World War Cthulhu: A Collection of Lovecraftian War Stories

by John Shirley

  It was to win this dubious prize that the assembled snake-worshippers and deluded occultists had come from around the globe; and it was for the sake of this privilege that Lt. Col. Roosevelt came charging at me with his saber upraised and a barbaric Knickerbocker roar on his blood-flecked lips.

  Just then, I heard a moan, and a familiar voice called my name. I turned to see DeVore lift himself up on one arm and peer blearily about him through blood from his lacerated scalp.

  The distraction left me vulnerable when Roosevelt hit me. I feinted to my left to draw his swing away from his body and tackle him, but with a dexterity that belied his empty, impassioned gaze, he anticipated me and swung for my head. The stroke would have split my skull if I had not deflected it. The knife in my hand was inadequate for such a maneuver, so I threw out my arm at such an angle that the saber pierced my forearm and sheathed itself neatly between the radius and ulna.

  Before shock could overwhelm me, I let my arm absorb the swing and twisted it to wrench the saber from Roosevelt’s hands. Overextended, he stumbled into me as I turned and brought up my knee so that his own weight drove him into it hard enough to inflict a concussion. A twist of the leg and his neck could’ve easily broken before he hit the ground, but DeVore cried out, “No!”

  I nearly lost my lights from the pain of removing the sword. Hefting it in my other hand, I moved to protect DeVore. He ordered me to stop, to protect Roosevelt from the thugs skulking forward to drag him away. The other dead men were already gone into the pit. “You save me, you’re just saving trash. I hate him the way nothing hates everything, but Teddy, he’s got to survive this. You carry him out of here, or I’ll make you sorry.…”

  His rank aside, he could order me to take any action that did not violate the letter of the terms of my contract. Roosevelt lay at my feet. He would presumably regain his wits when he awoke, but what DeVore said about Roosevelt also made this entire contest an empty, deadly charade.

  I could not protect both men. There could be only one way to derail the serpents’ plan. The circle of the elect stood vapidly, not quite in possession of the alien faculties they had usurped. Swinging the cavalry saber to clear a path, I advanced on the altar. They began to chant another name, but made no move to stop me. There was no need.

  As I drew close enough to touch them with steel, I heard DeVore shout my name, and turned back in time to see him hurled into the snake pit. I could not have saved him even if I had thrown myself after him. Falling, he convulsed and went limp as if snuffed out by a seizure, so that what struck the floor of the pit to be attacked by maddened vipers was only untenanted flesh.

  Before me lay the altar, and the sphere. Its surface was like deeply grooved obsidian, hot enough to raise blisters on my palms. Its heat beneath my hands, however—indeed, my hands themselves—vanished in a torrent of green vapor.

  As before, the vapors seemed to draw me downward into a whirlpool, at the bottom of which I sensed another sphere that glowed deep, dull red. To pull against that gravity would have been impossible, if I was a stranger to travel outside the body. As it was, I could barely resist the current of magical force which transmitted the naked, flaming souls of those sacrificed into the red sphere which the serpent mages kept within their own prison. Entombed by their own wizardry, they hoped to escape and leave behind the captive abomination that had fueled their eternal research.

  I fought free of the current and sought out the one location familiar to me in this strange place––the body I had momentarily contacted when first exposed to the exhalations of the sphere.

  It was suddenly there, suddenly and completely me, and this time it was no hallucination, for the mind, the spirit, the soul, of the creature which had been born into this body had departed just as I entered. To the disorientation of entering a body and a brain and seizing its organic processes to serve, indeed, to be, oneself was added the horror indescribable of suddenly finding oneself unmanned and utterly inhuman. It is a tribulation I would not wish upon many of my enemies.

  My time was short, for even as I took possession of this strange form, my own memories and sense of self were disintegrating and blowing away like so much smoke. Fighting to hold on to something of myself, I had at the same time no choice but to ransack the cold, strangely chambered brain for memories, for the key to the prison before me lay somewhere within. I have never studied nor practiced black magic, but this much I have learned from bitter experience: that some entities which may not be destroyed or contained may yet be bound utterly if the spell of containment includes the true name of the prisoner.

  Somewhere within that fever-swamp of a reptilian brain, somewhere inches short of believing myself a serpent, I found that name.

  Opening my eyes, I beheld my brethren, those who yet awaited evacuation. The rest lay spent and empty around the perimeter of the triangle, the sphere within it glowing a sullen, brooding red, yet in its insatiable hunger the entity encased within could not escape for devouring those sacrifices which the foolish hominids had seen fit to feed them. I looked about me at the citadel of basalt spires, once the highest seat of knowledge in all of the northern supercontinent that humans called Laurasia. And I beheld with a surge of venom in my glands the empty, false green sky of the demesne that had entombed the citadel of the Ouroboros in the earliest days of shaggy, devious, thieving proto-humanity.

  I looked down at the gnarled scales on my forelimbs, etched with incunabula and alchemical formulae, and at my slippered nether limbs and the luminous border of orichalcum dust circumscribing the seething red sphere which contained a larval Outer God.

  I closed cloudy nictitating membranes over my cataract-pitted eyes and chanted the name, even as I stretched out my slippered foot and scratched a break in the line around the red sphere.

  In the space of that naming, the red sphere ceased to exist and its contents materialized and crushed us. The citadel was suddenly and completely flattened, every cubic inch of the prison which was a world to us filled to bursting with the body of a god.

  And I?

  I was cast out of my body and there was only the one I had set free and all of us within it forever, until someone called my name.

  And the vapors took me away and suddenly I lay in the arms of Lt. Col. Roosevelt, and the world was on fire.

  I sat up and touched my face and closed my eyes and searched myself inside and out and found no one else … The one who had presumably come to usurp my body was nowhere to be found, much as I expected. Under even the best of circumstances, my body is not a pleasant place to be.

  Roosevelt sheepishly offered me a canteen. “So glad one of you survived, or no one would believe me.…”

  “I’ll never tell,” I said.

  Looking around him with pinched fear and bewilderment on his face, he finally, gratefully nodded.

  We lay on a sandbar in the marshy lagoon near the snake-worshippers’ compound, now ablaze and thoroughly demolished by our dynamite gun. A full troop circulated between the swamp and the hotel at the far end of the lagoon, lit up in ghastly red-orange relief by the blazing wreck of the Nykøbing. Sgt. Hull went down a line of prisoners, forcing them to repeat some quickly whispered test. “Ka nama kaa lajerama,” he urgently whispered and a moment later, the one who failed to repeat it was executed.

  As he meditated upon what little of the event he remembered, the lieutenant colonel’s characteristic lusty grin became a sour mask of utter dejection. All his life, he had craved action and adventure and risked all to decisively prove himself a man by defending his life under fire. Now, he looked upon his hands with a headless but galloping horror of something they had done that he could not, and must never, remember.

  “Those degenerate bastards won’t live to regret it,” he finally said, “but I certainly will.…”

  He did not elaborate, and it did not occur to me until much later that no one subjected Lt. Col. Roosevelt to Sgt. Hull’s test.

  I thanked him and turned to make my way back into th
e swamp when I was ambushed and assaulted by a naked black Cuban who threw himself at me and screamed a mad jumble of Spanish while waving his arms high over his head. I was unarmed but in no serious danger, a shot rang out and the man fell at my feet, gasping out insanity to the last breath.

  I thanked Roosevelt again and made my way to the ruined compound where, with much risk and sacrifice, I was able to secure the portion of my charge demanded by the letter of the contract. It pained me then, and pains me still, to fail in my task, for I am not allowed to fail. But I was yet able to return every last hair upon the head of Master DeVore in much the same condition they were in when they left New York.

  As to the first order … The official records show that Lt. Hamilton DeVore served with distinction at Las Guasimas and San Juan Hill, but succumbed to and died from malaria during the siege of Santiago. Let the official record show that he was never touched by a Spaniard.

  Though Lt. Col. Roosevelt was fluent in French and no doubt could command a horse in German and follow the thread of an Italian opera, he apparently knew not a word of Spanish, or he might have had a moment’s pause before he shot the black who accosted me on the sandbar.

  Amid the desperate babbling, which seemed to come from two mouths at once, I heard the Negro say, “Thank God it’s you, Cameron … It’s like a nightmare … Please wake me up! Don’t look at me like that, old man; you’ve got to believe it’s me, I’m Hamilton DeVore.…”

  MYSTERIOUS WAYS

  BY C.J. HENDERSON

  “God moves in a mysterious way

  His wonders to perform.”

  —William Cowper

  SEVERAL MILLENNIA AGO

  The centurion could not believe his eyes. His men, hardened Roman troops that had survived a score of campaigns, being defeated by bare-assed savages. Roman armor, covered in blood, bodies of the Empire being trampled in the mud. The rain coming in endless torrents, blinding the troops, shielding the naked enemy. The horror of it was almost beyond his comprehension.

  As he strained to gain some measure of control, his soldier’s brain pieced together what must have happened. The savages had been clever—far more clever than they had even been given credit for. Their attack could not have been a thing of luck. The world did not work by coincidence. No—they had studied their enemy, figured out when the Roman days of festival and worship were. They had watched for a changing of leaders—his arrival signifying someone new in charge, possibly untested, not yet familiar with his men or the land and its people, ignorant of the situation—and then …

  All they had needed to do was wait for the rain.

  As his mind roared against the insanity of what he was seeing, the damnable natives continued to move like ghosts behind the drenching sheets. The walls had been breached before anyone had known there was anything wrong. And now, the hordes poured over them, screeching their heathen blather—

  “Stop thinking about how it happened,” the back of the centurion’s mind snapped at him. “Think about what you’re going to do now.”

  Turning his head from side to side, the soldier glanced about himself, turning his attention from the reality of the battle, looking for … something. Something overlooked, something extra, something beyond, something that could possibly turn the tide. And then, a whisper from the back of his brain focused his attention on the thin strands of incense smoke rising from the fort’s simple temple.

  Instantly the centurion began to sprint for the home of the gods. Dodging his way through the battle as if his life were charmed, he slammed the doors open and threw himself inside. Racing to the altar in the center of the structure, he dropped onto his knees before it, intoning as loudly as he could:

  “Save us! Turn this battle to your children. Do not allow these blue-painted savages to drive the might of Rome from this wretched isle.”

  The soldier stopped to catch his breath, his mind exploding, wondering at what game he thought he was playing. Did he really expect his weak prayers to be answered? He had no sacrifice. He knew not the proper entreaties. He was no priest. His place was with his men—

  But then, before he could do further, a voice sounded within his brain in all the languages he knew.

  You would decide who lives and dies?

  The centurion did not understand the question. Surely what he heard within his mind, unless he had gone mad, was indeed the voice of one god or another. Not knowing what else to do, he answered as best he could.

  “I would see my men spared, and the honor of Rome spared. I care not what happens to me.”

  There was silence for a long moment, a time filled with the sounds of further screams from without. Then, suddenly there was silence. Even the rain seemed to evaporate, not daring to interrupt the suddenly commanded quiet. As the soldier blinked, wondering at what was happening, the voice spoke again.

  Your men are spared. The honor of Rome is saved. And you …

  As the centurion pressed a hand against his scalp, forcing the water from his hair, the voice concluded in a grinning tone—

  You care not what happens to you.

  NOW

  Harold peered out of his kitchen window, staring out over his garden. Doing so always lifted his spirits. Over the years, he decided as he studied his handiwork, he had become quite the talented gardener. Not fancy, not wildly original, not creating the kind of landscapes that made people pull out their cameras. But still—good.

  His was a quiet style. Strong, but understated. Full, but uncluttered. He knew where to put color, which plants to place in direct sunlight, where and how to utilize shade, when to crowd and when to display—

  “Face it, Harry,” he said quietly, allowing himself the smallest of satisfied grins, “you know what you’re doing.”

  There were birds in the garden that morning. Seeing them utilize the three separate water spots he had created always pleased him. Of course, they were only the usual little brown balls of personality-less feathers. Never a blue jay or a cardinal. Not anymore. There had been a time he would see something colorful splashing about or feeding in his garden every day. But it had been, oh, so many years since all the beautiful species had been driven out by the hundred-and-seven look-alike browns. Dull. Common. Ordinary—

  Still, better than nothing, he supposed. Even when beauty flees, life goes on.

  As he lifted his coffee cup to his lips once more, Harold found he had already drained it. The event was no surprise. He had done such before. He had been retired for so long that simply staring out the window at his garden could make an entire day pass. What else is there to do, really?

  He knew many could find much to complain about in their lives, but to do so was not in his nature. Harold knew his strengths and he knew his weaknesses. He had lost any trace of notions such as amassing wealth or any kind of power long ago. He was past the age where sexual conquests held any attraction for him. Certainly he still enjoyed women—their company on occasion; staring at this or that one that might revive some long-ago memory. But bothering with the idea of pursuit, all the games needed to arrive at the final intimacy, well … frankly … the idea bored him. Too much effort. Too little return. He had plenty of memories. Any more, looking was just fine.

  Just like his garden.

  Not that he would not put effort forth for his garden. There, he was still a workhorse. There, he could bring to the fore a reserve of effort as he could for nothing else. His well-groomed half-acre was his chance to still give something to the world. He had no inflated ideas about his contribution, of course. There was no denying his garden was small, and unknown to the overwhelming majority of human beings. But it was beauty that he gave to all who cared to view it. It was quiet and peace and at the very least oxygen which he gave to all freely—

  Even the usual little brown balls of personality-less feathers.

  Harold chuckled at the thought. He must not be a very terrible person, he told himself, if he was willing to tolerate even—

  And then, his mind froz
e. Every thought drained from him, his blood freezing within his veins. A dread anticipation flashed across his mind. Time split in uncountable fragments. He saw his coffee cup slip from his fingers, saw himself clutching it so tightly he broke its handle, watched himself hurl it against the window—more.

  Far more.

  Harold knew, with the certainty of a man watching losing dice roll toward the end of the table, that there was about to be a knock at his door. His body felt the wood of his floor scream as memory of its life as trees flooded through it, the recall of its savage reduction to planks and sawdust filling his home with agony. The smell of shattering eggshells flooded his mind, their uncomprehending failure to protect the life within them screaming about the unfairness of the universe. Outside, his garden fell into shadow, an utterly alien blanket of purple and hissing green that burned his grass and left all the brown birds choking.

  And then, as the walls began to close in, sliding toward him, chanting in the low voices of all the world’s forgotten structures, as Harold’s eyes ran with tears, after some five seconds of agonizing anticipation … the knock he was expecting came at his door.

  Two sharp raps of his door-knocker.

  Both of exactly the same volume and intensity. Perfectly separated by the exactly correct amount of time. Distinct. Memorable. Unmistakable.

  Harold did not answer the summons. He knew there was no need. His visitor would show himself in. It always did. His spirit drained, the colors of his vision reduced to nothing but grays, he collapsed into one of his kitchen chairs. Waiting.

  “Harry, my dear boy, you’re looking absolutely splendid.”

  The Crawling Chaos had returned.

  “I love what you’ve done with the outside, so neatly cultivated, so orderly, so above question—”

  Harold hung his head, unable to look up. He could not wonder at why such was happening to him again. He knew. It was his fault. Everything that happened to every man was their own fault. That was the problem with being born; it was just asking for trouble.