold in on itself, each segment retreating jerkily back against the next so that it looks like a stop-motion film. I stare in horror as the crystal folds away into nothingness, leaving Cthulhu crouched before us, a monstrosity of a god. It’s like being close to Godzilla.

  Nyarlathotep giggles to himself and steps toward Cthulhu. That’s when I notice he’s holding the Jewel of Ini-taya in his hand.

  “Stop!”

  Nyarlathotep whirls around. “By the tentacles of Cthulhu!” he shouts. “You are the bane of my existence, you know that? You’re like an unwanted child at a house party. You are the vegan at a barbecue.”

  “Don’t do this,” I say. “Please. Think about how many people will die.”

  “They can’t die. They don’t exist. You don’t exist.”

  “I kind of feel like I do.”

  “No. You are nothing. You are a blip of thought. A passing dream. Your life is not real.”

  “It feels real to me.”

  We stare at each other for a moment.

  Then he moves.

  I was expecting it. I fire the entropy gun as he leaps forward, black lightning hitting him before he reaches the Old One. He’s about ten feet away as black veins start to spread up his body.

  I sigh in relief.

  A sigh that catches in my throat as Nyarlathotep takes another step.

  I stare at him in amazement. He’s aging before my very eyes, the entropy gun drawing life from his limbs, withering his legs, sucking the fat from his body. He takes another step. His hair is growing long. His nails, too. His face is sunken and old, like a special effect in an old Spielberg movie. He takes another step, then another. I fire again, but it makes no difference.

  I start to run toward him, but even as I do I know I’m too far away. He looks like a desiccated corpse, but he’s still moving, sheer determination drawing him on.

  His arm sags, the jewel too heavy for his withered muscles. I draw closer. I’m only a few steps away now. I reach out—

  And Nyarlathotep falls forward, arm outstretched, and the jewel touches Cthulhu’s head.

  “G-Groovy,” he whispers.

  Nyarlathotep collapses, withering up and turning to dust. But I barely notice. My eyes are on the jewel. The skin on Cthulhu’s head puckers up and folds around the jewel, then draws it inside.

  And the massive god opens its eyes.

  “What have you done?” shouts a voice behind me.

  I whirl around to find Dvalin staring at Cthulhu in horror.

  “It wasn’t me!” I shout, staggering away from the god. “I tried to stop him!” I frown. “Why haven’t we vanished? I mean, if he’s woken up?”

  “You ever feel bright and wide awake when you first open your eyes in the morning? Multiply that by millions. Now come on. Something’s happened.” He looks at Cthulhu in fear. “Something else.” He grabs my arm and pulls me back down the stairs.

  “Where are we going?”

  He doesn’t answer. We finally make it out of the tower, and he simply points upward.

  I look.

  And my mind goes blank.

  Creeping globes, looking like diseased planets, are forming from nothing in the night sky, seeming to fade into existence. They’re linked to each other by tattered, mucusy tendrils. The globes are impossible to judge in size. They could very well be the size of moons, or just the size of a football field but they all glow from within, lightning flickering inside like light in a pregnant woman’s stomach, which I realize is not a great metaphor, but it’s what comes to mind.

  “See them!” shouts Dvalin. “‘The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them, they walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen. Yog-Sothoth knows the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the gate. Yog-Sothoth is the key and guardian of the gate. Past, present, future, all are one in Yog-Sothoth. He knows where the Old Ones broke through of old, and where They shall break through again. He knows where They have trod earth’s fields, and where They still tread them, and why no one can behold Them as They tread. . . . As a foulness shall ye know Them. Their hand is at your throats, yet ye see Them not; and Their habitation is even one with your guarded threshold.’”

  I frown. That sounds oddly familiar. “Are you just quoting actual H. P. Lovecraft short stories now?”

  “It is the truth. For the Old Ones are returning.”

  I stare up again. The globes look . . . alive. Like eggs. As if there is something inside them. As we watch, the globes shift and stretch, pulling apart, yet still staying linked to each other.

  “Yog-Sothoth,” says Dvalin. “He is the transcosmic one. He is the gateway, the entrance, and the exit. The womb and the grave.”

  As he speaks the light grows brighter within the globes, a sickly green-and-yellow glow that spreads between the globes and forms a circle hovering against the stars.

  “Cthulhu is calling his brethren,” whispers Dvalin.

  The first to come through the gate is a mass of pink-and-white light, pulling through the gateway into the Dreamlands, impossibly large. Tentacles whip over interstellar distances, knocking the moon aside, slapping it into rubble that flows apart in slow motion.

  In the center of the mass are a hideous mouth and yellowed teeth, snapping and grinning, sneering and smiling as it enters the space around R’lyeh.

  “Azathoth,” whispers Dvalin. “The ‘amorphous blight of nethermost confusion which blasphemes and bubbles at the center of all infinity—the boundless daemon sultan Azathoth, whose name no lips dare speak aloud, and who gnaws hungrily in inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond time and space amidst the muffled, maddening beating of vile drums and the thin monotonous whine of accursed flutes.’”

  “Still sounds like you’re quoting the books,” I say distantly.

  Azathoth pulls itself free, and another comes from behind. This one is familiar. Purple lightning flickers around a black, roiling cloud. The cloud grows thicker, and tendrils of cloud reach out, solidifying into oily, black tentacles.

  Shub-Niggurath. The Old One the Nazis tried to summon.

  The cloud pulls itself through the gate, and the snapping jaws appear, serrated teeth clacking.

  Then the night sky changes, rippling like water. The light between the globes turns a deep, primordial blue, and a head appears, a green, scaly head of a monstrous fish-man. The creature slides through the gate, using webbed feet to sail through the night sky as if slicing through water.

  “Dagon,” whispers Dvalin. “The dreaded fish god. Witnessed by one man who survived, who forever after was haunted by the creature, ‘especially when the moon is gibbous and waning.

  “‘I cannot think of the deep sea without shuddering at the nameless things that may at this very moment be crawling and floundering on its slimy bed, worshipping their ancient stone idols and carving their own detestable likenesses on submarine obelisks of water-soaked granite. I dream of a day when they may rise above the billows to drag down in their reeking talons the remnants of puny, war-exhausted mankind—of a day when the land shall sink, and the dark ocean floor shall ascend amidst universal pandemonium.’”

  I frown and turn on the small man. Just to check he’s not actually reciting from an H. P. Lovecraft book. “Nobody’s impressed, you know. Stealing someone else’s work and passing it off as your own is the sign of a worthless hack.”

  “I am not stealing anything. If anything, he stole it. Those words are from the Elder Gods themselves. Their work is my bible. My guidebook. I know it all by heart. Now come. There is still a chance we can stop them. It is going to be very dangerous. There’s a very good chance you could lose your mind and your s
oul rent asunder by the sheer power you are about to grasp hold of. Your psyche will more than likely be shattered into a million tiny pieces that will be sucked into the netherworld where you will be aware of the slow onslaught of madness over the next hundred thousand years. So . . . are you keen?”

  “Fuck no.”

  “Tough. We have no choice. I’ve already told the others. They’re going to hold the monsters off while we do this.”

  “Do what?”

  He doesn’t answer, instead leading me deeper into the city, away from the walls and the sounds of battle. The buildings drop away behind us, and we arrive at a vast lake easily three miles across. I can still hear the sounds of furious battle raging not too far from us: Screeching and growling. The sharp crack of splintering obsidian guards, the wet rip of skin. The loud crack of guns being discharged, which means that the others are now involved in the fight.

  Dvalin leans over next to a small plinth. He glances over his shoulder at me. “Turn around.”

  “Why?”

  “You can’t see the combination. It’s a secret.”

  “Goddamn it, Dvalin. Are you serious?”

  “Yes! The Elder Gods themselves charged me with this! You don’t fuck with the Elder Gods, man. You just don’t do it.”

  “Fine!”

  I turn around and fold my arms. A moment later a loud sucking noise starts up, like a toothless hag sucking up a milkshake, but multiplied by a million. I turn back and see the water level dropping, disappearing somewhere beneath us.

  It doesn’t take long for the lake to drain. The water vanishes to reveal a mud-covered mound about the same size as Cthulhu.

  “This is wonderful,” I say. “Really. You’ve drained a lake. Biblical but on a budget. Now what?”

  “Wait.”

  A burst of rain suddenly pours from the sky, falling directly onto the mound, washing the mud and gloop away. I take a step forward, staring in amazement as a massive figure is revealed, lying still on the lake bed.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “One of the Elder Gods.”

  I look at Dvalin. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. He sacrificed his life. Sent his mind out into the ether so his body could remain here in case we needed it.”

  The Elder God looks . . . alien. It’s the only way to describe it. Man-shaped, with a beige, bone-like exterior, as if it has a hard carapace instead of skin. Its head is massive and long, misshapen and stretched out.

  “What are you waiting for?” I say. I glance up and see that the Old Ones are moving slowly across the sky, coming toward us. “Wake it up.”

  “It’s not like that. I can’t just wake it up. It needs a mind to join with. A mind other than my own.”

  “Wait, what—”

  I start to turn, but before I do anything Dvalin jabs something into my neck. “Oh, goddammit,” I slur.

  Then I drop to the ground.

  You know that feeling when you have a hangover from hell? Your body is all shaky, and it’s not obeying you? You feel like you can’t control your limbs or anything? I feel like that when I awake.

  I sit up, the mud making a loud sucking noise behind me. For a moment I still think I’m going to be looking at Dvalin standing right next to me, but I’m not. For some reason I’m really high up in the sky and Dvalin is far away below me, standing on the shore of the lake.

  And I can see me, lying on the ground, my eyes wide and staring.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake. This isn’t cool!” I shout. Dvalin slaps his hands over his ears. “This is the second time I’ve been drugged against my will! You guys can’t just keep doing that.”

  Dvalin drops to his knees, his hands still pushing hard against his ears. “Stop shouting!”

  I push myself to my feet, rising up and up until I’m towering over the city. Everything feels really slow. I’m not used to the weight.

  I look around and see Graves and the others are indeed doing their part. They’ve formed a barricade a few streets away to keep the shoggoths and other creatures away from the lake.

  Dvalin points up into the sky. I nod, lumbering into a jog, then a run, then pushing off from the muddy ground. Don’t ask me how I knew I could do that. I just did. I sail up into the sky, and I’m flying, moving like Iron Man straight for the closest tentacled monstrosity. I yell with pure, terrified joy. Shub-Niggurath senses something and starts to turn toward me. But it’s too late. I grab tentacles and punch it in the snapping, serrated teeth. It cries out in shrill fury as the teeth of a god go flying off into space. I plunge my hands deep into the roiling mass, purple lightning flickering around me, coruscating up along my arms and through my body. I scream with effort, and pull, and I’m rewarded with the satisfying sound of ripping and tearing flesh.

  I keep pulling, and rip Shub-Niggurath apart. Then I throw the remains back through the gateway that is Yog-Sothoth.

  The other Old Ones are now aware they’re under attack. Dagon comes toward me, arms outstretched. I lift my own arms and punch out, a jab that snaps the fish god’s head backward. He punches me back, and I sail through the sky, stopping myself and going back for more.

  But there’s something pulling at my mind, trying to get my attention. I ignore it as Dagon and I face off. Trading punches back and forth. Neither of us are gaining the advantage.

  Screw it. I whip my foot up and kick the bastard fish god between the legs.

  Dagon whimpers and soars back through space, his eyes bulging in pain. He hits the gate and gets stuck there, half of him slipping back though the pink-and-purple mist, the other half trying to come back to me.

  Whatever it is pulling at my mind is growing more insistent.

  I ignore it and look down. The Shamblers and monkeys are almost overrunning the barricade. Graves and the others have drawn closer together at the mouth of an alley, firing ahead of them as they slowly back up. There are only a couple of the tactical team left. I look around for the glass statues, but they’re busy battling the creatures at the wall. Graves and the others won’t last long. I have to help them.

  The vague tugging on my mind grows even more insistent. I try to ignore it, but it grows stronger and stronger, unintelligible sounds finally forming into coherent words.

  Look behind you.

  I squeal with fright. Where the hell did that come from?

  You are in partnership with an Elder God. Do you seriously not think I can communicate?

  Aren’t you supposed to be dead?

  Death is overrated. It is but a veil, and I am on the other side. Or at least, my mind is. Look, I’m here to help. Just turn around, will you?

  I turn just as the top of the prison tower explodes, massive chunks of obsidian soaring into the air to smash into buildings, crushing them and sending plumes of thick dust up into the air.

  Cthulhu rises slowly up from the shattered remains. He looks slowly around, then strides away through the city.

  And as he does so, I notice something in the sky as he moves.

  The stars are winking out.

  The dream is unraveling, says the voice. You must stop him. Before the multiverse catches up.

  I look down at Graves and the others. They’re in serious trouble. The creatures are closing in, and the monkeys are above them, using the rooftops to get behind their position.

  “I need to help them.”

  I start to move, thinking I can just . . . pick Graves and the others up and take them to safety before dealing with Cthulhu.

  No. Trust me. There is no time. Just let go. Let me control you.

  No chance.

  I feel a subtle yank pulling me backward. I resist, trying to move in the opposite direction.

  Do not fight. This is the only way to save them.

  I look down again, every one of my instincts telling me to go and help them. I can do it. I can help.

  Then I sigh, and decide to just do as I’m told for once. To just step away from my ego.

  I concentrate on
releasing control. It’s harder than it sounds. Just to . . . let go. To simply be.

  But I manage it. I remove myself from the fight and let the Elder God go where he wants to.

  I fly over the city. I feel fragmented, as if there is more than one of me. I wonder briefly if this is just because I am fragmented. My body back in the Bradbury Building, and my dream body now lying down below. That’s some serous Inception shit going on.

  Either that or it’s the whole psychotic break thing that Dvalin was talking about.

  My pondering is interrupted because at that moment I feel the burning awareness of a god focused directly upon me.

  A flash of yellow eyes, and then Cthulhu roars in fury and moves toward me. Even from this distance I feel a poisonous heat, a horrible, gangrenous stench.

  I feel sick. I want to take back control. To run, to flee. How can I stand against something as ancient and terrifying as this? I’m nothing. I’m a microbe compared to the most advanced being in the multiverse. Who am I to even contemplate standing up against such a magnificent creature?

  My ears are buzzing, my eyes throbbing. I freeze up, waiting for Cthulhu to snuff me out just as I deserve. To end me as is his right. To do with me as he will.

  Just let go, says the voice in my head. Trust me. You don’t have to be in control here. Let me do it. If you don’t he will take over your mind.

  I close my eyes. I can’t let go. It feels too alien. Like I’m dying. Like I won’t come back.

  Just trust for once. Don’t try and control everything.

  And I stop trying to hold everything in. Stop trying to close everything off.

  Stop trying to control the world.

  Ar’atak, says the voice in my head, and it is like a sudden crack of thunder. I know instantly what it means. It is a first word, one of the words of power that Mad Arin told me about, a word that the Elder Gods used to create the universe.

  Except it’s not about creating. This word is about undoing. Ending. It is the only word that can end a god, and the only ones who know it are the Elder Gods.

  The letters that make up the word, the word itself, is nothing as to the actual feeling-sense it possesses, the true meaning behind the word. Ar’atak is a surface guise, like the ant hill that hides the vast colony beneath the ground. I feel the meaning of it radiating outward, like ripples in a pool.