Insanity

by A. R. Braun

  “Okay. Where. Are. We. Going? Please.”

  “The campgrounds in Musket. Take a left.”

  She turned and ripped a cigarette out of my pack along with my lighter. She lit it, then slammed the fire-maker onto my lap. “We have a quarter of a tank, no money, and nothing to offer but . . . my ass.”

  Shaking my head, I lit another and smoked two at the same time. “Go as far as the Chevy will permit, and we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  ***

  Mercifully, the car—now running on fumes—just made it to the campground; others had the same idea, but we found a deserted area by the woods and set up camp. Sitting in front of the fire, we devoured our booty.

  “God, I wish I would’ve grabbed beer.”

  “Honey,” Hayley said—sotto voice.

  “The miracle of barley hops would’ve helped me forget—”

  “Honey!”

  “What?” I looked up to see a man with a rough face, short hair, and a dress shirt with a loose tie walk up with a slim, black-haired woman.

  “Isn’t this a bitch?” the man asked. “We’ve been fighting like dogs to survive since the banks went down.”

  Wow, a couple just like us.

  “Can we join you?” he added.

  The woman with a lovely face—high, pronounced cheekbones and full lips—pointed yonder. “We’ve got a camp down the way, just like yours.”

  My heart was glad. Maybe the good people of earth could band together and figure out how to set things right after all.

  “We’re swingers,” the man said. “You into wife swappin’? Anal sex? My woman could lick your ass and I could fuck it.”

  Then again, maybe not.

  “We’re not into any of that,” I said.

  They grinned devilishly.

  The man produced a gun. “You are now.”

  I whipped out the Glock Nine. “I don’t think so.”

  With that, hell-on-earth concluded in a blaze of gunfire.

  Cult

  “Ryan, get your can in here,” the captain yelled.

  Jason Ryan winced and ran his hand over his grainy crew cut. He worked as a detective in Tampa. He ignored the captain for a few seconds by daring to light a cigarette, savoring the bitter relief of the nicotine fit.

  “Ryan, the cap’s calling you,” Herbert Womar, his hefty colleague, said. “And put out that smoke.”

  Ryan thought these fanatics daft. They won’t let us light up anywhere anymore. I thought I had freedom in this country—freedom to kill myself included. Ryan took another drag and snuffed it out. At least the squares kept him thin, unlike the fat slobs around here. The captain screamed for him to get his butt into his office.

  “Keep your adult diaper on!” Ryan said.

  Ryan stormed inside the room. He needed an assignment that was exciting for once, but being twenty-one, he always got handed the generic jobs. Just once, he’d like to bust someone who deserved it. Ryan’s wife would worry if he got a real case. He also had his three-year-old daughter to think about. But he needed purpose, and fast. He was ready to give up.

  “Listen, Cap’, I need a decent case, or I’m going to quit. I joined the force for excitement.”

  A tough-looking salt-and-pepper-haired ex-marine with a taste for blood as well as justice, Captain James reeked of bittersweet cologne. He sighed. “Oh, all right.” The captain whipped out a manila envelope. “I’ve got a doozy for you.”

  Ryan’s shoulders slumped. “I have my doubts. These kids I round up—they’re almost my age. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

  The captain walked over and got in his face. “Do you want a knuckle sandwich? I said I’m giving you a decent case.”

  “Sorry, Cap’.”

  Captain James walked back around his desk. “It’s not your everyday juvenile roundup. Look at these.” The captain handed him a digital camera with photos of gang graffiti.

  He flipped through them, deep in thought. “Hey, where’s Cantrell?” Vic Cantrell was Ryan’s partner.

  “He’s out sick—food poisoning.”

  “That’s a good place for him.” Ryan hated his partner, who cracked wise constantly.

  “You’re all heart, you know that?” Captain James said.

  Ryan shrugged. “Give me a break.”

  “I’m short on manpower. I don’t have anyone else to put you with right now.”

  He studied the photos again.

  “See the graffiti?” Captain James asked.

  Ryan stared harder. “Looks like typical gang tags.”

  “No, look closely at the graffiti on the left.”

  Ryan concentrated till his eyes hurt and spotted some unintelligible words and what looked like those Jesus fish one saw on cars all over the world. “All I see are some gothic-looking words I can’t make out and a religious fish. What’s this, a Christian-metal band turning to a life of crime?”

  “Look harder at the fish.” The captain grinned.

  He spotted a protuberance from the bottom. “It looks like the fish is smiling . . . through razor sharp teeth.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I can’t make out the words above the graffiti.”

  “A computer nerd deciphered it for me. It says: ‘Cult of Yog-Sothoth and Shub-Niggurath’s Young.’”

  Ryan recoiled. “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  Ryan sighed. “When I was a teenager, I listened to occult bands like Morbid Angel, who sang about ‘Yog-Sothoth’ and ‘Shub-Niggurath.’ Yog’s one of the male Elder Gods and Shub’s some alien female deity. Morbid Angel are a bunch of nuts that worship the Old Ones—evil beings from another dimension.”

  “Then how do you explain the fish?”

  Ryan was speechless.

  “There you go, your first interesting case,” the captain went on. “Two teens are missing. Hector Rodriguez and Damien Alford. These kids were messing around, taking pictures on the south side. Their parents and siblings complained that right before they went AWOL, they were blabbering about some weird bunch of teenagers from a cult. Said cult invited them to check out their rituals, and they never returned. A baby turned up missing in the same area, but we have no evidence suggesting the cult had a part in it. A strange character turned the camera in here at the precinct, some old lady wearing brown rags. Looked like she had a skin disease.”

  “So, go talk to the parents and siblings?” Ryan asked with an unenthusiastic tone.

  “Their statements have already been taken and will be delivered to your desk as soon as possible.”

  “Anything else you can give me?”

  “The victims described a black warehouse before they went missing. It’s on Abdul Street. But there’s a problem. No one has been able to find the street, even on our advanced maps. Go down there, investigate it, and solve this sucker. I’ll promote you if you do.”

  “Oh. All right, Cap’, but if it’s just a bunch of punks—”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. Just get on it and make me proud. Congratulations.”

  “Sure. I guess I should say thanks—”

  Captain James leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Thank me later. Solve it now.”

  Ryan stood. “Yes, sir.”

  The captain winked at him. “You won’t find it on GPS, so do a little digging. Supposedly, it’s off of the Lee Roy Selmon Crosstown Expressway, and the warehouse is on the beach. That’s all we know.”

  “Then how do I find it?”

  “That’s your problem, not mine. Do some detective work and get the hell out of my office.” He sighed. “You sure took your sweet time getting in here.”

  “So I’m looking for a street that doesn’t even exist. Great. Another worthless case.”

  A knock came to the partly ajar door. Ryan craned his neck to see Herbert waddling into the office.

  “Give it to someone who can handle it,” the idiot blurted. “Put him on purse snatchers. That’s right up his alley.”

&n
bsp; Ryan stuck his finger in his face. “My gun’s about to go up your fat alley!”

  “Ryan,” the captain cried. “Get out of here and do your job.”

  He held up his hands. “Fine, fine, I’m out of here.”

  ***

  Fuming, Ryan headed out to the south side, thinking he was going to quit the force after this case. He popped a stick of nicotine gum into his mouth. He was trying to quit smoking since everyone bitched about it, his wife included.

  Ryan came up with a plan.

  He unlocked the door of his house. The wife was at work, and his child was in daycare. He stormed into the bedroom and changed into a pair of jeans with the knees cut out and a 1980s metal tour shirt depicting the electric chair. Then he added huge blue-tinted sunglasses. Ryan threw on a pair of high-top Chucks and a ball cap, turned backward. He made his way out, locked up, and headed to his car.

  The day had warmed up, the heat of the sun hitting him immediately. He reveled in it. Ryan decided to leave the car after jacking up the meter.

  He headed deeper into the south side.

  ***

  Ryan walked the streets near the beach, looking for Abdul Street. He found a leather shop and slipped in like a ghost, then cruised up to a man with a shaven head. The latter was looking over the leather boots.

  “ ’Sup, dude?” Ryan asked.

  The man nodded to him. “Get the army-issue boots, not the wimpy ones.”

  “Check,” Ryan answered. “I’m Jason.”

  The intimidating man shook with him—a grip of iron. “Vic, brother. Nice shirt. I like the third album better.”

  “Yeah, it’s all good.” Game on. “Hey, I’m looking to score a party. Ever heard of Cult of Yog-Sothoth and Shub-Niggurath’s Young?”

  Vic frowned at him. “You don’t want to mess with those cats, brother.” He walked toward the cashier.

  Ryan grabbed the army-issue boots and followed him. Vic left in a hurry after being rung up. The cashier, a stocky man in a beret, sunglasses, and hair to the collar, frowned at him. “That’ll be fifty-five bucks, man.”

  “Hey,” Ryan said. “Looking to make a hundred?”

  His brow rose. “How?”

  Ryan made sure no one lurked behind him. “I need some info on the Cult of Yog-Sothoth and Shub-Niggurath’s Young.”

  The cashier hissed. “Those lowlifes. I ain’t giving you nothin’, man.” He shook his head. “Think I can’t spot a nark?”

  “But I—”

  “Get the hell out of here!”

  “Come on, man. I’m not a nark.”

  The cashier grabbed a Louisville Slugger. “Out! Now!”

  Ryan shook his head and exited. I could’ve blown his head off for threatening me like that. He willed the cashier to die and tried to shrug it off, albeit unsuccessfully.

  Growing frustrated, he noticed it was 4:00 p.m. Ryan realized he’d forgotten to take off his gold watch because the band painfully plucked out a few of his wrist hairs. He clutched the Glock 22 Gen4 in the pocket of his motorcycle jacket and clicked off the safety.

  Seedy characters lurked everywhere—metalheads, gangbangers, neo-Nazis, and bikini-clad sluts. Ryan stayed alert and kept his eyes peeled. He was already sweating as the heat soared out of control. He walked around for an hour, trying to find Abdul Street, but it was hopeless. It wasn’t off the Lee Roy Selmon Crosstown Expressway.

  Ryan spotted a couple of long-haired youths who sported goatees. They were skateboarding. One wore a shirt with a horned devil pointing out of the fire. The other wore a shirt of the progressive rock group, Shub-Niggurath. I’m getting warmer. Ryan shuffled up to them. A gamey scent wafted into Ryan’s nostrils as they skidded to a stop and forked him the evil eye.

  “What’s up?” Ryan asked.

  “ ’Sup?” one of the boys answered, causing the other to look at him suspiciously.

  “I’m looking for a hell of a party. You guys know where the Cult of Yog-Sothoth and Shub-Niggurath’s Young worships?”

  They furrowed their brows and pointed to the right. “Go down two blocks,” the first one said, “hang a right, go a couple more blocks, hang a left, and you’ll see a black house—an apartment building. Go in the front door and walk down the hall.”

  The other one could have been mute for all Ryan knew.

  “What’s the address?”

  “Just follow the directions, man,” the talker reiterated. “You’ll run into it. When you do, you’ll know.”

  “Score! Thanks.”

  The men scowled at him as if they wanted to kill him.

  “Later days and better—”

  “Our lays are just fine,” the one that apparently wasn’t a mute said.

  They boarded off.

  Ryan headed in that general direction. He saw the usual—drug deals going down, bombers with motorcycles outside of bars, more skateboarders, people lying out on the beach, and hookers. The stink of smog, plus the scent of hot dogs and french fries from vendors, rose to his nostrils. He concentrated on sticking to the directions till he came to the black apartment building. With trepidation, he entered the front door.

  The hallways were constructed with an unearthly geometry Ryan didn’t understand. Curves and angles were smeared onto the grey stone walls with a red sticky fluid. He took the twists and turns and . . . came out the back door.

  Then he saw it, a sign that said ABDUL STREET. Unlike regular markers, this one had a weird color he couldn’t quite place. He thought it looked closer to teal than anything else. The words were twisted in an obscene way. The sign was also hanging crookedly. The street housed nothing but old businesses and apartment buildings. He thought that weird, but having given his soul to the precinct, he continued on.

  As he turned onto the street, the day inched toward darkness. Now he smelled nothing but fish, but there were no seafood vendors in sight. He assumed it was coming from the ocean. He looked at his watch again—5:10 p.m.—too early for darkness. Thunder rumbled but queerly echoed, and the wind picked up. Everything was topsy-turvy. He looked behind him. The black house lurked there, the only earthly object in this strange realm. Then he noticed it was getting cold. Since when had Tampa become frigid in late spring?

  All sounds became nonexistent—no people, no traffic, no pets, and no crickets. The beach was empty—impossible! The waves violently heaved, crashing onto the shore, but he couldn’t hear them. A dull ringing in his ears was the only sound. As he walked farther down the street, the color of the sunset was greenish. The other colors weren’t identifiable by mankind. More unknown hues shot out at him, everything crisp and baleful.

  Am I losing my mind?

  He popped another stick of gum into his mouth, but it tasted like a sardine, so he spit it out. All the buildings stood old and dusty. Then he saw the graffiti—it was an evil fish grinning with sharp teeth, all right. He walked on and passed what looked like a closed grocery store kept perfunctorily clean. It bore a sign that read: THE MAD ARAB’S UNKOSHER DELIGHTS. A dirty newspaper stand declared this headline in a strange font: THE ANCIENT ENEMY STRIKES AGAIN.

  I don’t like this one red bit.

  Instead of clouds, an agglomeration of iridescent, spheriodal bubbles hung in the air. A trapezoidal figure peeked out from behind the buildings, then followed him after he passed each structure. Ryan shuddered.

  A man with short hair, a beard, and rings on every finger hailed a greeting. He wore a King Diamond shirt with a twisted creature wearing a crown of thorns on the front. Now Ryan could hear the waves crashing. He asked the man how it was going, sticking his hand out for a shake, but the man whipped a scaly and slimy webbed hand out of his leather jacket. Ryan jerked his hand away, shock ripping through his mind.

  “Hey, meat.” The man’s voice had taken on a harsh, grating quality. He pointed his webbed thumb behind him. “Cult of the Son of Shub and Yog is that way.”

  As Ryan hurried away from him, he noticed a mullet hung down the man’s back. The guy looked over
his shoulder, grinning at him with serrated teeth, his skin now bearing a scalier complexion. Ryan continued walking toward a black warehouse at the end of the street. He found it difficult to see.

  Night had swallowed him.

  Weird.

  The streetlights, strangely emitting an orange glow . . .

  (the color of insanity)

  . . . clicked on, but late. The trapezoidal figure stopped to rest outside an old apartment building that looked as if it used to be a dormitory. A woman from hell came through the door, followed by . . . a man? She stood next to the trapezoidal figure. The woman’s frame was bent and she had a shriveled chin. A long, crooked nose stuck out of her face; she was covered with huge warts and wore shapeless brown garments. The man—no, not a man—a black devil, stood on the other side of her. She whispered to the trapezoid and then bent down before the dark figure, raised her hands, and worshiped.

  “Nyarlathotep,” she breathed. “Drain the copper’s strength.”

  The old woman stood and pinned Ryan with eyes that bore a hideous malevolence and exultation. She breathed heavily, her huge bosom heaving up and down. Ryan thought it strange that she was dressed as a wizard since it wasn’t Halloween. She had some sort of pet he couldn’t quite place. It looked like a large rat. Ryan fumbled in his jacket for his eyeglasses, took off his sunglasses, and put the spectacles on. A human face grinned back at him, attached to the body of the vermin. Maybe I am going crazy. His mind swam as he realized the rat was her familiar.

  “You won’t get out alive!” she croaked.

  Ryan power-walked away. Something about the black devil made him think if he hadn’t moved on, he would’ve gone insane. His nerves were frazzled, and he was at the end of his rope. The witch cackled from behind him, causing Ryan to flinch and keep going.

  He couldn’t hear any sounds again—he found that the most terrifying. Petrified, he rushed down the pavement.

  Ryan realized it was May Eve—Walpurgis Night, to witches.

  He whipped out his cell phone and called the captain’s extension.

  “Captain James here.”

  “Cap’, this is Ryan. I found it—Abdul Street. I’m walking down it right now, toward the warehouse.”