by John Pelan
Nick glanced back to Toomey, who was also changing, formless feelers of protoplasm slithering out from her deflating uniform. He winged another couple of shots into the pair of them, then sensing his magazine was spent, flung the Dra-gunov aside, snatched up the detonator assembly, and continued to unravel it. Seconds later, he'd passed beyond the stones. He was panting with effort now and staggering, hot sweat stinging his eyes. He could hear slobbering snarls as, somewhere close by, multiple mouths yawned hungrily cpen.
“J-Jesus!” he stammered. “Jesus… help me, please.…”
At that moment, the fuses went taut in his hands. Thankfully, he hunkered down, slipped the pins into the correct ports, then looked back to the circle, his finger on: he switch… and that was when he saw Andy's prone body, thirty yards at most from the dynamite.
For a second, Nick was convinced he couldn't go back to help his friend. Andy was already a goner, he told himself… probably dead with his skull crushed. But even if he wasn't, to either side of him, separated by only a matter of feet, the two Shoggoths were rising on their haunches. The cop didn't understand how he knew that word, but all of a sudden he did, and not only that, he comprehended it. Shoggoths, shapeless nether-beings, foul creatures sprung from daemon sperm, hunters and killers of the infernal realms, fathered by the Old Ones as slaves and soldiers … as advance guard for the great reconquest.
Yet even in the face of such evil, to leave a comrade helpless wasn't an option Nick could countenance. Swallowing his fear, he placed the charge box on the ground, then, stiffly, like a scarecrow, he went back toward the circle. The Shoggoths gibbered and raised their misshapen heads to the sky, their many nostrils flaring, their myriad eyes rolling. Insanely, Nick persisted, walking boldly between the stones and moving out into the middle of the henge, refusing even to look at the towering abominations, focusing entirely on his fallen friend, who a few moments later was at last in reach.
Nick put a hand to his nose, for the sulfurous stench made the air unbreathable, then he took Andy by the collar and tried to haul him away. The young cop was coming around, but still heavily dazed. Half-carrying, half-dragging him, Nick moved back toward the edge of the circle, the Shoggoths watching him every inch of the way. A minute later, he'd reached the megaliths, and still they hadn't intervened; possibly the stupour of transformation had dulled their responses, but it couldn't last much longer. He knew that. Then a tight claw caught his ankle from behind.
Nick looked wildy back. Lady Langdon, her face still written with manic glee, had dived full-length to impede him. “You can't abandon them!” she shrieked. “They are your destiny.… You must help them prepare the way.”
Nick kicked at her face, but she clung on with grim determination.
Then there came an earsplitting din of roars and snarls… as if all Hades had been unleashed. The cop glanced up. The first of the Shoggoths was approaching. Fully awake now, it swayed swiftly toward them. The woman laughed dementedly, but a moment later, that laughter became a shrill squeal… for the monster, having failed even to notice that she was there, rolled its glistening bulk straight over her. With a crunching and popping of bones, she vanished, her grip on Nick's ankle jerking loose.
Nick shot away like a shell from a canon, yanking his friend behind him. Beyond the perimeter of the circle should lay some modicum of safety. The colossal creatures would have to follow between the sacred stones with care, for fear they might damage the circle. Nick hoped he was right, and indeed he seemed to be, for the first of the Shoggoths slowed its pursuit as it reached the line of obelisks, and paused there for several seconds, while Nick dumped his groggy burden and fell upon the detonator like a starved wretch onto food.
Even then, he hesitated before throwing the switch, and gazed back at the daemons. Seventy of these fiends had been sought by the cult of the Black Goat. He'd seen the damage one alone could do… but seventy! And of course, these were only the daughters. What of their father?
The thought alone was too terrifying. Muttering a prayer, Nick hit the switch.
The explosion was more shattering than he'd ever imagined. There was a searing flash, in the very midst of which the Shoggoths seemed to simply fragment. Then the rest of the world turned upside down. A mountain of mud and rock rose and rose, blotting out the sky, a rain of stones and rubble in its wake. Pitch-darkness followed.…
10
And instantly he was back there, in that terrible, timeless place where the casement looked out on the deformed totems of a long-dead city, and beyond those, the blinding emptiness of the vast Antarctic.
This time however, the chill was unbearable, the wind a sword that slashed and slashed, the snowflakes like poison-tipped arrows driven into his flesh from the tautest bows. He'd have screamed and crumpled to the floor like paper, had his body not immediately gone rigid, had the ice slabs under his naked feet not burned like hot coals. But even above his agonized moans, above the numbing screeches of the wind, there came another, yet more dreadful sound: the dirge of a thousand slavering maws, snarling and bubbling and frothing with vengeful venom, approaching the throne room arch at unnatural speed.
The man listened with appalled fear, x There was also a squelching and slapping, as if some vast, slick torso was being hauled in frenzy across a polished floor-way. All at once, the man wanted to flee, but he couldn't. He was paralyzed by the cold, wracked with pain. In any case, surely death by rending and tearing was preferable to death by prolonged windburn? But then again, as a monstrous shadow fell through the archway, and the squelching and buffeting and grunting and snarling grew to ear-cracking crescendo, a voice told him that rending and tearing was the best he could hope for. What of death by digestion?… Lodged for eternity in the acids folds of a great gelatinous belly. What of death by nibbling? … As the symbiotes feasted night and day on his slowly melting flesh.
These horrors struck the man individually, one by one, as the reeking, gargantuan thing—the very appearance of which defied the will of God—reared in the archway… only for the limitless space around it to suddenly implode, like a cataclysmic volcano, to suddenly flood inward on top of itself.
The man felt the shockwave pluck at him with hurricane force, but somehow, inexplicably, he held his ground as everything else cascaded past—ice, snow, and rock in an endless, titanic avalanche. And in the very heart of the maelstrom, the unnameable thing … no longer so hungry for vengeance, now battered and bombarded, ripped and gashed asunder, then flung around and around in a growing vortex of destruction, around and around and around, faster and i aster and smaller and smaller as shred by shred it drained away through the ripped fabric of its hellish universe, its icy domain flowing in after it, the cliffs and corries, the bergs and floes, a pouring mass of liquified continent, the crags and glaciers and grits… even Mounts Erebus and Terror themselves —those Atlantean pillars of the Pole —one after other, sucked from sight like hanks of meat into the throat of a ravening wolf.
For eons it lasted… eons, but all things come at length to an end. And at the end of this, there was nothing. Simply that.
Nothing.
The man wheeled slowly in the awesome chasm of space. Silent minutes passed, or were they years? It was impossible to tell. On all sides of him, stars speckled the void. Some configurations he recognized; others were new to him. But there, directly ahead, more distinctive than all the rest, the trails of cosmic dust leading up to it like innumerable roads, was the grand constellation of Orion, glimmering in the blackness, a palatial framework of gems and jewels, and high on its burnished shoulder, the great bronze orb that was Betelgeuse… so near yet still so far, for the man suddenly longed to reach it.
As he struggled and kicked, and sought even to swim his way there, the trails of dust—which in fact were seas—enveloped him, and then coated him, thickly… packing his eyes and nostrils, his mouth and ears, settling their litter over him in choking layer after choking layer. His efforts became frantic but also weaker. The heaven
ly glow of Betelgeuse was lost in an ever-densening fog. Soon that fog was physically weighing upon him, pressing his limbs, cracking the bones inside them, threatening to crush out what little air was left in his bruised and wounded body. And only then did salvation come.
For a hand, torn and bloody but Godlike in proportion, came down to him, clawing away the debris in front of his eyes, unclogging the dirt from his nose and mouth.
“Nick!” said a booming voice. “Nick!”
Nick, the man realized, was his name. And now he realized something else… that he was coming up into air again, that the rubble strewn over him was starting to shift.
“Nick!” the voice repeated, and the resurrected man saw the face of one he knew—ingrained with dirt, streaked with gore, but laughing all the same, and joyful. “He's over here! And he's alive.… He's alive!”
A FATAL EXCEPTION HAS OCCURRED AT…
Alan Dean Foster
“He's going to post what?”
Hayes looked up from his cell phone. He'd known from the beginning that this was going to be tough to explain. Now that he actually found himself in the conference room with the others the true difficulty of it was more apparent than ever. Nonetheless, he not only had to try: He had to convince them of the seriousness of the stuation.
Outside, the sun was shining through a dusky scrim of clouds: a perfect Virginia autumn day. The trees were as saturated with color as high-priced film, the creeks were meandering rather than running, and he would have preferred to be anywhere other than in this room. Unfortunately, there was the minor matter of a job. It was a good job, his was, and he wanted to keep it. Even if that meant commuting to Quantico from the woodsy homestead he shared with his wife and two kids.
The men and women seated at the table were sensible folk. Practical, rational, intelligent. How was he going to explain it to them? Aware that the silence that had followed Morrison's query was gathering size and strength like a quiet thunderhead, he decided he might as well plunge onward.
“The Necronomicon,” he explained. “On-line. All of it.
Unless the government of the United States agrees to pay ten million dollars into a specified Swiss bank account by twelve P.M. tomorrow evening.”
“That's not much time.” Marion Tiffin fiddled with her glasses, which irrespective of the style of the day always seemed to be sliding off her nose.
Voice low and threatening, Morrison leaned forward over the table. “What, pray tell, is this 'Necronomicon,' and why should we give one of the hundreds of nutso hackers this section deals with every month ten dollars not to post it on-line, much less ten million?”
Hayes fought to hold his ground, intellectual as well as physical. He might as well, he knew. There was no place else to go. “It's a legendary volume of esoteric lore, thought for many years to be the fictional invention of a writer from Providence.”
“Providence, as in heaven, or Providence, as in Rhode Island?” Spitzer wanted to know. Spitzer was the biggest man in the room. By the physical conditioning standards of the bureau, he ought to have been let go twenty years ago. He hadn't been, because he was recognizably smarter than almost everyone else. It was Spitzer who had solved the White River murders six years ago, and Spitzer who had deduced the psychological pattern that had allowed the bureau to claim credit for catching the Cleveland serial child killer, Frank Coleman. So his girth was conveniently ignored when the time came, as it inevitably did, to update personnel files.
“As in the state,” Hayes replied flatly. It was no good getting into a battle of wits with Spitzer. You'd lose.
Chief Agent Morrison leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. His bristly blond hair looked stiff enough to remove paint. “I'm surprised at you, Hayes. Unless you're trying to lighten the mood. Otherwise, I think your story makes a good item for the tabloid file.”
“No.” This was even harder than Hayes had imagined. “It's a genuine threat, not a crank call. Don't you think I'd check it out before bringing it up here for discussion? Give me five minutes.”
Morrison glanced absently at his watch. “Okay—but only if you make it fun.”
Hayes wanted to say that it was anything but fun, but he suspected that if he did so he would lose his precious five minutes. And he couldn't afford to. “The hacker calls himself Wilbur. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's even his real name. He says he gained access to the restricted section of the special collections department at the Widener Library at Harvard, sneaked in a portable wide-angle scanner, and spent the better part of a day copying out as much of this book as he could manage.”
Morrison frowned. “I thought you said it was fictional.”
“No. I said it was thought to be fictional. Just for the hell of it, I checked with Harvard. Routine follow-up to this sort of thing. I had to go through four different people until I could find someone who'd admit to the library even possessing the volume in question. As soon as I did so, they went on-line to check my identification and credentials.
“I finally got to speak to someone named Fitchburn. When I told him the reason for my call, he got downright frantic. First he sent someone to check the records of recent visitors to the restricted shelves of the Widener. They were able to identify only three people who had been granted access to see the book in the past year. All three were well known to the staff, either academically, personally, or both. Then someone— apparently people were gathering in this Fitchburn's office all the time we were talking—remembered that a renovation crew had been in the special collections area for less than a week back in April, updating the fire suppression system. That must have been how this Wilbur guy gained access.”
“He would have to have known the book is there, what to look for,” Tiffin pointed out.
“Even if all of this is true, so what?” Morrison reached for the glass of ice water that always stood ready by his notepad. “What does Harvard want us to do about it? Perform an exorcism? Tell this Fitchburn to contact the local Catholic parish.” Under his breath he growled, “Damn academics.”
“It's not that kind of esoterica.” Hayes's fingers kept twisting together, like small snakes seeking holes in which to hide. “The information in it has nothing to do with any of the major religions. It's — Fitchburn was reluctant to go into details. I got the feeling he didn't want to tell me any more about it than he felt I needed to know.”
“This discussion is also woefully short on details.” Morrison checked his watch again. “Your five minutes are about up, Hayes, and we have real work to do this morning. Sorry that all these kidnappings and murders and terrorist threats have to take up our valuable time.”
“You remember the sinking of the Paradise IV?” Hayes asked him.
It was Van Wert who responded. “The cruise ship that sank off Pohnpei in that typhoon six months ago?”
Hayes nodded. “This Wilbur claims he's responsible for that. Claims he was trying out a couple of pages of the scanned book.”
Morrison guffawed. “Typical nutcase. Next he'll be claiming credit for last week's earthquake in Denver.”
“As a matter of fact… ” Hayes began.
“Five minutes are up.” The chief agent shuffled the neat pile of papers in front of him, preparatory to changing the subject.
At that point it was doubtful he would have listened to anyone—except Spitzer. “A seven point one. Lots of property damage, forty-six killed, hundreds injured.”
“I know the stats.” Morrison growled, but he let the big man continue.
Spitzer scratched at his impregnable five o'clock shadow.
“Denver doesn't have earthquakes. It's situated in a tectonically stable region. The geologists said it was a freak occurrence. They still can't find the fault responsible for the geological shift.”
“So?” Morrison groused. Time was fleeting.
“What,” Spitzer continued softly, “if there is no fault?”
“Are you actually suggesting that it was somehow this Wilb
ur person's fault?” Tiffin gaped at the big man. “Sorry.”
Spitzer looked at Hayes. “All I'm saying is that, while gaining admittance to the restricted section of the special collections department of the Harvard library may not be a federal crime, and therefore not fall under our purview, making threats against and attempting to extort money from the government is another matter entirely. Bob, I presume you've tried to trace this Wilbur person without success, or you wouldn't be here discussing the matter with us.”
Hayes nodded, more grateful than he could say for Spitzer's support. “Wilbur says that if we don't comply with his demands, he'll post to the Net everything he's scanned from this book. According to him, that will let anyone from third-world dictators to role-playing-gamer teens have a good shot at destroying the world.”
Van Wert pursed his lips. “Wouldn't that and of render his ten million worthless?”
“I had the impression he's pretty desperate. Or pretty crazy. You know how hard it is to deduce personality types from e-mail.” He went silent, watching Morrison.
The chief agent sipped from his glass, then set it back down in precisely the same place where it had been resting. “This is ridiculous, and I can't believe I'm wasting the bureau's time on it.” His gaze narrowed suspiciously as he stared across the table at Spitzer. “If I find out that you two have conspired on this to try and put one over on me and get a couple of days off, I'll see you both tracking bank transfers in South Florida.”
Spitzer folded his hands over his imposing belly. “I swear to God I never heard anything of it until Hayes started talking ten minutes ago.”
Morrison grunted, numbling something under his breath. “This ‘Wilbur’ isn't the only crazy person around. I ought to be committed myself for even listening to this. If any word of this leaks beyond this roon, I won't be able to buy a burger in this town without people pointing at me and cracking up.” His glare at that moment could have melted street grates. “All right—do a quick follow-up. A harmless ranting nut can turn into a dangerous nut. See if you can find him. We'll stop him from making threats, anyway. Hollow or otherwise.” He picked up his papers. “Now then, about this new militia site on the Web. We know it's being routed through a server in Madison, Wisconsin, but after that…”