After the End of the World (Carter & Lovecraft)

by Jonathan L. Howard

  She entered the corridor and walked quietly down to the door she’d seen the doctor exit. As with all the newly assigned staterooms, it had the temporary occupant’s name in a card holder on its laminate surface.

  “Daniel Carter,” she murmured under her breath. “You slut.”

  * * *

  Carter felt the best he had in months the next morning. He felt alive in a way that had evaded him for a long time now, and real in a way he hadn’t felt once since the world had unfolded. Now, he felt a part of the world instead of just an observer. He still intended to change it back at the very first opportunity, but the new reality did not grate on him so much. He could hardly account for it after what he had seen in his dreaming vision. He should have been soul-sickened by what he had witnessed, but instead he was purely angry at those Nazi fucks and their carny occultism. The anger lent him a spark, and the spark gave him purpose.

  He was ravenous at breakfast. His bunk had smelled of sex in the morning, although he didn’t seem to have made a mess of the sheets, which was a relief. He’d had a cold, invigorating shower before running it hot for a few seconds. He had read a James Bond book years ago—he wasn’t sure which one—and Bond did something like that in the morning to wake himself up. It certainly seemed to work. He went into the mess feeling like a lean, mean, fucking-up-the-plans-of-Weird-Gods-and-Nazis machine, got himself a plate of bacon and eggs and a big mug of black joe, and sat down opposite Lovecraft with a broad smile and a heartfelt, “Good morning!”

  Lovecraft looked up from fitfully stirring her oatmeal around as if he’d just invited her to join the Arkham branch of the KKK. She held the look for a moment, and then returned her attention to her bowl.

  Some of Carter’s pep deserted him. “You okay? How’d you sleep last night?”

  “I slept just dandy,” she said, stabbing the oatmeal with her spoon. She looked at him from beneath a lowering brow. “How about you? Disturbed night?”

  He shook his head. “No. I went out like a light. Between the lack of sleep and the motion-sickness meds, I was dead to the world. Glad of it, too. I really needed some rest and last night was just what the doctor ordered. Feel great this morning.”

  He noticed she was looking at him oddly, as if he’d just said something contentious. Then he remembered the “dream” and his own expression clouded. Bizarrely, Lovecraft’s changed to show some satisfaction. Carter wondered what the hell was going on inside her head. It was like they were having a conversation from two different scripts.

  “Yeah,” he said, deciding to plow on regardless, “I had a dream.” She looked blankly at him so he clarified with, “A Randolph Carter kind of dream.”

  She frowned, her own script apparently still getting in the way. “A dream? A ‘dream’ dream? What time was this?”

  Carter had taken the opportunity to start on his breakfast, and Lovecraft had to wait until he’d chewed and swallowed for an answer, having to make do with his expression of frustrated consternation while his mouth was full. He took a gulp of coffee to clear his mouth, and said, “How would I know? I was asleep all night. I told you. I only woke up half an hour ago.”

  “How can you remember a dream if you don’t wake up during it?”

  “That’s how normal dreams work. These are different. I remember them like I lived them.” He thought back to sometime in the early hours, and a different dream, which he also remembered albeit in a fragmentary kind of way. Yes, he must have awoken for that to have stuck. He had a blurred memory of turning over and being half-awake to do it.

  He glanced around; the mess was still almost empty, and the only other people in were a couple of techs in the far corner who were bemoaning that Attu’s supply of booze would be tightly controlled and they’d be spending most of the next couple of months boringly sober unless they got a still working. Satisfied that the mechanics of distilling and the avoidance of going blind were the techs’ main focus for the moment, he leaned closer and told her quickly the main points of what he’d seen.

  When he finished, he added, “It was nothing like in the movies. It was just a job for them. They were bored for most of it.”

  Lovecraft had finished her oatmeal while she listened and was now eating an apple. “Still kind of vaudeville though, ain’t it? You’re sure this was the real deal?”

  He looked at her soberly. “They were real people, Emily. I saw twelve people murdered. It was for real. I don’t know where it happened. I don’t know anyone’s names. But it was as real as we’re sitting here.”

  Lovecraft thought for a moment. “We need to get every detail down while it’s fresh in your mind. You tell it to me, every single damn thing you can remember, I’ll keep pushing with questions, and you write it down. No, better idea—I’ll type it. You type like you got bottles on your fingers.”

  “I made some notes in my dream journal.” That a hard-nosed man like Carter kept something as New Age as a dream journal no longer amused either of them—not given the nature of some of his dreams. “We’ll do this in my stateroom.”

  “Yeah,” said Lovecraft, “let’s check out your bachelor pad,” and she was on her feet and making to leave before it struck him that it was an odd thing to say.

  Chapter 21

  THE DOME

  Carter hadn’t left the stateroom’s porthole open when he’d gone out earlier, an oversight he regretted when he returned with Lovecraft close on his heels. He muttered something about the air being close and made his way straight to the porthole to unlock and open it.

  Lovecraft closed the door behind her, leaned by the frame, and inhaled through her nose. “Gee, Dan,” she said with heavy irony, “kind of funky in here, ain’t it? Smells like a bordello.” She enjoyed herself far too much, enunciating every syllable of the word.

  The screw mechanism that held the rectangular porthole shut wouldn’t come undone easily, and Carter fought the locking nut with growing irritation that was undeniably tinged with embarrassment. “Yeah. It’s kind of close in here. Didn’t realize.”

  “You had a lady friend in here? Show her your etchings or something?”

  “I was asleep all night. I must’ve sweated when I had that dream.” The damn nut would not move. “Just let me get this thing loose.”

  “Sweat.” Another melodramatic inhalation as if testing a wine’s bouquet. “Yeah, I get the sweat. But, what is that underneath it? Smells … sexy.”

  He turned to find her looking at him with arms crossed and an unfriendly smile on her face.

  “Okay. Fine, I had another dream. More conventional dream. Do I have to spell this out?” The bolt finally moved, and he quickly disengaged the lock and swung the porthole inward. The air that flowed in its wake was breathtakingly cold, but it was also odorless.

  “A sexy-times dream? You still get those? Wow. And there I was, thinking you had help.”

  Carter’s patience, already shortened by humiliation and the recalcitrant screw lock, was wearing very thin. “What’s this about, Emily? You’ve been weird all morning.”

  Lovecraft’s smile faded, and she thought for a long moment before speaking. “What you do in your spare time is your business, but not when it’s got an impact on why we’re here, and sure as fuck not when you are literally sleeping with the enemy.”

  Carter frowned. “When I’m ‘literally’? I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Give it up, man. You can come up with all the cutesy stories about you having an adolescent wet dream you like—”

  “Cutesy?”

  “—fact remains, you fucked a Nazi, and I am having a hard time being cool about that.”

  Carter was stunned. He looked blankly at her and said, “What?”

  “Lucille Gayle, or whatever her name is.”

  “Lurline Giehl…”

  “I saw her come out of here in the small wee hours all aglow and looking damn pleased with herself.”

  Carter’s jaw had dropped with surprise. “What? Doc Gie
hl? In here? Are you sure?”

  “Sure as I’m sure I’m in your sexy den now.” She looked at Carter’s face. “Holy shit. This is actually news to you, isn’t it?”

  Carter didn’t trust himself to say anything, but just stood there staring at her like an idiot.

  “How did you miss being jumped by the sexy Nazi, Dan?” The smile that had been forming faded suddenly. “Fuck. That’s rape, ain’t it?”

  “I … don’t know. I guess? It’s … You’re sure it was her? In here?”

  “Yes. Totally, on both scores. You don’t remember any of this?”

  Carter shook his head, feeling more stupid than he had for a long time. “I thought it was a dream. But I don’t remember seeing her. I can’t have opened my eyes.”

  “You have to be kidding me. She’s going to be pissed if she finds out you didn’t even know it was her. I mean, who the hell did you think you were fucking in your dream?”

  Carter had a vague memory of who that had been, and couldn’t look Lovecraft in the face. Her eyes widened. “Oh, that’s beautiful. That’s just fucking beautiful.”

  “I’m not responsible for what happens in my dreams. For Christ’s sakes, Emily.”

  “Don’t you dare say I should take it as a compliment.”

  Carter, who’d been considering exactly that, said, “Of course not.” He sat down heavily on his bunk, looked at the bunched up and fragrant bedding, and got up again to sit at the corner desk. “Why’d she do it?”

  Lovecraft shrugged, bored with innuendo. “Who knows? You’re not bad looking, and you’ve got that blond, blue-eyed, thug look all the Nazi chicks dig. Also, you saved her life. Maybe she just snuck in here to ‘thank’ you and thought you weren’t as asleep as you were. I don’t know. It’s your body. You’re the only one who can decide how upset you wanna be about it.”

  “I don’t remember. It was a nice dream. I don’t know what I should think of it now.” He shook his head. “I can’t get upset about it right now. Still too surprised. Maybe later. I don’t think I will. Unless she’s given me an STD. That will piss me off.”

  “Yeah. That Hitler herpes is the worst.” She took a chair by the door. “Look, Dan. I’m sorry about what I said earlier, being a bitch about it. I didn’t know that … you didn’t know. Whatever you want to do about this, I’ll back you up, even if it’s nothing. Gotta say, though, I’m hoping it’s something. If you want to throw her over the side, I’ll tell people a giant squid got her.”

  Carter couldn’t help but give a half laugh. “You’re a pal, Ms. Lovecraft.”

  “Happy to be so, Mr. Carter.”

  * * *

  They sailed into sight of Attu Island shortly after dawn on the second day. Carter made a point of locking his door that night after a day where it had proved almost surprisingly easy to dodge contact with everyone but the ship’s crew. Instead he accepted an invitation to Lovecraft’s stateroom where she waited with a pot of coffee, their assigned weapons still in their packing, and cleaning kits.

  “Face it, tiger,” she said as she held a lint-free cloth below her eyes like a veil, “this is hotter than bumping it with Doc Giehl.”

  Now it was impossible to avoid anyone, however. Just about everyone was in the bow to watch their destination heave into view, and perhaps they all felt just how isolated they were for the first time. The strong northerly winds had finally arrived, and the RV Frederick Cook was lashed by spray as she altered course to take her into a cove protected by a high ridge running along an isthmus onto a peninsula.

  Dr. Malcolm made a very short speech about how what they were going to do there might change the world, but the wind stole half his words, and the bitter sea spray robbed his audience of their enthusiasm, so they were all glad to get back under cover. Up on the bridge, the helmsman was working hard on keeping the ship in a narrow deep-water channel edged with rocks, the navigational buoys that had once floated there largely torn away and lost in winter storms, and never replaced. Nobody thought it wise to break his concentration, so they went below and finished packing belongings and gear to get ready to disembark.

  Attu Island didn’t look even as inviting as its slightly radioactive cousin to the east in the early light. The arctic winds had brought clouds with them, and the ship’s crew, who’d seen enough of the local weather’s eccentricities to last a lifetime, said the inmates of the scientific establishment would be unlikely to see another star—including the sun—for days or weeks. They might not see another clear sky for the remainder of their stay, in fact. This prediction of a persistent literal gloom cast a metaphorical one upon many of those preparing to leave the vessel, but not Lovecraft. She looked at the low cloud and thought that what the eye don’t see, the heart don’t grieve over, or quail at. No, she’d be just fine without stars for the time being, thank you.

  The docking facilities at the island had left something to be desired. Formerly, there had been two wooden piers out into the cove, but after the early-warning station was abandoned, the harsh conditions had destroyed them slowly yet surely. Now just enough of them survived to be navigational hazards. The crew who’d arrived first on the island and who would be traveling back on the Frederick Cook had helpfully rowed out to put red flags on the pilings farthest from the weathered concrete dockside. As an alternative way to dock, they’d emplaced cleats so the ship would have something to tie off to, even though it meant a tricky approach. The helmsman took his time and no risks, however, and a quarter of an hour later, they were casting ropes down to the building contractors who’d been making the place livable.

  Visible from the landing were the prefabricated buildings that had been set up in the shadow of a large ridge to the west, the bright blues, whites, and yellows of the plastic outer walls showing absurdly against the dour darkness of the rock, and the unhealthy scraps of green grass and scrub that were all that could grow in that wind-blasted place. The buildings looked like toys left by giants on a day trip. About a hundred meters away lay the blockhouses they’d been told about, but they looked uninhabitable even at a glance, and presumably a closer survey had proved just that.

  Lovecraft reached the three waiting cars that were to ferry their gear, flatbed Kübelwagen transports donated by the Reich. She looked over toward the temporary settlement.

  “So where’s this dome where the experiment’s taking place?” she asked the contractor who was helping her load her bags.

  He grinned and pointed up the ridge. “Up there, on Mount Terrible.”

  She looked at the dark massif disbelievingly. “You’re shitting me? Who calls a mountain ‘Mount Terrible’?”

  He laughed. “Somebody who’s had to climb it. Don’t worry, ma’am, the military built a road up to it. It’s safe to walk, but a ’wagen will have you up there in twenty minutes. Great view when the weather’s clear, but, yeah, there’s not many blue skies around here.”

  * * *

  The prefab units sprawled across what had once been an aircraft staging area for the military base. The runway was still there, and in good enough condition for light planes to operate from it, but no plans for an aircraft to be stationed there had been made. With no aircraft and no boat, the scientific expedition would be trapped on the island in an emergency until they could be evacuated, but no emergency so catastrophic that immediate evacuation was necessary had been envisaged. Only two cases potentially filled that ticket—a volcanic eruption or an outbreak of food poisoning—but seismic surveys indicated the former was currently very unlikely and, if that changed, there would be warning, while in the latter case a regime of the encampment never all eating from a single round of cookery at the same time plus scrupulous supply and medical checks made it unlikely.

  The contractor who’d told Lovecraft about Mount Terrible further compounded her growing love for the place by telling her the entire island chain was volcanic. “Sure. The whole ridge is where two plates have smashed into one another. Just over there”—he pointed southeastward into the
gloomy horizon—“is Agattu. Had earth tremors from there not so long ago. But don’t worry. There haven’t been eruptions for years.” He shrugged. “Well, apart from the one on Atka. That keeps blowing its top, true.” He thought for a moment. “And there’s that big dormant one on Umnak. But those are all well to the east. Really not much activity around here.” He looked like he’d said his piece, but then he remembered something. “Apart from Mount Kiska on Kiska Island, of course. You’d have passed that on the way. That’s a huge volcano, but it’s dormant. Don’t worry. No volcanoes on Attu.” And with these comforting words, he left her to settle into her room.

  She sat on her bunk for some minutes, trying to remember why this had all seemed like such an exciting idea in Arkham.

  * * *

  The first days went very quickly. The building contractors left aboard the RV Frederick Cook on the same afternoon that the remaining scientists and their two-person “security detail” were dropped off. Carter felt like a complete fraud as he discovered there was actually a security station included among the prefabricated buildings; it seemed he wasn’t alone in feeling like a third wheel, as a very professionally painted sign reading Sheriff’s Office appeared hot glued to the door during the night. Pranks aside, he was relieved that the supplies of alcohol on the island were very limited. Two months of people sitting around with, as it turned out, very-limited-bandwidth Internet was bound to lead to tensions. The Internet connection was supplied by satellite link. It was ruinously expensive to maintain so its use was strictly rationed. Indeed, satellites were their only link with the outside world at all. Nobody had ever bothered to lay telephone cable to the end of a chain of islands even most Americans didn’t know about, and it was so remote that conventional radio communications were problematical. The base contained a long-range HF set that could bounce signals off the ionosphere, but this was regarded as a last resort, the satellite Internet link being more convenient and often more reliable.