Gateway Through Time
Page 8
Andrew nodded. "Been away, then?"
The man nodded. He touched his chest with his hand. "Name's Emerson." It looked still and unresponsive, and Andrew glanced away, thinking it might have been from an IED blast injury. "Andrew Stone."
Emerson, frowned. "What part of the world are you from? I sense hints of a British accent and something else."
Andrew laughed. "You're Australian. I'm a blended British-now Canadian Colonial. So we have a Queen in common."
Emerson laughed. "Yes, but how did you guess?"
"Well, for one, nobody else would come up to a perfect stranger and start a conversation that way before they were too drunk to care, which you're not. Two, your accent is Australian, and three, it says Sydney on your T-shirt with an Australian flag."
Emerson laughed again. "Well spotted."
Andrew paid for his beers. "Heading back soon?"
"To Australia? No." He shook his head.
"I meant to the MEAO?"
Emerson's eyelids narrowed. "I couldn't say."
"Don't worry, I'm an archaeologist with an interest in Middle Eastern antiquities." Andrew smiled because while it wasn't the complete truth, every part of what he'd said was real. "I'm harmless enough." He raised a glass in one hand. "Nice to meet you. Enjoy your beers and stay safe over there."
"Thank you, sir. You too."
"Me?" Andrew smiled politely. "How so?"
"Three things. Your language. The haircut. And the military boots."
Andrew glanced down at his boots and chuckled. "Well spotted. I haven't got some decent shoes yet." He nodded to the man again and joined Giselle in the hotel's corner.
◆◆◆
Chapter XIV
Kandahar Multinational Base, Afghanistan
It took 12 days for Emerson's arm to come to life. He was back in Afghanistan, standing at the boardwalk, watching the Canadian contingent using roller-skates to play ice hockey in the desert. It was a surreal experience. At one end of the square boardwalk were a group of multinationals conglomerating around the theme of smoking cigars. Cigar smoke clouded the air above them. The TGIF store was closed after a food poisoning scare. The rug sellers were on high alert trying to encourage people into their stores, and the Russian contact in the Barbershop who asked far too many questions had a line of clients that ran out the door.
Emerson was watching the dry Canadian ice Hockey match, with one eye on the giant observation balloon to the north above him. There was a flash, and without thought, he raised his left arm, caught the hockey ball, and the small crowd of onlookers roared. He felt the sting of the ball in his palm. Impossible. His grip tightened around the ball, and he tossed it back over to one player. Emerson frowned. How?
He placed his right palm on the inner forearm of his prosthetic arm and waited until he could see the screen underneath become visible around his hand. He removed his palm and stared at the screen. Symbols. Hieroglyphs. They raced from one end of the screen to the other and vanished. A continuous string. He had no clue what it meant. He returned to work and sat in his cubicle, pulled open the top drawer of his desk, and removed the Knight Commander's business card. He punched the numbers on the phone and waited for the distant ringing to begin.
It didn't take long before it stopped. "Templars."
Emerson smiled. It could have meant anything, but he recognised the Knight Commander's voice.
"This is Sergeant Emerson Ash, out in Kandahar province."
"Emerson, what can I do for you?"
"You said to let you know if anything happens."
"And has it?"
"I caught a ball and threw it back with my left hand. The screen is filled with symbols I don't understand. They are racing across the screen."
"Excellent. You must upload a file. I'll send it. Use the contactless cable I provided to upload the data."
"What is it?"
"It's the complete ORBAT of the Cthulhu forces."
Emerson frowned. "Cthulhu Forces? What country are they from?"
"The Old Ones created them. Read up on the file. Familiarise yourself with them. I have a feeling General Cobb will be in contact soon."
"Yes, sir."
There was silence as the man broke contact.
◆◆◆
Act 2 – the Lesser Path of Gods
“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, un-dimensioned and to us unseen…”
H.P. LOVECRAFT, The Dunwich Horror, 1928
Chapter I
Base Camp. Uluru. Central Australia.
The long hot Australian summer abruptly finished in mid-stride as an eldritch disquiet fell across the vast arid stubble of desert. Birdsong came and went for a moment as the midday sky darkened prematurely. The temperature swiftly dropped like an executioner's blade. Troubled, Luke stepped out of the small tent, a 12-gauge curled seductively over his arm, and he glanced over at Ayers Rock. His eyes narrowed, taking in the abundant rustic colours of the rock, also known as Uluru. The vibrant reds and its golden hues faded and turned purple. Not entirely uncommon, although unusual for the middle of summer and temperatures where sustained had averaged forty-two degrees Celsius over the past week. With no rain or potential flooding predicted, the ancient forbidding rock darkened. It oozed deep charcoal.
"Hey, Blue. Come and take a gander at this. Somethin's not right." Although not religious, Luke crossed himself. He glanced from the tainted rock to the pile of 'roos in the back of the Ute, tributes to last night's hunt. A happy kangaroo's face, frozen in death, stared back at him through cold, glassy eyes and appeared to mock. "It's not a sign," Luke muttered nervously and turned to the tent. There was no movement at the entrance. "Blue! Come outside and take a gander at this."ue ripped the tent flap back. He stormed out, holding on to a beer can, a thatch of bristly red hair poking through in tufts around the top of his singlet. Beer spilled out over the dusty desert terrain as the beer can fell. Forgotten as he gazed over at Uluru. "Luke, what the…" His stoic expression changed as it snowed mid-summer.
The temperature fell to never imagined depths, and the snow rapidly blanketed the countryside with a white pawl. Luke shivered in his shorts and singlet, and he looked over at Bluey for support. "It's an abomination, Blue! What's going on?"
Blue shrugged and watched the ground underneath him fracture. He followed the cracks to a hole in the ground.
◆◆◆
Three miles away, an ancient winged serpent uncoiled. Fed up by the plunder of man on its world, the sentient being caught in the twisted spawn of the devil, pushed up through the stony desert ground, splitting it open as though it was butter. It emerged in-satiated from a perfectly formed hexagonal. Cracks emanated from it across the desert floor. The winged serpent immediately went looking for a meal. Five spans of a man's arms wide and twice as long as the rock wide, it uncoiled and exposed a jagged wow of teeth gaping from a mouth.
The Kangaroo, quietly chewing on a sparse clump of withered grass, was unaware and spat. Green slime shot from its mouth and hissed with poisonous fervour as it landed on the kangaroo.
The kangaroo squealed, but the winged serpent wasn’t satisfied.
Nearby, it smelled a food it hadn't tasted in centuries. Human! It opened its mouth roared and watched the men.
◆◆◆
"Load up! Get in the Ute!"
"Whatcha 'goin to do?"
"Taking a look, what else?"
"I'm takin Icatha."
“The 10 gauge. Cool.” He looked back at their cargo. “What about the roos?"
“Toss em. I got a feeling we might hunt something bigger.”
“Bloody hell!” He looked up as a winged serpent appeared above them. It squirted acid at Blue, and he watched the man scream out, briefly, and fall to the ground.
The long hot summer suddenly finished.
The last thing that Luke remembered was seeing Blue's chewed body ripped
in half as the winged serpent approach him spewing fire …
◆◆◆
Chapter II
Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
The song from a raven perched high in a snow-covered tree fell heavily on Colonel Andrew Stone. The sad cry, full of anguish, sounded like a lost child's wail, and the tragic lament echoed around the tall buildings and bridge that lead to his workplace at NDHQ, in the Canadian National Defence Headquarters. There was something unusual in the bird's tone, a more significant presence that set his teeth on edge. Andrew shivered, and the cold settled deep in the small of his back.
It had to be at least ten below in downtown Ottawa right now. Andrew rubbed his gloved hands together to dispel the cold. He'd intended crossing the bridge over the Rideau Canal to grab a cup of coffee at the Mall and get warm. Instead, Andrew slowed his pace and watched the bird. He reached into his bag and fumbled with a sandwich.
It hopped down off the tree between him and the bridge. Andrew threw the corner of his sandwich onto the ground near the bird. It limped over to the scrap of food, almost paralysed on atrophied legs, and picked at the crust. He felt sorry for it. Whatever disease plagued it had robbed the beautiful sheen from the animal's coat and made the feathers a mottled, untidy mess. The bird stopped pecking at his lunch. It twisted its head and stared at him with one beady eye. It cawed again, long and sorrowful, but the tune changed as if the raven was gagging on its own internal fluids. Black bile poured from its beak and stained the pristine snow. Andrew stepped away, and the black pool grew in size. It smelled like overcooked pork. Andrew's chest tightened. What was happening? The raven flew up to the nearby war memorial statue. The pool of raven bile hissed and splattered on the snow. Fumes poured from it, and the concrete pavement underneath cracked. It continued to grow, and brown smoke rose from it. A form shimmered with it. It almost looked human.
Andrew stepped back against a tree, and the inky pool and smoke surrounded him. The smell tore at his nostrils and burned in his lungs. He gagged, covered his mouth and nose, and fell to his knees. Close by, a man laughed. Andrew sensed a manic pleasure in it. Dressed in an old Second World War greatcoat and a gray fedora, the man stood rigid with his arms outright and palms up. He muttered under his breath. Andrew couldn't catch the words, but his vision blurred, and an image of the man's face remained. Circles adorned each cheek with blood. A simple pentagram and tower.
Clarity of the symbols came easily, too quickly, and his jaw tightened. It had been only days ago that he'd received an email from General Cobb, and Andrew recognized the symbols as the sign of Koth. The man in the gray fedora was on the U.S. National Security Agency's watch list. Cobb had expected this, damn him. He'd telephone the general as soon as he arrived at work and let him know about it, and he'd have something—
A bright flash lit the back of Andrew's eyelids. He cried out in pain. The man ran off along the sidewalk toward the bridge, and the footsteps faded into the distance.
Andrew blinked until his vision returned. Down by his feet, the dark brown fumes subsided, but the raven's black bile had stained the sidewalk, and the cracked concrete sizzled.
The man had gone, and a chilling wind picked up. Light snow fell on the stained sidewalk, and Andrew pulled his coat tight. The snow hissed and melted on the ruined sidewalk. From the memorial to Andrew's left, the raven cawed again. This time the tone seemed to mock him. Torn between a more detailed study of the damaged sidewalk, and a desire to search for the man, he scratched his head. It all seemed weird. Through the thick gloves, his fingers seemed colder than usual. He decided he'd cross the bridge and shelter from the weather. Everything else could wait.
Andrew strode toward the bridge, and the raven's song echoed around him. The bird's call became more shrill and haunting than previously, and Andrew's stomach tightened again. He crossed the road to the war monument where another bloodstained sign of Koth marked the monument's stone archway. Andrew cursed over the graffiti-like disrespect. The raven cried out again. The bird's shrill cry sent Andrew's blood cold. It was as if giant bugs the size of mice scrambled up against his back to the base of his neck. He shivered and rubbed the back of his head. The bird flew up alongside the giant granite memorial statue of soldiers, some on horses, others walking. It landed on one of the statue's face and pecked at the soldier's eye. Granite or not, the bird's actions were disrespectful. Andrew looked for a stone among the ice, something he could throw, but he couldn't find one. The bird cawed and frantically pecked at the statue.
The statue's lifeless eye blinked. Andrew stopped in disbelief. He reached for his handgun and realized he wasn't in Iraq or Afghanistan. He had nothing.
The eye in the statue blinked again, and the raven launched itself into the air. It circled the figure. Granite arms moved, and snow and ice-covered chunks of rock fell near Andrew. Andrew moved out the way and frowned, unsure how any of this could be real. The granite soldier stepped from its horse and grew in size. The ground shook around him, and it clambered from the pedestal toward him. Andrew had seen enough and ran. The statue thundered after him, faster than he could have imagined. He ran hard: his lungs burning from the subzero exertion.
Andrew crossed the river bridge and exited toward the canal's edge. He stopped inside a small concrete subway, panting and confused. He peered out, but the statue hadn't followed him. It had stopped in the center of the bridge. Andrew crept to the edge of the canal and looked up at the proud soldier: it examined the distant ice. It stepped to the side of the bridge. A week ago, Andrew had stood under the bridge with Giselle and together they had devoured barbecued sausages and maple syrup infused Beaver Tails. Winterlude was Ottawa's showcase event, and people filled the verges alongside the canal frozen, buying from the food stalls. It looked as if the giant statue would jump onto the crowded skate way below.
People skated, unaware of the events above. Families pushed child sleds under the bridge. If it jumped, the statue would crush them. Andrew clambered over a barrier and slid across to the icy canal. People screamed. "Move," he yelled and hurried to the canal's edge. He pointed to the giant on the bridge above. "Look!" He waved the people away, but they merely waved back. Andrew ran toward them, but he was too late.
The statue jumped. It landed on the ice and rolled among the ice-skaters. People screamed, and some ran. Many were crushed. A severed head rolled along the canal toward him before the ice shattered and masked the sound of death and crushed bones. The statue vanished below the water, taking more people to an icy grave. A child's sled lay in a pool of blood nearby, crumpled and twisted. Andrew ran to the edge of the cracked ice and struggled to pull a family from the ice. It was something, at least. Three survivors out of who knew how many. He sat next to them. Numb, he listened to the sirens of the emergency crews grow louder. Andrew built up within him. General Cobb had expected something. He had done nothing except email.
◆◆◆
Andrew arrived at the office shaking with cold and adrenalin. The NDHQ was always quiet at this time of the day, but he still closed his door. He dialled a phone number, pressed secure mode, and encrypted the call. He took a deep breath.
"Cobb," answered the man at the other end of the line.
"General," Andrew bit down on his anger and breathed out slowly. "Something happened today in downtown Ottawa."
"Go on."
"A monument came to life, sir. It grew in size and ran across the road. It—"
"Came to life?"
"Yes, General."
"Interesting. A bronze one?"
Andrew frowned. "No, sir. Granite. Is that significant?"
"Go on."
"Sir, I noticed the sign of Koth."
"Describe it," said Cobb.
"Well, they wrote this one in blood. Inside a pentagram, just like in the email you sent me."
The general didn't reply.
Andrew took a breath and chewed the inside of his lip. "Sir. You knew. Many people died today."
"Do you need help?"
"What was it about him that drew your attention, Colonel?"
"Well sir, nobody runs on the icy streets dressed as he was, but his hat, a gray fedora… it seemed out of place. He had the symbols on his face." Andrew shook his head. "I know, sir, it appears quite odd."
Again, there was silence on the other end of the phone.
"Sir?"
"I'll get in touch with a contact in D.C.," said the general. "The sign of Koth bothers me. Witchcraft is one thing, but other aspects concern me too."
"Other aspects, sir?" Andrew conjured up many horrors and shivered.
"You needn't worry, Colonel. I'll get Reed over there. Reed has worked as a consultant with the Task Force before."
"Yes sir," said Andrew, but he wasn't so sure. Cobb didn't have the same respect for life that Andrew and many of the Task Force did. He believed he was a surgeon cutting out the disease from the world.
"Get that weapon out of storage and have it ready."
"The DU, sir?" Andrew frowned.
"That's the one."
"But it's untested, sir. It could do more harm than good."
"Stone, you will use it if Reed fails. That's a direct order. This cannot get out of hand. Understood?"
"Sir."
"And Stone…"
"Sir?"
"Reed is the lead authority here."
Andrew frowned. "Reed is? Sir, this is highly unorthodox. A consultant?"
Yet again, there was more silence on the other end of the phone.
Andrew bit his lip and waited a moment longer. "Sir, how will I know Reed?"