Bev muttered more apologies and offered to buy Roger a drink sometime. “I’ll see you Friday,” Roger said, and he left the microfiche room but not the library. After seeing Bev walk down the steps, Roger slid back into the microfiche room and located the sheets labeled Necronomicon, then dug some change from his pocket and made Photostat copies of the pages he wanted.
Roger had his Friday nights free. After two more episodes—a dumb two-parter about scientists pretending to be aliens in order to steal an A-bomb—The Green Hornet was canceled. So much for Bruce Lee. Chuck decided to get high and stay high full-time, Bernard vanished into politics, and Stan and Lawrence retreated into friendly nods on campus and the occasional discussion of Star Trek. “Didja see it?” Roger did. He liked it, especially when Spock would do the Vulcan Nerve Pinch. A fake dim mak, but Roger was sure he had the real one. Every Friday night he practiced the postures on those pages from the Necronomicon. One Friday afternoon Roger saw Bev in Oakland and thought to wave for a moment, but held his arm down. Bev walked right past him without acknowledging Roger at all. Better that way, Roger decided.
Roger didn’t tell Sifu, didn’t mention the pages to anyone. He even kept a bottle of booze under his bed in order to replicate his once-typical morning breath for the early Saturday sessions. Roger didn’t notice that others noticed the changes in him. Sifu got rougher with him; the old man needed to just to keep up. Roger’s father hid behind his copy of The Pacific Weekly, his mother made excuses to visit friends, and ordered in from restaurants rather than cooking. That was fine with Roger; he could take the little paper containers up to his room more easily. Everyone noticed the imbalance, for lack of a better word. Spring was turning to summer, but Roger was always a bit chilly; his room, damp and cold. He was nervous, always chewing his lip; Roger could barely have a conversation or walk around the neighborhood on an errand without stopping to rest. Only when he pushed hands with Sifu was Roger invigorated.
On Saturday nights, he found it easy to contemplate the nothingness from which everything springs. Just standing on a curb, hands in his pockets, Roger discovered the wuji. And he dreamt, for long hours about the wuji. About swimming a black ocean for endless years, his limbs dead but still moving thanks to some force not his own.
Roger was sure he had the dim mak. He just needed a reason to use it. And that reason was coming. The Black Panthers were on the streets, and they hardly liked the Chinese any more than they liked whites, Roger thought. The Jackson Street Boys had made more incursions across the Bay. It was supposed to be the Summer of Love, but the only people getting any action were the radicals and their smelly white women. That was fine. All the martial artists believed in preserving their jing, their precious life energy. Had Sifu ever seen Dr. Strangelove? Probably not. Power roiled in Roger’s belly, in the depths of his dantien. It was like a baby, a baby made of yang that left Roger nothing but yin for himself. When Roger contemplated the wuji on Saturday nights, he felt himself vanish and a pulsing red fetus, all knobs and pseudopods, remained to levitate several feet over the hot pavement.
It’s still not completely clear to most people what happened outside the Golden Dragon. The English-language newspapers were silent on the subject; the Chinese-language articles hard to translate thanks to the use of several obscure—some might say esoteric—characters in the vital explanatory sentences. It was August when the Jackson Street Boys made their move, but it wasn’t a direct one. The East Bay tongs were weak, and the Panthers were strong, but not as strong as the Oakland PD or establishment politicians. The Jackson Street Boys made contact with the right people in town—we’ll defend you against the blacks, they said. Just let us in. The Golden Dragon gang found themselves without a clientele, and blamed for the violence that the Boys brought with them. And then there was Bernard, who Roger saw sniffing around town, though the man had never been south of Woolsey Street before.
The situation came to a head one broiling August night. Roger wasn’t perspiring at all. It was almost like a musical number in a Technicolor spectacular. The Jackson Street Boys ten abreast on one side of the street, the Golden Dragon bunch in a loose semi-circle around the entrance to the restaurant. The car traffic was light, but Roger knew that there was something going on down at the end of the street, down at the end of Franklin Street. If he looked, the Jackson Street Boys would charge, he was sure of it. So he looked and saw Bernard, hoisting a Pepsi bottle with a flaming rag in it overhead and rushing up the block. “For the people!” he shouted. Three dark figures, Panthers in black sweaters despite the heat, sidled up the sidewalks. They had rifles. Probably just looking to pick off who was left standing, take the neighborhood for themselves. The Boys roared and charged, knives out. Roger heard Sifu inhale sharply, deeply, like his last breath needed to be his best. A deep shiver flooded Roger’s limbs, but then with his next breath his veins were aflame. The Molotov hit the street, several feet short of the Dragon gang’s rear. A Panther leveled his gun and cut Bernard in half. Roger was sure he heard someone shout Thanks! in Cantonese-accented English. The Dragons opened fire with pistols, brandished hatchets and butcher knives.
Roger could see a bullet blooming out of the back of one of the Golden Dragon waiters, wide as a saucer. He put a hand out and it shattered against his palm. He ran down the street, bursting through his own line, and rushed a machine gun, his chi high, his chest an iron vest. With one punch he stove in a Panther’s head. A turn on his heel, a low kick, and a second went sprawling into the puddle of flame, then yelped and rolled away. A Jackson Street Boy came roaring over a parked car and got nailed by the last Panther. Roger turned to see Sifu tied up with men on three of his limbs—the old man shook off one of them, tripped another and sent him headfirst onto the pavement, then tussled with the larger, better third. The son of the Golden Dragon’s owner fell at Roger’s feet, his neck open and smiling. The last Panther was taken out by a lucky knife to the eye, but he had five men on the street around him, their limbs splayed against the asphalt like the rays of red stars.
Roger looked around again. Sifu did something complicated to his opponent’s neck, and the guy fell like his bones had left him. Four Jackson Street Boys flanked Sifu—one of them had a revolver. Police issue? Anything was possible now. Roger rushed to help. Sifu fell to one knee. Roger had his hands up, looking to touch. One guy ducked out of the way, another didn’t. The tip of Roger’s fingers on the man’s jaw. Then a great black whip of night split the man in half.
Sifu’s eyes widened. “No,” he said. He reached to touch Roger, to shoot a spear-hand up to Roger’s groin. The lower dantien. Roger clamped his palm on Sifu’s face and didn’t bother to squeeze. The old man fell backwards; his head sounded like a melon against the pavement. Roger grabbed a wrist holding a knife and twisted, feeding a spiral from deep within himself into the man’s elbow, shoulder, spine, ankles. Roger smiled. He thought he was going to live through this.
In the end, it took all of them to bring Roger down. The Jackson Street Boys fell like extras in a Hong Kong movie, but that gave Chuck the time to get into his car and slam it right into Roger’s back. Poor Chuck, he flew through the windshield like he’d hit a tree. Roger was stunned, both by the impact and at the vision of his stupid old friend flying overhead. Seatbelts weren’t commonsense then. Stan was there too, suddenly, and Roger hesitated for a moment. Stan had one of the Panther’s guns and pumped a few bullets into Roger’s temple. That put Roger back onto a knee. Lawrence just ran off into the restaurant, which was a mistake since Bev had sliced the gas line open while waiting for the brawl. He must have lit a cigarette or something—smoking during a stressful situation still was commonsense then—and then the ground under me shuddered; the sides of the Golden Dragon puffed out, but held. The street was painted a flickering red. Roger grabbed Stan’s ankle and yanked it hard, slipping the rug right out from under him. Roger saw a new opponent, and the bizarre dagger in his hand, and went for Stan’s gun.
“Bev.”
> “I’m sorry,” Bev told him. “I need what’s inside you. The something that springs from nothing.” I heard Bev’s voice clearly. These were the first words I was able to make out. He wasn’t really sorry. “The book told me what to do with it, how to grow that spiritual baby within you, to make it strong through conflict and strife, so it could defend us from...” Bev seemed to forget the language for a moment. “Things.”
Roger held up the gun. “Put down your weapon.”
“This?” Bev said. “It took me a year to make this.” He turned the blade in the light and it glittered as if faceted, but at the same time it wasn’t. “I’m a double-major, actually, Classical languages and physics. It’s a seven-dimensional blade.” Bev looked at Roger, expectant. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, finally, “that means it works from over here.” And then Bev sliced through the air and cut me out. “Sort of like a phaser, or Hornet’s Sting,” Bev told Roger’s corpse. Then he dropped the knife, which sliced into the air and left, and picked me up and took me in his arms.
Forty-five years, Bev cared for me. Feeding me, reading to me, nurturing me into a being worthy of defeating the Outer Gods who even now reach out across the inky blackness of space toward your planet. But like most precocious children, Bev had misunderstood the details of childbirth and rearing, and conceived a fantasy to fill the black hole of his ignorance. What he midwived was an Outer God, or the teensiest phalange of one anyway. And I am here, sprung forth from the wuji and into the world, to return the world to wuji. It’s a cosmic cycle billions of years in the making, and no human agent could ever possibly intervene. The universe grinds away at itself. Why tell you all now? Well, I’ve been among you for years—in my time I’ve learned the animal joys of strife and anguish. Do not hate me for long. It will all be over soon.
The One in the Swamp
Natania Barron
Georgia was nothing like the Arizona Territory, and my sister Cassandra was nothing like herself by the time we got there.
We jumped off the train just south of Waycross, and I was full of regret. The entire trip from Arizona was on account of an argument between Cassandra and our oldest sister, Elizabeth. Cassandra figured Elizabeth had to be following us, and no matter how many times I explained how unlikely it was—considering Cassandra had shot her in the leg—she’d hear nothing of it.
In truth, I wished that Elizabeth would have followed us. I wished that we could skip back a few weeks, and go back to the way things were, back when we just killed things and never asked questions. I wished that Cassandra’s heart hadn’t gone hard, and she was back to the delicate, laughing, flirting sister I knew. Even if I resented her for all her beauty, I’d have paid anything to see her smile again.
“Keep up, Lydia,” Cassandra called back. She was making for the trees and she cut a dark shape before me, ill-shaped with her gun under her duster.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” I said.
“Well go faster,” Cassandra said.
She vanished into the tree line and I followed behind her, almost losing my footing on the steep incline. I had to keep moving or else I’d lose Cassandra to the trees.
The air was so thick in the wood that I about near choked on it. Going from the desert air to this was a terrible adjustment, and no matter what we did we were always sweaty and hot.
A few minutes of walking and the ground went mushy, water filled my boots, and I let out a groan.
“Cassandra?” I called.
“Hsssh!” she hissed, followed by the sound of her safety disengaging. Then I heard the charge of the secondary barrel on her shotgun, the one that I installed. I’d modified it so she could provide a considerable electrical charge along with a barrage of bullets.
I never could leave a weapon well enough alone. That’s what Elizabeth used to say.
As for me, I didn’t have any of my more impressive weapons in easy reach, so the Starr revolver was going to have to do the trick.
Ducking down, I closed my eyes and turned my ears, tilting my head just so. My hat helped amplify what was out there and sure enough I heard it.
I’ve heard ungodly things before. Profane things. I’ve heard the chittering of creatures so heinous I can’t even put it into words. It’s part of the territory, being in my family. We’re good at finding trouble. But the sound I heard in the swamp was a growing noise, a moving noise. A knowing noise, unlike anything I’d ever heard before.
I glanced over my shoulder, certain I’d see someone standing there, but there was nothing save more trees and vines, closing in behind.
We’d traveled from Arizona to Georgia on our own, and we thought we left all the worst of it back home. Turns out we were picking up where we’d left off.
The leaves and vines around us slithered and whispered, shifting unnaturally.
Cassandra barreled forward, revving up the gun, toward something I could not see.
In my hesitation, worrying after my sister, the vines found their way to me. My left leg was completely entwined before I had the presence of mind to do anything about it.
Cassandra let out a short cry which was followed by a resounding sound like a thousand dragonfly wings beating at once. Or a flight of locusts. Or demon’s breath. It burrowed into my ears, making my head vibrate and my eyes water. The vines had wrapped mostly around my pack, and I’d have to let it go or else perish.
Cursing my luck, I cut myself from the vines and my pack, making use of one of the smaller knives I kept in my boot. Something hot and wet spilled out around my shin when I severed the vines, but I didn’t think twice about it then. I had to get to Cassandra, wherever she was.
The forest floor moved under my feet, and just as I was about to reach Cassandra—I’d seen the flare of her gun go off some paces before me—a vine wrapped around my leg and I tripped, skidding face first into the wet ground. A horrible taste filled my mouth, like sucking the bottom out of a cesspool. I was sick, instantly; there was no way to stop it.
I retched until I saw stars. But when it was over, for a moment I was blissfully clear-headed. I could see Cassandra, standing some feet away from me, the blue-green glow of the shotgun, setting her lovely features alight.
She’d come to save me.
I thought I heard a goat bleat. And then, I was gone.
The waking was painful, and at first I was only aware of heat. My skin was raw to the touch, my throat dry as desert sand, and I was trembling all over.
Someone touched me. Not Cassandra. Then I fell asleep again.
This happened a few times, until at last I awoke more lucid. It was welcome. I am not used to being conscious and without my faculties; I might not be the most talkative of my sisters, but I’ve always been an observer, someone who appreciates thought and consideration above idle chatter. But in my moments of this strange illness, not even that was a possibility.
“There she is,” said a voice, cracked with age and unfamiliar. “Take a sip now, won’t hurt ’cha.”
His accent was thick, every word drawn out near to the point of obscenity.
I drank. The water was cool, but it made me shiver.
“Reeves, you go get the other girl and bring her here. Let her know her sister’s well up,” the old man said.
I wanted to see Cassandra, but when my vision cleared all I saw was a wizened old Negro man, squinting at me like I was some sort of specimen in a sideshow. The room was dim, poor, and unremarkable.
“You’re strong for being so slight,” the man said. “And so young.”
I wanted to tell him that I was nearly twenty, and not so young as I looked, when my vision swam. The pressure in the room changed, and Cassandra stood over me.
“Lydia?” she asked.
That was her. That was my sister. I smiled to hear her voice. She was concerned. She loved me. She needed me. Her heart hadn’t hardened completely.
“Cass…” was all I managed.
Her hands were in mine, her dark hair falling in ringlets over our clas
ped hands. Young men always went head over heels for that hair of hers, so thick and curly. But to me her hair smelled like home, and memories, of evenings curled up in bed together to keep out the cold, whispering in the dark.
“Don’t cry,” she said. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Took a nasty spill down over yonder,” said another woman behind Cassandra. She was of mixed race, her hair tied up in a rag, her face lined but not old. Not like the old man. “Ain’t many who come back from something like that. We thought for sure you’d be dead come morning.”
“I fell,” I said, remembering. “I got sick… the vines...”
“The vines got you,” the old man said. He hissed through his teeth, what few he had. “But all’s well for now.”
For now.
On the third day, in the middle of the night, I awoke to the sounds of water somewhere outside my window. Not constant water, but water coming in spurts. Like someone priming a pump that wasn’t working. I could hear the mechanism groaning in response to someone struggling to make it work.
I knew that sound. The piston was jamming against something, and the seal wasn’t good enough.
By the time I made it to the pump, whoever had been struggling with it was gone. There were a few old buckets and a dipper cast about the bottom, almost hastily. I looked around, but no one was there to notice me.
Under the moonlight it was hard to work, but it was satisfying to be using my wits and my hands again. After about an hour of fiddling with the various bits and bobs, water was coming out again in a steady stream. It was just a matter of calcium buildup and a badly done piston. Whoever was in charge of parts was not exactly an expert.
Shotguns v. Cthulhu Page 17
