Neil Gaiman & Caitlin R. Kiernan & Laird Barron

by The Book of Cthulhu

  The deliveryman seemed to know that his peculiar ritual was being questioned, and he did not care for the interruption. With another petulant groan he half lunged, half tipped forward.

  Baku recoiled, pulling the door closed with his retreat.

  Peter was thwarted a few seconds longer than he should have been. Perhaps it was only his innate imbecility that made him linger so long with the slim obstacle, but it bought the old chef time to retreat. He slipped first, falling knee-down with a splash, but catching himself on the sink and rising. Back into the hall and past the ice machine he stumbled, rubbing at his knee and shaking from the encounter. It had been too strange, too stupidly sinister.

  At the far end of the dining area a big round clock declared the time. For a moment he was relieved. He needed to go home, and if the clock could be believed, he had less than an hour remaining on his shift.

  But his relief dissolved as quickly as it had blossomed. The scene beneath the clock was no more reassuring than the one in the bathroom.

  Dozens of people were eating in silence, staring down at their plates or their forks. They gazed with the same bland olive eyes, not at each other but at the food. The waitresses and the one lone male waiter lurked by the kitchen window without talking. The cash register did not ring.

  Where was the manager? He’d been in and out for days, more out than in. The assistant manager, then. Anyone, really—anyone who was capable of sustaining convincing eye contact would suffice.

  Into the kitchen Baku ducked, anticipating an oasis of ordinary people.

  He was disappointed. The cooks stood in pockets of inattentive shoe-gazing, except for the two who had made their way back into the refrigerator. From within its chilly depths, Baku heard the sounds of sloppy gnawing.

  Was he the only one who’d not been eating the sushi?

  He turned just in time to hear the bathroom door creak open. Peter moaned as he made his way into the corridor and then began a slow charge towards the chef.

  The grunting, guttural call drew the attention of the customers and the kitchen staff. They turned to see Peter, and then the object of his attention. All faces aimed themselves at Baku, whose insides immediately worked into a tangle.

  Two nearby customers came forward. They didn’t rise from their seats or fold their napkins, and they didn’t put down their forks. Together they stood, knocking their chairs backwards and crashing their thighs against the table, rocking it back and forth. The woman raised her hand and opened her mouth as if she meant to speak, but only warm air and half-chewed sushi fell out from between her lips. Her dinner companion managed a louder sound—like an inflatable ball being squeezed—and the low, flatulent cry roused the remaining customers and the kitchen staff alike. In a clumsy wave, they stumbled towards Baku.

  On the counter, he spied the folded roll of his fine German knives. He fired one hand out to snag it; then he tucked it under his arm and pushed the glass door with his elbow.

  Behind him the crowd rallied, but it was a slow rally that was impeded by everything in its path. Chairs thwarted them. Counters baffled them.

  Baku hurried. Outside the sky was growing dark with a too-early dusk brought on by a cloudy almost-storm. He tumbled into the parking lot and pulled the door shut behind his back.

  The bus stop was empty.

  The chef froze. He always rode the bus home. Every night. Rain or shine he waited under the small shelter at the corner.

  Over his shoulder he watched the masses swarm behind the windows, pushing their hands through the blinds and slapping their palms against the glass. They were slow, but they wouldn’t give him time to wait for the 9:30 bus.

  He crushed at his knives, taking comfort from their strength wrapped inside the cloth. His knuckles curled around them.

  As a young man he’d confronted the ocean with nets and hooks, drawing out food and earning his livelihood. Then he’d been called as a soldier, and he’d fought for his country, and to serve his Emperor. In the years that followed he had put away his bayonet and had taken up the knives of a cook; he had set aside the uniform of war and put on an apron.

  But knives like these could be weapons, too.

  “I am not too old,” he breathed. Behind him, a dozen pairs of hands slapped at the windows, rattling the blinds. Shoulders pummeled at the doors, and the strained puff of a pneumatic hinge told Baku that they were coming. “I am not too old to work. Not too old to cut fish. I am not too old to fight.”

  Peter’s delivery vehicle sat open in the parking lot’s loading zone. The refrigerated trailer compartment hung open, one door creaking back and forth in the pre-storm breeze. A faint briny smell wafted forth.

  Baku limped to the trailer door and took a deep breath of the tepid air. The contents within were beginning to turn.

  He slammed the metal door shut and climbed into the cab. He set his knives down on the passenger’s seat and closed his own door just as the first wave of angry patrons breached the restaurant door.

  At first, he saw no keys. He checked the ignition and the glove box. But when he checked the visor a spare set tumbled down into his lap. He selected the engine key without a tremor and plugged it into the slot. The engine gagged to life, and with a tug of the gearshift, the vehicle rolled forward—pushing aside a pair of restaurant patrons, and knocking a third beneath the van’s grille.

  Baku did not check to see them in the rearview mirror.

  Downtown, to Manufacturer’s Row. That’s where the manager had said the new meat came from. That’s where Baku would go.

  He roughly knew the way, but driving was something he’d forgotten about years before. Busses were cheap to ride, and cars were expensive to maintain. This van was tall and top-heavy. It reacted slowly, like a boat. It swayed around corners and hesitated before stopping, or starting, or accelerating.

  He drove it anyway.

  The streets were more empty than not. The roads were mostly clear and Baku wished it were otherwise. All the asphalt looked wet to him, shining under the streetlamps. Every corner promised a sliding danger. But the van stayed upright, and Baku’s inexpert handling bothered no one.

  He arrived at the distribution center and parked on the street in front of a sign that said “Loading Zone,” and he climbed out of the cab, letting the door hang open. So what if it was noted and reported? Let the authorities come. Let them find him and ask why he had forced his way into the big old building. At first he thought this as a whim, but then he began to wish it like a prayer. “Let them come.”

  In his arm he felt a pain, and in his chest there was an uncomfortable tightness from the way he breathed too hard. “Let them bring their guns and their lights. I might need help.”

  From a sliver of white outlined vertically along the wall, Baku saw that the front door was open.

  He put his face against the crack and leaned on his cheekbone, trying to see inside. The space was not enough to peep through, but the opening was big enough to emit an atrocious smell. He lifted his arm and buried his nose in the crook of his elbow. He wedged his shoulder against the heavy slab of the door and pushed. The bottom edge of the sagging door grated on the concrete floor.

  Within, the odor might have been overpowering to someone unaccustomed to the smell of saltwater, fish, and the rot of the ocean. It was bad enough for Baku.

  Two steps sideways, around the crotchety door, and he was inside.

  His shoes slipped and caught. The floor was soaked with something more viscous than saline, more seaweed-brown than clear. He locked his knees and stepped with care. He shivered.

  The facility was cold, but not cold enough to freeze his breath. Not quite. Industrial refrigerators with bolted doors flanked one wall, and indoor cranes were parked haphazardly around the room. There were four doors—one set of double doors indicated a corridor or hall. A glance through the other three doors suggested office space; a copy room, a lunch room with tables, and two gleaming vending machines.

  Somewhere behind the
double doors a rhythmic clanking beat a metal mantra. There was also a mechanical hum, a smoother drone. Finally there came a lumpy buzz like the sound of an out-of-balance conveyor belt.

  In his hand, Baku’s fist squeezed tightly around his roll of knives.

  He unclenched his fingers and opened the roll across his palm. It would do him no good to bring them all sheathed, but he could not hold or wield more than two. So for his right hand, he chose a long, slim blade with a flexible edge made to filet large fish. For his left, he selected a thicker, heavier knife—one whose power came from its weight. The remaining blades he wrapped up, tied, and left in a bundle by the door.

  “I will collect you on the way out,” he told them.

  Baku crept on toward the double doors, and he pushed tentatively at them.

  They swayed and parted easily, and the ambient noise jumped from a background tremor to a sharper throb.

  The stink swelled too, but he hadn’t vomited yet and he didn’t intend to, so Baku forced the warning bile back down to whence it had come. He would go toward the smell. He would go toward the busy machines and into the almost frigid interior. His plan was simple, but big: He would turn the building off. All of it. Every robot, light, and refrigerator. There would be a fuse box or a power main.

  As a last resort, he might find a dry place to start a fire.

  On he went, and the farther his explorations took him, the more he doubted that a match would find a receptive place to spark.

  Dank coldness seeped up through his shoes and his feet dragged splashing wakes along the floor. He slipped and stretched out an arm to steady himself, leaning his knuckles on the plaster. The walls were wet, too. He wiped the back of his hand on his pants. It left a trail of slime.

  The clank of machines pounded harder, and with it the accompanying smell insinuated itself into every pore of Baku’s body, into every fold of his clothing.

  But into the heart of the warehouse he walked—one knife in each hand—until he reached the end of the corridor that opened into a larger space—one filled with sharp-angled machines reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Rows of belts on rollers shifted frosty boxes back and forth across the room from trucks to chilled storage. Along the wall were eight loading points with trucks docked and open, ready to receive shipments and disperse them. He searched for a point of commonality, or for some easy spot where all these things must come together for power. Nothing looked immediately promising, so he followed the cables on the ceiling with his eyes, and he likewise traced the cords along the floor. Both sets of lines followed the same path, into a secondary hallway.

  Baku shuffled sideways and slithered with caution along the wall and toward the portal where the electric lines all pointed. Once through the portal, Baku found himself at the top of a flight of stairs. Low-power emergency lights illuminated the corridor in murky yellow patches.

  It would have to be enough.

  When he strained to listen, Baku thought he detected footsteps, or maybe even voices below. He tiptoed towards them, keeping his back snugly against the stair rail, holding his precious knives at the ready.

  He hesitated on the bottom stair, hidden in the shadows, reluctant to take the final step that would put him firmly in the downstairs room. There in the basement the sad little emergency lights were too few and far-between to give any real illumination. The humidity, the chill, and the spotty darkness made the entire downstairs feel like night at the bottom of a swimming pool.

  A creature with a blank, white face and midnight-black, lidless eyes emerged from inside an open freezer. It was Sonada’s manager, or what was left of him.

  “You,” the thing accused.

  Baku did not recoil or retreat. He flexed his fingers around the knife handles and took the last step down into the basement.

  “You would not eat the sushi with us. Why?” The store manager was terribly changed without and within; even his voice was barely recognizable. He spoke as if he were talking around a mouthful of seaweed.

  Baku circled around the manager, not crossing the floor directly but staying with his back to the wall. The closer he came, the slower he crept until he halted altogether. The space between them was perhaps two yards.

  “Have you come now for the feast?” the manager slurred.

  Baku was not listening. It took too much effort to determine where one word ended and the next began, and the message didn’t matter anyway. There was nothing the manager could say to change Baku’s mind or mission.

  Beside the freezer with its billowing clouds of icy mist there was a fuse box. The box was old-fashioned; there were big glass knobs the size of biscuits and connected to wiring that was as frayed and thick as shoelaces. It might or might not be the heart of the building’s electrical system, but at least it might be connected to the rest. Perhaps, if Baku wrenched or broke the fuses, there was a chance that he could short out the whole building and bring the operation to a halt. He’d seen it in a movie he’d watched once, late at night when he couldn’t sleep.

  If he could stop the electricity for even an hour—he could throw open the refrigerators and freezers and let the seafood thaw. Let it rot. Let it spoil here, at the source.

  The manager kept talking. “This is the new way of things. He is coming, for the whole world.”

  “So this is where it starts?” Baku spoke to distract the manager. He took a sideways shuffle and brought himself closer to the manager, to the freezer, to the fuse box.

  “No. We are not the first.”

  Baku came closer. A few feet. A hobbled scuffing of his toes. He did not lower the knives, but the manager did not seem to notice.

  “Tell me about this. Explain this to me. I don’t understand it.”

  “Yes,” the manager gurgled. “Like this.” And he turned as if to gesture into the freezer, as if what was inside could explain it all.

  Baku jumped then, closing the gap between them. He pushed with the back of his arm and the weight of his shoulder, and he shoved the manager inside the freezer.

  The door was a foot thick; it closed with a hiss and a click. Only if he listened very hard could Baku hear the angry protests from within. He pressed his head against the cool metal door and felt a fury of muted pounding on the other side.

  When he was comfortable believing that the manager would not be able to interfere, he removed his ear from the door. He turned his attention again to the fuse box, regarding it thoughtfully.

  Then, one after the other, the fuzzy white pods of light were extinguished.

  Darkness swallowed the stray slivers of light which were left.

  The basement fell into perfect blackness.

  And the heavy thing that struck Baku in the chest came unseen, unheard, but with all the weight of a sack of bricks.

  The shock sent him reeling against the freezer door. He slammed against it and caught himself by jabbing his knives into the concrete floor, the door, and anything else they could snag.

  Somewhere nearby the thing regrouped with a sound like slithering sandbags. Baku’s ear told him that it must be huge—but was this an illusion of the darkness, of the echoing acoustics? He did not know if the thing could see him, and he did not know what it was, only that it was powerful and deadly.

  On the other side of the room Baku’s assailant was stretching, lashing, and reaching. Baku flattened his chest against the wall and leaned against it as he tried to rise, climbing with the knives, scraping them against the cement blocks, cutting off flecks and strips of paint that fluttered down into his hair and settled on his eyelashes.

  A loud clank and a grating thunk told Baku that his knives had hit something besides concrete. He reached and thrust the knife again. He must be close to the fuse box; he’d only been a few feet away when the lights went out.

  The thudding flump that accompanied his opponent’s movement sounded louder behind Baku as he struggled to stand, to stab. Something jagged and rough caught at his right hand.

  A warm gush soaked
his wrist and he dropped that knife. With slippery fingers he felt knobs, and what might have been the edge of a slim steel door panel. He reached for it, using this door to haul himself up, but the little hinges popped under his weight and he fell back down to his knees.

  The monstrous unseen thing snapped out. One fat, foul-smelling limb crashed forward, smacking Baku’s thighs, sweeping his legs out from underneath him.

  His bleeding right hand grazed the dropped knife, but he couldn’t grasp it. Holding the remaining blade horizontally in his left hand, Baku locked his wrist. When the creature attacked again, Baku sliced sideways.

  A splash of something more gruesome than blood or tar splashed against the side of the face.

  He used his shoulder to wipe away what he could. The rest he ignored. The wet and bloody fingers of his right hand curled and fastened themselves on a small shelf above his head.

  The thing whipped its bulk back and forth but it was not badly hurt. It gathered itself together again, somewhere off in the corner. If Baku could trust his ears, it was shifting its attack, preparing to come from the side. He rotated his left wrist, moving the knife into a vertical position within his grip. He opened and closed his fingers around it. To his left, he heard the thing coming again.

  Baku peered up into the darkness over his head where he knew the fuse box now hung open.

  The creature scooted forward.

  Baku hauled himself up and swung the fine German steel hard at the box, not the monster—with all the weight he could put behind it. It landed once, twice, and there came a splintering and sparking. Plastic shattered, or maybe it was glass. Shards of debris rained down.

  One great limb crushed against Baku and wrapped itself around his torso, ready to crush, ready to break what it found. The man could not breath; there in the monster’s grip he felt the thing coil itself, slow but wickedly dense, as if it were filled with wet pebbles.

  In the center of the room the beast’s bulk shuddered unhappily as it shifted, and shuffled, and skidded. The appendage that squeezed Baku was only one part of a terrible whole.