I could tell Joey Verona’s sanity was weaker than one of Innsmouth’s rickety houses and crumbling just as fast. He continued, not even checking if I was listening. “Luckily, a nice vacationing family found me, Morty. After I killed them all, I stole their car and headed for Los Angeles, grabbed all the cash I could and headed to Switzerland and the best plastic surgery money could buy. And this is the best they could do, those goddamn Swiss bums!” His manner softened. “But seriously, what are you doing here?”
“Working for Gillman,” I replied.
“Oh no.” Verona pointed at me and shook his head. “This guy’s too much of a straight shooter to work for fish-boys like you, Gillman. I’ll tell you what he’s working – some angle. Let me guess – a shooting war didn’t start until after he came to town. And that little battle in the town today? That was his doing as well.” He let out another sudden laugh, a yipping bark that reminded me a whining, broken-down engine. “He’s playing you!”
Gillman turned on me, suspicion in his bulging eyes. Lightning flashed outside, and I could hear my heart beating. The jig was up and now my neck was on the line. I stepped back, walking towards the double doors of the church. I wished to holy hell that I had listened to Weatherby. “He’s lying,” I said. “Verona’s got a stake against me and—”
“What started this whole thing? The docks going up, right? I bet I know who set those fires.” Joey Verona walked around me, a lopsided grin plastered on his mutated face. “He’s been playing you, and making you pay, Gillman! I’d bet my good looks on it!”
I saw High Priest Gillman reaching for one of his curved daggers, and knew it was time to run. I reached into my coat, trying to drag out my automatics, but Verona’s fist took me first. I saw a flash of whiteness behind my eyes. I tried to square my shoulders and take the blow, but then one of the Deep Ones tackled me.
It knocked me to the ground, opening its mouth to reveal rows of teeth, each thin as a needle and twice as sharp. The claws rested on my neck, ready to rip me to shreds. Verona bent down and pulled out my pistols. He pointed them at me. “Oh, God, Morty,” he said. “I’m gonna take my time with you!”
“No.” High Priest Gillman stepped next to Verona and looked down at me. “He will die a traitor’s death – right after he sees us complete the ritual that ends the world. Tie him up and take him along. We shall march against Marsh and crush him into the dust – then go into the hills and complete the ceremony.”
The situation had gone from a good way to make a fast buck to a one-way trip to the end of the world. I tried to break free, landing a punch on a Deep One that knocked out several of his sharp teeth, but they were too many and too strong. They forced my arms behind me and wrapped a tight silken cord around my chest. They stepped away, and Verona got to work. He slugged me again and again, grinning all the while as he nearly pounded my face into mush and my chest into hamburger.
“Verona!” I muttered, after he finally stepped back. I had a black eye, my nose was bleeding, and I could feel blood from my face running down to my neck and soaking into my collar. “Gillman’s a nut! He’ll end the world, Joey! He’ll destroy everything!”
Joey Verona paused. He rested a hand on his mutated cheek. “You know, Morty,” Joey mused. “That sounds A-okay to me.” He gave me another kick in the side, and then hauled me to my feet. “Come on, pal!” he said, as the double doors slammed open. “Let’s go for a walk.”
We headed outside, through the double doors of the church and into the street. Gillman’s army marched around us, his Deep Ones hopping at the front. High Priest Gillman held up the Necronomicon, starting to read as the rain pounded down. The words were insane utterances, each sounding like it took three tongues and a half to pronounce. The storm seemed to get worse with each word Gillman said.
I kept blinking in and out of things, the pain finally settling to a dull, burning agony behind my eyes. The rain drenched the brim of my fedora, soaking my shoulders and trench coat. Each drop stung my bruised frame. Joey Verona walked with me, and finally gave me a slap on the back. “Hey, hey, Morty!” he cried. “We’re here!”
I looked up and saw Marsh’s mansion. The windows were alive with gunfire, and more of Gillman’s men dropped. But then the Deep Ones charged forward, leaping over the cobblestones and lawn like scaly wolves. A few of Marsh’s thugs ran out to meet them – and got filleted by the long claws of the Deep Ones. Joey Verona watched, firing occasionally with one of his long barreled revolvers. My pistols were in his pockets. They were right next to me but they might as well have been miles away.
Marsh’s manor caught fire, casting flickering shadows into the dark street. Gillman stood in front of it, holding the Necromicon high and continuing his endless, manic chant. Verona leaned close to me, whispering in his ear. “You don’t know what he can pull out his little magician’s hat, do you, Morty? It ain’t no white rabbit, I’ll tell you that much! He can whisk up a shoggoth. You know what that is? Don’t worry. You will.”
Finally, the Deep Ones hauled poor Mayor Marsh out of his house and brought him before High Priest Gillman. The priest slammed the Necronomicon shut and leered down at Marsh. “Malachi!” he roared. “You would forsake the old ways! You would deal with the mammals and make them your friends!” He raised his dagger high. “Now it has come time to suffer the consequences!”
Mayor Marsh stared up at the dagger. He had time to make a single frightened croak before Hezekiah Gillman slashed down and opened his throat, and then his chest. Marsh tumbled backwards, his blood spraying into the dirt around his manor. Everything smelled like salt water, fish and blood. Above him, his manor burned, sending dark clouds billowing up into the darkened sky.
Gillman looked back at his troops, who let out a shrieking gurgle of victory. “So perish the enemies of the true gods!” Gillman cried, with the shrieking sincerity of the true fanatic.
“You’re a regular Billy Sunday, Gillman!” Verona laughed. “Where to next?”
“The cliffs around town – the marsh country.” Gillman stared into the distance, his tongue sliding across his flat lips. “There, we shall bring the world to its knees.” He paused to look at me. “And the traitor shall watch.”
“Sounds good!” Verona clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Morty. I’ll be sure we get ringside seats.”
“Swell,” I muttered. It was a struggle to stay conscious, but I would. I had to get free, put a stop to the raising of evil gods – and get some vengeance on Joey Verona before he could do the same to me.
After finishing off Mayor Marsh’s goons and burning his mansion to the ground, Gillman and his boys headed up into the cliffs, with Joey Verona and me to keep them company. Verona stayed behind me all the way, a pistol pressed to the back of my head, just in case the ropes binding me and the brutal beating he had handed out weren’t enough. Each step on the slippery cliffs set a bolt of pain rocketing through my body. I gritted my teeth and took it, wishing to God that Weatherby hadn’t taken off, and that I had listened to his warnings.
The land around Innsmouth was a mix of jagged cliffs above the roaring sea and marshes fat with fetid water. Gillman selected a wide cliff overlooking the ocean for the ceremony. Standing stones covered in strange curving marks stood in the center of the plains, and the Deep Ones created a small, smoldering fire from dried seaweed and driftwood. They threw some strange coral into the fire, causing the flames to rise green and greasy into the sky.
“Here we are, gents!” Verona said, pushing me down on a fallen log. I sat down heavily, breathing hard as I stared into the fire. “Looks like the perfect atmosphere for a little bit of the old apocalypse rag, eh Morty!” He sat next to me and put his arm around my shoulder. “Ain’t this just great! A couple of old friends watching the world go blam-o!”
“You’ve lost it, Verona,” I rasped. “If you ever had any sense to begin with.”
Joey Verona paused. His merriment strained out of him and he stood up. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe yo
u’re right. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? Soon as old Cthulhu goes wakey-wakey, everyone’s gonna be just as kooky as me, right before the final curtain falls on the whole miserable human race.” He walked away from me, grumbling to himself out of the corner of his mouth.
I looked back at Gillman, who had flipped through to the back of the Necromicon and started to read. A score of his Deep Ones stood behind him, sitting on their haunches and watching the fire intently. One of his remaining, sort-of human guards stood near me, a Browning Automatic Rifle clutched in his hands. Gillman started his chant, a slow mutter that rose in intensity as he continued.
The fire roared higher and higher, rising like a flickering tower into the black sky. Thunder rolled in the distance, and lightning flared off, like the ground under our feet was cracking and splitting open. The ocean roared, waves pounding into the cliffs like angry fists. I slumped my head, staring at my boots. There was nothing I could do except wait for the end.
It was all because I wanted dough and revenge for Vernon Partridge. I had gone blood drunk, stupid with my need to inspire more violence. Now it seemed that all of existence would pay the price.
“Mort.” The voice was quiet and came from behind. I looked around. Weatherby crouched in the briars behind the fallen log, trying his best to make himself unseen. The kid was drenched from the rain, with drops of water raining down his round spectacles. He reached over and pulled the knife from my boot, and then used it to cut the bonds.
I looked warily back to the Deep Ones. The fish were too interested in Gillman’s ceremony to pay much attention to me. “Weatherby,” I said. “You came back. Was it for the scheme?”
“It was for you,” Weatherby replied. He looked up at the fire, and then at Gillman. “I remembered my father’s teachings about the Deep Ones and the Elder Gods. I could not leave you in their cursed city, even if you insisted on your insane plan. I wandered around in the hills and cliffs, stumbling through marshes before I realized that I should return. I saw the manor burning, and your present situation. Then I hurried here. Gillman didn’t bother to post sentries.” He handed me the Ka-Bar. “And I’m rather glad I that I’ve arrived to help you.”
“You and me both, kiddo,” I replied. “Joey Verona showed up soon as you left. He saw through me in a second.” I held the knife tightly. I had taken a beating, and there wasn’t an inch of me that didn’t feel bruised and bloodied. It was me against a couple guns, a dozen Deep Ones, Joey Verona and Gillman. And I didn’t have long to make a plan.
“Oh, and take this…” Weatherby reached into his coat and pulled out a thin necklace. A strange pendant hung from the cord, a kind of green star with bent arms and bright yellow eye inside. “The Elder Sign,” Weatherby explained. “I believe it will prove most useful.”
“Thanks.” I stretched my arms, looking at the Innsmouth man with the Browning Automatic Rifle. I had a feeling that his BAR would be even more useful. “Stand back now, okay? It’s gonna get nasty.” I prepared myself, biting my lip as I set the necklace with the Elder Sign around my neck. I gripped the knife tightly and made my move.
The poor bastard with the BAR didn’t see me coming, not until I had buried my blade in the back of his neck. He started gurgling, and I almost gently pulled the BAR from his hands. I rested the knife in my boot. Then I stood up and swung the Browning Automatic Rifle to face Gillman’s men. I had rarely used a BAR in the War, preferring a Thompson, but I didn’t mind. I squeezed the trigger and started firing.
The BAR bucked and rumbled in my hands. The recoil made every inch of me ache. I swept the ranks of Gillman’s troops, blasting them apart as they reached for their guns. I turned the gun to face the Deep Ones, opening fire as they charged my way. The heavy bullets of the BAR tore off scaly limbs and ripped open their mottled gray bellies, spreading fish guts on the grass and dirt.
One of the Deep Ones closed the gap between us, leaping into the air with both claws ready to slash me to ribbons. I kept shooting, pumping the last bullets of the Browning Automatic Rifle through his brain. He collapsed, and then I faced Gillman.
The High Priest looked up from his reading. His eyes were bulging, glowing red and blood trickled from his nose and mouth. “Mammalian filth!” he roared. “Verona – finish him!”
“My pleasure.” Joey Verona headed my way, my own pistols in his hands.
I had seconds to figure out how to beat him. I decided to risk everything on a charge. I grabbed the barrel of the empty BAR and charged Verona, swinging it around as he started shooting. A bullet burned past my shoulder. Another grazed my side, drawing blood. And then I swung the heavy rifle into his chest, knocking him to the ground and forcing the guns from his hands.
“You don’t want to die easy, Morty?” Verona grabbed my throat and started squeezing. He forced me to the ground, kneeing me in the gut and making pure white pain flash past my eyes. “Hey, no problem! You know me – anything for an old pal!”
His grip was tight. I tried to move my arms and reach for the knife, but I couldn’t make it. I was gonna lose this – unless I did something nasty. So I poked four fingers into the side of Verona’s face, right where the radiation had melted his cheek. His skin felt like mush, and I kept pushing until I hit something solid that must have been bone. Verona started screaming and pulled back, letting go of my throat.
He came to his feet, holding his face. I had clawed him deeply, and strips of yellow flesh, muscle and bone were visible. “No, no, no, no!” Verona cried, and turned to run. He forgot about Gillman. He forgot about me. All he wanted to do was get out of my sight. I saw the hitman hurrying away, and felt just a little sorry for the bastard. I shook the feeling quickly from my head.
Now High Priest Gillman was all alone. He stared at me as I came shakily to my feet. “Drop the book, and I’ll let you live,” I said. “If you don’t, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
“Oh no,” Gillman replied. “I’ve come too far. I am about to touch the face of a long forgotten god. I cannot stop now.” He raised his hand and opened his mouth wide. “In Dagon’s name, I will see you dead.” He muttered a frenzied whispering chant, and looked back at the fire. The flames danced crazily, and something started to crawl out. “You will be food, Morton Candle – food for the shoggoth!”
It came out of the fire, sliding onto the grass with a hundred clutching tentacles aimed my way. The thing was like a giant blob of Jell-O, but greasy, black and the size of an automobile. It changed its shape constantly, forming blinking eyes, clutching claws, shrieking mouths, and even terribly human faces. It made strange chirps, like demented birdsong. The shoggoth was terrible to look at, and it was coming my way.
I scrambled to dive for my fallen pistols. I brought them up and started shooting. Bullet after bullet rippled through the gelatinous body of the shoggoth, without leaving a mark. It coursed forward, dripping over the ground as it came for me. Both automatics clicked empty in the second before it enveloped me.
Tentacles battered my body, gooey innards pressed against my sides, and claws reached out to slash me open. I closed my eyes, then reached to my throat and grabbed the necklace Weatherby had given me. That little wooden green star was the only thing in the whole world I had left, and I held onto it like a life preserver in a stormy sea.
Slowly, the shoggoth rolled away. It left me lying in the dirt, coated in slime and feeling like I had been thrown into a washing machine. I slowly came to my feet, groaning with each movement. The shoggoth hurried into the hills behind me, running like a beaten dog. I looked up and stared into Gillman’s bulging eyes.
He was confused. “In Yog-Sothoth’s name, how did you—”
I opened my hand, letting him see the Elder Sign. Weatherby stood at the edge of the slaughter, his revolver drawn, watching everything. “I got a friend, Gillman,” I said. “And I owe my life to him.” I nodded to Weatherby. “Look away, kiddo. You shouldn’t see this.”
I ran towards Gillman. He dropped the Necronomicon and
went for a dagger, but I was faster. I grabbed his hand and forced the blade from his grasp, then slugged him in the chest. He started gurgling, but I wasn’t done with him yet. I grabbed hold of his shoulders, and then slammed his head into one of the standing stones. One of those bulging eyes popped out, as blood ran across his gray, scaly skin. I was wondering just how to kill him, and then I saw the fire.
Gillman struggled and kicked, but I overwhelmed him. I forced him down, and then pushed him forward, plunging his head into the blaze. Green flames started licking at his skull. He started screaming, and I planted a boot on his back, keeping him from going anywhere. I thought idly of a fish fry, as Gillman’s writhing ceased and he finally lay still. I tossed the Necronomicon into the fire after him. It seemed like the right thing to do.
When it was done, I felt all the strength I had called up flowing away. I nearly collapsed, but Weatherby caught me. He held me up. Together, we regained my fallen automatics. I took the Elder Sign from my neck and handed it back to him.
“Thanks,” I said. “You saved my life. Innsmouth was an ocean of violence and corruption and darkness. I was drowning in it and you pulled me out.”
“We’re partners, Mort,” Weatherby replied softly. “And that’s what partners do.”
He helped me limp back into town, and out of the driving rain.
Mort Candle's War
They met in a clearing. A small carpet of snow frosted the trees of the Black Forest, and the air felt sharp in Sergeant Morton Candle’s lungs and throat. The dirt crunched under his boots, and the warmth of the cigarette in the corner of his mouth was a small relief. His tommy gun rested under his arm as he stared into the darkness of the forest, at the half-a-dozen SS stormtroopers heading his way. His squad’s sniper, Elkins, was perched on a branch somewhere above Morton. The sniper and a treaty agreement were the only assurance he had that the Nazis wouldn’t kill him on sight.
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) Page 6
