“Tonight!”
Legrasse released the man, letting him fall back into his own chair. His eyes toward the table, hands clutching for his glass, the older man moaned.
“I never thought ... of course, it could have been real, but who knew? Who could have known? The concept of it ... all so, really, when you think of it—so, so ... outlandish, so terrifying, so, so ...”
Grasping at his overturned tumbler, the professor righted it and their bottle at the same time. Splashing the unspilled dregs of bourbon into his now-slippery glass, he let the bottle fall from his hands and then sucked down the several inches of liquor he had been able to salvage. At the same time, Legrasse barked orders.
“Carrinelle, get back to the station house. Get all of our original investigation force together. Get anyone else you can. Break out all the weapons we have, and, and, send someone around to that construction in the north district up past Jordan Street, where they’re taking down all those row houses. Commandeer all the explosives you can find.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the officer. Getting to his feet as best he could, he asked, “Where shall I take them, sir?”
“You take them wherever you like, Joel. I’ll be headed out to the swamp.”
A huge smile cracked open the lanky officer’s face. Heading to the door, he answered, “Stay long enough to have another drink, sir, and I’ll have ‘em there before you.”
As Carrinelle made his way to the door, Webb let out a moaning wail. He had drained his glass and had no more liquor. Seeing that his jacket sleeve was soaked with bourbon, he shoved it into his mouth and sucked hard, pulling a thin drizzle of linty alcohol down his throat. Paying him no mind, Legrasse turned to his lieutenant. “Galvez,” he said, “you’re a dirty Spanish bastard and you can drink more than any man on the force and still come across as a bishop, agreed?”
“An old family talent,” admitted the lieutenant with a sharp, clear-eyed smile that belied the amount of bourbon he had consumed that evening. “It is at your disposal, el Grande.”
“Good. Is that old Navy destroyer still in dock?” When his man assured him it was, the inspector continued, ordering, “Then you get yourself down to the waterfront, find her captain, and put on a demeanor that will convince him to put to sea. Tell him we’ve got pirates, tell him anything you have to but get him out there lined up with the swamps.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Galvez, pulling himself to his feet. Turning to head for the door, he suddenly stopped and turned back, asking, “Why?”
“Why? So if any Goddamned monster falls out of the sky at us he can blow it to smithereens.”
Galvez’s eyes blinked wide for a moment, then relaxed. As the lieutenant pulled his thoughts together, he and Legrasse both rose from the table at the same time, smiling. Taking each others’ hand, the two policemen stared for a moment into each others’ eyes, both looking for the right words. Finally deciding that there were none, they let go their grip and then headed for the door. Behind them, Webb bent his head to the bourbon soaked table, tears streaming down his face as he chewed the tablecloth and licked at the wet boards beneath.
#
This was much easier when someone else was doing all the work, decided the inspector. Making his way through the growing breeze and the dark swamp night in a borrowed squatter’s boat, he allowed himself a grim chuckle, thinking, you’d better be right about this, Legrasse.
The inspector had been quieting the cautious voices in his brain ever since he left Jim Dandy’s. He knew how things would look if he were wrong. Drunk, dragging a score of officers out into the swamp at night, confiscating explosives, commandeering a U.S. Navy warship ... and why? Oh, because some devil monster was about to descend on New Orleans.
If I have this one wrong, he thought, there won’t be enough of my career left to feed a dog that’s already had dinner. And yet ...
Legrasse’s mind turned to what he thought he knew. If he were right ... a world filled with blood-sacrificing covens, monsters that flew down out of the sky—huge, barn-sized things—angels of some demon religion that sent its congregations out to find it blood and treasure ...
“Oh, shut up,” he whispered to himself. “After all, maybe the world will be lucky. Maybe I am the crazy one. Maybe this is all in my head, and the world is safe after all.”
The paddle in his hand came up in a cool slow rhythm. As he passed it over the front of his skiff, drops fell in an arcing line, the natural flow of their descent giving the world enough normalcy for Legrasse to make a last wish.
“Maybe.”
And then, cutting across the muddy green water of the swamp, the keening sound of a thin, reedy piping broke through the whipping trill of the hot, dry wind. Small and distant, it slammed against the inspector’s ears, making him shudder.
“And then again ...,” he whispered, “maybe not.”
He remembered the fluting noise from his first trip to the swamp. At almost the moment he and his men had become convinced they had lost their way, the distance sound of pipes and drums had drawn them to the monolith and the heathen insanity capering around it. Pulling his paddle inside his borrowed craft, Legrasse stopped all movement, sending his senses out into the marsh. Listening, he strained all his internal apparati, searching for any presence that might know he was about. Feeling that he was still secure, the inspector then pulled his pistol from beneath his jacket.
It was not common for officers, even high-ranking ones, to carry firearms. Legrasse had fallen into the habit after being caught in an alleyway by a trio of rum runners with a particular aversion to returning to prison. If not for the luck of a pair of passing beat prowlers, the inspector’s career might have been ended far earlier.
Yes, he thought with sarcasm. What a pity if that had happened. I’d have missed all the joys I’ve found in this wonderful swamp.
The weapon was cold in his hand—cold and small and suddenly seeming far too light to be an engine of destruction. Legrasse’s mind remembered the whispers of his men, of the gigantic white bulk so many of them had seen. Stroking the German-made automatic, he spoke to it quietly.
“Could you stop something so big, girl?” he asked it absently, his eyes staring ahead. “Can anything we do stop these things?”
And then, Legrasse suddenly jammed the gun back into his waistband. His cheeks burning, he wondered when he had become such a child. Whining, filled with self-pity ... pushing on into the unknown and yet sitting tight-kneed like some school girl. What was next, he wondered—the vapors? Was it the liquor, he wondered, grasping for an excuse? Was it Webb and his highbrow notions? Legrasse had known other men of science, confident and filled with advice and theories—until something went wrong.
Then it was always hand-wringing and frayed nerves and tears. Arrogance or hopeless fright—that’s all you got from academics. Sliding his paddle into the water once more, the inspector pushed off toward the sound of the growing music. As his flat bottomer slid through the rushs, pushing aside those it could not crush over completely, Legrasse thought on professor Webb.
He was grateful for the older man’s assistance. Indeed, if the professor’s theory was correct about the cult—and the crude tune filtering through the night was a strong indicator that he was—then his help would most likely prove invaluable. But, suggestions and clues and ideas, that’s all the professor’s type—doctors and scientists—were good for. If Webb were there in the boat with him, he knew the man’s horror would have already destroyed them.
Whereas, to be honest with himself, Legrasse was finding his true, inner self almost eager to reach the monolith. As a trace of light slashed through the cattails whipping back and forth in the mounting breeze before his boat, coaxing him on, he felt his pulse quickening. He was getting close.
“Good.”
The single word was a whisper, barely louder than his heating breath, and yet it filled the inspector with a snaking thrill that churned his blood and made the juice run in his mouth. He had
been away from the thick of things for too long. When promotion had raised him above the honest life of a patrolman, Legrasse had become a puppet of formality, an observer of human nature, a seeker of clues, a judge or some other form of civil marionette. But, still within him ached the heart of a man, one waiting for its moment—waiting for something worthy of his own self image against which he could test himself.
One silent stroke after another pushed the flat bottomer along, Legrasse having to almost forcefully hold himself in check. He wanted to charge forward, to take on the whole lot of them ... he could feel their bones breaking beneath his fists, taste their blood in his mouth, smell their fear as he tore at their eyes, hear the sounds of their tears mingled with his laughter ...
Stroke after stroke, the silent swamp boat glided through the marsh, Legrasse growing hotter and hotter for the moment of reckoning. His pulse racing, lungs filling to bursting, he knew he was as ready as a normal man could be for whatever lie ahead.
“Yes ...” he breathed, his nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing, smile growing cold and grim. And then, instinctively, the inspector stopped his bottom dragger. Reaching forward, he parted the rushes in front of the boat a fraction of an inch. There was no further to go. Legrasse had returned to Monolith Island. Returned to it as he had first seen it—returned to it as if through the gates of time themselves.
Once again, the massive bonfire had been built, naked dancers braying and writhing about its base ... and also, once again, the scaffolds had been erected. A score of bodies hung from the rough poles, each with at least one inverted corpse swinging from it, most with two, all of them running red from their feet to their heads. The inspector jammed his teeth together at the sight.
For a brief moment, he thought he had failed the squatters of the area. But then, carefully taking in their general appearance, Legrasse realized, the cultists had not made victims of the swamp dwellers again. This time, they had used their own brethren. From his vantage point, the inspector studied the area ahead, mapping his strategy. As the dancers rounded the monolith over and over, he counted in excess of a good forty foes. The numbers made sense. The inspector knew he and his men had swept up less than half the cultists during their previous raid. Counting the bodies hanging before him, he knew all of them had returned that night—one way or the other—to partake in their final ceremony. Which was to be ... what?
No matter which way he looked at his scant collection of facts, he could not put the puzzle straight. If the last sacrifice had been used to call a flying monster down out of the sky, then what had become of it? Where was it? And where had it been for nearly half a year?
As he watched the cavorting worshipers, trying to puzzle out his next move, Legrasse was forced to suddenly duck down. Catching him by surprise, the oddly heated wind, which so far that evening had been nothing more than a mild annoyance, now bent his cover of reeds and cattails back, nearly exposing him. The inspector was forced to lie in the flat of his boat, watching the vegetation before him slam back and forth in the mounting gale. And then, suddenly, as he watched the marsh weeds intertangling with each other, Legrasse exclaimed—
“Bloody God! That’s it!”
Grabbing at his paddle, the inspector forced himself erect through the growing wind. He had been thinking of the monster as something substantial—a physical presence such as a dog or alligator. But Webb had hinted at godhood for the white mound. What if the older man had been right? What if they both had been right? What if the normal rules of science did not apply to this horror from beyond?
If the sacrifices were to summon their god, Legrasse reasoned, what if the cultists simply hadn’t spilled enough blood by the time we arrived that first time? Perhaps it had just begun to appear when we arrived. Cutting off the flow of blood to it might have broken its link with this world ... and that was why only some of us saw it. It was here, but when we cut off the sacrifices, it disappeared back to the wherever from which it came.
Legrasse bend to work with his paddle. No longer concerned with stealth, he aimed his boat straight for the island, tacking against the fiercely growing wind as he raced forward.
What if, he reasoned, they’ve been killing themselves all along to finish the job? Overjoyed to die one at a time, bit by bit ... using their lives as starvation rations for their god. Webb made noises about certain gravities needing to be right, stars positioned just so ... maybe, maybe these deaths since the raid have just been, been ... snacks for this thing of theirs. And now, as Webb said, if tonight is the night when they can bring their god back—fully back—to our world ... that would explain the abundance of death here tonight.
And then, a figure on shore pointed directly at Legrasse. For a moment, none of the cultist’s fellows heard him over their own feverish musicians and the growling sounds of the ever increasing wind. But soon, drawn by his gestures if not his voice, others broke off from their dance, spotting the approaching inspector. Realizing he had no other choice, Legrasse pulled his Luger and pointed it toward the gesturing cultist.
“Very well,” he growled, “you want to meet the devil tonight, you bastards ... let me help you.”
The inspector squeezed his trigger. A great retort sounded across the marsh and the cultist’s head burst open in a scarlet explosion. Before the dead man’s knees could buckle, Legrasse fired again. The motion of his boat on the wind-churned swamp waters throwing off his aim, the inspector hit a second man in the chest instead of the head which had been his target. Falling to the ground, the severely wounded cultist croaked a prayer.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn’”
And then, a cheer went up from the dancers. Suddenly the force of the swirling winds cutting through the swamp doubled in speed and strength. Although the pipers and drummers kept up their sinister beat, the other cultists all rushed into the water toward Legrasse, chanting and laughing. The inspector used his bullets wisely, shooting down his best target each time, missing completely only once.
As the cultists worked their way through the bog and the fierce winds, Legrasse emptied his automatic. At the first “click,” he coolly dropped out the magazine, pocketing the empty clip with one hand while fishing a new one out of his jacket with the other. The nearest cultist was but ten feet from the inspector’s boat when the policeman finished reloading and began firing once more.
His first shot tore through the head of the closest worshipper, blinding the man behind him with a spray of blood and gray matter as the back of the first man’s head exploded open. Legrasse paid neither any heed. Shifting his aim over to the left, he fired again, dropping another.
By the time the jabbering pack reached his boat, the inspector had dispatched nearly a score of them, wounding several others. Bodies floated face down across the marsh, calling to the carnivores that lived throughout the swamp. Expending his last few shots recklessly, Legrasse dropped his weapon into the bottom of his boat and grabbed up his oar.
The first of the worshippers to reach the flat bottomer took the full force of the hard wood slat across his face. The blow spun the man around, sending him crashing into one of his fellows. The second to reach the boat, coming up on Legrasse’s opposite side, received a slamming even harder than the first man—a blow so hard it shattered the paddle up the center.
Before the inspector could react to the destruction of his weapon, however, one of his attackers threw himself forward. The cultist hit Legrasse across the legs, but worse, he swamped the inspector’s vessel. His arms flailed for but a second, then Legrasse fell backwards and disappeared beneath the dark, oily waters of the marsh, his gun lost, boat overturned. The inspector surfaced a moment later, however, coughing and gagging. As three of the cultists splashed forward toward him, Legrasse rose and spit out the last of the foul water he had swallowed, balling his fists at the same time.
Standing in some four feet of water, the inspector sent a driving blow into the face of the first to reach him, knocking the man off hi
s feet. A second swing buried his left fist inches deep in one worshipper’s abdomen. But sadly, his third swing missed, allowing two of the cultists to tackle him. The three men splashed about underwater, their struggle forcing them forward toward shore. The three wrestled briefly in the thin mud, crushing the centuries old stands of vegetation, tangling themselves in floating swamp creepers.
Legrasse finally managed to knock one of the cultists away, but the triumph was a small one. Two more men took their fallen brother’s place, dragging the inspector to his feet with the help of the other man with whom Legrasse had first gone down. And then, the howling wind slamming all about them, the worshippers dragged the inspector to Monolith Island.
Legrasse struggled as best he could, but to no avail. He had swallowed too much swamp water, exerted himself too greatly to resist the dozen rough hands pulling him along. Dragging him up to the great block of granite in the center of the island, through the ring of bloodied corpses, the gibbering cultists shoved the inspector up against the massive slab. Lashing his left wrist tightly, they ran a stout ship’s rope completely about the great monolith and then lashed his right as well.
Once they had completed their work, the cult members stepped back from their captive. As they did, the one acting as their leader, a large, glowering Negro with skin blacker than the surrounding night spoke to Legrasse.
“You one lucky white worm, piece shit boy, dat you be.”
While the dancing began again, one sweating body after another passing before the inspector’s eyes, the high priest came forward and caught Legrasse’s chin with his hand. Holding the inspector’s face firm, he laughed.
“You been try stop mighty Cthulhu. Foolish little white worm. You slide across the ground without feeling, you think you be de grand king of all, but you just a bag of air with no eyes. Blind and sad and fit for de grave.”
Behind the high priest, Legrasse could see that the musicians had joined the dance, jumping and leaping with the rest of the worshippers as they circled the monolith again and again. Completing the circle, the wind joined them, revolving around the granite block in step with the cultists. Finally the inspector could see the whole picture. Blood and spells—whatever intricate pattern they wove—that called the wind. Twisting itself faster and faster, spinning the air around the monolith, the wind was what the cultists used to break the barriers of time and space to drag their foul gods to Earth.
Cthulhu Mythos Writers Sampler 2013 Page 19
