THAT DARN SQUID GOD

by Nick Pollotta

  Supported by a heavy tripod of cast iron, the massive weapon consisted of a cylindrical firing chamber fronted by eight barrels joined in a circle. An open box on top fed in the shells, and a large crack on the side operated the death-dealer. In the light of the coal-oil lamps, the superweapon gleamed like a gift from Heaven.

  "Bring some barrels from the cellar," the Lieutenant ordered. "They will offer a bit of protection from flying glass."

  Turning about, Curtis added, "You four! Take cover behind the bar, and be ready to give protective rifle fire in case of a mishap."

  The soldiers moved with all due haste, and started loading their weapons.

  Stepping close to the window, Sergeant MacScott tugged nervously on his muttonchops. "What is the plan of attack, sir?" he asked softly.

  "We are going to cut off a limb," Lieutenant Curtis said, watching the work in progress. "Here now, tighten that bolt, lad, or the first round will be our last!"

  Scratching under his cap, the Sergeant seemed ill at ease. "Begging your pardon, sir, but is this wise? A wounded animal will be much more dangerous."

  "It's heading for Buckingham Palace and the Queen! And we do not intend to wound the beast, but kill it! These bullets are coated with an anti-coagulant."

  Furrowing his brow, MacScott paused before replying, "But of course, sir. I see."

  "The blood won't clot, so the creature will soon bleed to death," Lieutenant Curtis explained.

  "Bally good show!" Sergeant MacScott cried with a snort, and then quickly lowered his voice. "Our science boffins really pulled a wowser out of their hat with that trick!"

  Kneeling on the sawdust, the Lieutenant helped a private attach the ammunition box. The brassy cartridges were streaked with an oily substance. "Actually, the chemical compound is a German invention," Curtis replied. "Something they came up with during The Troubles."

  "Oh," Sergeant MacScott frowned. "Well, jolly good idea, anyway, sir."

  In short order, the top hatch was closed and locked in place, the bolt thrown, and the handle freed from its mooring.

  Outside the tavern, the sounds of battle steadily increased until they became an endless roar.

  "Ready for operation, lieutenant," Corporal Moorehouse stated, giving a crisp salute.

  Standing and brushing the sawdust from his pants, Lieutenant Curtis primly tightened the chinstrap of his helmet. "Proceed, Mr. Moorehouse."

  Putting his back into the task, the Corporal began wildly cranking the huge handle. With a loud ratcheting, the eight barrels started to rotate. A split second later, the top muzzle vomited forth a stuttering, banging stream of high velocity lead. With a mighty crash, the windows disintegrated, and the tentacle in front of them was torn apart under the strident fury of 400 rounds a minute!

  ***

  Ripping a gargoyle off a nearby building to toss at a particularly bold cannon crew, the squid felt an itch at the base of tentacle four and flexed a muscle so as to remove the minor annoyance.

  ***

  A battering ram of flesh came crashing into the bar, toppling the gun and crushing the soldiers as it plowed through to reach the alleyway.

  "Retreat!" Lieutenant Curtis shouted, drawing his saber.

  Unstoppably, the tentacle smashed into the bar, sending bottles crashing and bodies flying. Trapped in the corner, a soldier shot his rifle at the thrashing limb, and accidentally hit an oil lamp. Covered with flames, the tentacle quickly withdrew, destroying more tables and men in the process. As the ceiling timbers groaned and the walls began to collapse, the few remaining soldiers fled from the ruined pub, shooting their weapons at the thing every step of the way.

  Reaching the alley, the soldiers took stock of their losses, counted the dead, and reloaded with professional efficiency.

  "Hell and damnation," Corporal Moorehouse stormed, angrily throwing his hat to the cobblestones. "Doesn't that beastie have any weakness?"

  "Fire," a panting private volunteered, leaning against the wall. "It…don't like…fire."

  "Explain that, old son," Moorehouse demanded, and the soldier complied with what few details he had witnessed.

  Slowly standing tall, the resolute corporal smacked a fist into his palm. "By Gadfrey, if only we had some kind of Greek fire thingy to hose the monster down with!" he raged.

  On the other side of the burning tavern, the squid moved along the street, always accompanied by screaming and booming cannons.

  "An 'ose," a private echoed, rubbing his chin. "What 'bout a fire hengine loaded with coal oil stead of wat'r?"

  Bursting into laughter, Corporal Moorehouse clapped the man on the shoulder. "Brilliant, my son! We'll save London yet and it'll be the Victoria Cross for the lot of us! Come on, boys!"

  Grinning like fiends, the soldiers took off with hands on their hats and spread out to search for the nearest fire station.

  ***

  Lacy white clouds lazily moved past the British hot air balloon, HMS Cloud Runner . The balloon was draped with a colorful Union Jack and stout netting that was lashed with ropes to a simple wicker basket.

  Inside the basket were two British soldiers, several wicker hampers, and a pressurized tank connected to a burner unit situated underneath the open bottom of the balloon. A quivering gauge on the tank showed the pressure of its gaseous contents, and a hissing flame jetted up from the burner to force a column of superheated air into the taut balloon. An actual flying machine, Cloud Runner was the marvel of the age, and the most deadly weapon in the renowned British arsenal of scientific war machines.

  As the balloon drifted leisurely along on the afternoon breeze, Major Braithwaite carefully shifted his balance in the gondola and scanned the horizon with binoculars. Meanwhile, Private First Class Youngerford notched a steel-tipped quarrel into a military crossbow and prepared to shoot.

  "Ah, here he comes. Tethering line, ready?" the Major asked, keeping one hand on the wicker rim of the basket.

  Angling against the wind, the Private carefully adjusted the aim of his heavy crossbow. "Aye, aye, Skipper!" Youngerford answered. The Royal Air Corps wasn't really part of the Navy, but using salty nautical terms made him feel better.

  "Then do it, lad," Major Braithwaite ordered brusquely, lowering the binoculars.

  Giving a nod, Private First Class Youngerford pressed the release lever. With a sharp twang, the crossbow bolt whizzed through the air to thump into a tree trunk in the park near the statue of Lord Nelson. As the line grew taut, the balloon stopped with a gentle bounce.

  Although greatly pleased, Major Braithwaite did not compliment Youngerford on the shot, since superb marksmanship was why the lad was here. Well, that and the fact that he was the only applicant who hadn't gotten airsick during training.

  The smoky city of London sprawled below the HMS Cloud Runner , and madness seemed to rule the streets. Only Trafalgar Square was strangely empty of civilians or soldiers, and the major suspected a trap for the squid.

  Well, it won't be needed after we finish with the nasty bugger! Braithwaite thought, without fear of contradiction. By Gadfrey, I used to eat mounds of fried squid every Saturday while I watched the local shinty game. And now one is smashing up the capital of the Kingdom? Unacceptable!

  Raising the binoculars once more, Major Braithwaite adjusted the focus and swept the scene for details. Small fires were burning everywhere. Many buildings seemed to be missing, and there was general destruction left in the wake of the gigantic squid. Looking further afield, Braithwaite saw hordes of civilians choking the streets as they tried to get away. Only a single plump woman dressed like a cook stood her ground near an exotic pet shop. She was firing a pistol at the titanic beast. Good show, miss!

  However, even at this height Major Braithwaite could hear the shouts and screams of the population, along with the sounds of continuous gunfire and explosions. The major gave a weary sigh. Not so very long ago, a similar London scene had caused him to join the army in the first place. Adjusting the field glasses, Braithwaite frow
ned. How deuced odd. He should have been able to spot Cleopatra's Needle from this height. Was he facing the wrong direction?

  "Skipper, the monster has almost reached the square!" Private Youngerford said with calm urgency.

  "Why so it has, lad," Braithwaite replied, watching the city below. "Give me a reading on our height, please!"

  Leaning dangerously out of the bobbing basket, the Private read the markings on the tether rope. "One hundred yards, sir."

  "Good show. Then cut me a ten, and a six second fuse, and hop to it!"

  "Aye, aye, sir!"

  Kneeling alongside a wicker hamper, Youngerford brought out a roll of stiff green cord. Using military scissors, he neatly trimmed the fuse to the needed lengths. Closing the hamper, the Private went to a wicker basket near a wicker chair. Choosing several dynamite bombs from the array inside, he oh-so-carefully inserted the fuses. To save space and weight in the Cloud Runner, there were no sandbags attached as ballast to the hot air balloon. The bombs served that purpose. After the mission was completed, the aero-pilots would simply turn off the gas jet and float back to the Earth like a homesick soap bubble.

  With a thundering crash of masonry, the squid oozed into Trafalgar Square, the street churning with tentacles and dotted with explosions. Petulantly, the colossus began ripping apart the buildings, but it found them all empty. Obviously, the prey had already fled.

  Snorting at the obvious distress of the monster, Major Braithwaite lowered his binoculars. "Cigars," he ordered brusquely.

  Removing a pair of panatelas from an inside coat pocket, Private First Class Youngerford passed one to his commander. Striking matches, the soldiers lit the cigars and puffed the tips to a bright cherry red. Exhaling smoke through his nose, the Major looked over the arsenal of death-dealers and made his selection.

  "We'll start with a brace of the short-fused dynamite sticks," he decided. "No, make that the iron balls. Those will give it a nice dose of hot shrapnel. We can then follow up with a couple of bottles of nitroglycerin to widen the wound. Then we'll finish it off with a steady pounding of dynamite: six stick groupings, ninety percent, waterproof fuse, for deep internal damage."

  Supremely confident, Major Braithwaite puffed on the cigar and grinned in satisfaction, "Then back to barracks in time for dinner and hurrahs."

  "Aye, aye, sir!" Youngerford cried eagerly, rushing to the task. His hands became a blur of activity.

  "Steady on, Private! We'll do this by the numbers," the Major chided formally. "Now, ready one and two, for my mark."

  "Ready, sir," PFC. Youngerford said, moistening a finger. "Wind is south by southeast, two knots."

  Inhaling sharply, Major Braithwaite grabbed the central array of ropes supporting the balloon above. "Light the fuses…" he ordered slowly. "And drop them…now!"

  ***

  Strolling along the Strand, the Squid God had paused to beat a dead horse in order to tenderize the snack, when a thunderous explosion occurred on top of its head.

  Eh? What in Dutar was that? Glancing upward, the squid saw the hovering balloon and wicker basket. A flying house?

  Quite puzzled, the colossal monster studied the weird apparition until something was tossed overboard to land directly between its eyes. There followed a loud explosion. Oh, just more enemies . Giving a hoot of amusement, the squid gestured with a tentacle and threw a lance of fire at the floating annoyance.

  The distance was too great for the magical fire to reach the balloon, but it did ignite the wicker basket hanging underneath.

  Encased in flames, the mooring line burned through, and the Cloud Runner drifted away on the morning breeze. Beating at the spreading fire with their jackets, the British aero-pilots tried to keep the blaze from reaching the basket of bombs and the pressurized tank of natural gas.

  The blast lit up the sky for miles.

  ***

  Standing on the roof of the Admiralty Building, a team of Army Engineers watched the defeat of the Royal Air Corps with some serious dismay. On the streets, a battalion of troopers jogged into the square, keeping a constant stream of rifle fire at the squid, which followed along behind, eating any stragglers or heroes.

  Near the edge of the roof of the Admiralty Building, a team of technicians worked feverishly to assemble a metal framework that rather resembled an oversized coat rack. However, resting against the rack were twenty-four, state-of-the-art, Congreve black powder rockets. Each Congreve was a full yard long, thick as a haunch of meat, and situated on top of a wooden pole two yards long that it used as a stabilizer.

  "Check elevation," an officer commanded brusquely.

  Only a short distance away, the squid nibbled on the towering stone arch erected to honor the Admiralty. In astonishment, the officers watched as the behemoth tore the top of the monument free and placed the archway on its head as a sort of hat. The squid turned about, almost as if searching for a mirror to check the fit.

  "Insolent dog!" the officer cried, thumbs tucked into his gunbelt. "What is the wind, please?"

  "South by southeast, two knots," a corporal replied.

  Doffing its granite chapeau, the squid began to wriggle in their direction.

  "Ready-aim-lock-fire!" the colonel shouted as a single word.

  With shaking hands, privates lit the fuses and ducked. Spraying sparks and clouds of thick black smoke, the mighty Congreve rockets streaked across the city to hit the squid with satisfying accuracy. The steel-tipped rockets punched through the monster and burst out the other side. The iron-tipped missiles burrowed deep inside the creature to detonate, but only produced a sort of rude burping effect.

  However, the barbed anti-ship rockets sank into the squid and stayed there, securely anchored by hooks designed to entangle the rigging of an enemy vessel. The attached mooring lines were sturdy steel chains bolted to the granite cornerstone of the Admiralty Building's foundation.

  "Ah ha, now we have you!" a major cried in delight. "It's trapped like a rat in a whatchamacallit."

  "A rat trap, sir?" a private bravely asked.

  "Exactly!"

  Ever so gently, the squid probed at the exit wounds with a few tentacles. With their jaws dropping, the Army Engineers watched in dismay as the wounds began to close and soon were gone.

  Now turning to face the soldiers atop the Admiralty Building, the squid formed a mouth around each chain and started sucking them inside like cooked spaghetti. As the cornerstone was yanked away, the building began to collapse underneath them. With sad faces, the Army Engineers did not say a word. There was really nothing they could say.

  ***

  In stunned horror, Prime Minister Disraeli watched as the Admiralty Building broke apart and tumbled down into a pile of stones and rubble. Closing the curtains, Disraeli adjusted his morning coat, smoothed his hair, and briskly walked out of the War Room and down the main corridor of Buckingham Palace.

  Armed guards were everywhere, Beefeaters mixing with Royal Marines, Dragoons, and common foot soldiers. But each trooper in turn passed the PM without question. A Gatling gun was being assembled in the middle of an intersection, and doors were being nailed shut everywhere.

  Little good those will do , Disraeli mentally admonished those so engaged. But it was always important to keep the troops busy, even when the work was pointless.

  Reaching the main dining hall, the stiffly formal guards saluted at the approach of the Prime Minister, and threw open the double doors.

  "Your Majesties," Prime Minister Disraeli said, entering the royal dinning hall and giving a bow.

  Seated at the extremely long table stacked with food, was a short dumpy woman in a plain black dress and a gold crown, and a tall smarmy man clad in a spotlessly clean military uniform.

  In casual concern, the two glanced from the staggering breakfast repast of eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, potatoes, kippers, steak, roast quail, smoked ham, a roasted turkey, grilled tomatoes, fried mushrooms, porridge, oatmeal, coffee, tea, milk, biscuits, butter, scones, and a hund
red different types of jam.

  "Has the animal been killed yet?" Queen Victoria asked, stirring the India tea in her Royal Dalton cup with an Irish silver spoon.

  "No, Your Majesty. In fact, I fear the creature is almost upon us," Prime Minister Disraeli said with some force in his voice. "Once again, I strongly recommend evacuation to Scotland."

  "Out of ze question," Prince Albert snorted, holding half a sausage on a fork. He did an excellent impersonation of a rutting pig before adding, "Ve stay und fight!"

  Looking up from the table, Queen Victoria paused in the act of breaking the yolk of her egg. "Oh dear," she said. For a moment, the Prime Minister was unable to tell whether she was reacting to the situation or to the broken yolk. "Then I suppose we must use the Black Squad."

  "Vunderbar!" Albert shouted eagerly, nearly bouncing in his chair. German by heritage, the Prince-Consort fairly tingled at the prospect of someone else's doing battle. "Let us show dot monster vhat ve English are made of!"

  A true diplomat, Prime Minister Disraeli merely arched an eyebrow and dutifully replied, "Quite so, my liege. The Black Squad it is."

  ***

  A few blocks away from the palace were the parade grounds of the Palace Horse Guard. Behind a tall brick wall, impatient soldiers milled about a stable that oddly smelled of motor oil and coal dust.

  "By thunder, I can't stand it!" Sergeant John Barta raged, kicking a spanner across the stable. "That thing is out there destroying London and we sit here on our duffs!"

  Muttering agreement, the soldiers snapped their suspenders and stomped about, much too full of energy to sit still.

  With a loud crash, the stable doors slammed open and in walked a young lieutenant swinging a swagger stick.

  "Ten-shun!" Sergeant Barta cried out, standing at attention.

  Regardless of what they were doing, all of the other soldiers instantly did the same.

  "At ease, men," Lieutenant Stephen Donaldson said, walking across the straw-free floor. "What is our status, Sergeant Barta?"