We struggled in single file for what felt like an hour but could only have been ten minutes before we came across the barriers erected over a secondary shaft leading further into the earth. There were two small elevator cages, side by side, with a chain ladder descending next to them. The cages themselves were merely metal platforms with barriers around three sides, leaving the fourth open. I pulled a map from my pocket and checked. This was where we needed to be. This shaft dropped another thousand yards, cutting through the next eight layers and leading to Level Eleven. Once there, we could criss-cross through a series of smaller shafts that eventually led down to the very bottom of the mine.
The smell of toads seemed stronger here.
“Jones, do you smell that?” I asked.
“Aye, George. I do. Never smelt nought like that in the mines before.”
“Keep an eye on the birds,” I said. “We can’t afford to get gassed.”
“I am. They seem fine, if a little flighty,” Jones said. “Normally they settle a bit once they get used to being in the mine.”
I grunted and turned to study the elevator cage. It was just big enough for two men, so we’d have to make three trips to get us all down to the eleventh level.
“Harnett, Barries. You two go first. Signal for slow.”
The two men nodded and grunted. They stepped into the cage and signalled the winder-room on the surface to lower the cage they were in. With a jerk or two, they started descending. The steam-powered winder was steady enough under a good hand, and only the best worked at Victoria Hill. Five minutes later the well-oiled steel cable gave a jerk, then smoothed out.
“What was that?” I asked, looking at Jones and Spooner.
“No idea, George,” Jones replied.
“Who’s on the winder today?” asked Spooner. “Is it Samuels?”
“It is,” I replied.
“Well, he’s the best one, in’t he?” said Spooner. “No one better in any of the goldfields, I’d dare say.”
Just as Spooner uttered the words, the cable shrieked and groaned, and then seemed to stretch. With a nasty twang, it snapped, just below our level. The remaining length whipped up and lashed Spooner, taking his head off with the ease of a giant razor. Blood flew, splattering all over me, and the rock wall behind. I don’t know if I screamed, or blacked out, or merely lost my mind for a second, but the next thing I knew Jones was slapping my face.
“Snap out of it, George. Come on,” he yelled at me, spittle flying into my face with each word.
“Wha…what happened?” I managed to slur.
“Cable snapped. Spooner’s dead, and so are the other two. I heard the cage fall. It went all the way down.”
“How could that happen?” I struggled to stand, still dizzy from the shock of it all.
“I don’t know, but it did. I can only guess the mess it is up there, everyone running around wondering what happened.”
“I should be there,” I said. “I’m the mine manager. I should be there.”
“Get a grip, man,” said Jones. “Somers has got it under control, I tell you. He’s the man for the job. We should be here. We’re both trained in first aid, and can maybe make a difference if there are any survivors. We can at least get them to the eleventh level, ready for the main rescue party.”
“We’re just two men,” I said. “You don’t think there are any left alive, do you?”
“I’m sorry, but no. I think they’re all dead and we’re on a fool’s errand, but I don’t see what else we can do,” said Jones.
“We’ll have to take the ladder, you know,” I stated. “No choice now.”
We both turned to look at the chain ladder leading down the shaft into darkness. As we did, the smell we’d come across earlier strengthened, becoming almost noxious.
“What the blazes is that?” I asked.
Before Jones could answer, there came an odd sound. A long, low groan that built in volume until it was almost deafening, rising in pitch until eventually it just stopped, leaving behind an absence of sound I hadn’t noticed previously.
“The question is,” said Jones, “what the hell was that? And did it come from the shaft that leads down?”
We looked at each other, unable to answer either question.
An hour later, we were halfway down the shaft, clinging precariously to the chain ladder that led into the depths of the earth. We’d had to leave the breathers up top. There was no way we could climb down wearing those tanks on our backs. The sweat poured off me, making my grip more precarious by the minute. It took nearly three hours of climbing, interspersed with a rest at each level we passed, to make it down to Level Eleven. The shaft we’d been descending came to an end, the ladder swinging a foot above the rock floor. We jumped down, Jones first. A second later, I hit the floor beside him.
“Done it, Jonesy,” I said, unhooking the lamp from my belt and placing it on the ground.
Jones looked disturbed, and it only took me a second to realise why. Where was the damn elevator cage that had fallen, taking two men to their deaths? I looked at the base of the shaft. All the signs of impact were there, but nothing remained of the cage itself. The floor showed the signs of a heavy impact: deep gashes cut into the rock, roughly the size of the cage floor; scrapes where the collapsed steel had impacted afterward, but not as deep as the initial gouges; dark stains on the rock that could only be blood from the two men. Alongside these marks, I noticed more gouges where the entire thing had been dragged away.
My head spun. All around the chamber, exits led off into inky-black tunnels, untouched by the light of the sun. As I took in the sights of the round elevator room, I noticed signs of a mining party: picks and hand-drills; a compressor over against the far wall, joined to the drills by cloth hoses. I also saw, to my horror, lumps of flesh that may have once been human. More blood-black in the current sputtering light from the bucket lamps spattered the walls of the chamber. I turned to Jones as he spoke.
“Something wrong here, George,” said Jones. “Something very wrong indeed.”
I opened my mouth to answer when that same shuddering cry we’d heard earlier burst out of the surrounding tunnels. It seemed to come from several different directions at once. I was unsure whether it was from one source, and the divergence was a trick of echoes, or whether it came from several different directions. Jones crouched, looking around in terror, and I couldn’t blame him. The cry was ululating and unnerving, seeming impossible for a human throat. What the hell was it?
A clatter erupted from one of the tunnels, drawing our eyes as a figure stumbled out. A man—a miner—a survivor!
“Help…help me…” he stuttered as he approached, arms outstretched, beseeching.
I moved to him at once, Jones just behind me. I grabbed him by the arm, holding him upright. His face was a mess, covered in mine-dust and blood. A wound on his forehead, just below the hairline, explained the blood over his face and shoulders, but nothing explained the fear and madness in his eyes.
“Easy, man, easy,” I said as I dragged him back into the light near the central shaft. I recognised him as one of the night shift. “What happened down here, Harper?”
“They came out of the tunnels, mate…they came for us all…” Harper shuddered.
He shook even more, eyes glazing and rolling back in his head as he muttered in some foreign language.
“…fhtagn…wait for it…the boundary…the boundary, man. Ftaghugrah’n…the lost one…Run for it, men…run for your lives!”
I couldn’t make any sense of his words, and judging by Jones’ face, neither could he. I laid Harper on the ground and drew a water canister from my belt. I poured a trickle over his face, hoping to revive him enough to find out what had happened. His eyes opened, and focused in fear on something behind me. I whirled to see two figures standing in one of the tunnels, staring at us. Chinese, I realised from their clothes, the ornate gold and red line work standing out even in the little light that reached them.
“Who’s that?” I asked, reaching to raise the lamp.
“Throd as uln,” one said.
“What?” I asked. I had some experience of their native language, and this sounded nothing like it.
“Tharanak-yar,” the other said. “His time has come, as promised.”
“What are you on about, man? Forget what you’re doing. We need help here. Are you part of the night crew?” I asked.
“There is no more night crew,” one of the Chinese said. “He is the last.” He gestured at the man I held up. “You all must come, as blood offering. To become one with Tsathoggua.”
“What the hell are you on about?” I asked. “What is this rubbish? Just get over here and help me. We need to get to the main shaft and signal that there are survivors.”
As the two Chinese came into the light, I could tell that something was wrong with them. Grey skin. Shrunken eyes, almost hidden within folds of dry flesh. They looked drained, as though something had sucked all the water from their bodies. I gasped, and Harper stiffened. Strange shadows moved in the dark of the tunnel behind the two; inhuman shapes, impossibly tall and broad, with what seemed misshapen and swollen heads.
“Fm’latgh ebumna.” Strange, bubbling voices carried to my ears. The already-dark chamber seemed to darken even more, almost shrinking in upon itself. The air chilled, and streaks of light flowed over the rock walls.
The new shadows firmed into shapes that could not be human. Harper collapsed back to the ground. “No, no, no…no more…please,” he begged.
The Chinese stepped further into the chamber, smiles on their desiccated faces. “You will all follow now,” one said, voice rasping.
Discordant noises came from the tunnel behind the amorphous shapes. Clashes and bangs, the sound of chanting, and slithering noises, as though giant snakes moved over swamp grasses. None of this was possible. Was I hallucinating under the effects of underground gasses?
Harper stood, and took two stumbling steps toward the shaft Jones and I had come down. A shadow reached down from above him and dragged him into the air. I looked up. The roof was wreathed in darkness, but I could make out shapes. Most flowed smoothly over the stone, but two struggled together, one human, and the other…I couldn’t make it out clearly, but it seemed to be a giant blob with arms—a lumpy head met a solid, oval body, with no apparent neck. It almost reminded me of a bloated, giant, frog or toad.
The smell, I thought. The smell from earlier. Frogs.
I’d forgotten Jones in all this mess, but I snapped my head around to look at him as he leapt at the two Chinese with a yell of defiance, pick in hand and swinging wildly over his head. The head of the tool slammed into the skull of the closest man, stabbing in through an eye socket and spearing out the other side of his face. Jones’ momentum and the weight of the metal pick head literally tore the man’s face off. Blood splattered, but less than I would have thought. Darker, too. Jones stumbled past the two, unable to check his movement, and something gigantic reached out of the tunnel, past the other shapes. It grabbed him and yanked him out of sight. A second later, a crumpled shape fell beside me; Harper, body torn and ravaged, eyes cloudy and unseeing. Dead.
I was alone. There was no one left but me.
I saw the two Chinese standing there; the one that should be dead showing no signs of dropping. I turned and pelted for the shaft, gasping for air, unable to believe what my own eyes had witnessed. I made it to the shaft without interference, thanks be to God.
I saw a shape land beside me and reach out, but I was not to be stopped. I sprang and grabbed the chain ladder, clambering up as fast as I could. I screamed as I felt rough hands grab at my legs, but I managed to shake them off before whatever it was could get a solid grip. My sight fogged, and my lungs felt empty no matter how much air I sucked in. I climbed that ladder faster than I thought possible, as though running from the Devil himself, and to be truthful, I knew I was.
Keeping an eye below me, I climbed for what felt like years, my body shaking and my thoughts clouded by what I had witnessed. The gas. It must have been some underground gas causing me to see things, I reasoned, but knew that wasn’t true. I had seen it all. It was real.
A massive explosion sounded below me, followed by a thunderous rumbling. I knew the shaft had been blown, and I knew it had collapsed. I kept climbing among the rising dust, coughing and choking but desperate to get out of the mine.
I don’t know how long I climbed, or when they found me, but I guess I must have reached the top of that shaft at the same time the second rescue team reached the main chamber. It was all a blur of faces and yelling. I was taken to the surface after I told them there were no other survivors.
I spent three weeks in convalescence. I pretended to not remember anything of the event, for I knew they would lock me away if I tried to explain what had truly happened in that mineshaft. The Bandersnatch was never opened again.
Thank God.
One morning, still in the local benevolent asylum, I awoke to a familiar smell. I thought my mind had snapped at last.
I opened my eyes to find three small, emerald-coloured frogs sitting on my bedside table, staring at me. I swept them to the floor, jumped out of bed, and managed to squash two underfoot before the third hopped away beneath the bed. I got down on hands and knees and lifted the sheets to see underneath. I jerked backwards, in shock at the sight that greeted me under there. Hundreds more of the blighters. Large, small, and every size in between. I grabbed the few clothes I had in the closet and ran from the room, still in my nightshirt. I ran from the asylum and never looked back. Later that day, I left Victoria behind me forever.
First, I tried Queensland, but there were too many damnable frogs in that state. I can’t stand to be near frogs. Eventually I settled in far northern Western Australia. I drink too much, and I smoke too much. The locals in this tiny town think I’m crazy, and I haven’t a friend in the world, but it’s dry and it’s dusty, and there are no damn frogs.
I hate to say that every now and then, I smell that damned smell. Of recent, it’s been getting worse. And then things changed.
This morning, I saw the first frog I’d ever seen in that dry place.
Maybe it’s time to move on once more.
THE SEAMOUNTS OF
VAALUA TUVA
David Kuraria
If you had travelled to the Solomon Islands that year you would have seen it on all the news feeds—hospitals filled to the car parks with Cordyceps victims, mushroom heads sprouting from their eyes, fruiting bodies dangling down by saliva-slick chins, children screaming on gurneys in reception. It was chaos. That was just the beginning.
For three years I had worked as an underwater rig welder off Australia’s West Coast, when I snagged an open position offered by the Australian government. A few years back, the Australian Federal Police and other members of the Australian Defence Forces had formed RAMSI: The Regional Assistance Mission to the Solomon Islands. They were busy with the last straggling band of warlord militias, and also worked helping the indigenous peoples try to build sea walls to protect the lower-lying islands from inundation due to rising sea levels. I was to work with a small group to help police the illegal drag chaining and deep netting of protected habitats around the Solomon Islands. I jumped at the chance to escape the inevitable day when a welding accident thirty metres deep off a platform would claim my life or limb. It happened to the best of us.
I met the other members of my future team in the outer office of one Captain Buckmeister, an officious Navy-lifer, re-stationed from the naval base at Jervis Bay in Australia. I’d been standing alone—feeling stupid and trying to look inconspicuous—when I felt someone step up next to me. I said nothing, but turned to look into eyes level with mine. She was tall, with smooth, light brown skin, showing small surgery scars around her collarbone. Lean and muscular, her black hair was shaved with a number two on the clippers. For some reason she reminded me of a volleyball player.
“I’m Jenn
a,” she smiled and turned her head slightly to nod in the direction of a big guy studying a wall map of the Solomons. He turned and glanced at us, before turning back to the map, feigning nonchalance, but I could tell he was taking everything in. I’d seen that look out on the rigs, just before some bloke would put down his coffee and take out half the kitchen staff because they’d overdone his eggs. The man left the map, grinned back at us, and came over.
“Hey people, I’m Kerosene, Parks and Wildlife, South Australia—surfing represent.”
He was wide for his height, like a rugby halfback, with the yellow-white hair of a surfer. He turned to Jenna: “Hey there you.”
Jenna laughed and it sounded great. She reached out and forced this guy to take her hand. At once I could tell he was impressed with her grip.
“Sup, Kerosene?” she shot back.
He grinned and pumped Jenna’s hand before letting go.
“Just Kero will do.” He turned to me. “So, you’re Rhys?”
“That’s right.”
“I was told to find you two here. It looks like we’re going to be hangin’ together for a bit.”
I shook his hand. “Good to meet you. I see they have a staff shortage. Now they’re bringing in civilians to help out about the place.”
Kero gave a nasal snort. “Yeah, we’re doing their old job. Those guys are more concerned with helping the government sort out rights to the gold these days. It’s worth billions and there’s shit loads of the stuff under a lot of the islands.”
Jenna watched him. “Wouldn’t that gold belong to the Solomon peoples?”
Kero scoffed. “Not if they’re annexed. You get the major player in the South Pacific coming here with hundreds of millions of dollars in aid, Feds, the Defence Force and mining interests? Well, in ten years Solomon Islanders are going to be straight-up Australians. As for the gold—mining machinery is huge—little islands built on coral are an engineer’s bad dream, but they’ll find a way. You watch. The take-over is happening now.”
I was sure it was going to be easy to get on with Kero; one cynic recognises another. A subordinate came out of Buckmeister’s office and ushered us in. Once we were seated the Captain got down to business.
Cthulhu Deep Down Under Volume 2 Page 19