Worlds of Cthulhu

by Robert M. Price

  I woke up screaming.

  There was a thud against the side of the plane and then something slowly slid down the hull whimpering in the way only an injured dog can whimper. Acting on instinct, I ran to the hatch, undid the lock and flung the metal door wide open. What I had intended to do I cannot remember, but I know what I saw. It took a moment for me to comprehend what was happening: at first I thought it was just the dogs, for they were scattered about the camp. Some were clearly dead, their bodies contorted into shapes inconsistent with life. Others were bloody and beaten, dragging themselves across the ice with broken legs, broken backs and even the remnants of shattered muzzles dripping blood and teeth and bone. Those that were still healthy, still whole, seemed to be enraged by something behind one of the tents. They were barking and leaping into the air at something I couldn’t make out. Suddenly Watkins dashed from one of the other tents and entered the unseen fray. He was screaming and rushing with one of the massive pickaxes we used for clearing ice. As soon as he disappeared behind the tent my world went silent and still. The dogs had stopped barking, Watkins had stopped screaming, and even the wind had stopped howling. Time stopped as something horrific and unseen played out behind that tent. Something I am thankful that I did not witness.

  The resumption of time was announced by the most curious of noises. It started as a series of low and slow whistling clicks not unlike those made by cicadas or locusts. There was tone to it, and rhythm, a slow painful rhythm that went something like this

  Tek Tek e Li. Li Tek Tek e Li Li!

  Then, as the rhythm sped up and the tone increased in pitch, the single source was joined by another, and then a third, all producing that same horrendous sound.

  TekTek e LiLi TekTek e LiLi!

  Then more, and faster, forming a vast monstrous harmony that wavered in pitch like a demonic violin screaming for the souls of the damned.

  TekTeke LiLi TekTeke LiLi!

  Then there was movement, and the body of poor Watkins careened off in multiple directions as the demonic violinists moved from behind the tent and into my line of sight. It should be obvious that the things that emerged from behind the tent were the undamaged specimens that Lake had named Elder Things, but to see them lifeless on the dissection table and speculate about them was one thing. To see them alive and moving, interacting with each other and their environment, that was another matter altogether.

  We had thought that they had used their lower appendages to pull themselves about, like a starfish, sliding, slowly and methodically across a surface. We should have known better: they moved like predators. The body was held horizontal, with the eyes and prismatic setae facing forward, their necks expanded out beyond what I would have thought possible. This allowed their heads to turn with an incredible degree of flexibility which they employed in a manner that suggested they were tasting the very air around them. Their weight was supported by three of the equatorial and three of the basal appendages. As they moved, their footing was sure and deliberate, and the entire body rotated clockwise along its axis so that with each step a new tentacle found footing on the right, while a tentacle on the left rose into the air. Each step also impacted the wings, three of which were deployed at all times, two partially in a horizontal manner and one completely vertically. That the wings were somehow linked to the book gills and the tentacles in either a hydrostatic or a pneumatic manner seemed apparent from the rhythmic pumping of all three systems. Those great wings swayed in the icy wind, and I could see that already the re-exposure of these creatures to sunlight had revitalized both the wings and the main body itself. Colors had emerged, deep verdant greens had developed, streaked with reds and oranges. I knew that such pigments were indicative of photosynthetic activity using a variety of wavelengths.

  But it was the sound that I cannot forget, the sound and the movement that came with it. For as these things moved through the camp, yet another man appeared, Carroll I think. Where he had come from I could not say, but he was unarmed, and as he stepped forward he held his arms out at his side and walked cautiously, slowly toward creatures that he knew had killed but that he also knew were intelligent, reasoning beings, not unlike himself. The octet acted almost in unison, pausing to watch Carroll as he moved and spoke in calming tones. The strange whistling stopped, and it seemed as if there was some consideration going on. The vertically held wing on each creature seemed to expand and then explode with colors, revealing some ability to control the chromatic display played across the wing. Then suddenly the display stopped and the wings went dark green, almost black. One of the creatures stepped forward, separating himself from the others, and then began to emanate a new sound, an eerie hollow noise like that of wind through an attic window or chimney. The creature swelled up, bloated, and then in a burst of speed launched into the air. A vapor trail of condensed gas and moisture followed in its wake, the five wings spread out like those of some monstrous bat or dragon, guiding it directly into Carroll. In an instant the thing was on Carroll with amazing fluidity: the wings folded up and vanished into the furrows, an equatorial tentacle wrapped around Carroll’s neck, and his head spun off like a bottle cap. The attacking creature turned to its cohorts and sang once more.

  Teke-li-li! Teke-li-li! Teke-li-li!

  I grabbed the injured dog by the collar and, as quickly as I could, pulled the poor animal inside the plane. My movements, the sounds, something attracted attention and I saw three of the creatures turn toward me and begin to bloat up. As my hand swung the door shut one of them launched into the air. Panicked, I drove my shoulder into the back of the door and, just as the latch locked into position, I felt the great bulk of one of the things plow into the side of the plane, while I heard two more thump onto the ice nearby. There was a purring noise, a soft trilling as the creatures moved back and forth outside the hatch. Something grabbed the handle and turned it, or tried to, for it only rotated a quarter turn before the locking mechanism engaged completely. Metal squealed against metal as the handle was forced further against the lock. The squealing turned into a creaking and then with an audible pop, the handle separated from the hatch and fell with a thunk to the ice.

  They came through the cockpit next, smashing the windows and tearing through the seats trying to get through the door. The hatch held there as well, and I watched through the porthole as one of them crawled into the cockpit and examined the various controls and instruments. That it knew what the compass was, and perhaps all of the instruments, seemed apparent for it gently tapped the glass coverings on the dials and housings and gauged their reactions or lack thereof. Satisfied it had explored everything, the creature reached beneath the control panel and pulled at the bundles of wires and cables that it found there, in the process rendering the controls, the instruments and the radio useless.

  Under the assault, the cabin rocked back and forth and inevitably I lost my footing and tumbled violently against the edge of a bulkhead. I went unconscious for only a moment and when I came to there was blood in my eyes. Disheartened, I slumped back into the main cabin and soon became resigned to my fate. It was then that I picked up pen and journal and began this record. I cannot express the sheer difficulty, the incredible stress that I have been subjected to in the last two hours. As I have written this account of our expedition, of our deceit, of our discoveries and of the terror that followed, the horrors inflicted on our team have not abated. When we discovered these things in the ice there was never any doubt that we would subject them to vivisection, as scientists often must to understand the true nature of a life form. It is not then without some level of understanding on my part that I watched as the Elder Things pulled a plane from beneath its sheltering tent and then began to carry the dead and injured dogs inside. That such actions were undertaken out of the need for scientific exploration I can understand, but when the dogs were expended and replaced with the corpses of men, and when those were expended, and replaced with the injured and dying—well, scienti
fic exploration was exceeded and passed then into the purposeful cruelty of torture and mutilation that no man would dare to inflict on another. Even in the cabin I could hear the screams, the gurgling blood-choked screams that ceased only after the judicious application of something that sounded heavy and blunt, not once, not twice, but in most cases three times.

  1045

  As much as I tried to ignore it, when I heard Lake’s voice, heard him crash through the tent and onto the ice, I went to the window to watch. Even from a distance I could see that he was naked and that as he crawled across the freezing landscape, the surface tore bits of his flesh away, leaving a trail of blood that froze instantly behind him. He was less than five yards away from the tent when one of the Elder Things came walking out after him. It stood on all five lower appendages, using them like a spider uses its legs, rotating them through wide and graceful arcs. In its upper tentacles, the ones that split into five and then again into twenty-five smaller manipulators, it carried one of our own pickaxes, with a horizontal blade on one side and a spike on the other. Before I could turn away, the thing spun across the ice in a blinding pinwheel-like motion and drove the spike through Lake’s back, pinning him like an insect to the ice. He screamed in agony, and I could hear him beg for the mercy of death. But instead, the thing turned and left him there, and he flailed helplessly against the ice for a few minutes. Then he grew silent and still and I knew he was dead.

  1200

  It is clear to me that I and the injured dog are the sole survivors of Lake’s sub-expedition. Over the last hour the Q’Hrell (I will not call them Elder Things anymore, it denotes too much undeserved respect) have been doing something. I hear noises, queer noises, as they rummage through the camp. When I dare, I snatch glimpses through the porthole. They have loaded up all three sledges with equipment and materials from the camp including the drill and ice-melting equipment, as well as other scientific equipment, texts, survival gear, furs, and foodstuffs. One sledge was stacked high with material I did not recognize beneath a tarp. The wind provided glimpses of lumps of frozen crystalline crimson, and I shudder at the implication.

  1245

  They bury their dead. I watched them do it. They held their dead brethren upright as they packed snow around their bases and then up over the top. I cannot be sure, for my location does not provide for a proper perspective, but I think they made the graves into five pointed stars and then decorated them as well. While they did this I covered the portholes with whatever I could find. Only a small crack allows enough light in for me to write.

  1320

  I have killed the dog. One of the Q’Hrell had come back to investigate the aircraft and the damn dog had begun to whine as the thing poked and prodded at the two hatches. I was afraid that the thing would bark and bring down the full wrath of those monstrosities. So I killed it. I slipped my knife around its throat and as fast as I could, I stabbed deep and pulled across. Blood flowed and God help me it was so warm, so very warm. And I was so very cold, and so very hungry. Please forgive me.

  1340

  The sledges are gone! I think maybe they have left, forgotten me, abandoned me to the ice. If I can hold out until Pabodie and Dyer arrive, surely a rescue party will come, and perhaps I can survive.

  1425

  There are four of them out there, armed with pickaxes and crow bars. I have no doubt that they will eventually find their way in.

  1442

  They’ve shattered the portholes, reached in with tentacles whipping about, trying to find the latch. I cut one of them and that horrendous green fluid they use for blood sprayed out. The whole place has their stink about it now.

  They stare at me through the broken window. They can see me cowering in the corner. They have red eyes, cold dead eyes; one would think red eyes would show some life, some passion. I see nothing, not even hatred. Whatever they feel toward me, it is not hatred.

  I think maybe it is hunger.

  1515

  I know now how they have survived for all these eons. It’s their blood, that bright bioluminescent green blood: something about it has a radical effect on biological tissue. As I wrote previously, when they shattered the portholes I cut one of them and the green blood sprayed all over the cabin, including the dead dog.

  I do not know how it works, but some of the alien blood must have seeped in through the skin, perhaps through the eyes or mouth, perhaps even through the wound in the throat. Regardless, as I sat prepared to do battle with the things outside I suddenly heard the undeniable sound of panting coming from within the cabin itself. I turned just in time to watch the dog rise clumsily up on its legs and howl in the most horrifying and pitiful way. There was no denying that the poor beast was in agony, and a mass of pity rose up inside me. At the same time it was clear that this thing was deranged. It was no longer the domesticated dog it had been. Indeed, in the mere moments I watched it, its behavior revealed no relation to any sort of normal animal behavior I had ever observed. The only comparison I can make is to film records of certain patients once held in the Sefton Asylum.

  It lunged at me; this mad dog flew across the cabin a mass of fur and blood, deranged and only partially in control of its movements. I dodged it easily and plunged my blade into the side of its chest. The creature now had two fatal wounds and still it stumbled back on to its feet and slowly turned to attack. I refused to give it a second chance. I leapt onto its back and with my left hand pulled its muzzle up into my chest while my right hand plunged the knife into its neck. Over and over again my knife found its mark, and still the dog-thing struggled. Blood flowed from the dog like a river and my parka became warm and slick with gore. I felt the blade bite into the spine and with a single drastic effort I forced the blade between two vertebrae and separated the dog’s head from its body. The thing twitched a bit, but it has not moved much since.

  I haven’t had much time to think about what this means, but there are some things that I think should terrorize me. If the blood that flows through these things can re-animate a dog and the only way that I could stop the dog was to decapitate it, then that might explain how these things survived in the ice for millions of years. It might also explain why all the other specimens, the ones that didn’t re-animate, were all beheaded. Terminating the connection of the body with the brain may be the only way of killing these things. Those things out there may be murderous, but they seem organized and in control. The blood likely brings them back completely normal. The dog doesn’t have the same kind of physiology, so the re-animation process is probably only partially successful on mammalian life. But even that terrifies me because it shouldn’t have any reaction at all, unless in some way mammalian life, earthly life, shares some physiology, some biochemistry, with these horrifying things. But these thoughts don’t terrify me, and that suggests that I am in some sort of psychological shock.

  1530

  I want my friends and family to know that I did not despair. That Thomas Gedney did not succumb to the fear and loneliness that drives men mad out on the ice. I did not do this thing out of madness or despair but out of desperation. When I was a child my parents would take me to Sunday school and the nuns would teach us about sin, and mortal sin and damnation. They said it was a sin against God to kill a man, even one’s self. I do not think there is a God. How can there be a God, as men would understand him, that would allow such things as those that stalk the ice? How could God allow such things to live? What was it the mad Arab had written? “That is not dead, which can eternal lie, and in strange eons even death may die.” Yes that’s it. Was he writing of the Q’Hrell? Are they our gods of the holy resurrection? Is their body my body, is their blood my blood? If so I renounce them. I will pay no tribute, make no sacrifice. They will not have the privilege of taking my life. They will know what kinds of creatures now rule this world. They will know what stuff that men are made of, that we will not yield to their base needs and desires, that w
e will not allow them to butcher us like cattle. After I am dead, they may add my flesh to their larder, but I will not allow them the pleasure of killing me. They have numbers, and strength, weapons and time. They can withstand the cold and the wind and the hunger of ages. They have all this, but I still have my knife, and the will to use it.