by Paul Crilley
“Yes, yes. Very dramatic. What is it? What is this big secret?”
“That none of us are real,” says Smith simply. “We are all the dreams of Cthulhu as he slumbers in his prison.”
A moment of silence. Then Graves bursts out laughing. “What a load of crap.”
“It’s true!” says Smith defensively. “Cthulhu was the first of the Old Ones. And what we call the Dreamlands was the original universe. None of this, none of the alternates you travel to, existed. But when the Elder Gods imprisoned Cthulhu and extracted his consciousness, the unleashing of his power fragmented reality, shattered it into thousands of pieces. His dreaming mind created the multiverse and everything in it.”
I rub my head. It’s really hurting. “So . . . you’re saying we’re all figments of some octopus god’s imagination?”
“Exactly so.”
“No,” says Graves. “I’m sorry, but I don’t accept that.”
“You must. Because if Nyarlathotep succeeds with his plan, if he manages to wake Cthulhu up, he will stop dreaming.”
“Then . . . what happens to us?” I ask.
Anderson makes a little explosion gesture with her hands. “Poof.”
“Poof?”
“Poof. All gone. The entire multiverse will be a vague memory in Cthulhu’s mind while he scratches his balls and has his morning cup of coffee.”
“This can’t be . . .” says Graves uncertainly. Then he stares into the distance.
“What?” I ask.
“When I reported what was going on to the higher-ups. When I told them what Nyarlathotep was planning. That he wanted to wake Cthulhu . . . They looked very shifty. Some would say . . . suspiciously so.”
“That’s why people have been trying to kill us?” I say. “To stop us from finding out the truth?”
“That is what eventually happened to Elizabeth,” says Smith. “She was lured to a meeting in Central Park and murdered. Luckily, her killers—the ICD—did not know of the organization she formed, so we were free to continue her work.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Nyarlathotep knows what will happen if he wakes Cthulhu?”
“Oh yes, indeed.”
“Then why is he doing it?”
“Who knows? But if we want to still exist tomorrow, then we must stop him.”
“How? We have no idea where they are.”
“Of course we do. The same place where he and Harrison first tried to cross over into the Dreamlands.”
“You know where the gate is?” asks Graves. “The machine he and Harrison built?”
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“At Griffith Observatory.”
It’s getting dark as we wind up the Hollywood Hills in Smith’s ancient Cadillac, which spews black smoke and dust behind us as we go. I can see the Hollywood sign from my position squashed up against the left window, Anderson’s elbow digging savagely into my ribs every time we go over a bump.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t take two cars,” I say.
“In hindsight,” says Smith, glancing at me in the rearview mirror, “we maybe should have. This car doesn’t handle hills very well. Or flat surfaces, actually. Even down hills is a bit tricky.”
The sun has dropped behind the hills by the time the huge dome of the Griffith Observatory appears ahead of us, a shadowy silhouette jutting up against the orange-and-gray sky. I’ve been here a couple of times before, when Susan wanted to look at the stars. I remember it being a lot busier.
“Is it closed?”
“It’s an observatory, idiot,” says Anderson. “It’s open at night.”
“So why is it deserted?”
It is. We’re the only car in the parking lot. Anderson shoves open the door.
We follow her out, and Smith opens the trunk to reveal an arsenal of weapons. Shotguns, revolvers, machetes, katanas, broadswords, machine guns, even a few spears. Anderson grabs a shotgun and throws as many shells as she can into a Hello Kitty backpack, slinging it over her shoulder.
Graves and I don’t bother. We have our entropy guns. Smith takes a machine gun and extra magazines, while Winston takes as many revolvers as he can shove into his pants.
“You guys ever done this kind of thing before?” asks Graves.
Smith and Winston share a look.
“Uh . . . not as such,” says Winston. “I was once involved in a pretty serious crime situation.”
“How serious?”
“A robbery. At a pet shop.”
“Jesus Christ,” mutters Graves. “Right. You two—” he points at Winston and Smith, “—stay at the back.” He points at Anderson. “You on my left, and Priest, on my right. Shoot first, ask questions later.”
It’s almost dusk as we make our way up the wide road to the observatory. Everything is silent as we approach the sward of grass in front of the building. There’s a monument up ahead, a tall, geometric pillar situated on the grass before we even get close to the building itself. I remember this from when I brought Susan. They called it the Astronomers Monument, and the six figures carved into the base are various famous astronomers. I can only remember Galileo, though.
“Stop,” whispers Smith.
Graves glares at him. “What?”
“We’re here.” He gestures at the pillar. “That’s the machine.”
We all turn to look at the pillar.
“See that metal thing on top?” whispers Smith. “It’s called the armillary sphere.”
I squint up at the brass spheres. As far as I can remember it’s some kind of astronomical instrument made up of interlocking metal rings that represent latitude and longitude. Before we actually discovered the telescope it was what astronomers used to find out celestial positions and stuff like that.
“That’s the gateway to the Dreamlands?” asks Graves. “You’re sure?”
“Hundred percent. Harrison built it through Griffith J. Griffith. The gateway was created first, and the observatory built around it later on.”
There’s something odd about the monument. As far as I can recall it’s a bright white color. But right now, in the fading light, it looks . . . gray.
“It doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” says Anderson.
“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’” comes a distant voice.
“Oh my God. . . .” I whisper.
Then a hundred voices take up the call. “‘This above all; to thine own self be true.’”
“Goddamn it!” I shout.
The voices stop.
And the hundred monkeys with old-man faces clinging to the pillar all turn to look at us.
“Watch these bastards!” I shout. “They quote Shakespeare at you!”
Anderson drags her gaze away from the monkeys. “They what?”
“You heard me!”
The monkeys slide down the pillar and sweep toward us, chattering with anger, their old-man (and old-woman, now that I see them closer) faces twisted with rage.
I fire into the crowd. I hit one of the monkeys, and it withers and turns to dust before me. But it’s like firing at the wind. There are too many of them.
Anderson unloads her shotgun. Smith and Winston (random thought, they should have hired someone with the name Wesson; infinitely cooler) fire their own guns. We manage to take down six or seven before the monkeys surround us, a hopping, leaping, furious simian wall that grips our arms and murmurs Shakespearean quotes into our ears like a lover whispering sweet nothings.
Our guns are wrenched from our grips and tossed to the ground. The crowd of simians parts, and Nyarlathotep strolls through, hands reaching out to stroke the monkeys as he passes. Three massive Shamblers walk behind him, their tick-faces rippling and sniffing at the air. Nyarlathotep himself looks hideous. Like he’s dipped his face in acid. I can see the bone through his cheeks. His lips are gone, his teeth permanently visible in a skull-like grin.
Nyarlathotep stops suddenly, looking at us in surprise like a children�
��s TV show presenter doing a double take for the camera. “Hi, guys!” he says brightly. “Didn’t expect to see you back here so soon. You’d think you’d have learned your lesson by now. What is this, man? Like, the fourth time I’ve managed to surprise you?”
“Third!” snaps Graves.
“Sorry. My mistake. Third. Anyway, I suppose you can stay and watch. I’ve been told it’s going to be quite a show.” He sighs and looks up at the monument. “Nearly a hundred years I’ve been waiting to activate this baby. But patience is a virtue, as they say.”
“Doesn’t that hurt?” I say.
“I won’t lie to you. It does. But not as much as the betrayal.”
“You can’t blame Dana,” says Graves. “You can’t treat people like that.”
“I can do what I want, man! I’m a minion of the Old Ones.”
“Please,” says Winston urgently. “You can’t do this. Do you realize what will happen if you free Cthulhu?”
“Why, yes. I do have some idea, thanks for asking. Really appreciate that. Taking an interest. You’re a good man.”
“No,” says Winston. “You don’t. If you free him. If you wake him up . . . we all die. We are Cthulhu’s dream. The entire multiverse exists in his mind as he sleeps in his prison.”
Nyarlathotep’s eyes widen. “Wow, really?”
“Yes! Really.”
“So . . . you’re saying I should just leave him where he is. Lying in his prison, sleeping away the millennia?”
“Yes!”
“Yeah, okay.”
Winston pauses. “Really?”
“No! Idiot! You think I don’t know all that? I want him to wake up. I want to vanish in a puff of existential smoke.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired of running around at their beck and call. You have any idea what that’s like? Having all the Old Ones in your head? And I do mean all of them. Arguing, ordering me around, telling me to do this, no, do that, no, this! And every night the same dreams. Them, reciting instructions for me. Every. Single. Night. Forever. All this shit I see every day? All the stuff your mind is supposed to process when you dream? I don’t have that. I think I went insane about a hundred millennia ago. I’m basically just operating on nightmares and coffee. Anything they want, I have to do. I’m the eternal dogsbody, and I’m, like, sick of it. It’s like being an unpaid intern for eternity. I just want everything to end.”
“Why not just kill yourself?” I ask.
“No way, man! Suicide is the coward’s way out.”
“Whereas killing untold billions and wiping out hundreds of thousands of alternate realities isn’t?”
“They’ll thank me in the end.”
“I really don’t think they will.” I frown. “But what was all that about retiring to a world made of beaches or whatever it was?”
“Lies. Lovely, cunning lies. I mean, it’s not as if I was going to tell you I wanted the entire multiverse to end, you know?”
“Sure . . . I can see that.”
“So glad. Groovy.” Nyarlathotep turns and gestures. The Shamblers move forward and grip our arms, and the monkeys run back and scamper up the monument. They play around with the metal spheres on top of the pillar, and the spheres start to spin, slowly picking up speed. Nyarlathotep spreads his arms wide and starts shouting in a guttural language.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”
The monkeys chitter and scream as the globes spin faster and faster. They’re moving so fast they’re actually forming a solid-looking structure. There are alien words spreading out in the blurred circles. Words that change and flicker as the globes pick up speed. Like those old-fashioned kids’ lights that spin round and round, showing a moving picture of something creepy on the wall.
A crack of lightning arcs out of nowhere and hits the top of the monument. A dark cloud billows up and out, a reverse cyclone, spreading, probing. Nyarlathotep’s chanting grows louder, his face lit up by the flashes of lightning.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!” he screams.
“I really think we should be doing something here!” I shout.
“Like what?” answers Graves.
“Yeah, I’m with the old guy,” says Anderson. “Standing around while the end of the world happens is so Raiders of the Lost Ark.”
I can’t help it. I laugh out loud. Anderson then casually drops to the ground, slipping through the grasp of the clumsy Shambler. She hooks her foot under her shotgun, flicks it up into the air, grabs it, and shoots the creature in the face.
I stare in awed amazement as its tick-head explodes, spraying black-green ichor everywhere. The Shambler falls to the ground, and Anderson sets off, heading straight for Nyarlathotep.
I shake my own jailer off and dive for my gun. I grab it and roll onto my back, aiming it at the one gripping Graves.
“Wait!” he shouts. “Not while it’s holding me, you buffoon!”
I sigh and pick up a revolver instead, using it to shoot the Shambler in the leg. It spins to the side, releasing Graves, and then I shoot it with my entropy gun, watching its head wither and shrink like a grape into a raisin, then implode with a little sad squelching sound.
I lurch to my feet and race after Anderson.
But before we can get to the monument the spinning globe throws up a massive black umbrella of darkness that surrounds Nyarlathotep and his monkeys. The bulbous shadow grows larger, like a bubble, pulsating and growing.
Then it suddenly snaps out of existence, taking Nyarlathotep and his hench-monkeys with him.
Graves stumbles to my side, looking around at the now-empty park in front of the observatory. The silence is deafening.
“Congratulations, everyone,” he says, flopping down onto the grass. “We’ve failed. Light ’em if you’ve got ’em.”
“We haven’t failed,” says Smith, appearing at my side. “Not yet.”
I turn to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“After she killed Harrison, Elizabeth went about building her own gateway, should it ever be needed. But . . . it’s not the same as this one. She couldn’t perfect it. It can get someone into the Dreamlands. But . . . not wholly. More like . . . the dream of someone can enter. But they’re able to function like a normal person. It doesn’t work on everyone, though. Those that are not properly attuned can . . .”
“Can?” I ask.
“Die. By brain aneurism.”
Graves pushes himself up onto his elbows. He looks at me and smiles. I step back, not liking the look in his eyes one little bit.
“Graves?”
“Yes, Harry. So nice of you to volunteer.” He glances at Smith. “This fine fellow here has sucked myself and others into the Dreamlands a few times already. I’d say that means he’s properly attuned. Isn’t that right, Harry, my boy?”
“Uh . . . No. I mean. Maybe. But I don’t know how.” I glance at Smith. “It was after I touched the spear and again after I touched the jewel. I was there, but I have no idea how I did it.”
“You ever seen Blade Runner?” asks Anderson.
I blink, thrown by the change in topic. “Uh . . . yeah.”
“You know the building where they shot some of it?”
“The Bradbury Building? Yeah. Who doesn’t?”
“You ever been there?”
“No.”
“Then it’s your lucky day.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The exterior of the Bradbury Building is a bit disappointing, if I’m being completely honest.
After watching Blade Runner I imagined this towering block soaring up into the sky, Art Deco designs covering its surface. But the reality is a lot more boring: a brown, terracotta building located in South Broadway. It’s only five stories high, and most of it is taken up with offices and shops. Not even apartments. What a crock.
Okay, the inside is a bit more impressive. I’ll give it that. Open balconies and filigreed stairs lead
up to the different floors, the LA night sky visible through the glass ceiling. Wrought-iron staircases prevent people from falling to their deaths, and the marble flooring echoes our footsteps back to us.
It doesn’t feel like it belongs here in LA. It’s too clean. Too . . . European. It almost feels like I’m walking onto the set of Chinatown.
“This way,” says Smith, leading us to a section of the wall beneath the wide staircase. It looks the same as any other section of wall, exposed bricks all neat and clean. Smith looks around to make sure no one is watching, then touches four bricks in rapid succession.
A section of wall swings inward with a quiet sigh. Smith ushers us quickly through, then follows. The wall swings closed again, plunging us into darkness.
Winston clicks on a small flashlight, revealing stairs winding down into the darkness. We move slowly, no one saying a word. About twenty minutes later we arrive at a doorway and Smith touches the bricks again. The door swings open, and he leads us through the opening.
The flashlight reveals a long passage flanked on both sides by huge brass cogs that glow golden in the light. We move along the corridor single file until it opens into a room whose walls are totally covered with weird machinery. Gears and pistons. Brass levers. Old-fashioned dials. And massive glass containers filled with a milky liquid. The machinery is all linked by thick tubes to a brass framework suspended from the roof.
Anderson flicks a switch, and fluorescent tubes stutter to life. Winston spins a huge wheel on the wall, and the metal framework lowers itself jerkily to the floor, hitting small indentations in the concrete. I notice for the first time that it’s human-shaped.
Anderson and Winston walk over to a row of levers and pump them vigorously. As they do so, the wheels and cogs on the walls begin to turn, grumbling and complaining. These in turn pass their motion onto others. Small cogs drop into larger cogs, and the motion is carried forward until all the wheels in the room are spinning. A rhythmic swishing sound fills the air, and the smell of warming oil wafts through the room.