Whargoul

by Dave Brockie

  There is a big gas dump north of here, and it is guarded by a mixed group of engineers and stragglers. Not much to stop my SS troopers, and we need that gas.

  “I thank you, Captain, for that information. And I also applaud your resistance to my living cum-blanket. But I find that I have changed my mind regarding the disposal of your men. You see, I am an alien beast who feeds on the energies released by war. My primary feeding source is about 20 cc’s of the brain juice located within your cortex.”

  I throw up my hands, still covered in black leather and blood, fresh from that morning’s fisting session in the turret of my command tank. I knew the inner hull was spattered with shitty clods, which I had forbidden my crew to clean up. That wouldn’t stop me from achieving total victory. You see, I knew that the Germans were building the atomic bomb, and they had the V-2 to send it shrieking into the middle of the enemy capital. I wished to strap myself to the nosecone and absorb thousands of screaming dead. I knew that women had babies but saw nothing wrong with fucking a man or an animal. We were all animals, no matter what pussy we might have come from.

  But enough fun. I have an army to destroy. Quickly, I drive my nipples into the American’s eyes, forgetting that I had promised not to kill him. Oh, that’s right, I didn’t forget. It’s too late, the nipples are already deeply imbedded in his face as his body jerks and writhes beneath my mammalian assault. I suck him dry with my teat-straws and leave his drained corpse next to a stack of dusty bibles. This chamber also holds a rude cot on which the priest used to molest choirboys. I can still see the traces his molten man-jelly. The world is full of faggots!

  Kill the prisoners! Burn the barn! Slaughter the civilians! Distribute more speed to the men and mount up—we are attacking!

  ***

  I am with Assad on the Kuwaiti front.

  There they were, the perfect armored juggernaut. The Americans had learned their lessons from the battle manuals of the SS, and they had learned them well. They came with maximum force at a localized weak point. Our position had started the war in good shape, but had steadily eroded since then. Everyday we faced the constant hammerings of the B-52’s—‘whispering death,” as the Viet Cong had called them. Then came the close air support—F-16’s, A-10’s (one of which I would fly in a couple of days, stolen from Captain Crinkle), helicopters, even massive “Puff” gunships that chewed up great swaths of dirt and any men unlucky enough to be caught by the metal storm. One by one our real (and fake) tanks were destroyed. Then they began to work over the bunkers containing the men. We were truly at the mercy of the gods.

  I spent this time in the lowest level of my command post, bathing in the Italian air-conditioner, smoking hashish and opium, drinking heavily and getting fucked by Assad. And now as the wave of death approached, I felt the first stirrings of fear in my gut. For too long had I been living like a bloated savage, swarthy and unrepentant. My last battle had been years ago, and that had been unpleasant. The Kurds had been rising on the border of the territory over which the Iranians and us had been fighting. I suggested we use poison gas. Saddam had approved and we killed over 100,000 people by spraying it from our helicopters onto their villages. But on the downside it rendered their corpses unsuitable for harvesting. Their souls left quickly and their meat was tainted. The poison swallowed them up and it also infected the land. We couldn’t move in to steal their stuff for days. Not that they had much worth taking. But soldiers like to loot the dead, and take pictures.

  Maybe it was payback time. I’d certainly killed enough Americans. At Malmedy, for instance, when I’d been young and lean. There had been no doubt as to the victor, and even in defeat I found glee, as me and the remnants of Kampfgruppe Pieper stumbled out of the pocket we had dug into their lines, leaving our shattered and wrecked vehicles strewn across the Belgian countryside, me feeling as a god. To think that these men would still follow me after all they had seen from me!

  Like at Malmedy where we capture a large contingent of American artillerymen. They are terrified and we herd them into a field where they stand with their arms raised. When I give the order to fire, I tell my men to fire low, as only to wound. When the prisoners have been reduced to an immobile and moaning mass, I order my men to mount up again as I worm my way into the field and out of my clothing. I send my body out in the rudest emulation of what my Father had shown to me—similar to what I had done at Kursk but with more of a rending of form. My being is thrown out like a blanket, and when it has re-made itself I have again assumed a sac-like shape, from which extend the feeding tubes which grind their way through the flesh of my victims. Never have I had so many freshly wounded in one place before, and I glut myself on their beings as the network of tissue becomes a thousand questing mouths. The wounded men cry out in horror and agony, and pathetically try to crawl away through the snow. As if being machine-gunned by the SS wasn’t bad enough—now they have to contend with a necrotic changeling who feeds off the images of loved ones conjured in the corridors of a dying mind.

  I lap and suck, my howls filling the frozen air as the bloody snow surrounds me like a vortex. And as my body grows, so does my mind. It begins to reach out into forbidden places, forgotten times and other planes, other realities. Worlds of boiling mud where mile-long creatures thrive. They know they could leave their world, and live upon the excretions of the skin of another being, this one as big as a thousand suns, or as small as a dot in the mote of the eye of a god. A dot that is a lake, a great lake of desecrated waste, teeming with fat chunky slab, cracked and steaming. And the things that live there—the first one, Old Cranny by name, with a head eight times the size of his goatish, gleaming body, eyes lurking beneath crusted domes of intricately woven bone. Below this is a X-shaped hole; into this tissue oozes, though flatly across the skin. Sprouting from the top edge of its maw is a long line of miniature arms, all clutching different weapons, though the one aspect they all share is that they are only of crushing varieties, and all imbued with a variety of expungent hexes and banes. Ringing these are elongated spines; these are its torment as they point inward. The creature moves across a sea of excrement, leaving a wake broken through the once-molten slab, as it moves towards its nemesis, the Pustulator, a living mountain of shit with two baby arms, which are correctly scaled but mightily swollen. A mile-wide eye juts from its octapoid head assemblage, which sports its hideous maw. From there, I see that the sea of shit pours from its mouth. I do not witness the conflict that follows, but quickly rush back into myself in the crisp winter air of the forests of Europe primeval.

  I stand, all senses trembling, assimilating the power I have gained. I am a good half-a-foot taller and much thicker in general, my muscles standing out in straining ridges as steam emanates from my yearning body. Blood streaks my hide in jagged rivulets as I breathe in the carnage of my making. All around me are the dead, their drained corpses stiff and grotesque as they clutch at the earth, seemingly trying to claw their way into it. Some have escaped into a nearby wood and I let them go, relishing the red haze that dissipates into me. A loud CLUNG! breaks the spell and I snap my attention to the road which runs parallel to the field of death. Here, my column has ground to a halt and one of my mighty King Tigers has collided with a half-track. Half the Kampfgruppe is standing in shocked and muted silence, staring at the gut-draped landscape of the crimson whirl. Pinks and purples and mangled sludge slurp up into my throbbing calves. I totter above the carnage, glaring back, tongue thick and rigid, unable to voice my desires. Then a strange noise begins to rise above the dense pines of the Ardennes landscape. A far-off wailing, and the sound of rushing wind. My own cry joins that of the new machine as it cleaves the atmosphere—a formation of triangular aircraft with black crosses on their wingtips, moving at incredible speed. These are the new jet planes we have been hearing about. I herd my men onto their tanks with great threatening gestures and soon we are in column again. I ride atop a King Tigers hull, holding a heavy MG with a full crate of ammo. We encounter an Allied road
block and light it up with heavy fire. My tracers home in and set off some shells. I can see men running through the woods and I fire at them, noting the American tank destroyer coming up through the trees. I yell to the tank commander, and the great 88 mm. gun crashes out a blazing bolt, igniting the branches as the shell passes like a torpedo through the underbrush. It strikes the gunshield of the turretless vehicle, ripping through it and detonating on the other side. We roll on, machine-gunning the fleeing survivors and driving over their corpses. They pop.

  ***

  But now, here on the sifting sand of the Kuwaiti desert it is my turn, and as they say payback is a bitch. I’m too big with my tits hanging out. This is the time of the abomination, the time I was a pseudo-woman with the fake pussy that doesn’t act like one, but feels good to fuck. There is something wrong about the whole thing and it has to end. Lost in my grim reverie, I watch as the Americans envelop my frontal positions with waves of fire from their armored horde. Maybe it is time for me to die. I don’t like dying—it hurts. But sometimes you just need a change. I had the option of regenerative suicide, something no human could have. But I never know for sure if I will come back or not. As I observe my wailing men being herded into a restrictive section of trench, I grow aroused. Assad presses hard up against my ass.

  “Holy shit…” he mumbles.

  Soon, my forward battalion has been flanked on both wings. Across its front is a solid line of American machines, in some places four-deep, sweeping the trenches with sheets of fire, forcing the men within to cower into the darkest bottoms of their holes, as any attempt at counter-fire is ruthlessly suppressed. Then the Americans bring up M-1’s and Bradleys fitted with great bulldozer blades. On an attack half-a-mile wide, they move right up to the of the edge of the men-filled pit, some raising their rifles above the lip of the trench, improvised white flags (underwear) attached to their bayonets. But the bulldozers care not; on they come, braving the occasional RPG whilst spraying death, keeping our heads down and attacking the earth which we thought was our savior. But they turned it against us, dug it up and poured it on our heads. I watch as they bury my men alive then grind the dirt down. The impact on morale is immediate. We are Saddam’s cannon fodder legions and we have been doomed to die. If only I hadn’t fucked Cat Stevens.

  First comes bombs, then shells. Then raking cannon, MG, and Gatling gun fire. I do my best to help by ordering my remaining units, some several thousand strong, to fall back to the last ring of trenches surrounding and leading to the command bunker. This is an order which makes no sense other than to help the Americans in their quest to destroy us all, although my units are happy to oblige when faced with the blistering array of American technology, which frequently misfires. But overkill is the theme, and it works, and the same calamitous sequence which has swallowed my lead units begins to be enacted on me and the surviving elements of my army.

  And I let it happen. I don’t lift a finger, don’t fire a shot. I just sit there and watch it happen, as I gather my men and call prayers to Allah, packing the men thickly about me, their legendary commander, the undying one, the flame of Islam. They are ready to die as well, though they don’t want to. But it is a testimony to the effectiveness of my Creator’s will that they are still ready to surrender their lives. We cower, as I crush Assad to my side, whispering to him soothingly as his lips tug at my nipples. Other men, overcoming their fear of me through the abeyance of lust, crawl towards me. I am smothered in hairy Arabic men who lick off my clothes. We mush into a big fucking mass of spurting cum and flailing limbs. Men abandon religion for sex as they are buried alive. Living slabs of protoplasmic flame crease the sky, rent by burning bolts as the walls begin to crumble around us. I feel the waves of escaping life, shuddering the soil, echoing into me. My greatest suck, the obliteration of my being, another shot of the molten bolt that is the passage of my life, poised like a clutching cleaver to the saving of your souls. Thank you, Uncle Sam.

  And from there, came I here.

  ***

  Firing madly from my Harlem blockhouse with an M-60, I am weathering the assault of what could be any number of factions or units, though so far I have identified National Guard, SWAT, and regular army troops, which are separated on racial lines and all fighting each other. Then there are the “rebel” units, more independent than anything else. These units are myriad, fielding B.A., Native, and gang fighters.

  The fighting had raged through the area for three days straight. Since I had destroyed the messenger of my Father I had not been threatened from below, so I had been able to expend all of my skill at repelling the series of assaults which had been made on my building, which stood up like a sore thumb in the path of the advancing armies. I rejected the advances of all comers with cunningly accurate bursts of automatic fire. Rebel stingers were keeping aircraft from close assault, so attacks were usually ground-oriented affairs preceded with mortar barrages. They had beat the hell out of my fort but I still held out, retreating to the sub-tunnel at the bottom of the elevator shaft with Maug the wonder-dog panting at my side, his hide slick with blood. He kept my tunnels free of vermin as I attended to matters above.

  Night in wasted Harlem. The place is blown to shit. Flares are popping in the air, keeping the place fucking lit. Jackals are calling from the shadows, chanting a war song, to excite the throng. To keep it going on, as the souls flush to the bottom of the well. How long can it go on? Until everybody is in hell.

  They bring up a 150 mm. Sheridan and point it at my house. It’s an awful gun, essentially unchanged in a one hundred years of war development. They used these things a lot in Vietnam and this one had been gathering dust in a National Guard armory since Desert Storm. Its short barrel and excellent mobility make it a perfect choice to rip the front of my fort off in a devastating hail of burning murder. All those hours spent toiling on my walls has saved my ass for weeks but finally one cacophonous projectile has sundered my haven. Spinning into the back wall with spine-shattering force, I am rendered senseless. During these precious moments, the crew of the tormentor reloads their filthy weapon and sends another shell crashing towards me. This time their aim is off and the shell passes through the area they have just destroyed. It plows into a row of perforated tenements, sending splintered wood and shredded flesh careening through the murk.

  A disturbance in the rubble next to me denotes the presence of Maug, shaking off a cloud of dust with some annoyance. He bounds towards me as I raise myself painfully from the floor, noting the fact that the entire front wall has disappeared and my battle van is on fire. Only the TV remains, running off the generator, still spitting out lies as it dangles from a cord through a hole in the ceiling. From there, I stare into the eyes of my dog and read his thoughts on the matter.

  “Boss, its time to get the fuck out of here.”

  I agree, and we stumble into the escape tunnel just as another shell reduces my proud ghetto-castle to a shattered outhouse. Into the underworld we go, the noise of the battle dimming behind us, until we come to a series of increasingly wet passages leading to a great central reservoir area. This part of New York’s vast sewer system is over a hundred and fifty years old, and no one comes here anymore. It is ancient and crusted with rime, like the mazes beneath Constantinople. It’s the perfect place for my boat, just a little more than a canoe, but really a nice vessel which I had spent some time and effort building myself. With my faithful dog at the bow, I bid fond adieu to the surface world and steer my course into the nighted depths towards the moment unknown.

  We paddled along, a boy and his dog, my head brushing the ceiling. Maug would die if he came with me. Everyone else I had known was dead. I had killed some of them, inadvertently caused the deaths of others. Death by association. There was no salvation for a soul as tainted as mine. My crimes were simply too vast. But there was a time to start the healing. Not of my soul but of everyone else’s. I could kill the wrong. But not my dog. Oh no, not my dog. My dog would live.

  I pull up ne
xt to a tunnel and send Maug up it. Of course he obeys unhesitatingly and dashes out of sight. I pause, torn for a moment, and then stroke powerfully away from the tunnel, leaving him.

  The sewer is already showing corpses from the trickle-down. New York is being transformed from below. The water is getting thicker and I don’t let up until I’m taken by a sudden downward current and tossed into a lower chamber. Rusted grates reveal other areas of pouring murk regulated by stepped stone. Water, blood, and bits of flesh pour in from all angles as my canoe begins to founder. How quickly they did come. Already changing, burrowing through earth with a thousand gluttonous tendrils. I go deeper as Maug’s mournful howls fade behind me. As usual I’m a heartless son-of-a-bitch.

  It’s a long way to where I’m going and I’m in a hurry. I know other creatures are using these tunnels but I don’t fear them.

  Driving with the current, I move into the lowest levels I have yet explored, deeper into the hole than I have ever gone, until I know that I could never find my way back. Deeper until I drop with a viscous plop! into the last chamber where my boat will fit. An area where the stench of decay wafts so powerfully that it almost makes a Whargoul swoon. Fully packed with decaying bodies the chamber is fed by eight shafts, all of which provide the matter which fills this pit. The harvest shafts are below the surface, slowly sucking out the waste though the chamber never empties. Now content with the reek of the flesh, I sit in silence, enjoying my boat.

  Dead eyes glare, still I am at rest. Most of the stuff is unrecognizable, mutilated flesh, yet still I am content. I haven’t brought any weapons, but I have the hunk of pulsing crystal, pried from the staff of the wraith my Father had sent to collect me. I remove it from my ass and stare at the galaxy within it. A series of endless mirrors, all betraying a different scene. And me featured within them, shaping and unfolding in a procession of arrays. Lust, war, hate, and power are all there. So are my sins. Everything that I have been is unfolding. All that I have told you—then I know that it was all true. And then I know fear. Because I begin to remember the part that I have forgotten, and as I begin to remember it, I realize the biggest thing I have ever wanted in my life, is to forget this part.