The Idolaters of Cthulhu

by H. David Blalock

  *****

  Tommy strode down Main Street. Behind him, he heard the screams and the cries of the Old One's work. Tommy cried out, over and over, "you brought this on yourselves." He was a shadow of his former self. The chants had gone on for four days. Most of the thirty-six had had fallen out, suffering the same fate as the plump man. Only Tommy and the ten others remained. The effects of four days standing with few breaks and only water showed. Tommy showed the drain. His face haggard, his clothes hanging loosely on him. His eyes, though, showed the change was not only physical. He shrieked, telling all the towns people they were going to suffer, they had brought down death on themselves, no more laughing at Tommy now.

  It was almost midnight in Ford's Falls but no one was asleep anymore. One look down the street behind Tommy and people fled, some on foot and some tried to make it to their cars. Many succeeded. Many did not.

  The form behind Tommy was large, almost twenty feet high with a circular center. It resembled a floating jellyfish, but one with several mouths and teeth out straight out of nightmares. Eyes dotted the landscape of its central form. Tammy Rollings had come out of her house with a shotgun, along with her dog. She had walked straight up to the beast determined to put it down with her 12 gauge. The Old One had two other residents of Ford's Falls in its tentacles and with another picked up her elderly shepherd. She started to yell at the beast and it turned just a little to focus an eye on her. The yelling had stopped as she fell to the ground, gibbering nonsense. The Old One left her there. Tommy was sure she was still there.

  Ahead of Tommy was the emissary. His hood was down and he yelled nonstop about a new world. One look at his visage and most just ran. Anyone who got close enough, the emissary fell upon with his preternatural strength and his teeth.

  The sheriff's SUV slammed to a halt in front of Tommy and Sheriff Custer got out, rifle in hand. Tommy knew the rifle, the Custer's 30 06, bolt action. It packed a punch. Custer used it for hunting elk on occasion and always had a story ready when he talked about it. Come on down, General, meet the Old One and tell your story now. Tommy giggled and pointed at Custer.

  "Where's your story now?" he asked. He gestured back at the Old One. "He is coming for you." More giggling. He wheeled around screaming in laughter. "Liars, hypocrites, he is coming to eeeeaaaaaat you. And you asked him to come with all your lies."

  Custer took one look down the street, all business, ignoring his deputy. He lined up his sights and squeezed off a round. Hit, dead center of mass.

  Fifty yards down the street the Old One paused and then slowly the round was pushed back out of its slimy gelatinous flesh. It was at that moment that one of the Old One's many tentacles brought a screaming Suzy Holder through the window of Dino's Diner. In her hand she held something and, screaming, she launched it at the Old One. As Custer watched, it hit the beast square and it shuddered and groaned in pain, dropping Suzy who immediately started to hobble away, covered in the Old One's slimy goo. The beast took a moment to recover before grabbing the poor waitress again.

  Custer grabbed a smaller, but scoped 30-30 carbine out of his back seat and took a quick peek down the street at the ground around the Old One. He smiled and started to get back in the car.

  "I'll be back," the sheriff said and then took off towards the highway.

  "Run away, run away," Tommy screamed after him. "It won't matter, the Old Ones are here nooowwww and they will eat you."

  He was changing, minute by minute. His fingers were longer. His pores were starting to ooze a slimy substance. His hair was thickening, covered in slime. Tommy touched his teeth and smiled. His finger bled a little. He felt no pain. My teeth they are so sharp, he thought. Soon I will be able to feast like the Old Ones. He continued spreading his message. He looked around. He stood over a bloody corpse, holding a dismembered arm, chewing. He was covered in blood and guts. The emissary tossed the arm to Tommy.

  "You have earned it, feast on them. They are our cattle, hypocrites," he growled.

  Tommy held the arm a moment. Down the street, he heard an engine headed towards them. He looked up towards the sound. A large truck, a dump truck was gunning towards them. In the street lights he saw Sheriff Custer at the wheel. He squealed.

  "He's back." He was so excited he dropped the arm to point towards the dump truck.

  "He's back." He was shrieking. "Go eat him, go eat him!”

  As he was shrieking, he ran towards the truck. In a moment, he was on the truck's side as Custer was turning the truck around. Tommy yelled, "go ahead run away..." He got no further.

  A roar came from inside the truck and and the emissary flew backwards, his head almost gone. He landed with a thud on the street.

  Tommy was speechless as the truck started to back up, engine racing. The truck picked up speed, headed straight towards the Old One. The Old One saw the truck and moved towards it, slimy tentacles outstretched. Custer never slowed the truck. They collided hard. The tentacles reached into the cabin a half second before the truck hit. Tommy heard a shotgun blast and giggled, "oh, he is eating now."

  Then he heard the screams of the Old One. They were horrible. The beast was covered in something from the back of truck. Tommy was speechless. The Old One was.... was melting. It shrieked. Tommy could feel its pain. White dirt from the trick covered it. It was on the ground, writhing and getting smaller and smaller. Steam rose from the Old One as it died.

  Custer was standing over Tommy, rifle in hand.

  "Salt for the slug," Custer said.

  "No, no, you all have to be punished," Tommy wailed.

  "Stop your whining," Custer said as he brought down the butt of the rifle.

  Epilogue

  Tommy sits in the corner, giggling. He feels his face, waiting for the change to finish. He still oozes slimy sweat. He only eats meat. He tells himself he is eating liars and he giggles. He knows they will come for him. He is faithful.

  They tried to drug him, but he never sleeps and if they get too close, his teeth are sharp.

  He knows they will come free him. He is faithful.

  INTERMISSION

  He Who Hesitates

  by

  H. David Blalock

  It took his employer giving him a direct order before Jonathan Marion finally agreed to meeting with the woman. He hated having to comply, preferring to have been able to take some more time to make the decision whether to meet or not. After all, the deal could mean millions of dollars in profit or loss for the company. That kind of responsibility was something he didn't take lightly.

  His employer, on the other hand, took a different outlook on his caution.

  “He who hesitates is lost,” the man told him. It was one of his favorite aphorisms.

  Jonathan thought it was dangerous to plunge forward into any decision without considerable deliberation. Consequences could be far-reaching. He ignored the criticisms from his fellow workers about what they called his excessive caution. He considered himself a responsible person and didn't give into their goading when they wanted a decision in a manner he considered too precipitate.

  He went into the conference room after pausing for several moments to settle his nerves. He was doing it against his better judgment but there was no choice if he wanted to keep his job. Sitting across from the door at the conference table were two men and a woman. He hardly noticed the men.

  She was more than a striking beauty. Nothing specific about her caught his attention. Her overall appearance left him breathless. Dressed modestly in a dark green outfit that covered her from throat to ankle, she gazed at him from eyes the color of the sea. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bundle, held in place with a coral-hued comb. It took him a moment to gather his wits before he could approach the table and exchange introductions.

  Throughout the meeting, she sat nearly silent. The few times she did speak was in a musical language filled with pauses and sudden stops. One of the men translated for her. Jonathan found her voice strangely evocative. He was almost sorry
when the meeting was over.

  As she passed by him on her way out, she smiled and touched his arm. She looked at one of her compatriots and said something in that odd tongue. The man nodded, reached into his coat and produced a business card.

  “Call us soon,” he said, offering the card.

  Jonathan looked at it, puzzled. He looked at the man and then her. She was still smiling as she took the card from her man and reached to take Jonathan's hand. Her touch was warm, sending a thrill through Jonathan. She pressed the card into his hand and closed his fingers over it.

  Then she was gone, leaving Jonathan to try to still his beating heart.

  *****

  He met his fiance that night for dinner. She rambled on about the wedding preparations. Flowers, bridesmaid gowns, stationary, patterns... He blanked out somewhere around the font for the invitations.

  A motion at the corner of his eye caught his attention. It was a woman in a dark green outfit taking a seat against the wall. That familiar thrill went through Jonathan at the sight. He stared at the woman. Why was she there?

  Then the woman laughed and spoke to the man sitting across from her. The spell was broken. It wasn't her.

  “Jonathan!”

  He snapped back to see his fiance glowering at him.

  “I saw you looking at her,” she said. “Why were you looking at her like that? Do you know her?”

  He blinked. “Um. I...”

  “Jonathan,” she growled. “You haven't heard a thing I've said, have you?”

  “Um...”

  She sighed and waved her hands helplessly. “You're impossible sometimes, you know that?”

  She went on and on after that and he sat, helpless and chagrined. The meal finally came but he'd lost his appetite.

  *****

  He saw her everywhere. At work, on the street, on television. She populated his life in a way he couldn't comprehend and at each sighting he felt that same excitement.

  Unfortunately, several of those times he was with his fiance and she couldn't help but notice his reactions. Their relationship began to sour. He knew he should do something, try to explain it to her, but he could never find the right time or the right words. Each time he sensed it might be possible, he hesitated. And the relationship suffered.

  *****

  The island rose unexpectedly on the horizon, its silhouette black against the setting sun. Behind the boat, stars began to pierce the purple sky. The soft hiss of the water parting as the prow slipped westward was louder than the thoughts haunting Jonathan and immensely more peaceful.

  He had rented the boat with the last of his savings, hoping to find some peace in the solitude of Bermuda waters. For two days, he had spent hours just drifting, turning over the events of the past few months in his mind, trying unsuccessfully to put them in some kind of order.

  She had met him in the parking lot as he left work and thrown the ring in his face. The ring was merely the herald of a torrent of insults and accusations, most of which made no sense to him whatsoever. About halfway through her tirade, after the original string of invective, he was fairly certain there was something about another woman but the virulence of the language that followed stunned him so thoroughly, he wasn't sure. She had stood there, arms akimbo, waiting for him to deny or admit it. He had started to say something, then reconsidered and began to say something else. There was so much that needed to be said, he couldn't find the place to start. After the inevitable punch in the face, at which somehow he was still surprised, she stomped off, mumbling.

  He remembered watching her stride out of his life, trying to comprehend what had just happened and why. And that had been his major concern ever since. It had consumed him, obsessed him, possessed him. Though it had been a topic of argument, his fiance leaving could not have been about the woman in green. He had never strayed. It had never occurred to him. He was perfectly happy, living an idyllic existence. Until that day in the parking lot.

  So he watched the dark island grow ahead with only a passing interest. Its presence registered on him only as an obstacle to his return to Bermuda, a minor inconvenience to be avoided. He checked the compass and the sheets, turning ten degrees to port. The boat obediently swung southward, and the island passed from his attention as Jonathan again sank into a morose funk.

  It was several minutes later that he realized the boat was still approaching the island. Puzzled, he checked the compass again. The course he had set was not changed, but the boat was tacking toward the land as if caught in a strong current. The island was still several miles away, so Jonathan felt no alarm, only confusion. He was not familiar with these waters, so perhaps he should have paid closer attention to the charts.

  First things first, though. He checked the fuel on his gas engines, struck the sails, and cranked up the inboards. Once he was confident his course correction was taking, he pulled out the maps to check his location.

  It took only a few moments for him to realize they would be no help. According to the charts, there was no land around for miles, and his on-board GPS corroborated that testimony. He was at a loss as to what to do. Once again, faced with unexpected circumstances, he hesitated. Should he contact the authorities now, or wait until he got to Bermuda? The charts promised him he was within ninety minutes of Horseshoe Bay. Surely the delay of a mere hour and a half wouldn't be too bad? What about the weather? Should he re-check the last forecasts before deciding? Indecision, such a familiar companion, ruled him again.

  A grinding noise startled him out of his thoughts. He bit back a curse as the boat shuddered and suddenly pitched hard to port. The engines growled as the vessel slowed to a halt, then died altogether with a final grumble.

  Jonathan ran to the rail and looked overboard. Incredibly, he was aground, stuck on rocks that lurked just below the surface. He grit his teeth and pounded the rail with his fist. How could that happen? He looked across the water to discover he was closer to the island than ever before. The deck shifted under his feet and he grabbed the rail to stop himself falling. Everything shook heavily for several seconds as a deep rumble came from the island. Jonathan heard a loud hissing and watched in growing fear as what he'd assumed was beach sand colored umber by the dying sunlight proved to be lava flowing into the sea nearby, sending clouds of steam billowing into the darkening sky.

  A volcanic island? Off Bermuda?

  The incomprehensible unlikelihood of it held him stunned for long seconds. This trip was becoming one long series of impossibilities.

  Another, louder rumble brought him back. He stumbled into the bridge and reached for the radio.

  The boat lurched violently and he was thrown against a bulkhead. Blackness engulfed him.

  *****

  Jonathan opened his eyes and immediately regretted that decision. The little man behind them objected to being subject to outside light and manifested his displeasure by pounding repeatedly inside Jonathan's head with what felt like an iron bar. Jonathan groaned and put a hand over his face to keep it from being jarred loose from the vibration.

  “Sra menla junti ftaghn?”

  Jonathan froze. The voice was familiar and very close, but the words were gibberish.

  “Uh, I'm sorry, I don't understand you,” he managed.

  “Inda mezto junte ftaghn,” she, whoever “she” was, said.

  He chanced a peek through barely opened eyelids. The pain got no worse, so he opened them all the way.

  A long, kelp-colored dress wrapped her form and coral-hued rings circled her fingers. Everything about her reminded Jonathan of the sea, including her scent, which was that of an ocean breeze. More than that, he knew her. He had met her in a conference room sometime ago. Her image had haunted him for weeks. She was here, with him. But, how was that possible?

  They were in a cave of sorts, close to the water. He could hear the surf through the entryway to his left. He sat up slowly, so as not to further disturb the little man, and looked around. Two men, dressed similarly to the woman, stoo
d quietly behind her a little way, gazing at him curiously.

  “Sra meka?” she asked with a slight smile.

  “Yeah, I'm fine,” he answered, although he had no idea what she meant.

  His response seemed to satisfy her and she nodded. She clapped her hands twice and motioned to the two men, who reached down and helped him to his feet.

  “Kalana nurda shoen ftaghn,” she said to them, then turned to Jonathan and beckoned him to follow.

  Jonathan, torn, did not move and watched her as she walked to the entryway, where she stopped and looked back at him. Now she looked different, like the other woman, that woman that had falsely accused him of being unfaithful. It was odd. If he didn't know better, he would think someone had reached inside his head and plucked the memory of her face from his mind to clothe this woman, to give her the one face he might trust in spite of everything. He shook his head. That was nonsense. Now that he looked more closely, he could see the line of her nose was just a bit off and her eyes were a deeper shade of green, almost gray. First impressions were so shallow. All his life he had made sure to never act too precipitously, to plan and insure his actions were well thought out. He always thought it had worked well for him, at least until that day in the parking lot.