Ichthyic in the Afterglow

by Allen, Jason

  Tears started to well as nostalgia, and homesickness at the thought of death came. This endearing feeling, Clem knew too well. This feeling was a defense mechanism he would have to fight. He would keep in mind, Chico was gone.

  He reached down, felt concrete, and sat down on the curb. He buried his face in the knees at his chest and cried. He would watch the erection of the new black skull, and be second in line.

  Faintly, through the noise of construction a female voice screamed, and sobbed.

  Chapter Eleven

  LIGHTNING SPIDER-WEBBED CASSIE'S GUTS, she held her belly, and moaned. Two contractions in ten minutes as she made her way to the suicide chamber.

  The futility of finding Carl sank in deep when every people search website she emailed inquiring about Carcosa replied: 'HA AH HA HA'...as mockingly as her father. The whole world seemed to be laughing at her. And to live without Carl was simply out of the question.

  All of the boys at her school had ignored her because she was fat. They never openly said it, because they feared getting their nose bloodied, but Cassie knew it.

  In her Hello Kitty hover car that night in the fourth dimension as the 'Dalos peaked, hounds whimpered, and barked as she gave herself utterly and completely to Carl in the star-lit, windy vortex.

  He loved every inch of her. Kissed every inch of her. Her stretch marked breasts, her chubby belly, ran his tongue across the muffin-top of her hips. Lee perched on Carl's shoulder heckled on, but ignored. Forever happened to Cassie that night, and even when forever climaxed inside her and ended, she would forever love Carl...Lee and all. Love him until she stepped inside the suicide chamber, and the madness of love subsided. Forever.

  Why was her father so sure she would never see him again? And furthermore what was this play her mother had been in? Camilla hadn't had a job in months. She was well passed her prime as far starlets go, and Cassie couldn't remember a time her mother ever acted in anything besides films. Never an onstage production.

  Then all the talk from Carl and Lee's mother about Carcosa, and yellow kings, and her father's mentioning of Carcosa. How come she had never heard of this place until today? This was obviously some kind of conspiracy. Maybe, an elaborate plan by Carl to keep her away. Maybe he was ashamed of her. She had no more want to fight it either. Sick realization reared its head, and Cassie accepted.

  After the way her father had denied her, laughed at her, she couldn't imagine facing him again. She would likely kill him, and her mother. They would come back from wherever they were, and she would be gone, and they would be sorry.

  Another burst of pain in her guts, and Cassie fell to her knees, doubled-over. Tears came from the intensity of the contractions, her knees on concrete quivering. Through the Imperiam's pitch she sees spotlights, gets to her feet, and walks on. Feeling her way through.

  Cassie clenches her teeth as another shot of pain hits. The contractions went from ten minutes apart to two. Sweat broke out on her forehead, she bent and vomited. She regained composure, determined not to slow down, Cassie made her way to the suicide chamber.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chico shivered in the harness, dangling on a chain. The machine clicked and moaned as he lowered.

  At the bottom of the pool fish lay on their sides, roses, limbs, and bodies human and humanoid, forever in the fetal position, or frozen in struggle. Black marble eyes of the Chihuahua quivered and roamed, surveying the men in dog masks.

  They looked like him, but was not his brother. They looked more like Clem with his face...similar faces, at least. Not Chico's friends. Not Chico's Clem.

  Where was Clem? So hungry. Scared.

  Another notch. Lower.

  Lonesome.

  Harnessed in tight, he whimpers. Licks his muzzle.

  Clem, day in. Clem, day out. And day out was the best part.

  Tired, Chico would lick Clem's face, the taste like fish. “Who’s a good boy?”

  Clem would crack another can or open a bottle, and mumble on. About destiny, mumble on about a Dagon, about a Christ, about his father. Chico listened.

  Clem said he wanted to die. The pat on the head, scratch behind Chico’s ear, Clem equaled home. Then, Clem would sleep, and then Chico would sleep nuzzled in Clem's neck. Chico understood love.

  Clem.

  Another notch. Chico dropped.

  He calmed the vomit. Licked it back.

  Chico hated baths, and this looked like a bath.

  Closer into the pool, he saw one that looked like him. A Chihuahua like him. Chico barked.

  Another notch.

  A drop.

  Chico yelped. The machine clicked and moaned.

  In the streets, the big cats had taunted him. Led him on with promises of food. “Who's a good boy?”

  Before Clem, Chico lived on a chain. Was born on a chain, exploited by an archeologist who had found him and his family in a cave.

  Chico was still nursing when he was taken. Aware of the cruelties of the outside, and having Chico as the only survivor of her last litter, his protective mother and siblings attempted to protect their newest addition, but was shot. Chico dreams and hears the yelps of his murdered family, but has never understood.

  On the chain where memories start he was starved by the archeologist who belonged to a sect of Nosariis that believe eating the brains of a dead dog would bring one closer to God, but the dog would have to suffer for the enlightenment to work.

  The faceless ghost in the robe released Chico, and then he found Clem.

  Chico loves Clem.

  Soul-sick, Chico barked.

  He could feel the bath's lash.

  In the streets, the big cats hurt Clem. The big cats weren't so tough; the faceless ghost in the robe hurt them.

  Chico’s foot was ivory marble, he licked it. The bath was getting closer. He struggled in the harness, and stopped. Chico looked at the one that looked like him at the bottom of the pool. Stone-still, the Chihuahua’s eyes were ivory marble.

  Chico relaxed, and thought of Clem.

  “Who’s a good boy?”

  Chico's lower-body was submerged in the marble solution. Chico relaxed as his head went under. Chico thought of Clem.

  Chico understood love.

  ***

  The Colonel and a small army of Nosariis made their way to Camp Calico. The goal was to finish them before dawn, because judging by the Militia's recent actions; their next attack would take place at the unveiling of the Imperiam's new lethal chamber.

  Two guards in cat masks stood sentinel in front of the fence surrounding the warehouse. The Colonel took them down easily, four double taps from his M-4. As the group entered the base, Calico Militia members in various cat masks rained from all sides with swords, and some with guns. The Nosariis sprayed bullets, without hesitation. The Colonel, unflinchingly led the way, determined to get to the nucleus: Elder Talon.

  The cyclopean door of the warehouse creaked open, and up on chains, as if welcoming the Colonel inside. Once through, the door dropped, and snapped shut. The Colonel noticed he was alone, and the warehouse was dark, with no sound, but from the arcade’s video and pinball games. A jaundiced spotlight introduced itself revealing Elder Talon with the mask of a tabby, slumped on his throne of rats. Beside him, Nip and Fang, sleek in Siamese cat masks. The concrete floor was painted a checker board, black and red.

  The Colonel aimed his weapon, a steady bead on Elder Talon. Suddenly, the gun clanged to the floor, and the Colonel put a hand to his throat, and came away with blood.

  No warning, no sound, a knife was buried in his esophagus. He gagged, and went to his knees. A sound cut the air, and Nip had one foot on the Colonel's head, securing it to the floor.

  “Bastards,” the Colonel's voice muffled on concrete.

  “I'm familiar with your work,” said Elder Talon. “The one with the Innsmouth look, a hero to the Imperiam. Why? You're not one of them.”

  “The Imperiam is home,” the Colonel gagged. “Better…why attack ou
r lethal chambers?”

  “Ha, ha! There’s a new dynasty rising. A child being carried by an unstable vessel, one could say,” said Elder Talon.

  The Colonel’s anguished face twisted with questions.

  “HA! HA!” Elder Talon chuckled. “A scion even the emperors of Ulthar are made to bow, and bow they did. While you and these Nosarii remain obedient, like the dogs you are.”

  Elder Talon slowly rose, and made his way to the Colonel. Fang followed. Nip stepped off of the Colonel's head, and Elder Talon leaned down directly into the Colonel's face. Elder Talon pulled his rubber Tabby mask off, revealing a pallid visage. A mask beneath a mask. The small knife shot from the Colonel’s throat, pushed out by hysterical laughter. Nip and Fang removed their masks revealing identical pallid masks. Ghastly, with undistinguished features, and holes for eyes, the three figures simultaneously turned their heads surveying the Colonel.

  “HA! HA! HA!” delirium and convulsions. The Colonel writhed on the checker board floor. “Take off the masks! HA! HA! Hail Mother Hydra,” the Colonel coughed. “Lay aside your disguises! HA! HA! HA!”

  “We. Wear. No. Masks,” Elder Talon staccatoed with each word, his voice detached, alien, and guttural.

  “No masks? No Masks! HA! HA! HA! HA!”

  The three figures seemed to fade into the aether, leaving the Colonel bleeding out on the checker board concrete.

  “No masks? No masks!” The Colonel whimpered. “No masks? No masks! No masks? No masks...” On and on until the maroon morning shined through the windows of the warehouse, and onto the old fish-headed man’s dying face.

  “No mask!” in his death rattles.

  ***

  “Ah ashes to ashes mama, and sin to sin, every time I hit you, you'll think I've got a dozen hands.”

  Mac slit his eyes at the maroon morning. The cancerous sun birthing a new day. The notes of the old guitar fretted tight under his clenched toes, his other foot kicking the strings. He sang.

  “Give you a punch through that barbed wire fence...”

  He could hear the flapping of cloth in the distance, like bat wings. Mac swallowed, nervous. He played on.

  “Cause your southern can is mine (every bit of it)...”

  Mac moved the nub of his an amputated arm to wipe his brow. The sound was getting closer, and tears birthed in Mac’s eyes. One world ends and another begins. He’s been through the cycle time and again, but he liked this world. He loved his song. He hoped the Blues existed under the new dynasty, but if they didn’t it would be a world without suffering, and hardship. A world without Blind Willie McTell, Leadbelly, Robert Johnson.

  A world not worth living in, thought Mac.

  Before Mac lost his arms he was one of the finest bluesmen in the last dead world. But word spread that he came from a place called Carcosa, and his prowess as a musician was something supernatural. It was said he played prophet and minstrel to a heathen god, a king in yellow.

  Mac was lynched by Christians outside of an old blood bucket, hanged and his arms severed to ensure even if he did survive that he would never play the guitar again. Mac persevered and learned to play one song with his feet, and determined to play that song until the next Dynasty. During his recovery he lost everything, but that song.

  His eyes closed and he crooned. He looked up and there was a Yellow Knight, surveying him like a curious ghost in its pallid mask and yellow robe. Mac would miss this world, this curb, and the song he played. “Cause your southern can is mine (in the mornin’)...

  The song was the last thing he had to hold on to, and he held on tight to it, twelve strings down with his feet. Mac sobbed for the first time since he could remember. Since the time he was known as Minstrel Mac in worlds long forgotten, his lute long forgotten. A new instrument, a violin, a new song under his feet, sometimes people called him Naked Nubs McMac, DJ Nubs, and sometimes simply, Mac.

  Mac lifted his face to the Yellow Knight, and it placed a pallid mask on his face. He cried beneath, emotions interrupting the song. He fretted the neck of the guitar harder, kicked the open strings harder. This always happened when the Dynasty restarted; his life in this world ran through his head. He always missed them.

  Familiar faces throwing coins into his guitar case, day in, day out. He never asked for quarter, never has. The imperative was always the song, providing a soundtrack. Food ignored, and the elements on his back. Mac played on.

  The Yellow Knight helped Mac to his feet, holding him up as the musician had not stood in aeons.

  He noticed a figure in his peripheral, a pregnant belly in silhouetted in maroon light.

  What would this new Dynasty bring to the people he would so miss? He had no idea. He never questioned what he would leave behind. His job was to play until he was called back.

  The Yellow Knight helped Mac into a yellow robe. Mac finally gained some balance.

  He looked at Chloe’s eyeless face.

  “Do you have a dollar? Anything to spare?” she said.

  Mac let out a howl underneath his pallid mask until the mask became a part of him, and he no longer had eyes to cry with, mouth to sing with, until he wore no mask.

  Mac kicked the guitar, and sent it scraping across the concrete to the other side of the street. The song had stopped.

  The two Yellow Knights faded into the aether.

  “Do you have a dollar? Anything to spare?” Chloe said, and wandered through the maroon morning.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “ARE YOU OKAY?” ASKED CLEM.

  “Do I look okay?” said Cassie. She was catching her breath, sweating. She was deep in the throes of labor, and first in line for the unveiling of the new lethal chamber. Clem was second, and behind them the masses gathered, more than a few in dog masks to show support for the Nosarii.

  “Are you sure you want to do this? You’ll not only be killing yourself, but the baby, too.”

  “No shit!” said Cassie, then leaned over, and vomited. She wiped the orange vomit from her lips with her forearm. “It would be crueler to bring this thing into such a world.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Clem sighed.

  A giant tarp draped over the chamber, outlining the black skull design. Beside the chamber, a large podium. Sound techs in assorted dog masks were testing microphones that fed back. The crowd groaned at the noises. “Test. One…two…three…”

  Clem surveyed his surroundings. Security was tight, with officers on the podium holding rifles, and officers moving through the crowd. He would either get inside or get shot trying. Worst case scenario would be imprisonment. Clem shuttered at the thought.

  The maroon morning had faded to a blue-violet tinge that would soon give way to the purple day.

  “Why do you care?” said Cassie.

  “I suppose I don’t,” said Clem.

  Cassie wrestled her hand inside the back pocket of her jeans, and took out her cell phone. The numbers for her father’s charge cards were saved inside. Her purse had burned up with the Hello Kitty hover car.

  “Ohh,” Cassie groaned. “I hope they take credit. All I have is daddy’s numbers.”

  Obviously, this girl wasn’t from this sector of the Imperiam. Nobody this young, around here, carried credit cards. Clem felt himself disgusted with this brat.

  “Sheer curiosity, but why do you want to die? You’re a little young first of all. What are you dying for?” said Clem.

  “Ow, ow, ow, ugghh!” Cassie felt pressure release as her water broke. Then the contractions stabbed harder. Clem stepped away from the fluid, causing the crowd to slightly budge. “What am I dying for?” Cassie chuckled slightly. “It’s none of your business. The fuck are you to question what I am dying for. What are you dying for? Look at you, what are you anyway,” said Cassie. “Some kind of clown?”

  This would be the closest thing to a conversation Clem would ever have with another person again, or at least he hoped.

  “A mime, actually.”

  “The fuck?!” Cassie spa
t. “Aren’t mimes supposed to be silent?” Cassie’s pain had stabilized, slightly, and she felt mean.

  “Sorry,” said Clem. “I suppose I’m dying for life itself. Dying for the bad, that outweighs the fleeting good. Dying for the lonely times. Dying for my lost dog. Dying because my father never hugged me…”

  “You’re a fucking loser,” Cassie chuckled.

  “Sorry,” said Clem, and found himself chuckling a little as well. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed, and it wasn’t ironic that it was upon his reflection. “Basically,” said Clem. “I suppose, I’m little different than those mindless Nosarii out there in dog masks dying to support this new suicide chamber, but I suppose they got one over on me. At least they’re dying for something substantial.”

  “There’s not anything substantial about this place. The fuck does that even mean?” said Cassie. “Like, look at it. This sector in particular is poor as fuck. I wouldn’t live a day here, especially not alone…you know, all pathetic like you,” she laughed.

  “Sorry we can’t all be little rich girls,” said Clem.

  “That’s true,” said Cassie. “I may be a little rich girl, but my reasons to be here probably outweigh yours, easily.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Clem straightened his artificial ears, and crossed his arms. “Do tell?” His condescension was palpable.

  “First, the love of my life left this child and me to fend for ourselves.”

  “You seem to have money, or at least your daddy does. What’s the problem?” said Clem.

  Cassie sighed. “Daddy wanted me to get an abortion!”

  “You’re basically doing that anyway,” said Clem.

  Frustrated, Cassie rubbed her face. The fuck was this guy, and why was she even talking to him? He had fucked up ears, his mime makeup was all-smudged, and he was ugly as shit.

  “Have you ever heard of a place called Carcosa?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard the name.” said Clem. “Why?”