The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack (40 Modern and Classic Lovecraftian Tales)

by Anthology

  Inside the Quonset hut, I found Cpl. Okada, our radio operator, at the set, speaking into the transmitter. When he saw me, he called out, “Colonel, it is Lt. Gen. Iida for you.”

  I sighed deeply. The timing could not have been more——or less——propitious, for I had no time to consider my options further.

  “This is Col. Terusawa,” I said into the microphone, taking the headset from Okada. “Go ahead, General.”

  The voice on the other end sounded a million miles away, reminding me of the vast distance between this haunted plateau and the disciplined, regimented world beyond. “Col. Terusawa,” Gen. Iida said, “Fighter Group IV is to arrive at 1100 hours tomorrow. You will be ready for them?”

  “We are on schedule, General.”

  “What of the difficulties you reported earlier?”

  I hesitated. I knew I must speak now, or not at all. “We have engaged an enemy,” I finally stammered. “We’ve suffered no further losses, but at this time I believe our position is not secure. We do not have the manpower or weaponry to repel an attack, should it come.”

  Several seconds of silence followed. Then: “And this enemy? Who is it?”

  I swallowed hard. “It’s true nature has not been ascertained, General. There is something…deadly…in the jungle, sir.”

  “I do not follow you, Colonel.” Iida’s voice had a harsh edge.

  “Sir, I ask you to trust my word that an air group will not be secure at this site.”

  I heard a muted voice speaking to Iida, and silence followed for several moments. Finally, he replied, “You are an excellent soldier, Colonel. Your record is exemplary, and I am sure I made the right choice in assigning you this mission. An element of tanks arrives in the morning to assist you, does it not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do you feel this is insufficient for you to complete your assignment?”

  “I am certain I can complete my assignment, sir. But I believe that to do so is ill-advised. This is my most prudent military judgment, General.”

  Iida seemed to ponder the point briefly. But then he said, “Col. Terusawa, your orders are to complete the renovation and be ready for Fighter Group IV to arrive as scheduled. Do you have any other questions or comments?”

  My heart sank. His decision was final. “No, sir. I do not.”

  “Very well. You will be pleased to know the campaign in Malaya is succeeding beyond all hopes. Gen. Yamashita has routed the British to Johore, and expects to occupy Singapore within ten to fifteen days.”

  “That is excellent news, sir.”

  “I anticipate similarly excellent news from you tomorrow.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Until I hear from you, then.” The receiver went dead.

  I turned away and dismissed Okada, telling him to spread the news about our victories in Malaya, which would hearten the men somewhat. I was truly pleased for Gen. Yamashita, whom I had met before. He was considered by many to be a somewhat neurotic, but highly capable officer.

  As I went to fulfill my duty, a new, numbing fear began to overcome me, nearly trivializing all that I had experienced up to now: that, officially, I myself might have just been labeled “neurotic” by none other than Gen. Iida himself.

  * * * *

  For the rest of the day, I pushed the men almost cruelly, and, though fatigue showed on them like a cerement, they obeyed my orders with a quiet desperation, aware of the fate that might await us in the coming night. The tractors had laid matting over the existing runway, leaving only a portion of the newly extended strip yet uncovered. I knew that we would be finished well in advance of the fighter group’s arrival. As the sun touched the treetops in the west, Cpl. Okada brought me the report that, less than a hundred miles to the north, 55 Division was streaming across the border from Thailand at Kawkareik, bound for Moulmein on Burma’s western coast. The news of our advances should have brought us reason to rejoice, but faraway victories could scarcely assuage the dread that simmered in the aging afternoon.

  Once the purple and gold streaks that mourned the daylight began to dim, we went to our evening meal. We had so far been frugal with our rations, but tonight I ordered extra portions of sesame-seasoned rice and dried beef for all. The guards rotated, and fires began to spring up among the trees, creating a bastion of light against the menace that lurked somewhere beyond. But the camp was unnervingly silent, for not one man called to another, no one spoke above a whisper; even the jungle’s nightsongs seemed muted, as if its creatures shared our fear of what the Burmese darkness mirthfully hid.

  At about 2030 hours, as I sat with Shindo before a reassuringly bright fire, I heard the erratic jungle rhythms falter and cease. We immediately took up our rifles, as did every other man within our sight. I almost regretted having allowed the fires, for they blinded us to anything beyond their short range of illumination, but presented us to our enemy with merciless clarity.

  It seemed ages we remained frozen, thwarted by the stillness that mocked our vigilance. And then, with a terrific boom and a blinding flash, a landmine exploded some fifteen meters away, its light revealing something that stretched out of the jungle like an onyx serpent: a thin ribbon of uncoiling, solid shadow. I heard screams far to my left, from the northern end of the camp, and another landmine blew up with a dull thump-crack, followed by another, and then another. A volley of rifle fire came from my left, their muzzle flashes creating a strobing effect by which I could see an ambiguous thrashing among the trees. Another landmine exploded, and in that moment of brilliance, I saw three or more men being dragged, struggling and screaming, through the barbed wire into the void beyond the minefield. I lifted my rifle and blindly emptied its five shots, lamenting the futility of the gesture even as my finger squeezed off the rounds.

  Near me, I saw Lt. Tajima unsheath his sword and run, crying defiantly, toward our useless barricade. His sword swished back and forth as if in battle with some invisible assailant, but suddenly he was cut down. As more gunshots lit the night, I saw his body being pulled across the ground and through the coil of barbed wire. He screamed shrilly as his flesh was shredded; then his voice was stifled, and he was gone.

  Something small followed Tajima’s figure into the darkness: a grenade. Seconds later, it exploded with a muffled thump, as if its force had been absorbed by something solid. The now-familiar hornet’s buzzing suddenly swirled angrily out of the jungle, again assaulting my eardrums like stabbing needles. But seconds later it ceased again, and I detected no further movement amid the trees. I lifted a hand, signaling the nearest men to hold their fire.

  We stood like frozen Noh-players until, finally, a single insect somewhere to my right chirped for a mate. From my left, one answered tentatively. And the jungle came to life again. I ordered Shindo to take a head count, and he rushed away to comply. When he returned two minutes later, his face was stricken with disbelief.

  “Eleven men are gone,” he said. I choked back a sob. Never in my entire career could I have witnessed such useless death. “Every man will remain vigilant tonight. There must be no sleep,” I said.

  Shindo said softly, “None of us will close his eyes tonight.”

  I nodded and began to walk among the men. They were dutifully gathering spent clips from the ground, reloading their empty rifles, picking up the dropped weapons of their lost comrades. Though each man’s hands shook, and each face bore the ghastly pallor of fear, they performed their duty like soldiers. A small tremor of pride passed through my body, for, in spite of the horror we had just faced, my men remained steadfast and valiant.

  I finally returned to the dim interior of the Quonset hut, fully aware that tonight’s ordeal might have only begun. I looked at the radio set, our one link to the proper world we had left behind. It seemed a pitiful, laughable device that had no relevance in this haunted place. Without pausing to consider what I was doing, I lifted my rifle and fired, and the radio set exploded, its components clanging loudly against the sides of
the hut.

  A second later, Shindo rushed through the door, his eyes wide, jaw agape. He paused to regard the damage I had done, and for a moment I thought he was actually going to strike me. But soon, the burning in his eyes cooled, and he lowered his head, shaking it uselessly back and forth.

  “So, you think we are finished?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “Not finished. Lost.”

  Shindo turned up the lantern so that its golden glow threw hideously foreshortened shadows on the walls. I sat down at the table and, as before, he brought out a bottle of plum wine. “It’s the last,” he said.

  He took two small cups from his personal kit and filled them for the both of us. We drank silently, watching our movements mimicked by the unnaturally long, thin black shadow beings on the wall.

  “Whom did we lose?” I asked.

  “Tajima. Okada. Torohata. Adachi. Gondo.…”

  “The men we most need to complete the work.”

  Shindo nodded, unable to continue. Finally, he whispered, “What kind of world does such a thing come from?”

  “A dead, black world,” I said. “It must have a black sun, that burns horribly in the night. And the sounds…the very air must be forever filled with its evil song.”

  “Why is it here?”

  “It is somehow connected to the people here. I regret destroying that village, for the ones on the ridge are surely their cousins. But more than that, I only regret that I cannot kill each and every one of them myself.”

  “But sir, if we can hold out until the air group arrives, we may get reinforcements, and then we can destroy them utterly.”

  I shook my head. “Shindo. Do you believe that any number of our men could do more to that black-hearted thing than we have already done?”

  He sighed. “No, sir.”

  “Shindo,” I said. “Have the men move to the edge of the runway. We are too near to the trees.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He left to do as I ordered. And I watched the lamplight, the little caged star with the power to spell the difference between courage and cowardice. Take that little star from the night, and what did we have left? I twisted the knob and doused the flame. The darkness came complete, and I laid my head on my arms on the table, aware that my body was a spent ember. I did not dare close my eyes. But I could not keep them open.

  Sleep washed over me like an ocean tide, tugging me far away, so quickly I could not even realize what was happening.

  * * * *

  I opened my eyes to a darkness so pure that I might have been closed within a coffin. My muscles were frozen, and I could not even move a finger. After a few moments, I realized that my head lay on the tabletop, cradled by my arms. Something was tickling my left ear; an insect, perhaps. I wanted to bat it away, but I could not move.

  A sharp buzzing sound began, like the whirring of a beetle’s wings. But it rose steadily in volume until it became far louder than any insect. And then the buzzing took on a strange, articulated quality, rising and falling in a terrible imitation of speech. Eventually, I could make out words, though they had no meaning to me:

  “Michi kyong mi, ghia da cho-chiyo.…”

  A stab of sheer terror broke my paralysis, and I bolted upright, batting frantically at my left ear, certain there must be something resting there, but my fingers touched only air.

  And the sound continued.

  “Kyo-gha baung, balah kai… We… we… watch…we…win.”

  I cried out, hands flailing. One of them struck the lantern, and it fell to the floor with a crash. As the echo died, the buzzing voice also went silent. The tickling behind my ear remained, though, as if legs of chitin had grasped the flesh of my earlobe. I called Shindo’s name, but received no reply. Stumbling blindly toward what I hoped was the door, my hand struck the ridged wall of the hut so fiercely that pain charged up my arm like an electrical shock.

  Finally, my questing fingers found the door, and throwing it open, I lurched outside, desperate even for starlight to break the terrible blackness. I could see the dying coals from several fires, and above, a few stars twinkled in a hazy sky. There was no moon. None of my men was in sight. I wanted to call out, but now I feared to raise my voice——for again, the night was bereft of sound. To my left I could see the dark hulk of a bulldozer, and I went toward it slowly, picking my steps carefully over the rutted earth.

  When I reached the machine, I glanced up at the ridge, only to see a single, flickering point of flame near the darkened crest. The light was stationary, as if the torchbearer were simply watching and waiting, knowing that it had nothing to fear. Had I brought my rifle with me, I would have opened fire, though it was far beyond the range of my puny bullets. Instead, I merely rested my weight on the cowl of the bulldozer and glared defiantly at the torch. I sensed that whoever held it was laughing.

  At last, I turned to gaze upon the runway we had labored so diligently to complete. In the pale starlight, a few meters away, I saw something that struck me as out of place. As I went toward it, fingers of cold nausea began to wriggle up from my stomach. It was a tall and spindly thing, with something large and bulbous perched atop it. Taking a few steps closer, I peered closely at it, trying to establish the identity of the dead.

  It was Shindo. His eyes were closed, the mouth open and tongue lolling from slack lips. Black blood still dripped from the torn neck, pooling like oil on the ground at the base of the bamboo stave. I groaned miserably, no longer repulsed or sickened; simply finished. How long had it been since we had shared the last bottle of wine? A few hours? Only minutes, perhaps?

  Suddenly, Shindo’s eyelids flew open, and the dead eyes turned to look at me, shining with terrible cognizance. With a gasp, I backed away, unable to tear my gaze from this sickening desecration, unwilling to accept the indisputable proof of my own sight. The living eyes followed my every movement, their gaze horrified and pleading. No! No awareness could possibly remain in that ruined case of flesh and bone.

  I turned and ran toward the row of tents that now lined the earthen apron beside the airstrip. I tore open the flaps of the first one I came to and poked my head inside, only to find it empty. I ran from tent to tent, rewarded with the same result at each and every one. Where? Where were they? Every man in the camp could not have disappeared. It was impossible.

  But I was alone.

  I cried out to the night, to the burning light at the top of the ridge, to the unseen horror that I knew lay in wait somewhere in the vast darkness. I cared little that it might reach out to take me, for at least I would be where I belonged: with the men of the 212, who had lived and worked and died in my charge. I screamed until my voice faltered and went silent, my throat raw and tortured. On the ridge, the torchlight continued to burn indifferently.

  At some point, I stumbled back to the Quonset hut and in the pitch blackness settled myself in the chair at my little table. My fingers found the framed photograph of my wife and children, and I squeezed it to my chest with such strength that not even the hideous clutches that had pulled my men through barbed wire could have loosened it from my grasp.

  The darkness held its breath, and I wept.

  * * * *

  The sun could have been up for moments or for most of a day before I became aware of its light creeping through the still open door of the hut. It was not the light that had drawn me from the secret place where I had retreated and that I could not recall; it was a sound: the low whining of distant engines.

  My first thought was that the tanks had arrived, for they were scheduled to precede the fighter group. But the sound I heard was not the deep grumble-clank of motors and treads. This was the distinctive drone of airplane engines. I rose from the chair and crept into the daylight. The sun had risen halfway to its zenith, which meant the fighter squadron was arriving on schedule.

  But where were the tanks?

  Stiffly, I walked down to the airstrip. The first thing I noticed was that Shindo’s piteous remains had somehow been remo
ved, with only a repugnant dark stain left behind. Looking skyward, I could see no sign of the planes as yet; but the sound of their engines grew steadily louder, echoing through the jungle so that I could not determine the direction of their approach. They would have been trying to contact us——unsuccessfully, of course.

  At last, I saw a trio of dots veering in from the east. They quickly grew larger until I could recognize the graceful profiles of the Ki-43 Hayabusas. They roared low overhead, dipping their wings as the pilots regarded the airfield curiously, the brilliant red balls of the rising sun gleaming from their forest green fuselages and the gray undersides of their wings. One of the pilots saw me, and I raised a hand in greeting, for a moment feeling a strange sense of normalcy, as if all that had happened here had been swept away by the arrival of my countrymen.

  Five more vee-shaped formations followed, and behind them, a trio of Ki-57 transport planes appeared, carrying the squadron’s supplies and ground crew. The lead Hayabusa swung back to the east to set up its approach, and the other fighters fell in close behind. A lump of joy and relief rose to my throat, though some whispering voice inside warned me that my most difficult task might yet lie ahead, once the pilots discovered the awful truth of what had happened here.

  Despite a conscious effort to avoid doing so, I chanced a look toward the top of the ridge. Suddenly, my blood went frigid and my heart began clanging like a gong in my ears. There, as on the previous day, a wavering heat haze marred the sky above a cluster of swaying trees. I could feel the thing watching me.