by Barry Reese
Without any preamble, Lazarus looked into the eyes of Max Davies and said one word: “Nyarlathotep.”
CHAPTER VI
You Are Cordially Invited To Meet Mr. Death
Berlin
Heinrich Himmler offered only the most perfunctory of salutes as he strode through the halls of the Occult Forces Project. As soon as word had reached him that the Schneider Expedition—or what was left of it—had returned, he had grabbed a car and sped through the city.
At any point, he had dozens of important projects with which to occupy himself but he had taken a particular interest in this one. Dieter Schneider was a genius and if he could prove his beliefs, it could mean a tremendous benefit to the OFP from both a propaganda standpoint and from a financial one. The funding would obviously begin rolling in and then Himmler’s attempts to create super soldiers would be all the better.
To his surprise, he found Schneider in one of the experimental labs. The man’s daughter—a fine-looking specimen of Aryan womanhood, Himmler thought—and Lars Hansel were both alongside the professor. Several of the OFP’s top scientists were eagerly studying some sort of mucous-like fluid that was held in a beaker. Their excitement was so great that it wasn’t until Himmler cleared his throat that anyone even took notice of him. The man holding the beaker—Otto Luther, Himmler remembered—looking almost guilty as he brought the container tight against his chest.
Dispensing with pleasantries, Himmler acknowledged Lars with a quick nod of his head and then strode straight up to Dieter. “Welcome back, Herr Schneider! I am sorry to see that your party suffered such severe losses but I am hopeful that their sacrifices were not in vain.”
“I have good and bad news, I am afraid,” Dieter replied. Himmler noticed that the man looked slimmer than he remembered and his eyes were fearful and constantly in movement.
Himmler frowned and gestured for the man to continue. “Start with the bad news, if you would.”
“We did not find Valhalla… but we did find something that I think will prove to be even better.” Dieter gestured to the scientists, who were still staring at the strange fluid in the beaker. “I have brought this substance which can be used to create more soldiers for our war. It has an amazing effect on human flesh, mutating it in surprising ways and making it much more durable.”
“Interesting. And where did you find this… substance?”
“It came from a creature called Darhoth. She is an ancient entity devoted to chaos and bloodshed. She and her agent, Vulthar, returned with me.” He pointed towards the creature that wore his daughter’s face. “This is not Sonya. This is Darhoth, the Mother of Pus. Likewise, Lars is no longer with us. His body is being used as a living host for Vulthar.”
Himmler paused, thinking for a moment that perhaps Schneider had gone mad. But he had seen far too many amazing things in recent years to discount the story, particularly if his scientists were that enthused by the substance that had been brought back.
Turning his attention to the woman that resembled Sonya, he asked, “And is this true? You’re some sort of… alien creature?”
Darhoth grinned and the expression sent a chill down Himmler’s spine. It looked hideous, as if the entity had no true conception of what a smile should look like. “I am here to make your kind bleed and scream.” She reached out and touched Himmler’s cheek, her fingers feeling cold and clammy. “But I will give you and your master so much power in return for your service. You will not need fear me… not yet.”
Himmler reached up and seized her by the wrist, squeezing it tight. “You are mistaken. The Füehrer does not serve anyone besides the Fatherland. If you are what you say you are, then you will bow down before him, not the other way around!”
“Herr Himmler,” Dieter whispered, looking frantic. “Please. I know how it sounds but I would caution you to show respect.”
Himmler released his hold on Sonya’s wrist and stepped back, looking at her with disgust. “You need to remind your daughter of the same.”
Darhoth snorted in an unladylike fashion. Her right hand shot out with lightning speed, wrapping about the neck of the nearest scientist. Within seconds, the man’s skin began to crumble and shrink, until at last it fell away from the bone. His clothing fell to the floor amid dust and skeletal remains.
With the exception of Dieter and Vulthar, everyone else reacted with horror. The remaining scientists looked ready to bolt while Himmler himself uttered an exclamation that reflected his absolute shock.
“I can do that to you, too, Herr Himmler,” Darhoth warned. “But I do not want to. I want to help your precious Füehrer and in return, I want him to help me achieve my own goals. Our ends do not have to be at odds. Do you understand?”
Himmler took a moment to compose himself. When he spoke again, he tried to inject a sense of power into his voice but he failed somewhat. Unlike the Füehrer, he was not a natural ruler of men. “I will have to speak to the Füehrer about this. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you could give more of that… fluid… to my men so that we may study it.”
Darhoth nodded, seemingly satisfied that her point had been made. She kicked at the dead man’s skull that lay at her feet. “The substance is my saliva, Herr Himmler. I have plenty more where that came from.”
She strode past the scientists, who gave her ample space to do so, and seized another beaker. Her tongue extended and several thick globs of liquid slowly dripped from its tip, oozing down into the container. Himmler found himself oddly aroused by the sight and he forced himself to look away lest he lose himself in the moment.
Dieter stepped towards Himmler and whispered, “I know how terrifying it may seem but her power… it is immense. Surely we can find a way to use it for our own ends.”
“Yes. And when all is said and done, we can dispense with her,” Himmler said, trying to think as Hitler would.
Dieter did not reply to that. He had seen enough of The Mother of Pus to know that it would take far more than anything the Nazis had to stop her if she succeeded in summoning more of her ilk. His soul was bound to her, however, and if push came to shove, he would not hesitate to stand at her side.
He had no choice, after all.
* * *
Atlanta
Nimrod cleaned the wound in his shoulder and hissed as the alcohol he’d poured over it sizzled and burned. He was furious to admit that The Peregrine had gotten the best of him. That had never happened before and it put his hard-earned reputation at risk.
Sighing, Nimrod looked around his apartment and wondered what he should do. He’d taken most of his earnings in recent years and put them right back into his operation, building up a network of informants and spies who kept tabs on various vigilantes. That was part of the way he was able to track them and observe their abilities. As such, he was still forced to live in rather squalid conditions despite his success. The days of being able to retire and enjoy his earnings still lay in the future. Being a cape-killer was expensive, he’d learned.
The payday for taking out The Peregrine would have gone a long way towards achieving his goals. He planned to retire to some Caribbean island, where he’d spend his days drinking expensive booze and having sex with brown-skinned native girls.
“But first I have to pull this off,” he murmured. He sat down next to his room’s phone and buzzed the operator, asking to be connected to a long-distance number. The man he was calling was based in Sovereign City, a town that had even more vigilante problems than Atlanta.
Within a moment, a gruff voice answered and Nimrod said, “It’s me, Fritz. The Peregrine got away from me and I’m laid up right now. I was wondering if you could give me an advance—”
Nimrod’s lips tightened as he heard the other man’s reply: “You have tried to play us for fools. We hired you to kill The Peregrine but you took a similar contract from the mob in Atlanta.”
“Both of you wanted the same thing. No reason why I shouldn’t get paid by both.”
“You eith
er work for us or you don’t.”
“If you make me choose, I’ll side with you, but I don’t see why I should have to.”
Fritz said nothing for a moment and when he spoke again, Nimrod knew that he’d nearly gone too far. “We reached out to you because of your heritage. If you toe the line, you can be assured of a place in the coming world order. The Third Reich is already spreading across Europe and, in time, America will belong to the Fatherland as well. You would do well to remember that. Whatever money you may be receiving from those degenerates now will pale next to the glory—or torment—that will await you in the future. It is your choice which it is to be.”
Nimrod sighed. Pro-German forces had approached him nearly a year ago. They offered him money to assassinate enemies within the United States and to continue to hunt down the masked vigilantes who were sweeping the nation. Until now, they had said nothing about his continuing to accept money from others. He knew it might come up, particularly with his “double dipping” on the same assignment, but he saw no conflict of interest. Nevertheless, he knew what he was expected to say. “I will inform my other employers that I am no longer available to them. They might have questions when they find out that I completed the contract, however.”
“We are not concerned with your reputation, Nimrod. In fact, we are changing your status, effective immediately. From this day forward, you are part of the Occult Forces Project. That is the agency that will oversee all German super-soldiers.”
“I have German ancestry but I’m American.”
“I will forgive you for saying that. Your Aryan blood takes precedence over any loyalty you feel for your current homeland. Do you understand?”
“Of course.” Nimrod gritted his teeth and added, “I’ll resume my hunt for The Peregrine.”
“He is in Sovereign.”
“What?”
“You heard me. He was sighted entering the headquarters of Assistance Unlimited. You are to leave Atlanta immediately. We have a private plane reserved for you. If you encounter any of Sovereign’s heroes, you may feel free to deal with them as you see fit but The Peregrine should remain your primary target. He has attracted the attention of The Füehrer and he’s considered a threat to our activities in America.”
“I’ll do as I’m told,” Nimrod said. He hung up after getting the details of his flight, slamming the receiver down so hard that it nearly toppled over in the cradle.
His dreams of retirement suddenly seemed very far away. Once he’d killed The Peregrine, there was a very good chance that he’d be ordered to Berlin to become part of whatever-the-hell an Occult Forces Project was.
He got dressed in an efficient manner, packing as he did so. He was a very clever man and he was already thinking of ways to free himself from the snare in which he had become trapped. He would definitely kill The Peregrine. He felt he had to, in light of his defeat. Beyond that… beyond that, he might yet be able to turn this into a profitable enterprise.
* * *
Berlin
Otto Luther sat alone in his laboratory. He’d clutched the vial of liquid throughout Himmler’s visit, afraid that if he allowed it to leave his hands, he would never get close to the miracle fluid again. He’d hated to see his fellow scientist die, particularly when it was done solely to show off the power of Sonya Schneider, but Otto was glad that it wasn’t he who had perished.
Thirty-three years old and handsome, Otto had risen through the ranks to his current position with the OFP. He wasn’t the smartest of men, despite the degrees he’d attained but he was tenacious and calculating. If need be, he was quite willing to steal the work of others and take the credit for it. Indeed, it had been a clever bit of theft that had gained him access to the Occult Forces Project.
Science had always been a means to an end. As a young boy, he’d sliced open kittens and performed awkward experiments upon neighborhood pets. He was sick. At his very core, he was a sadist and a monster. Science simply gave him access to tools of torture that he’d always lusted after.
Resting on the cluttered desktop before him was a vial of the girl’s spittle. It was thick, more like mucous than saliva, and every now and then it pulsed with a peculiar kind of life. He’d been ordered to begin conducting research on it and he planned to do that but a truly strange thought kept interrupting his musings: why waste such power on a prisoner or a foot soldier?
He snatched up the vial and took a deep, shuddering breath. A moment later and the stopper was gone, allowing the somewhat fetid odor to fill his nostrils. He turned the vial upside down and opened his mouth, allowing the foul fluid to drip down onto his tongue. He swallowed hard, trying not to retch… and within seconds, he knew that his life would be changed forever.
His skin began to grow hot, as if it were burning, and his eyes swelled. He howled like an injured dog and fell to the floor, his hands hugging his torso. He was deathly afraid now, terrified that he’d gone too far, when suddenly everything went black…
How long he floated in the darkness, he had no idea. He thought he felt the oily touch of unfamiliar nubby hands and the whispered gibberings of voices that were not human but he saw nothing save the stygian core of chaos, the true face of reality.
“Wake up.”
The feminine voice seeped into his consciousness, stirring him.
“Wake up,” it commanded.
Slowly, the world came once more into view and he saw that Sonya Schneider—or the thing that wore her flesh, at least—was standing beside him. She was nude, her firm young body looking particularly inviting. It was cold in his lab and tiny goose bumps dotted her skin and made her pink nipples stand out.
Otto looked down at his hands and felt a stunned kind of horror settle over him. His skin was gone, leaving behind nothing but bone. He touched the ground and felt the floor, despite having no flesh with which to do so.
“Do not be afraid,” Darhoth cooed. “You are beautiful. You stripped away all the artifice and now show your true self.”
Otto rose to his feet, swaying unsteadily. He staggered over to a mirror and looked at his reflection, knowing what he would see but still compelled to confront the terror. His face was nothing but a skull with two deep holes where his eyes should have been. His clothing was different, too, looking like something from a children’s fairy tale: black cloth, with cloth shaped like white bones sewn where his ribs and chest should be. He wore a white belt that cinched his tight trousers and shirt together. Over his shoulders was slung an opera-style cape.
“What am I?” he whispered. “How can I talk with no tongue… How can I see with no eyes?”
Darhoth stepped to him and wrapped her arms about his waist. He could feel the heat from her body against his. “Magic,” she hissed. “The simplest, most complicated explanation of all. You are Mr. Death, a name that will please your Himmler and Hitler, I think.”
The newly christened Mr. Death turned to face her. “I have power, don’t I? I can feel it… in my bones.”
She stood on her tiptoes, leaning forward to run her tongue roughly against his exposed teeth. “You can kill with a touch,” she hissed. “And you are now immortal. Though you bear his features, the grim reaper can never have you now. You are beyond him.”
Otto barked out a mad bit of laughter. He’d never been the most stable of men but now… now he was definitively unhinged. “Death,” he whispered. “Mayhem. Slaughter. Oh, my!” He laughed again before pulling away from her. He performed a jig, a skeleton man flopping about in perverse merriment. When he stopped, he slapped his skeletal palms against his covered chest and exclaimed, “I’m going to kill sooooooo many people!”
“Yes,” Darhoth said, smiling cruelly. “But first you must fall to your knees and accept me as your mistress.”
Mr. Death looked at her, his empty eyes traveling down the length of her body. Once, he’d have wanted her… oh, yes… but now he felt nothing but a distant stirring, as if he’d almost forgotten what her parts could have done for him. In
his current state, he was beyond such things. “I don’t think so, sweets. Mr. Death serves pure chaos… and as long as you do, too, then we’re on the same side. But I’m not bowing down before you.”
For a moment, Darhoth looked furious but then the moment passed and she seemed to take on a pleased expression. “Welcome to the other side, Mr. Death.” She held out a hand and, after a moment of consideration, Otto Luther took it. “You’re going to do just fine.”
CHAPTER VII
Gathering of Forces
Sovereign City
It looked like something torn straight from a nightmare—an old house that loomed against the moonlit sky. It was a massive pile of ancient stone, fine woodwork and dark shadows. The impression that it gave was that it was almost a living thing, this isolated mansion known locally as Hendry Hall—a living thing that was just waiting to sink its fangs into the bodies of all those unlucky enough to cross its doorway.
Hendry Hall was known to all in Sovereign as a cursed place, full of mysteries and death. That description was still applicable now that it belonged to Cedric Hendry and was the headquarters for Gravedigger’s war on crime.
With dark hair, deep-set eyes, and a square jaw, Cedric Hendry was a businessman who looked like he could have stepped right off of Wall Street. He had moved to Sovereign in order to inherit the family estate and he had remained there because he’d fallen in love with Li Yuchun. Their relationship was an awkward one because of their varying morality but in the end, they were still together, and that was something that Charity couldn’t help but be envious of.
Of course, Charity had her own romance. She and Mitchell were lovers though neither of them held out any great hope for marriage or children. Not only did their racial differences pose problems for the rest of the world but both were well aware of not only Charity’s time limit to redeem her soul but also the simple, unavoidable fact that either could meet their ultimate end at any time.
