Apotheosis: Stories of Human Survival After the Rise of the Elder Gods

by Jonathan Woodrow

  “Why did you come to the Forgotten Territory?” I held the mug.

  She mumbled. No food for days can lobotomize a person. I finally understood she was saying, “We are missionaries.”

  She wore no cross. Nearly all of Namibia was Christian and the desert beetle had no ear for Jesus’ teachings.

  I asked, “Is your heart full, drawn out in prayer unto Him continually for your welfare?” I had heard the Mormons say such nonsense.

  She nodded. “I am full. Dof’mru has filled me.” Her hands parted her tattered clothes to show the bare, distended skin of her abdomen. More bloody lines of salt whorled around her navel.

  Was Dof’mru one of her companions? Perhaps it was some Bantu name.

  “Do you know Ahtu?” I had to ask her twice before she shook her head. I handed her the mug.

  We, the gestalt, had agreed to no women at Kolmanskop. We worried they would bring jealousy and discord between us. I had as much use for a woman as my icon Lawrence. I had guessed that the others were suspicions of my tastes and were thankful that I always volunteered to suffer the female trespassers.

  I walked behind her as she drank. Thirst had caused the veins in her bared neck to rise to the surface. I did not hesitate – I had never before hesitated whenever I was needed to plunge the hypodermic.

  She cried out, but the krokodil worked fast. Faster and more potent than morphine. Her limbs twitched, giving the illusion of a struggle, but it was really easy to lower her body to the sand.

  As I went to work – stuffing a dirty rag into her mouth, which caused her caked lips to bleed; shutting her jaw and pinching her nose shut – I distracted myself with reciting a favorite passage from Der Vater eines Mörders: “Mit seinen braunen, festen Händen hatte er auch zog einmal die Brücke auf Franz 'Instrument um einen Bruchteil eines Millimeters, so dass für eine Weile die Geige war schöner als zuvor klang.” German was an unrivalled language. I wished I could have seen the Rhineland, but I doubted what I would find now would be anything like I wanted it to be.

  The very first time I had to dispatch a refugee, I fumbled around until I broke her neck. Nearly pulled a muscle in my back. Suffocation was simpler, though more time-consuming.

  I felt a spasm travel through her body. Unexpected, unwarranted. I looked to her face. Her eyes were still, glazed, I am sure they remained unseeing. But her belly and chest roiled. Despite my grip on her mouth, her jaws were being forced open. A tip of a tongue pushed aside the rag.

  A tongue colored not pink but a shade of red so deep as to first appear black until it met the air. It slipped farther and farther past her slack jaws. My own mouth must have hung open in shock. It was no tongue.

  Sand slid through my fingers, flew up as my boots kicked, and I retreated a few feet to watch the segmented body escaped the dead woman. Her bloated stomach collapsed. The thing, which was larger than my entire arm, resembled a caterpillar in shape, except it had no tiny legs in the fore, no eyes of any kind, just a lamprey mouth to indicate the head. The rear did have the false feet of butterfly larvae. Above a gaping anus, two branches that ended in something akin to pipe organs wheezed.

  That awful sound broke the stupor brought on by shock. I struck the thing first with the water jug, then smashed the mug and stabbed at it with the largest shard. Its blood burned my skin; the pain was not from heat, but the bite of salt poured on an open wound.

  I didn’t stop until I had nearly torn it in half. Both my hands and forearms would need to be bandaged. Lost to anger, I kicked the dead trespasser, the thing’s host, before running off to warn the others.

  The other three trespassers had been drugged and chained to a wall for interrogation. Ludwigsone slapped the gaunt one and asked about Ahtu, an unfamiliar name several who had wandered across Kolmanskop uttered like a mantra – we had once thought it might be a warlord or a new disease like Ebola, but were still unsure.

  I told them about the woman and the parasite. We began to pass words of concern between us while staring at the fat man’s belly.

  “They said they came to preach from Natron, which is a lake. I think in Tanzania,” Ludwigsone said. “It was so alkaline people think it petrifies animals, but it just coats them with salt. And it’s blood red from small organisms that live in the lake—”

  I grimaced. “This was not small!”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what you saw. I don’t like the sound of it, but the lake’s a fuckin’ flamingo preserve.”

  Cook ripped the shirt from the fat man, whose head rolled, his mouth so dry that it hung open without any spittle dripping down to the sand. We could see the skin of his stomach filthy with raw and ruddy patches of salt.

  “That ain’t good,” said Cook. “Ain’t right, and I ain’t having it here.”

  Toivo shrugged. “Then we kill.”

  We were all in agreement. Then the others saw what slithered out of the fat man. Cook swore. Ludwigsone wiped his glasses clean. Toivo took a syringe of the krokodil and walked away.

  We would never consume the bodies of trespassers. We were afraid of contamination. But we did drag the corpses to a site and let winds carry the scent to scavengers, like we did with our feces. When you are hungry, what does it matter if you eat a jackal or a dung beetle washed clean?

  But none of the scavengers went near the bodies. The must have known it was tainted meat.

  Ludwigsone began bothering the rest of us with questions, new ones, about what might have happened to Africa, to the world. He muttered “Ahtu” to himself like a trespasser might. I have also heard him speak of Dof’mru but do not remember telling him anything that the woman spoke.

  The trespassers have tainted Kolmanskop.

  Cook told me that Ludwigsone had asked if they could travel north together, to the edge of the desert, that answers were needed. He did not ask me because I am White also; he needed someone dark-skinned to accompany him so he could convince folk he was born in Namibia and not a foreigner. Cook had refused. He would not abandon his brother, not while he still breathed.

  Of course, Ludwigsone might quicken Toivo’s parting with more krokodil. Torschlusspanik made men do awful things. Cook was smart and warned Toivo not to tell Ludwigsone where he was sleeping off the drug. But he did tell me.

  We held the funeral the following morning. Cook recited what little of the Bible he knew. Ludwigsone remained quiet. I read Lawrence’s dedication from his opus, but I could not bring myself to say aloud the line “And the blind / Worms grew fat upon / Your substance” because the memory of the parasite haunted each of us.

  I expected the next evening would find me all alone in Kolmanskop. The others wouldn’t return from their quest with answers. I did not want to know what they might find. Rather, I would busy myself with the chores life demanded: harvesting the water, gathering the food, and reading until the pages fall from the books. I might tire and take the needle myself before more trespassers find me. I am Afrikaans and have become cruel, but I am like no monster I have ever seen.

  Of the Fittest

  by Evan Dicken

  There was no one waiting to welcome us home when we stepped from the portal. I wasn't surprised; the Unspeakable One wasn't big on calling ahead. New Brighton looked about the same. More of the McNaughton Avenue businesses were boarded up, but there were a few cars outside Pike's Market, and the front window of Ready Hardware still glittered with strings of Christmas lights. In the distance, smoke from the munitions factory stained the horizon a dusty gray. There were Yellow Signs scrawled across doors and brick facades, but they didn't grate on me the way they used to. It's surprising what people can learn to accept when they've got no choice.

  Although none of the Yellow Guard shifted from parade rest, the relief was palpable. The Unspeakable One demands five years from his conscripts, but he doesn't necessarily stipulate where they'll serve. We'd all heard stories of soldiers losing decades, even centuries, to tours in the Dreamlands. Fortunately, most of our fighting had been along what u
sed to be the New England Coast, and while thinking of what crawled from the night dark waters of the Atlantic still gave me sweats, at least a day was a day out there.

  We'd had it better than most, actually. Hastur disliked humanity, but he hated the other Great Old Ones, and hate was something we could work with. It had been bad at first, trying to resist the inevitable, but if you can say one thing about humans, it's that we're survivors. Somehow, we'd found a toehold amidst the alien geography of the Old Ones' enmity. They might be immortal, but their servants weren't – deep ones, dholes, star spawn, even shoggoths died once you sunk enough ordnance into them. Once we'd proven humanity was more useful alive then dead, the rest was just details.

  A rattling gasp from front and center broke me from my ruminations and snapped the company to attention. Our tour was technically over, but hard experience had taught us to obey the Lieutenant in all things.

  Five years ago, he'd been Curt Brykalski, nervous and soft-spoken, part of the yearbook committee. I hadn't known him well enough to guess why he ran from the Byakhee. It might have been lingering nationalism or maybe a misplaced conscience, but my best guess was plain, old cowardice. In any case, The King made an example of him, which was fine by me. There's no room for cowards in the Yellow Guard.

  Like most of Hastur's servants, the Lieutenant affected a ratty mustard-colored robe, frayed along the hems and splattered with dirt and blood. What little flesh was visible looked like it'd been skinned and left to dry over the winter – all but the eyes, which rolled in their sockets, horrified and pleading.

  "Sergeant Long." The Lieutenant spoke in an agonized scream, as if each word were a razor drawn across his flesh.

  I made the mistake of meeting his gaze. His eyes went wide in wordless entreaty, begging for release even as a smile stretched his cracked and bleeding lips.

  "We release you from service."

  I don't know what I expected – fireworks, euphoria, even a sense of relief. There was none of that. If anything, I felt more on edge.

  I turned back to the company, seeing my apprehension reflected by the few score of us who'd survived the tour of duty.

  "Well, you—" My voice broke like a teenager's. I cleared my throat and continued in a hoarse rasp. "You heard the Lieutenant."

  For over a minute, no one moved. Finally Jeffries, a corporal from second squad, took off running. She headed away from town, to the woods, stripping off her uniform as she went. I caught a flash of her naked back, fish belly white against the forest shadows; then she was gone.

  Soldiers began drifting off in ones and twos, following Jeffries into the trees. Soon, uniforms littered the clearing like cast off snakeskins.

  The forest pulled at my gaze. Leaves hissed in the warm summer breeze, whispers rising like an ocean tide to swamp the furious buzz of my thoughts. It was mid-afternoon, but somehow I could see the stars. The others waited for me beneath the spreading boughs – free to run, to etch sacred signs into our flesh as we writhed together in howling ecstasy.

  We'd given Hastur our service when all he really wanted was our love.

  I took a step towards the woods, fumbling at the buttons of my shirt, but a hand settled on my shoulder. Twisted, arthritic fingers clutched at my epaulets, holding me back.

  "Not yet." The Lieutenant made a wet choking noise. He nodded towards New Brighton, but his eyes screamed at me to run.

  Realization parted the sea of madness that flooded my thoughts. I had a wife, a baby – what the hell had I almost done? I clasped my hands to stop them from shaking.

  Alone, I made my way down McNaughton, past hollow buildings and empty storefronts, resplendent echoes of rust belt finery. A woman stepped out onto the street. I smiled. She went back inside.

  The madness was finally over.

  I'd come home.

  * * * *

  Shelly was cooking when I crept into the kitchen, knife in hand. I'd thought about knocking, but pounding on the door to my own home didn't seem right. My wife had set out a feast – spray cheese with little butter crackers, deviled eggs, pickles, salami, and a few cloudy glass bottles of the local corn whiskey.

  "Hey, Punch." I said, soft as I could. It was my pet name for her, a reference to our senior prom where she'd gotten drunk on spiked cranberry cocktail and picked a fight with Pamela Jeffries over who would give the graduation speech.

  She turned, slow and jerky like the second hand of a clock.

  "I brought you something." I raised the knife, turning it to let the light play off the jewels set into its handle and crossbar. I'd snatched it from a ziggurat we'd stormed just south of Innsmouth. It had been rough, seeing what the Deep Ones had done to those women – made me grateful Hastur spent all his time in Carcosa.

  "Am I dreaming?" She asked.

  I shook my head.

  "Are you?"

  I didn't have an answer for that, so I just reversed the knife and held it out to her. She took it, her expression unreadable. I stepped forward, arms wide, but stopped as the blade pricked my chest.

  "Sorry. It's very nice." She regarded the knife for a moment, then turned to slip it into a drawer before hugging me back.

  I breathed in the fruity, slightly spicy smell of her hair, then turned my head for a kiss.

  Shelly drew back, gripping my arms as if I might drift away.

  I glanced at the food, embarrassed by the focused intensity in her eyes. "Looks delicious, how'd you know I was coming?"

  She gave a little flick of her head. "I—"

  "Uncle Brian!" Ronny came pelting into the kitchen, then skidded to a halt as I turned. When I'd left New Brighton, he'd been little more than bundle of blankets, red-faced and hungry. Somehow, the years had transformed him from a shitting, squalling animal into something approaching human. That, more than anything, hammered home how long I'd been away.

  Ronny edged around me to hide behind Shelly.

  "It's your daddy." She tried to push him toward me, but he clung to her leg, making nervous panting noises that prickled the hair on my arms.

  "Who's Uncle Brian?" I tried for a casual tone, but the question came out menacing. It was every soldier's nightmare, well, one of them – coming home to find your spouse or lover with someone else.

  "Brian Klosowski." Shelly said with a wry tilt of her head. "And it's not what you think."

  "How do you know what I think?" I knew Brian. He'd been three years ahead of me in school, graduated just ahead of Armageddon and went off to Ohio State to study German – one of the many majors that became irrelevant when one or another of the Old Ones had scraped Europe off the face of the Earth in a fit of pique. Brian and Shelly had been on the cheerleading squad, and I'd been pretty sure that they both had a thing for me, which was flattering as hell.

  "He and a couple other friends are coming," Shelly said. "I – we didn't know you were back, but it's good you're here. This involves all of us."

  "What do you mean?"

  "C'mon, I'll fix you both a plate." She pulled out a chair and set Ronny down on it. "Daddy missed you."

  My son fidgeted as I sat down next to him. I fished around in my rucksack and laid out a dozen or so figurines.

  "They're soldiers, like daddy." Carved from bone and inlaid with obsidian and pearl, they were from a chess set I'd found during the siege of Boston. Half the pieces had been missing, and the board burnt and bloodstained, but Ronny didn't need to know that.

  "Have they killed anyone?" He picked up a pawn, holding it with both hands, fingers interlaced almost like he was praying.

  "They're just toys, Ronny."

  "Have you killed anyone?"

  "Those will look nice in your Lego castle." Shelly set a plate in front of me and handed Ronny a cracker with some salami. "Why don't you go upstairs and see?"

  There was a knock at the door. I was thankful for that – I don't know what I would've done if Brian had just walked in.

  "Uncle Brian!" Ronny went running.

  "He'll warm up to y
ou." Shelly rested her hand on my back. It was all I could do not to cringe at the unexpected touch.

  Brian scooped Ronny up, smiling as he slipped a piece of hard candy into my son's hand.

  Candy, damn, I should've thought of that. With most of what had been the Southern U.S. under water, sugar was hard to come by.

  Brian stepped into the kitchen, leaning down to give Shelly a quick peck on the cheek with an ease I couldn't help but envy. The other guests who arrived were more furtive, closing blinds and checking windows.

  I'd known them all a lifetime ago – Deacon Lasko, who I'd shared my first cigarette with crouched behind the dumpster out back of Pike's; Beth Antonelli, who'd broken her leg when she tried to jump her bike across Raccoon Creek and spent half of fifth grade in a cast; Rosa and Carlos Martinez from the soccer team, Jackson, Hawser, Lee. I could see them all, like my memory had been filmy glass, now wiped clean.

  Brian turned as I pushed back from the table.

  "Holy shit." He glanced at Ronny, blushed, then set the boy down. "Sorry, Shelly."

  "S'okay." She smiled, taking Ronny from him.

  He was across the kitchen in two steps, arms wrapped around me. "You made it, Long, you fucking made it."

  Then they were all around, laughing as they pawed at my shoulders and hands. It took a while to fight clear of the press. The next few hours filled up with corn whiskey and reminiscences. Brian told the story of how we'd smuggled a baby goat into Rosa Martinez's piano recital, which meant Rosa had to tell the story of how she and Beth had lured us into skinny dipping in Raccoon Creek then stolen our clothes. After Ronny went to bed, we worked our way through the rest of the whiskey, the familiar rhythms of shared lives obscuring the strange distance the years had set between us. Shelly slipped her arm around my waist. I'd had quite a few drinks by then, so it was nice to hold her close.