Future Lovecraft

by Anthony Boulanger

  ***

  Day Six

  Genesis is always painful. Parthenogenesis, in particular, because we virgins have no one to give a hoot about us in the waiting room. That’s not really true, though. At least, not anymore. The Deep Ones are ecstatic. All night long, I hear their yelps and cries echo over frightened Innsmouth. They know what is coming. When the Kadath Angle bursts forth from my head, it will be the birth canal for all star spawn upon the Earth.

  ***

  Day Seven

  God forgive me.

  ***

  The Kadath Angle burst forth over Amy’s prostrate form on the floor. Her mother had starved to death in the upper room, thus she was not disturbed. Like a great serpent, it burst from the Gilman House, shattering the roof. Star spawn rained down over Innsmouth, over the world. The atrocities in Asia whimpered and paled before the spawn of Kadath. The Earth tilted under them as they littered the sky with the protoplasmic slush of universes born many eons before. 5510, 7510, 125,510, 750,500, 5,000,000,000.

  ***

  Innsmouth, MA. 5,000,000,000 A.D.

  My name is Amy Gilman and I am a monster. I didn’t think about the ramifications of what was happening to me when I first experienced what I can still only call ‘azure rapture’. I have allowed myself to become Mankind’s exterminator, simply because I did not believe my own humanity was fair. I had Deep One ilk in my background. I believed I deserved to live with the Deep Ones. I would have done anything to make them accept me, as no one else ever had. They accepted me, all right. Strictly for their purposes, as these things always go. There is not one trace of humanity left, for they have been undone. My mortal blood touched that which should never be touched and now, not only has Mankind been exterminated, but it has never existed at all. The Earth is what the accursed Necronomicon always hinted it would be if star spawn ever regained control of it. Now their cities are laced upon the barren world. There is no water, save for the terrariums that the Deep Ones constructed to meet their occasional, water-frolicking needs. The Fungi from Yuggoth, which I now know to have been the fungi I suspired from under my staircase, though how they grew there, I am still at a loss to define. Now, I am the fungus that grows under the stately staircase of a Deep One. Winged visitors from Vermont, or what used to be Vermont, are staying over tonight and I have been instructed not to say a word, which is why I’m recording my thoughts on a beam of light in a distant part of the universe. It is my sincerest hope that some passing explorer may find this haphazard message in a bottle and learn from it. Learn that the only way to save mankind is to kill me before I have a chance to become impregnated with the Kadath Angle. This will be most difficult and I can’t think who, or what, lifeform that may even have the technology to decode this message would even bother to do so. Even if they do, who can reach that far into the past and rewrite what I have done?

  Forgiveness comes slowly.

  THE LAST MAN STANDING

  By Ezeiyoke Chukwunonso

  Ezeiyoke, Chukwunonso is a promising young writer of 24. His short story was among the long listed stories in the Golden Baobab Prize, 2010. His poems have appeared in ANA Review, a literary journal and Sowetan Online Magazine. He was born in Eastern part of Nigeria. He lives there. Currently, he studies Philosophy, with much interest in the Philosophy of Arts.

  WHEN THE GOVERNMENT announced their ban on what they termed ‘non-essential foodstuffs’, I didn’t fully understand the implication until two weeks later, when I went to buy a Sprite, a drink I was addicted to. My father had been, too. When he was still alive I remember people calling him “Mr. Sprite”. If you were near, he would shake hands with a smile. With children, he stroked their hair. When he was in a hurry or a distance apart, he waved. He only rushed when he was going to the coal mine at Coal Camp, Enugu, the site that had first attracted white men to Enugu City. They had then established their house at New Heaven, leaving peasant workers in Coal Camp. My father had preferred living in Abakpa, a town on the outskirts of Enugu City, with a lot of indigenes of our own tribe, but this was where he could find work. That was before independence.

  At the store, they said Sprite was not in the stock. Not in stock? That was silly.

  I was still battling to comprehend this when they made subsequent bans. Numerous food items were added to the list. Indo-mie, Spaghatti, Macromie, Bobo, Biscuit, all were given their final funeral rites. The Minister of Information, said that we were in a state of emergency, fighting ADAIDS. The production of those banned foodstuffs was a waste of manpower and would not help the majority of the citizens suffering from the epidemic.

  Advanced Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (ADAIDS) had a long, complicated history. Rumour had it that a couple of scientists from Germany and America were sponsored by UNICEF to conduct a genetic experiment, using an AIDS virus. The experiment allegedly took place in the Sahara Desert, near the northern part of Nigeria, in an underground lab. Nobody has ever given a correct description of the place. Most people believed it was destroyed immediately after the experiment failed. The experiment, aimed at producing a cure for AIDS, instead ended up producing a mutated type of AIDS that could be contracted from sexual intercourse, even when one was wearing a condom. Worse, the disease remained dormant until three months before death, making it easier to spread. Once someone contracted it, the person never lived beyond three years. After the experiment was shown to be a failure, UNICEF came in and silenced all who needed to be silenced. Some said that all those who had anything to do with the experiment were assassinated. Others believed they were heavily bribed.

  I do not know if this is true.

  The most popular, story of the origin of the disease was that some Fulani nomadic cattle herders in northern Nigeria, victims of HIV, had intercourse with their cows. The HIV virus in their bodies reacted with another virus in the cow’s body and it resulted in a mutated AIDS. The ADAIDS was transmitted to Igbo prostitutes in the southern part of the country (The tribal people used to believe they could literally march through hellfire if money were discovered in the Devil’s hand) by those nomadic cattle herders, and to their women when they went home. With time, thanks to sex, as a fire that catches a cluster of palm thatch roofing spreads, the disease spread everywhere.

  To worsen matters, the government stretched out its hand to non-foodstuffs. We were constrained to watch only one local TV station and also to listen to one radio station. Two of my favourite programs, Hyper Fear and Dance like the Dead, were struck off and their producers reassigned. They gave us the same reason: “lack of manpower”.

  One amusement park was permitted in each state and a maximum of three secondary schools. All the universities were reduced to one, with only two faculties: Medical Sciences and Engineering. They believed that the medical academics were the only relevant faculty that could handle the plague of ADAIDS. As for Engineering, they kept the infrastructure from breaking down. So, we still had electricity. For the rest: “a waste of manpower”.

  I found out from afternoon broadcasts of the BBC and Radio Nigeria that the UN had abolished the flow of aid workers to the country. Soon, I ceased to hear any further pronouncements made by the government. One day, like a joke, the government was dead! Gone. No more announcements, no nothing. It dawned on me that, with the death of the government, other things, like electricity, would follow suit.

  I decided to place an announcement at Radio Nigeria, the only surviving station and the first to be established immediately after the independence.

  The announcement would invite everybody living in Enugu City to come and live in Uwani Town, to fight loneliness with ‘African communalism’, since the disease was winning every other battle. I was sure not all of us had contracted the disease. I hadn’t.

  I was not at risk. My illiterate mother had not taken prenatal vitamins during her pregnancy. So, I had contracted a disease in youth that had rendered me a eunuch. But I had hopes that married couples who were faithful to each other and children would also survive
.

  At first, I was optimistic. I walked out of my bungalow, where I lived alone on Nnaji Street in Uwani. The street was empty. One could hardly recognise the black colour of the road tar. Mud had painted it red.

  I walked to the major road, where I would get a bus-taxi that would take me to the station. For hours, I stood waiting. No taxi came. A Peugeot pickup drove past me. The back was loaded with a corpse. Two young men were sitting in the front with the driver. I didn’t need any person to tell me where they were going. I had done a similar thing in my street many times. The corpse was going to be disposed of in a big pit dug at the outskirts of town. They would then incinerate it.

  It eventually became clear to me that taxis had died a natural death, just like our government. I decided to go back home and use my car. I still had gas.

  When I got to the radio station, I was lucky to see the studio manager, Mr. Dudu, standing, arms akimbo, in front of the building. A man as short as Zacchaeus. God forgive me; I hope that is not a cliché. We shook hands. I told him of my mission. He accepted, but quickly informed me he had just broadcast an announcement: The disease had developed a more virulent strain. Any person who remained with a victim of the disease in an enclosed area for about two hours would also become infected. He said that a Professor Dimbo Theresa from the University of Nigeria had brought him these findings and asked him to air them. The manager then warned me of the dangers of gathering a large crowd of people with my intended announcement.

  I considered his warning. There were few of us left in Uwani and plenty of houses for the remaining people, if the mortality rate here had been the same as in other Enugu towns. I was sure there wouldn’t be any risk of transmission.

  He agreed and my announcement was a success. People turned out, though few in number. To my surprise, Professor Dimbo Theresa was among those who came to join us.

  The few of us who remained eagerly waited, listening to the news to hear which new government would seize power, but none came. We were still waiting when the last surviving radio and TV stations vanished. The first day I turned on my radio and was confronted by the reality that the station was no longer working, it seemed to me like a doomsday. But weeks later, we had all become accustomed to the new reality.

  As time went on, and people died out, I had to drive my car from where I was living in Uwani to New Heaven, Abakpa and Emene to see if anyone was still there. I usually did that with an old Peugeot pick-up. The reason was to avoid disease transmission. If I saw anybody, that person would have to stay in the open, in the back, during the journey.

  But apart from the few of us who were still living in Uwani, I found no other human life in the other cities.

  I decided to expand my search. I moved from Enugu City to nearby towns. I headed towards faraway Ninth-Mile, at the other end of Enugu State. Dominated purely by Igbo tribes, the indigenes there had been converted to Christianity, like those who had lived in Enugu. The difference was that, in other towns in Enugu, apart from Abakpa, there were also non-Igbo tribes and Muslims.

  I stopped along the way to fill my tank. When I reached a filling station, it was deserted. I remembered, just a few years ago, how boisterous the place had been. I could still recall how I had maneuvered to get my tank filled first, especially during times of fuel scarcity. Such actions usually elicited howling and shouting from other drivers. I lusted for those times now.

  There was no attendant to refill my tank. It occurred to me that, if the fuel was exhausted, there was no one to ask for more. There was also no electricity and I soon found I couldn’t refill my tank. I looked around, hoping for a lucky break.

  Some parts of the roof of the filling station had been blown down by wind. The white paint of the walls had been washed by the rain. Green lichen had started to grow on the side of the building.

  I went into the building and pushed a door open.

  I was surprised that the door wasn’t locked. I had been thinking I would have to break it down. Under the dust and cobwebs, the pink paint on the wall remained intact. I guessed that it was the manager’s office, because, sitting with his head bent on a table, was the decaying, stinking corpse of a man. Beside his head were bundles of money. “Igbo and money, just like bread and butter!” I murmured, as I quickly closed the door.

  The next door was locked and I had to search for the key in the manager’s pocket, holding my breath. Inside a small room sat the station’s generator. Thank God it functioned, as did the fuel pump—a miracle. I got my tank filled and drove off. The road was lonely. Not a surprise. I knew it would demand another miracle for another car to drive by. If that ever happened, I would celebrate.

  When I reached Ninth-Mile, I had to slow down, peeping through the windshield. No one was in sight. I then took a path that led to the heart of the town and parked at a village health center, a house with green walls. In the old days, the place would have been crowded with people waiting for a doctor. By now, tall, elegant grasses were already overtaking the area.

  I left the building and followed another path. The only sounds in the town were the cries of wild animals: monkeys and, sometimes, hyenas and carrion birds like the kite and the owl.

  The path brought me to a primary school. Beside it stood a market already in ruins. The shops seemed like anthills of the savannah, telling the new grasses about last year’s bush burning. I entered the school building, painted yellow outside and white inside, and moved from one classroom to another, praying for luck. Each door I opened, I either saw lizards playing or rats making love.

  I looked at a board in the last classroom. Despite water damage, ‘Class Five’ could still be read, although faintly.

  There was a noise. If I hadn’t been fast, I wouldn’t have seen it. A long, coiled black snake, at least four feet long, nested among the empty desks. It raised its head. Its neck was dim white with black stripes. A cobra. The type our villagers called “Tomorrow is far,” because you would not live to see the next day, once bitten by it. It seemed to say, Who is this man who is treading on my territory? Before I could leave the room, it came at me.

  I backed away quickly, unsure if it was attacking or defending. It recoiled itself and sprang, throwing itself at me. I managed to dodge and it missed the target.

  I saw a broom lying nearby. I picked it up.

  The snake sprang erect, spat its venom. But I was far from it, so all the saliva poured on the ground.

  It was now my turn to attack. With my stick, I reached for it. It then recoiled itself and threw itself on me another time. I dodged again. It landed on the ground and my stick was on it. I never gave it a chance. I kept on striking till it was dead. Then I walked away, sweating. I was breathing heavily and I was sure my blood pressure was high.

  I wanted to go home.

  I ran through the town, shouting, asking for someone to come out. I found myself on the path again. Part of me kept telling me to just get in my car and drive back home. The other part insisted I continue with the search. Perhaps someone remained in the village. I listened to that part.

  I went through the village. Most of the buildings were intact, though with peeling paint. At every house, I shouted, “Is anybody there?” Getting no result, I moved on. I hoped that, if anyone survived, they would answer me. However, due to the encounter with the snake, I was afraid of entering any house.

  I gave up. On my way back to my car, I heard a voice.

  A child stood in a doorway, a girl of about thirteen. I ran to her and held her tight. I was overwhelmed with joy. A joy that knew no bounds. She was weak and looked famished. She began to weep. I consoled her and took her to the car, kept her at the back.

  Back home, we had a celebration as never before. One of us, I can’t remember who, said that this was a sign that God had not abandoned humanity yet. But amidst the celebration, some were skeptical of her. They wondered how a little girl could be the only survivor in her village. What did she have that others didn’t?

  Rumours began, the most p
opular being that she was a witch. I think Mrs. Chioma, a woman living across the street, originated this version of the story.

  Mrs. Chioma claimed to be a witch doctor. According to her, she never knew that she had the gift until a crisis rocked her family. It began when she gave birth to her fourth child. She had employed a nanny to help her look after her baby, so that she could still meet the demands of her housework. But unknown to her, the nanny was a blood-tasting witch.

  A few months after the nanny arrived, Mrs. Chioma’s children got sick. Her first child died. She was still recovering from this shock when the second one also died, just six months later. As if that were not enough, the two children left were critically ill. None of the seven hospitals they were taken to could diagnose the problem.

  Then a friend advised her to try a native doctor. The native doctor told her that she had the power to heal herself and her children, and that he could help her learn how. He gave her some herbs, which she was to boil and mix in her meals. Three days later, her inner eyes opened. She then saw how her children’s nanny turned into a big mosquito at night to suck her children’s blood, which she would, in turn, transmit to other witches in their nightly meetings as their meal. She had to exorcise the nanny before sending her packing. She had since lost her husband and remaining children to the disease.