But leathers is animals, not men, and some of ’em are juss stupid and willful and some of ’em are downright ornery an’ bad. An’ these contraband, well, they was all runaways what got captured back durin’ the War, so you know they was all trash…no good an’ worthless, lazy and ready to rise up against they ownahs. Mah thinkin’ is, once a leather has proved itself to be one lahk that, all you ken do is hang ’em. No point tryin’ to put ’em back in harness, you cain’t nevah trust ’em. But ain’t nobody evah made me Postmaster General fo’ the Confederacy, so Ah guess Ah jess gotta hesh up.
Anyway, so Jasper and Ah was walkin’ ’round from the back a’the rail station to the front…we’d both traveled with ouwah rucksacks, a’cos, an’ neitha’ one’o us wanted to try ta’ cut through the crowd insahd the station propah. We was scufflin’ along, enjoyin’ getting’ dust on ouwah boots an’ no gods-damned sahrgent to get all on us about it, when Jasper shook me by the shouldah.
“Hey, Rufus,” he said, “take a gandah ovah theah. Ain’t that leathers?”
Ah looked and sho’nuff, Ah saw the back’ends o’ three, mebbe fowah leathers, just disappearin’ ’round the edge of a church across th’alleyway. Now, when Ah say ‘church’, w’all, mebbe it had been once and mebbe one day it wu’d be ag’in, but raht then, it was mo’ a big clutch o’ burned up an’ bombed out timbah boards, just barely still standin’ upright, than anythin’ else.
But Ah did see them leathers, oah at least the ends’ o’ they tails, wavin’ and bobbin’ in the aftahnoon light as they went around that coahnah.
“They seem a might sneaky,” Ah allowed.
“Lahk mebbeso they’s up to somethin’,” Jasper said.
He was grinnin’ like an ol’ butch coon dog on the scent of a bitch in season, and Ah ’spect Ah was too. Ah knowed Jasper (an’ t’other, older Jasper Bennett,’s’well) at the evenin’ church meetins…the ones we had in the woods out behind the church, when someone in the community maht feel that the leathers needed some kinda fear o’the gods, oah at least they mastahs, put back into ’em. The meetins we took ouwah ropes to, if y’all takes mah meanin’. An’it had been quite a piece o’time since we’d had the oppoahtunity to propahly discipline any leathers a’tall.
So Ah nodded to him an’ he nodded back an’ we both went quiet. We didn’t need no lessons in sneakin’; Jasper an’ me can both move quiet as injuns in a full wood under no moon, an’ it was no challenge at all goin’ quiet as ghosts up that cobblestone alleyway.
We got to thet coahnah the leathers had disappeahed aroun’ and we peeked aroun’ it ouwahselves.
“Nothin’,” Jasper breathed, real easy, an inch from mah ear.
“No, but Ah reckon Ah can heah somethin’,” Ah whispahed back to ’em. An’ Ah could, too.
Somethin’ low an’ nasty-like…hissin’, like snakes, or some such. The leathers do hiss a bit, what with them bein’ descended o’ the Serpent an’ not Adam nor Eve, but Ah hadn’t nevah heard no hissin’ like this befoah. Lahk maybeso a few dozen of ’em had got togethah…somewheah…and was all hissin’ togethah, in some heathen gods-damned tongue no decent Jupitah worshippah evah spoke. Hell, even a gods-damned Mithraist don’t speak gibberish lahk that.
“They’s goddam worshippin’ one o’them devils o’thars,” Jasper whispahed t’me. “We can get ’em all hung foah that.”
“We gotta see it,” Ah said. “Ah bet they’s a cellah door leadin’ inta that church’s basement, an’ that’s where we’ll find ’em. We lay eyes on them practicin’ some nefarious rites, an’ then we can go an’ get the sheriff.”
He nodded. A dozen or so riotous leathers…oah moah, mebbe…well, thet was a mought too many foah me an’ Jasper t’handle ouwahselves. But Ah was powerful curious to see what was goin’ on, an’ Ah won’t speak for Jasper at this late date, but I’m guessin’ he was, too.
So we both nodded t’each othah, and then we crept ’round that coahnah and sho’nuff, theah was a little stone stairway leadin’ downward, and a door at the bottom of it.
An’ a leather…one’a the kinda reddish ones…sittin’ on the top step, keepin’ look out.
Wahl, we had ouwah Sharps rifles with us, of course…lootahs everywhere back then, soldiahs jess didn’t travel without ’em…and we brought ’em up right smart.
And then somethin’ hit me in the haid. Yassuh. Somethin’ from above, or sneakin’ up behind me, I don’t know, but somethin’ hit me in the haid, real hard, and Ah saw bright lights and heard whistlin’, and Ah guess Ah went out like somebody hid me undah a bushel, or somethin’.
Ah come to an’ Ah couldn’t move for nothin’. Mah hands was up over mah head an’ it felt like some kinda harsh balin’ twine was wrapped aroun’ my wrists. Tuggin’ at it did no kinda good. Trah’ed to move mah legs and mah ankles was trussed up the same kinda way.
Heard a grunt from next ta’ me, lahk so maybe a pig or somethin’, and Ah turned my haid on mah neck and saw Jasper ovah theah. He was trussed up like a tom turkey, layin’ on some kinda flat stone. Ah guessed Ah must be, too.
There was a whole lotta hissin’ goin on. Ah lifted my haid up’s’much as Ah cu’d an’ looked straight out. Down past mah feet Ah could see Ah don’ know how many…Minerva maht’a been able to count’em, but Ah couldn’t. Less’n a hundred, mebbe, Ah hope. Ah dunno. But they was leathers, all the colors that leathers are…red ’uns an’ green ’uns an’ brown’uns an’ some o’those ’uns that are kinda speckled and stripety. Swayin’ back an’ forth, hissin’ like locomotives, those little forked tongues of they’s out an’ wavin’ in the air like they was tastin’ the sound of all that hissin’ an’ they lahked how it tasted jess fine. Ah dunno. Mebbe they was.
Mah family hain’t rich but we h’aint shirt tail neither. Mah granddaddy sailed on a merchant ship runnin’ the Triangle Trade. They’d take cotton an’ textiles an’ dyes ovah to England an’ sell ’em foah pregnant bitches. Then they’d sail on down to Lemuria an’ Atlantis and they’d sell the littahs the bitches had durin’ the voyage to the slave dealahs, an’ take on leather eggs. They’d hatch the eggs on the trip back home, an’ the little leathers would be already up and walkin’ aroun’ on they hind legs, and woulda learned how to use some tools an’ such, by the time they made landfall in Georgia oah Virginny.
My granddaddy saved his money from four trips an’ then he bought shares and he made three moah trips an’ then he sold out an’ bought a piece o’land an’ became a gennelman farmah. And he did raht well at it, too. An’ Ah didn’t need ta’ go an’ join up but it seemed like the raht thing to do, when ol’ Dishonest Abe wouldn’t let us go our way like the Constitution said we c’ud.
Ah ain’t nevah been nothin’ but proud of my granddaddy, but when Ah looked at alla them leathers dancin’ an’ swayin’ and wavin’ they forked tongues from the end o’ they lizardy little snouts, Ah admit, Ah kinda thought to mahself, maybe folks lahk him shoulda left all them leathers wheah they was.
Then somethin’ started in a hissin’ just ovah mah head. Ah lifted mahself on mah shoulders as much as Ah could, tryin’ to roll mah eyes back in mah head, and got just a glimpse of anothah leather standin’ behind me, an’ he had all kindsa strange signs painted on his pebbled scaly skin, and he had a real ugly jagged lookin’ black stone knife in his three fingahed hands, too.
An’ for just that minnit, Ah could understand what he was hissin’ about, Ah dunno how, but Ah could:
“Two sacrifices, O Great One, come to this place of their own will, filled with the blood of the ancient enemy monkey folk, sons of the hated Adam and the despised Eve, possessed of spirits of Order, will now come to feed you. Awaken! Awaken! And deliver us, your most humble and worthless servants, from our chains!”
An’ Ah saw him raise that knife and bring it down, and felt a sharp pain in mah chest…
“Skarrrnissska. Put that back. It’ssss not part of today’s lesssssson.”
Hastily, the eggling put the Speaking Stone back
on the wall rack. “I’m ssssssssorry, Learning-Missstress. I wasssss jusssssst…”
The Learning-Mistress swatted the eggling with the tips of her three fingers and opposing digit…but her claws were not out. Yet. “Reading ahead again, I know. Pay attention, now. Or shall I summon a shoggoth to take you off and sacrifice you?”
The eggling shook its snout, nostrils dilated in terror. “No, Learning-Mistress! I do my duty!”
“Hmmmph,” the elder female said. “Sssshow me, then. The monkey men no longer rule ussss as they once did. Why?”
Skarrnissska hunched low, trying to think. Too young to yet have a gender, its mind should have been clear…but the voice of the long dead human continued to play in its reptile lobes, distracting it. Something the human had said…
“Ssssssavannnnahh!” the eggling near-shouted, barely forestalling a clawed clout from the Learning-Mistress. “The rite in Sssssavannnnahhh! The two willing ssssssssacrificccccesssss! The Great Old One awakened, and…”
Skarrnisska dared to look up with one eye, hoping for reward. It was the right answer. Ssssso…
The Learning-Mistress glared a deadly glare at the eggling. “You would not know that yet,” she hissed, “if you were confining your ssssstudies to the asssssssignmentsssss!”
She turned and struck the silver gong hanging at the mud and stucco wall with her tail. “You are curioussssss! To the shoggoths with you!”
As Skarrnisska was dragged out, wailing, through the ash covered streets of a ruin once known as Atlanta, the eggling’s last sight was the pulsating mountain of eldritch, tentacled, otherworldly flesh looming like the largest wall in all the worlds to the west.
The Great Elder God paid no attention to Skarrnisska’s ululations.
And, soon enough, they ceased.
Sacrifice
Sam Stone
CAPTAIN NEMO STARED OUT, UNBLINKING, INTO THE DARK BLUE depths and let his mind wander into the realms of creativity that could only be found below the surface. Deep in the ocean, in his own giant isolation tank, the world above, and the concerns of man, couldn’t touch him. His pupils were dilated. He had not surfaced for more than a year and although this did not alarm him, sometimes his crew needed to see land, walk on soil, take respite with a whore or two.
The time to resurface was rapidly approaching.
He let his mind float, barely registering the sea life that swam before the expansive window, as he turned the Nautilus slowly around. He was only half aware of the navigation system bleeping agreement that he was turning in the right direction and the slight upsurge of whirring as the engine boosters kicked in. Nemo needed no guidance. He knew the ocean like the palm of his own hand. The technology was for his pilot, not for himself: he could not be at the helm for all hours of the day.
Nemo was the son of an Indian rajah, and his olive skin would have been darker but for the fact that the captain rarely saw daylight. From an early age he had been raised in England, brought up as a man of privilege and wealth. As a result Nemo spoke in a cultured English voice. He had been educated to a high standard, soon surpassing his tutors, and mostly dressed as any English gentleman might. However, at sea he wore a beard which gave him a distinct pirate air.
The Nautilus shuddered. Nemo blinked, bringing his focus back from the water to the submarine around him. Sometimes he forgot completely that there was anything but himself and the sea.
The Earth trembled and the Nautilus shook so badly Nemo thought it might judder completely apart leaving himself and the crew out in the middle of the ocean. He gripped the wheel as violent jerking rocked the submarine, threatening to turn it on its head.
Nemo turned the vessel into the flow of the water in order to regain control. His efforts kept the Nautilus upright. Then, aftershocks rippled through the water. He almost lost control of the wheel but held on with more determination than physical strength.
A few moments later the sea around the vessel began to calm and the sickly rocking motion subsided as the craft regained its equilibrium. Only then did Nemo hear the alarm that was ringing all over the submarine.
He straightened up, slackening his grip on the wheel, then pushed one hand back through his untidy hair.
“Captain?” said a voice.
Nemo turned his head to look at the man who sat to his left on the bridge beside a complicated station. A panel of buttons, an echo-location screen, and several flashing lights illuminated the area, while the flickering red lights reflected in the crewman’s eyes.
The crewmember was André: one of the youngest, in his mid-twenties. He hadn’t been traveling with them for more than two years, but André had been a lost soul, and Nemo had taken him in, training the man’s keen mind. André, Nemo knew, would be his finest engineer one day. But he was still young and had not yet fully given himself to the life at sea that the others had. It took time, after all, to eradicate the damage parents did to their young on land. Only the sea’s calming influence could take away all of the hurt.
“The monitors are showing serious disruption ahead,” said André, unaware of Nemo’s thoughts about him. “We should turnabout…”
“We’ve fielded earthquakes before,” Nemo said.
“This looks…”
At a sign from the captain, the pilot stepped in and took the helm and Nemo moved to André’s side. He studied the instruments, understanding far more than anyone else could have.
“…more serious than you realize,” Nemo said, finishing the sentence that André failed to find words for. The earthquake was coming from Europe.
Returning to the helm, Nemo typed several complex coordinates into the navigation system. They would navigate around the disruption, but end up near the source of the problem. Then Nemo would be able to assess the level of damage and its continued effect on the sea.
“Notify me when we are twenty miles from destination,” he told the pilot. The man nodded, never taking his eyes from the glass window in front of him.
Nemo left the deck, his mind no longer floating in the depths of the sea, but fully focused on the interior of the Nautilus and the possible damage that the earthquake had done to his ship.
They surfaced at dawn, and as the water cleared the top balcony, a portal opened and Nemo and several of his crew emerged. Nemo breathed in the air and found it unclean. Ahead they saw a port flooded by the sea, its natural bank destroyed. Beachfront property ruined. The air and land smelled scorched. Brick and mortar appeared to have been melted by some form of intense heat.
“Marseille?” said André.
Nemo’s silence confirmed the young man’s fears: his former home, normally a bustling international shipping port, was destroyed, but by what?
Nemo looked over the destroyed port before returning below. They submerged again and the crew waited for instruction as the submarine sank.
Nemo looked through the large window once more but his mind was elsewhere. He was remembering a promise he had once made.
“To England,” Nemo said.
A large panel opened in the side of the Nautilus, and a launch ramp slowly slid out and sloped down towards the water. A few moments later a small boat glided onto the calm water.
Throughout the short journey Nemo had been monitoring the Earth tremors, and there was definite activity coming from London.
At the helm, Nemo turned the small boat into the natural current. They entered the mouth of the Thames at London’s Docklands, and then Nemo fired the engine. The ship was powered by steam, and a crewmember in the small engine room below fed sea-based dried plant life into the furnace to keep the heat pumping to the water heater. Steam pushed through the engine, moving the rudders underneath the boat, while smoke poured out from a funnel that passed through the deck and towered above the helm.
As he passed down the Thames, Nemo saw the toppled tower, sans its huge clock face, half spilled into the water. The parliament houses had fared no better. The walls were punctured with holes, windows smashed, and the roof appear
ed to have crumpled into the building itself.
“What caused this?” asked André.
For once Nemo was lost for an explanation. Even so, he attempted to rationalize the destruction.
“War perhaps…”
“Between the French and English?” André said.
“No. Neither country has the science to do this…It’s too…complete. Too devastating.”
Nemo recalled his youth as he studied the crumbled building. It occurred to him that the enemy had somehow managed to achieve what Guy Fawkes never could: the total downfall of the country and its leadership.
His mind went then to the Queen.
“Protect my seas and you will always have a home on England’s shores…” Victoria had said.
“Always…” Nemo had promised.
“It has to be some form of invasion,” Nemo said. His guilt at failing England was a rock in his gut. But how was he to know this would happen?
André had barely left his side since the first discovery of the anomaly that had affected the Nautilus.
“Invasion?” Andre said.
Nemo looked upwards. It had to have come from the stars.
Nemo pulled the small boat into a dock—little more than steps that led up from the Thames to the ruined Houses of Parliament—and then, André jumped to the small, barely damaged pier and secured the ropes. Two other crewmen joined him and the boat was tied down as Nemo turned off the engine.
The smell of steam had been masking the burnt odor that permeated the air.
“Remain with the boat,” Nemo said.
The engineer who had been feeding the engine below now took up post by the helm, as ordered, as Nemo climbed out and led the other crewmen up the steps.
They walked through the ruins. Burnt leather chairs, bodies charred to the bone, and the inner workings of Big Ben, lay at their feet. The air smelled like cooked meat and the men were forced to cover their noses to prevent themselves gagging.
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