Death on the Arkham Express

by Byron Craft

  My jaw, back, and chest throbbed from the pummeling I took. I was winded. I can stand toe to toe with the best of them, but fighting this guy was worse than going three rounds with the Manassa Mauler. The Dick advanced, and I stepped back being careful not to lose my footing. He was the most menacing opponent I had ever faced. The .45 caliber slug I had plugged up the hole in his head with earlier that evening, popped out and fell to the roof of the reefer. His white pupil-less eyeballs replicated the pale shade of the worm that slithered out of the cavity and draped over his cheekbone. Moonlight reflected off his shiny bare scalp. With disgust, I watched as more holes popped open and his head became a living Medusa of white worms. The grin never left his chops. The maniacal look on his puss and his wild swinging punches allowed me to get in a few of my own. The Dick telegraphed one, and I blocked with my left. I wasn’t so fortunate with the next one. Unable to counter quickly he let me have it right on the button.

  I was lying on the metal roof trying to recall why I was so cold. The walking corpse of the railroad detective stood triumphantly over me. Dazed, I watched as he leisurely withdrew my stiletto from his wrist. The bloodless blade gleamed in the fog-veiled moonlight. He raised the knife high. It would be all over for me in seconds. I reached for the small caliber automatic in my sock; the Dick’s, once upon a time piece. I aimed upward and pulled the trigger. I kept pulling the trigger until, after five-rounds, the gun jammed. At least three of the slugs struck him in the face. There was a bullet hole in the left side of his forehead, and his right eye had been torn out hanging by a thread. I tossed the cheap gat aside and got back up. I detected another puncture wound above the jawline just as he toppled over. That took a while, I thought.

  The fog was like a living thing. Its long fingers reached up and slapped relentlessly on my face, strengthened by the train’s movement. It curled about the horizontal zombie railroad detective and me. The mist descended in great, grayish spirals on to our heads and from the Dick’s long nose, moisture dripped. There was a grim look of determination in his one good eye; his jaw set firm. The three slugs I placed in his face had not done the trick. Three more white wormy things wriggled out of the bullet holes in his head. Beneath his dripping forehead, his eye became a thin slit as he struggled to his feet. The Dick slipped and fell on the slippery wet roof followed by another unsuccessful attempt. He seemed to be having trouble with his motor skills. It was probably that cerebellum thing.

  Dimly ahead I saw the lights of a few lonely farms. There was a gap up front. I thought the fog was lifting or was it lifting? Several train cars forward hovered a hole, a big blue hole. The same damn shade of blue as that pus and the robot lady’s dress. The Arkham Express slowly crawled into it.

  A heavy force struck me crossways along the abdomen. It was a very long and large pipe. It knocked me off my feet and the wind out of my gut. I was swinging helplessly in space. I hung on for fear of falling. A water tower spigot arm had swung over the top of the moving train and caught me midsection. I kept swinging back and forth. The lengthy spigot pipe moved from side to side first colliding with the water tower, bouncing away to spin around and over the train cars only to turn back and repeat the process once it met the limit of its reach.

  I caught a fleeting glimpse of Railroad Dick. The shot full of holes zombie with head Doels managed to get to his feet. He glanced at my swaying and then turned to stare at the blue gap in the fog. In the bat of an eye, the Arkham Express with the flaming refrigerator car and its living dead vanished into the deep blue void. The abrading clickety-clackety, clickety-clackety faded along with it — the harmonic response to the Night Crawler’s dilemma of the deteriorating quantum whatchamacallit.

  The spigot arm’s swinging slackened, and I hung suspended over the railroad tracks. The subtle sounds of night greeted me. I could make out the faint wash of the waves against the rocky shoreline. It was when I was wondering if I would break a leg if I let go and dropped onto the wooden rail ties that I heard footsteps on the gravel beside the tracks.

  “Hiya, your Honor,” was the genial taunting voice of Alvin Nash. Alongside was Ann Hoade, still clutching her cast-iron frying pan.

  I wanted to know how in heaven’s name they got ahead of the Arkham Express, however, getting safely down was my number one priority. “Get me down from here!” I shouted.

  Across the track, opposite the water tower, was an abandoned station house, another remnant of the Great Depression. Next to it was a weather-beaten ladder. Together Ann and Alvin struggled to drag the heavy wood extension ladder to my rescue. After leaning the spigot arm and the ladder against the water tower, I successfully made ground level. “Ok, I know that this sounds ungrateful, but how in the hell did you two get here in advance of the Express?”

  “The signalman at Providence Station telephoned the manager of the station house we were at and said that the Express was out of control and slowing down,” answered Ann.

  “Yeah, and we borrowed the station manager’s car and raced ahead,” Alvin piped up excitedly.

  “I am embarrassed to admit it, Detective; we didn’t get his permission to take his car. The law may end up on our tail. Alvin hotwired the ignition.”

  Alvin looked down at his shoes and place-kicked a pebble. How could I arrest let alone reprimand them for auto theft? I would have ended up in that big blue void along with all the dearly departed if it hadn’t been for their intervention. “Forget about it,” I said. “There are a lot of dead on the Arkham Express, and I am very glad that I am not one of them.”

  Less than a mile off I made out the neon lights of an ESSO Station. “Since you two have provided transportation, give me a lift to that gas station over there.”

  “What for?” queried Alvin.

  “Need to make a phone call.” I got in the backseat, Alvin sat shotgun and Ann Drove. I delighted in the irony of a cop going for a ride in a stolen vehicle.

  “Who ya gonna call, Detective,” asked Alvin leaning over the front seat in my direction.

  “Station House 13.”

  “You ain’t gonna turn us in for stealin’ the car are ya?”

  “Not on your life. I’m gonna phone in my retirement.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Byron Craft started out writing screenplays, moved on to authoring articles for several magazines and finally evolved his writing style into exciting, sci-fi, fantasy, horror novels.

  Craft has published three novels in a planned five-novel mythos series that reflects the influence of H.P Lovecraft. Byron Craft's first novel "The CRY of CTHULHU," initially released under the title "The Alchemist's Notebook," was the reincarnation and expansion of one of his most memorable screenplays. Craft demonstrates he is as capable a novelist as scriptwriter. Craft's second novel, “SHOGGOTH” continues with all the ingredients of a classic Lovecraft tale, with some imaginative additions. Followed by “SHOGGOTH 2: RISE OF THE ELDERS.”

  The first four books in the Arkham Detective series have been so popular that the enigmatic detective is back for another round. Craft enjoys this quirky character so plan to see even more of him in the future.

  Craft enjoys writing full-length stories and would love to get feedback from his readers. Please visit his website: www.ByronCraftBooks.com

  If you would like to read more books by Byron Craft, please visit his website: www.ByronCraftBooks.com or go to Amazon.com

  The Mythos Project Series

  The CRY of CTHULHU

  This novelization of The Cry of Cthulhu film project is about a shell-shocked Vietnam vet, and his wife. They inherit an old country estate in Germany around the time his company transfers him to the same area. The two soon discover that the coincidence is really too good to be true.

  Their home rests near a timeworn door into the earth that is poised to open, exposing all to a horde of four-dimensional beings. Soon the line between our reality and that other space-time will be blurred forever, leaving mankind to be consumed by shrill, shrieking terror. Only one
man has the slimmest chance to save our planet and, even though he has no place to hide, he prefers to run. [Book One]

  SHOGGOTH

  An accepted theory exists that millions of years ago a celestial catastrophic occurrence wiped out every living thing on the planet. This theory may be flawed. Fast-forward to the 21st century. A handful of scientists, allied with the military, discover a massive network of tunnels beneath the Mojave Desert. Below, lies an ancient survivor, waiting...and it's hungry! [Book Two]

  SHOGGOTH 2: RISE OF THE ELDERS

  Who creates and controls the shoggoths? For Professor Thomas Ironwood and his heavily armed team, the answer is crucial. The fate of the free world hangs in the balance.

  The solution? Return to the tunnels beneath the Mojave Desert, locate a gigantic subterranean vault and unlock the secrets it contains. Deadly primal secrets that lie in wait from a time before human life began!

  Byron Craft once again takes us below the earth in this SHOGGOTH sequel enveloping us with tentacles, claws, and mucus glop. A talented fusion of Lovecraftian sci-fi, mystery, fantasy, and horror with a 21st-century twist. [Book Three]

  The Arkham Detective Series

  Cthulhu’s Minions

  A Novelette introducing the Arkham Detective. Cthulhu’s Minions are Pilot Demons. Nasty pint-sized legless creatures that crawl on their hands with razor sharp claws and fangs. The diminutive beings must be stopped before they conduct one of Cthulhu's Old Ones to the back alleys and streets of Arkham, likewise the entire planet. The story takes place during the Great Depression, a spot in time where H. P. Lovecraft and Raymond Chandler could have collaborated.

  The Innsmouth Look

  The second story in the series that brings the detective back, investigating a murder and the kidnapping of a small child, which leads to Innsmouth by the sea, the frightful creatures that lurk there, and what they plan to call up from the depths.

  The Devil Came to Arkham

  Follow the Arkham Detective as he attempts to discover the source of a deadly epidemic. Is it the devil? Is it a Night Gaunt? Or Both? Find out when you read about a soul sucking creature that is bent on turning Arkham, Massachusetts into a ghost town.

  The Dunwich Dungeon

  In this final chapter, a seven-foot tall man in black has caused the Detective's good friend to go missing. A woman is brutally murdered in a museum, and mysterious artifacts lead us on a trail to inter-dimensional horrors. This time the Arkham Detective is armed to the teeth, and determined to avenge murder with mayhem. [Book Four]

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Byron Craft’s CTHULHU’S MINIONS

  CTHULHU’S MINIONS

  By Byron Craft

  Some say that they have always been there. A guy down on Delancey Street once said they were the remains of aborted fetuses. But the story I liked the best was told to me by an old tramp at the Nathaniel Derby Soup Kitchen. He said they were what was left over after a great war; a war that took place millions of years ago between good and evil. In my business evil prevails too often, but in his story, they lost. The Dark Ones, as he called them, were cast into some kind of underworld although a few managed to stay behind.

  There were many stories, but I didn’t believe any of them until Jefferson Buck had his face chewed off.

  Jeff had been my partner back in the days when we wore the blues and drove black and whites. A few years later, a series of budget cuts put cops alone in their squad cars. A very dangerous situation for a policeman in a big city when there is no one to watch your back, a situation that followed us even after we both made detective. Oh sure, if we were investigating a homicide, the coroner would be at the crime scene along with a police photographer and one of the guys dusting for prints, or at the scene of a robbery there would normally be a uniform officer in attendance with me, but that was it. Most of the time, like all guys on the force, I was on my own, knocking on doors in some tenement or cold water flat questioning perps, looking for clues in back alleys and speakeasies.

  Detective Jefferson Buck was found face down in the basement of the old Crowley Milner Building. The long forgotten department store had been closed for decades. Most of the windows in the twelve story brick structure had been broken out over the years, leaving it open to the wind. It had become a haven for drifters and street people. The guys from forensic said that Jeff had been dead for several hours before they got there. One of the bums, looking for a safe place to shoot up, found him. His screams carried through the opened windows and an officer on the beat heard the clamor.

  Jeff’s face was completely gone. I had seen something like this before. A couple of years ago I was called to the scene of an accident. A drunk had fallen off of a dumpster and cracked his skull for good. His face had been gnawed away by rats; not a pretty picture, but this was different. Jeff Buck’s features hadn’t been removed by a hundred little fangs like the drunk’s; instead, it looked like it had been done by one size-able bite as if it had been made by a large animal.

  “An alligator,” a young forensic assistant blurted out. His assumption was quickly ruled out. There were rumors of alligators living in the sewers, but in all my years on the force, I had never seen one. Besides, there were several chilling things in addition to Jeff’s condition. His .38 had been discharged…six times. Whatever he ran into down there, he had emptied his Smith & Wesson into it before it took him down.

  Also, there was plenty of blood at the scene, mostly Jeff’s, but there was some that didn’t appear to be his, next to an open storm drain. It was pale, very nearly pink, like veal, giving the impression of whoever this second party was; he must have been very anemic.

  THE MYTHOS ALLIANCE

  This is Byron Craft’s tribute to a secret society of mythos authors and artists known only to a select few as THE MYTHOS ALLIANCE. Please check them out:

  F. Paul Wilson . . . is an extremely prolific author, primarily in the science fiction and horror genres. He is the winner of multiple awards: two-time winner of the Prometheus Hall of Fame Award, 2005 World Horror Convention Grand Master Award, 2009 Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement, and twice has received the Prometheus Award for Best Novel. Mr. Wilson has requested that we showcase his most Lovecraftian tale, “The Barrens & Others: Tales of Awe and Terror,” available at Amazon

  Sean Hoade . . . writer extraordinaire who, like a butterfly within a chrysalis, has masterfully developed inside a cocoon of literature and has, so far, written novels about a murderous RV salesman, Charles Darwin on the Beagle, and vis-à-vis Lovecraftian monsters attacking an Edwardian household. Mr. Hoade would like you to examine his novel “Cthulhu Attacks! Book 1: The Fear.” Also “Cthulhu Attacks! Book 2: The Faith” co-authored with Byron Craft! Both available on Amazon.com

  David Hambling . . . is an author that enjoys writing Lovecraftian weird science when he isn't working as a freelance technology journalist in South London. He writes for New Scientist magazine, Aviation Week, Popular Mechanics, WIRED, The Economist, The Guardian newspaper and others. His science background lends itself amazingly to his incomparable storytelling style. A favorite is his 1920's based science fiction novella series about an ex-boxer, Harry Stubbs, that blends weird science and Lovecraftian mysteries with a 21st century twist. Check out his works on Amazon.com!

  C. T. Phipps . . . is a lifelong student of horror, science fiction, fantasy, and especially H.P. Lovecraft. C.T. unearthed a passion for tabletop gaming that compelled him to write and he eventually metamorphosed into a lifelong geek. Take a gander at one of his latest, “Cthulhu Armageddon” @ Amazon.com

  David J. West . . . tells us, "I write because the voices in my head won't quiet until someone else can hear them." David writes dark fantasy and weird westerns. He is a great fan of sword & sorcery, ghosts and lost ruins, so of course, he lives in Utah with his wife and children. Peruse all his books @ KingDavidWest.com

  Sarah T. Walker . . . is a writer and artist of dark subject matter, both fiction and non-fiction. Her art and wri
ting have been published in multiple places from the Lovecraft eZine, to Audient Void, The Lovecraft Lunatic Asylum, and Shoggoth.net. You can learn more about Sarah on FictionFoundry.org.

  Eric Lofgren . . . is an awesome Lovecraftian artist. Eric is a recognized freelance illustrator in the RPG and CCG markets, a master at commercial illustration that includes collectible card art, book cover art and interior book illustrations. Please review his impressive works @ www.ericlofgren.net

  Matthew Davenport . . . spends his time writing, reading, and working to promote and support writing communities in Iowa through his company Davenport Writes, LLC. Author of the Andrew Doran series, and over a dozen books, some Lovecraftian, he is an absolute MUST READ. You can keep track of Matthew on his Website: AuthorMatthewDavenport.wordpress.com

  Paul Atreides . . . is an author, playwright, theater critic, and columnist. Troubled with abiding by those pesky rules of the afterlife, Paul has penned the Deadheads series as well as numerous short stories. To learn more about Paul Atreides go to www.paul-atreides.com

  Kristopher Neal McClanahan . . . tells us that he is an artist, Con Man, soap boiler and teller of tales, currently living in Southeastern Idaho. You can see what he's made of by going to the Deeply Dapper website that features his artwork and links to his podcast and con appearances @ www.deeplydapper.com

  Peoples Guide to the Cthulhu Mythos . . . is a podcast that follows the literary timeline of the Cthulhu Mythos from the big bang, to the cooling of our sun. Go there and listen to find what lurks in the darkness, and who created these lurkers. They also talk cult film, graphic novels, and contemporary mythos collections. Go, if you dare, and be scared @ www.pgttcm.com