Whargoul

by Dave Brockie

  The room is a huge dining area packed with people, though none of them are eating. Instead they are gathered in a great sweaty circle around what appears to be a large bathtub full of noodles. They stand on tables and chairs. The mood is tense and expectant. Many are checking their watches; all are waiting for something to happen. Many puzzled and/or dirty looks are thrown in my direction as the crowd begins a chant, slowly at first but slowly growing in coordination and power-the chant of a name, over and over again, an evocation—

  “CHENG-TZU! CHENG-TZU! CHENG-TZU!”

  My own voice is added to their roar, adding a considerable amount of volume. Bottles are being passed around and I grab one, glugging the liquor and raising my fist with the others.

  “CHENG-TZU! CHENG-TZU! CHENG-TZU!”

  I don’t know how to explain it. Simply that he was not there, and then he was. One moment the crowd was not erupting in glee . . . and then it was.

  He was still wearing the same ratty, but spotless, clothing he wore upon my first encounter with him. Still wearing it with a regal quality that would shame a Pope. The same wizened and cheerful face, with the shining eyes. The awkward grace of a gibbon. The sight of him floods me with an emotion that I had not had in 30 years, since my last days with Gabby.

  I was crowded with feelings from the other side. What did I feel for this man? Why did he taste different?

  Was he a man at all?

  He quiets the crowd with single gesture. There is nothing to be wasted with this man—every motion, every gesture is purposeful and deliberate, even when frivolous. Like the glance he shoots me. He can taste me too.

  Silence reigns as Cheng lifts a single noodle, an incredibly long strand of pasta that I realize is one huge noodle. He places the end between his lips and holds it there, arms raised. There is a breathless moment—and then he begins to suck.

  And suck. And suck. And as the endless noodle continues to disappear into his mouth the crowd is chanting in unison a word that I cannot understand but I know means—

  “ SUCK-SUCK-SUCK!”

  And suck he does. There are easily 40 gallons of noodles and it becomes apparent that he intends to consume every ounce. I watch in amazement as his belly expands beneath the weight of his slobbery feast and know at that moment he is truly one of my kind. Why he would want to eat a half-ton of noodles at once was beyond me, but who would understand my peculiar appetite?

  It turned out Cheng only ate one meal a year. He came here every New Years Day and ate enough to last him until the next one. He had been doing it for as many New Years as anyone could remember, and he never seemed to get older. And he only needed a light sauce, just enough to grease the noodle on the way down.

  With a great POP, the last foot of noodle disappears into his face. His body, bloated to twice its normal size, falls back into the hands of several robed noodle-acolytes, who bear him out of the room accompanied by thunderous applause and cheering, of which I am a part. The crowd surges forward, madly licking at the empty tub. I squeeze myself into the street.

  Later, I sit on a bench and contemplate the sweaty card that has somehow found its way into my hand.

  “Tiki-BoBo’s House of Pleasure. Massage, Acupuncture, Beautiful and Exotic Ladies. 188 Canal. 24 Hours.” Then a phone number.

  But that was not the inscription which had transfixed me, and turned my joy to dread. It was the words scribbled on the back in a spidery hand which I knew to be Cheng Tzu’s.

  “Your Father has returned and is searching for you. He sends powerful enemies to either recruit or destroy you. He prepares to unleash the final war with you as his general. But you still have one last chance to redeem and thus save your eternal soul. Come to me.”

  There it was. My chance, my dream. A shot at salvation. All I had to do was deny the nature which had been programmed into me since before my birth. But it was a chance.

  My salvation awaited me—at the local whorehouse.

  ***

  The first time I died was the night I met my brother for the second time. He explained much before he tried to kill me.

  The city was the carcass, a great dead whale. We were journeying through its clotted cathedrals. The black church was its penis; I was the recurrent sperm, dying to get back in. The black church broadcast the howls of the dying as hounds worried at their genitals, within the building most shunned in Stalingrad—the place I most desired egress. I knew others of my kind were there, going about their bloody business in a manner most vocal.

  The defense of Necrosov’s building was surprisingly light. In fact, it was non-existent; the front door was wide open, guarded by the lifeless forms of two frozen men, still propped into position, drifts of black snow beginning to pile up about their legs. Though they were dead, I had no idea what creatures might be watching through their eyes, so I avoided that obvious passage. Instead I leapt from my hiding place in a great arcing bound which left me clinging to the pitted stone some thirty feet above the ransacked graveyard. I climbed quickly, digging my finger and toenails into invisible cracks, scrabbling at the stone. I didn’t pause until I perched atop the highest steeple. The opposite tower’s top has been shorn off by a rocket—a lucky hit. That will be my hole.

  A hole beneath a sky around the world without a name. There was a whole world out there, a huge world, made up of billions of souls, all bending their wills to the pursuit of each other’s murder. It was a World War—the whole world fighting! Nations striving and thriving, putting all else aside in their destructive quest. I knew the names of many of them-America, Japan, China. I wished to visit them all, astride my pale horse, whirling my gore-soaked scythe, spraying all with hellish pellets. For what else could be the quest of war save the end of it, only achieved when all have been destroyed.

  And beyond that? An entire galaxy where unknown millions of worlds waited to be engulfed with the destructive mania that gripped this one. Millions of worlds containing billions of beings—this I felt instinctively. All waiting to be killed. If it went well enough here, then it would leap off this planet like chain lightning, smiting the cosmos with its curse. This was my destiny, to aid in this infection.

  It made me smile, and I do, snow gathering on my teeth, as I sail through the nighted gulf between the two towers, my greatcoat spread like a pair of bat wings as I ride the frozen wind. I land on the broken belfry, slipping and clawing my way at the broken edge of the tower, pulling myself up and over the edge, dropping into the ruined room below and the sights of the frozen soldier who guard this chamber.

  “Is your master in?” I hiss.

  The screams erupt anew, several men, begging in rude Russian for their lives, this time accompanied by animal-like yelps and barks. I know the answer, and receive a grin from my companion in affirmation. Such an affable fellow, still possessing a sense of humor despite his long watch. Past him is a broken stairway, slickly adorned with black ice, leading below, and into this chasm I cautiously descend.

  Even from here I smell roasting flesh, metal and unwashed bodies. The walls vibrate with screams, shouts, and various metallic and mechanical noises, always punctuated by brutish laughter. Chains rattle and animals snuffle about in their master’s leavings. That’s all below, and all that I can tell from here. The various chambers, which lead off of the circular staircase, are empty, save broken furniture and stone. The blown snow is devoid of boot prints, but marked by the passage of a large hound of some sort. Two bends down I leave the snow and ice behind In fact it begins to get hot quickly as a lurid glow begins to emanate up the stairs from the gloom below. As I descend deeper into the keep the sounds begin to change from the metallic blare of the loudspeakers to the infinitely richer and more expansive tones of the real thing. As I continue my passage I note the decor, much more ornate than your usual Stalingrad fare in that it was not totally shot-up and otherwise abused. The interior was utilitarian, more like a schoolhouse than a church. Gun leveled, I creep towards the glow of flame tossed upon the wall before me. Glue
d to the inner wall, I pause to remove my helmet and then slowly peer around the corner.

  First a boot, then a leg, then a body upon a stool, laughing and pointing with a bottle at some unseen folly. The room is oppressively hot and the creature is stripped to the waist.

  Yes, creature. Human in form, but much more muscular and tougher looking. The face was what stood out—it was under-developed, rougher in form, not unlike me but more lacking in character. I mean, at least I had lips. This creature had but a gash, twisted by its guttural tongue as it spat forth a venomous stream of what I assumed were obscenities. Its features were ugly and abbreviated, the eyes fish-like in their glinting malignance. It was hairless, except across its broad and scaly back, which seemed to bristle with a fairly prodigious collection of spines. Peering around a little further I saw more of these things, many half-clothed (some naked) and all gleaming with the fetid sweat which seemed to perpetually issue from their porous bodies. Several were pantless, and there was not a visible penis, just a small nub that may or may not have been a functioning organ. Obese beetles scuttled amongst the debris, and occasionally these would be scooped up. The creatures would bite into the head, tearing it off and sucking the juices out of the thing. All bore or had at hand a wide variety of weapons, and what clothing they did wear was of Russian issue.

  These were the Voiden, Necrosov’s followers. Here they were at rest, away from the battle, their inhuman faces no longer covered by wrappings against the cold. Good thing, too. If they had run around unmasked they would have caused panic in the ranks.

  And they are partying. Empty bottles of German beer, Russian Vodka and American transmission fluid litter the floor. Bellowing, one raises a pistol and fires it in the air as the creatures begin a harsh chant, stomping in rhythm.

  But I can only see the edge of the activity. The room is very large and to lean out anymore would be to risk exposing myself. So I retrace my steps back up the stairs, and along a passage I feel will lead to the upper galleries my ears tell me surround the room. I make my way through the shadow-filled alcoves until I peer into a room containing a railing overlooking the main chamber. Sulfurous vapor spills through the ornately carven railings and the air is full of sloppy sounds and soft rustlings, coming from the floor below, which is alive with the chittering resonance of a massive beetle swarm. They cloak like a carpet the tiled floor beneath, which I am sure must be made of dead flesh. These “feed-beetles” spread onto the walls and cling to the ceilings, sluggish and fat creatures which spill onto the railings and drop into the room below when they sense it is time to be devoured. They part from my passage, as I crawl slowly through them, cradling my weapon and propelling myself towards the edge of the balcony towards what I am sure is quite the little get together.

  Peering through a gap in the railing I see Necrosov standing on a raised dais of black stone, streaked with rivulets of greasy gore. Like most of his “men” he is stripped to the waist, wearing only a loincloth. His coarse hide is criss-crossed with the mute testimony of a thousand murderous wounds. He is not of the same race as his followers, this much is obvious. He is much more humanoid. He is covered in thick, black hair though his head is shaven or perhaps burned clean. Yes, burned clean because his flesh is bright red. Mostly. There are parts of him that are black, and there are parts of him that are metal. And there are parts of him that are encrusted strings of sinew in various stages of curing. He creaks when he walks, and then the metal makes sounds. It hums when a part powers up, and sometimes he freezes up and pauses in his movement while rotors whirl.

  He was a cyborg. Part-man, part-machine. And what the ratio was I could not determine, though visibly it was about sixty-forty, meaning forty percent of his body was a visible metal implant or connective device. A creature of flesh, woven through steel.

  Borne aloft by the slobbering mass. You see, the room was vast. Vaster than my ears had known. It was built about a pool, a great stone bowl filled with foaming pink and purple liquid. This caused the prodigious mist, which fouled my sight. The heat rose into the upper chamber, clinging to the walls and causing bugs to thrive, and as they live, they move slowly towards the edge, dropping into the pool and then later rising from it, and then being devoured.

  Even bugs have a soul. And by a soul I mean an eternal yet featureless quality. Just like yours. You just have more of it. It is the energy that makes the dead get up and walk. And it can be extracted in a physical manner in a wide variety of ways, only a few of which I can understand or take advantage of.

  So the Voiden feed while Necrosov stands upon the black altar, a great and ancient block sloping into and lapped by the pool which seems to be water-based and chunky. Instead of pagan relics the area behind it and leading away into the opposite wall is filled with worktables strewn with tools and raw material; dead flesh and bits of metal. A cart stands, rusty and dripping with blood which leaks from a collection of cracked, dark pots, over the sides of which a variety of limbs or gutty pulp hung. Beyond that, lit by naked electric bulbs, are a large collection of stacked shelves. There seems to be a further area where the shrill cry of a power tool in use rise. It cuts off abruptly and is replaced by a snickering laugh, which comes through the rows towards the main chamber. All look in that direction.

  First I see the tentacles and arms amongst them. I think several people are coming but the appendages all issue from a central mass with a face at the center. There are two arms sprouting from each shoulder and pairs of tentacle-like yet jointed limbs sprouting from the chest and back. They are all bearing objects, some long, slim and dangerous-looking, some loose and meaty. But these limbs are folded back, awaiting need. The two chestal appendages hold forth a metal object.

  “Your new arm!” screams the creature.

  Necrosov’s squad howls with delight as it is brought to him.

  “Quickly you fool,” he rasps. “Attach the damn thing!”

  Limbs press forward with needles as the thing works fast, ignoring the shouts of the three captive German soldiers who are chained to posts at the opposite end of the pool, staring with terror at its boiling surface and madly tearing at their shackles. I think they are praying as a horned snout emerges from the depths. A lamprey-like thing, all mouth, and the mouth was all teeth. It rips into the first German, not savaging him, just inserting its suckers into his chest. At the same time a fleshy tube has risen and is clinging to Necrosov’s groin. His head leans back and emits a long and deeply satisfying groan as his body is fused with the new material. All the while bugs continue to plop into the steaming pool as Necrosov’s body knits new flesh around the steel.

  Appalled yet hardened by this blatant display of transmogrification, I don’t hear the tread of the attacking hound until it bites me in the back of the neck and seizes me in a vise-like grip, shaking me in its normal killing fashion. I lock my neck and let the rest go limp as I slow down. Perception lurches into a sluggish meld of mass. I use this ability to avoid serious sudden injury, like falling off a cliff. It doesn’t work so well against a live attacker but at least I can twist around enough to ram the snout of my gun into its side and pull the trigger. We crash into the railing as I try to rise to my feet. The hound stays on me, rising on its hind legs and trying to pull me the opposite way. So it is a matter of strength, and with this being an infernal creature the outcome is actually in doubt for a split-second.

  I curl towards the rail lifting the beast from the ground, its body hanging from jaws still locked to my neck. Continuing to rise it is my feeling that the force of being flipped and dropped on its back will break its hold, before it breaks my neck.

  From below, the Voiden open up with submachine guns.

  “Ha!” barks Necrosov as he fires his new grenade launcher-arm. The railing erupts in a blossoming of force and flame just as the hound strikes the rail, only to be blown back up into the ceiling. The rail disintegrates but absorbs most of the blast. Still, I am sorely hurt and the death-lock jaws of the hound yet grip me. My form shu
dders under the application of damage, and it only takes a sickening instant for the floor to collapse into a vortex of flame. We slip into and through, to emerge below liquid frothing in the bug-pool that swallows us whole.

  How long we stay below, locked in the bath, I cannot say. My skin is foamed away. I become anew, absorbing and melding with my foe, who becomes my fodder. My screams come bubbling up through the plasma, my great clawed hands pawing towards the altar that I wish to touch. But they are not done with me as I buck and jerk in a tremulous spasm, my being absorbing new energies.

  My lolling head begins to emerge from the now-calmed pool, eyes rolling in their expanded and decidedly more canine skull as I seek the boundaries of my new being. My lengthened arm claws forth and finds the stone shore as I wash upon the altar. The bath has changed me; my senses are heightened but I am still unsure of what has happened to me.

  I rise to my knees in the receding slime, stretching out my arms in a series of grisly pops and slowly bring my eyes around the room—the bugs, slowing their essential cascade; the Voiden, now as one, level their weapons on me; the maker-thing, with the crown of arms, who cowers behind his master; and Necrosov, Soviet super-soldier and legend of the state, who prepares to bid welcome to this latest, albeit unexpected, potential member of his malignant cadre.

  He fires the flame-thrower at almost point-blank range, burning a hole into my chest and engulfing me in a searing blanket of agony. I’m stricken, melting, and never have I felt such intense pain in my necrotic life as I suffer now. I am roasted, bathed in the acid vat, burnt to a crisp under a sustained dosage of igniting gasoline. The liquid of the pool evaporates away from me as several other weapons join the hail. I am under the direct and close fire of two heavily armed Soviet engineer squads and their cybernetic commander, and it almost kills me.