by John Shirley
WORLD WAR
CTHULHU:
A COLLECTION OF LOVECRAFTIAN WAR STORIES
EDITED BY
BRIAN M. SAMMONS &
GLYNN OWEN BARRASS
DARK REGIONS PRESS, LLC
PORTLAND OREGON
World War Cthulhu: A Collection of Lovecraftian War Stories
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events or organizations in it are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
World War Cthulhu: A Collection of Lovecraftian War Stories © 2014 Dark Regions Press. All rights reserved.
Cover image © 2014 by Vincent Chong
Interior images © 2014 by M. Wayne Miller
Loyalty © 2014 John Shirley
The Game Changers © 2014 Stephen Mark Rainey
White Feather © 2014 T. E. Grau
To Hold Ye White Husk © 2014 W. H. Pugmire
Sea Nymph’s Son © 2014 Robert M. Price
The Boonieman © 2014 Edward M. Erdelac
The Turtle © 2014 Neil Baker
The Bullet and the Flesh © 2014 David Conyers & David Kernot
Broadsword © 2014 William Meikle
Long Island Weird—The Lost Interviews © 2014 Charles Christian
The Yoth Protocols © 2014 Josh Reynolds
A Feast Of Death © 2014 Lee Clark Zumpe
The Ithiliad © 2014 Christine Morgan
The Sinking City © 2014 Konstantine Paradias
Shape of a Snake © 2014 Cody Goodfellow
Mysterious Ways © 2014 C. J. Henderson
Magna Mater © 2014 Edward Morris
Dark Cell © 2014 Brian M. Sammons & Glynn Owen Barrass
Cold War, Yellow Fever © 2014 Pete Rawlik
Stragglers from Carrhae © 2014 Darryl Schweitzer
The Procyon Project © 2014 Tim Curran
Wunderwaffe © 2014 Jeffrey Thomas
Dark Regions Press, LLC
6635 N. Baltimore Ave., Ste. 241
Portland, OR 97203
United States of America
DarkRegions.com
Published by Chris Morey
Edited by Brian M. Sammons & Glynn Owen Barrass
eBook Design by Cyrus Wraith Walker
Cover Design & Cthulhu Design by Irina Summer
Digital Edition
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
Loyalty by John Shirley
The Game Changers by Stephen Mark Rainey
White Feather by T. E. Grau
To Hold Ye White Husk by W. H. Pugmire
Sea Nymph’s Son by Robert M. Price
The Boonieman by Edward M. Erdelac
The Turtle by Neil Baker
The Bullet and the Flesh by David Conyers & David Kernot
Broadsword by William Meikle
Long Island Weird - The Lost Interviews by Charles Christian
The Yoth Protocols by Josh Reynolds
A Feast Of Death by Lee Clark Zumpe
The Ithiliad by Christine Morgan
The Sinking City by Konstantine Paradias
The Shape of a Snake by Cody Goodfellow
Mysterious Ways by C. J. Henderson
Magna Mater by Edward Morris
Dark Cell by Brian M. Sammons & Glynn Owen Barrass
Cold War, Yellow Fever by Pete Rawlik
Stragglers from Carrhae by Darryl Schweitzer
The Procyon Project by Tim Curran
Wunderwaffe by Jeffrey Thomas
About the Editors
About the Artists
About the Authors
Bonus Illustration: Last Man Standing
Bonus Illustration: The Oath
World War Cthulhu: A Collection of Lovecraftian War Stories is dedicated to the memory of C.J. Henderson.
Rest in peace, friend.
INTRODUCTION
“Another race—a land race of beings shaped like octopi and probably corresponding to fabulous prehuman spawn of Cthulhu—soon began filtering down from cosmic infinity and precipitated a monstrous war which for a time drove the Old Ones wholly back to the sea—a colossal blow in view of the increasing land settlements.”—H.P. Lovecraft, At the Mountains of Madness
World War Cthulhu. Lovecraft created war, and not only the wars between the dark horrors that toyed with our world mentioned in quote above. There was the incident described in his story “The Shadow over Innsmouth,” in which the American government raids the town and battles its flock of mutated half-bred monsters. He also dealt with the horrors of Humanity’s war with itself, as in “Herbert West: Reanimator,” where the good doctor adds to the suffering of World War One by reanimating the corpses of dead soldiers, hideous Frankenstein experiments that contributed to his eventual downfall. Then there is “The Temple,” which describes a lieutenant-commander in the Imperial German Navy during World War One, whose U-boat sinks a British freighter, and a certain icon owned by one of the dead sailors brings disturbing nightmares and real life horrors to all. Yes, Lovecraft was no stranger to war, be it eldritch races battling one another for dominion over the earth, or mankind locked in a desperate, futile fight for survival against titanic forces from beyond. War has been a part of the Cthulhu Mythos from the beginning, and here is a chronicle of that ageless, ceaseless conflict.
Of the individual tales, here is what you will find from our stalwart warmongers.
We begin the collection with a story by John Shirley, “Loyalty,” the action taking place in a terrible future, in a place whose Pacific co-ordinates will be very familiar to Cthulhu Mythos fans. Stephen Mark Rainey follows with “The Game Changers,” a tale of dark deals and deeds that bring soul-crushing horrors to the jungles of Vietnam. “White Feather,” by T. E. Grau, set during the War of Independence, is a tale of a soldier and privateer’s own personal apocalypse and battle for his soul. In “To Hold The White Husk,” writer W. H. Pugmire takes a leaf from H.P. Lovecraft’s story “The Temple,” but turns the story on its head with the survivors of a u-boat attack encountering horror through a dead man’s amulet. Robert M. Price follows, offering us an epic tale of Greek myths intertwined with the Mythos, “The Sea Nymph’s Son” incorporating the legend of Achilles and Troy in a disturbing yet beautiful tale. Edward M. Erdelac then drags us back to the jungles of Vietnam, kicking and screaming, to encounter a thing called “The Boonieman.” “The Turtle,” by Neil Baker, returns us to the War of Independence, and a brave man’s attack on the hated British from a small barrel-like submarine. Are the British really the only problem, though?
Next we have David Conyers, alongside his fellow recruit David Kernot, bringing us “The Bullet and the Flesh,” a modern story of child soldiers in Zimbabwe. Then we’re back in time, the Second World War, at the Swiss/German border, mountaineering across the Trollenberg range on the track of things that have taken a great interest in the affairs of man. William Meikle writes the admirable adventure “Broadsword.” “Long Island Weird, The Lost Interviews,” by Charles Christian, describes the history of a choice piece of real estate, the Gold Coast of Long Island, and details the horrors, both real and imagined, that have shaped its Mythos-tainted history. “The Yoth Protocols,” by Josh Reynolds tells a story of a shadowy government agency’s dark deals with beings that lurk underground, and the even darker being they use as an intermediary. In “A Feast of Death,” by Lee Clark Zumpe, which is set during the First World War, a man is made prisoner in a horrible Turkish prison, only to be handed
over to the Germans, encountering fellow prisoners that are not even human. Another take on the legend of Achilles follows, “The Ithiliad,” by Christine Morgan, who, although using the same mythology as Robert M. Price, writes a very different tale with an unexpected ending. Troy has been exceptionally unlucky in this anthology.
Remember that little old location John Shirley wrote about at the beginning of the book? Konstantine Paradias returns us there in “The Sinking City,” in a nightmare struggle of a violated mind fighting for sanity. A story set during the Second Mexican-American War follows, where a certain Lt. Col. Roosevelt and his men encounter a motley group of strangers in a hotel. Dark, ancient secrets abound in this “Shape of A Snake,” by Cody Goodfellow. Next, “Mysterious Ways,” by C.J. Henderson, is a tale of a Roman centurion’s terrible choice and a deal with an entity that will affect him, and Humanity, for all time. A disturbing, surreal treat follows in the shape of “Magna Mater,” by Edward Morris. Here he incorporates the true events of a literary legend’s experiences during World War One. Then we reach the story written by your humble editors. “Dark Cell,” a contemporary tale where two unlikely heroes, an American CIA Agent and a criminal Army Intelligence officer, encounter the IRA and some ancient horrors they wish to invoke.
A collection like this couldn’t be without an inclusion of the King in Yellow Mythos, and Pete Rawlik steps up to the challenge with “Cold War, Yellow Fever.” The Cuban Missile Crisis is the setting, with some very familiar names out to save the world from itself. Darryl Schweitzer follows with “Stragglers from Carrhae,” where two tired Roman soldiers set off on a journey across Asia minor with the most unlikely of companions. Another personal apocalypse, the tale of a veteran of World War Two comes next. In this, Tim Curran’s “The Procyon Project,” a crippled veteran exchanges the horrors of war for the horrors of mankind delving where it shouldn’t.
We complete the collection with a story by Jeffrey Thomas, “Wunderwaffe” being a futuristic story where war, magic and religion blend together in an alien environment familiar to those that have read his Punktown books.
When we first contacted the authors for this collection, we asked them for ‘stories of war, intermingled with the Lovecraftian/Cthulhu Mythos, set across all the ages including Roman Britain, the American Civil War, both World Wars, the Vietnam conflict, Afghanistan today, the far future, and anywhere else an author finds inspiration.’ They brought us this, and more, in tales that blend both the horror of war and the madness of the Cthulhu Mythos in a collection we know you will find exciting, and terrifying; a collection you will never forget.
War never looked so good.
—Brian M. Sammons and Glynn Owen Barrass
LOYALTY
By John Shirley
“Where are you taking me?” asked the man on the gurney. The old man had a hoarse New England accent.
“You go to call upon your master,” Kline told him. “Relax, Professor Seekley. You're getting what you always wanted.”
Seekley was silent for a time as Kline wheeled him along the steel corridor. The portable bed provided its own movement. Kline had only to put his hands on it. But high tech though it was the wheels of the gurney made a squawking sound with each turn. On the back of the gurney was a small metal basket with medicaments, water, and a CallTab.
“I smell the sea,” said Seekley, lifting his head a little. The old professor’s voice was feeble.
“Yes, we're near the balcony overlooking R'lyeh.” Kline was mid thirties, strong, determined. His own voice had a sturdy determination about it. But inwardly he was cringing, as he thought about what was to come.
“The dreaming city...” Seekley muttered.
“Yes.”
“What year is it, Dr. Kline?”
“It's the year 2087.”
“Truly? I have slept a long time.”
“You were in a kind of suspended animation. You were condemned to it, you remember?”
“I...almost remember.”
“You were engaged in something inappropriate, at the time.” Kline could hear the sea, now, pounding on the half sunken battlements of R'lyeh. “You nearly woke the giant. No one wanted that but you, not then. Now—it seems the only alternative...”
“I'm not sure this is what I wanted.”
“You wanted to summon him. Here's your chance! We woke you up so you could do it.”
“I wondered, at the end...if it was after all what I truly wanted. And then the men came and stopped me, just as he was stirring. Not that Cthulhu is truly a he...there is no gender, really, for one such as Cthulhu. But we devotees always used the male pronoun.”
Kline noticed that Seekley pronounced the creature's name differently—Kline and his associates called the titan something like “Kuh-thool-hoo.” Seekley pronounced Cthulhu something like “C'[tongue-click] -uh-hool-uh-y'oo”—inserting that barely audible tongue-click instead of a 't' sound. But it didn't matter how Seekley pronounced the titan's name so long as the old man knew his job.
They reached the end of the corridor, where the steel doors were already thrown open to reveal the purpling oceanic horizon and the darkening, cloud draped sky.
“Oh!” Seekley cried, startled, closing his eyes for a moment, as Kline pushed the gurney out onto the metal balcony overlooking the ruins.
Mightily reinforced—so its designers hoped—against any force coming up against it, the building from which the steel balcony jutted was just a great block of chromium-plated steel rising in stark anomaly from its foundation on an ancient reef that skirted one side of the sunken city. Built thirty years earlier to study R’lyeh and its slumbering inhabitant, the structure was nearly featureless on the outside, apart from a cluster of intricate antennae—the building had no windows, few visible vents. There was a tunnel-like entrance just below sea level, on the opposite side, for submarines; a helicopter landing pad occupied much of the roof, near a bristling apparatus. And there was this single observation balcony projecting out over the western edge of the city, about twenty meters above high tide.
“As you can see a part of the sunken city has elevated, since your time, all on its own, about twenty-five meters further above sea level,” Kline remarked. “It’s as if it were compensating for the rising waters of climate change. The creature's chamber has risen, somewhat, as well. He settled back into a slumber, after you disturbed him.”
“How long ago now, has he slept in peace?”
“Oh, many decades. But it is a fitful slumber.”
Seekley nodded, and added with soft reminiscence, “But you know—Cthulhu has risen, in the memory of modern man.”
“I’ve heard that claim. I've read the account.”
In fact, after many readings, the newspaper account was incised in Kline's memory: The awful squid-head with writhing feelers came nearly up to the bowsprit of the sturdy yacht, but Johansen drove on relentlessly. There was a bursting as of an exploding bladder, a slushy nastiness as of a cloven sunfish, a stench as of a thousand opened graves...
Seekley rubbed his eyes. “You say...you say summoning Great Cthulhu has become necessary, now?”
“Yes.” Kline pushed the gurney close to the balcony's railing. “You know, I always thought the actual encounter with the creature, in that account, could have been made up by the journalist. The writer might have been inspired by reports of the idols, the old sculptures that turned up from time to time...”
“No, it was not fabricated.” Professor Seekley raised himself on one elbow, grunting with the effort, to gaze down over R'lyeh. “Cthulhu returned to his slumber after that encounter. His regeneration was incomplete, you see. But in my own time, I was convinced the master was ready to arise for good and all. And so he is, now—he has far more strength, this time. I can feel it! The stars are aligned; his energies are attuned.” He looked out over the sunken city and murmured, “And the air fairly quivers with it, at R’lyeh...”
The abandoned ruins of the primeval city, which could be m
istaken for a mere tumble of boulders from the air, were located approximately at the “southern point of inaccessibility”, known as Point Nemo. The nearest land, more than a thousand kilometers away, was the chain holding Pitcairn’s Island, and, in another direction, farther, was Easter Island—its grim, hulking statues may well have been erected as a warning to go no further, in that direction, lest the mariner in time encounter R'lyeh.
Here stood its crumbling remains: Massive stones, some cut with an irregularity that seemed perversely intentional, loomed from the whispering waves. The bare outlines of a city--its crooked avenues, its harbor--could be ascertained, if one looked close. Few other artifacts had been found here. But an enormous underwater chamber, of surprising length and breadth, had been located. In it was an enormous, slumbering inhabitant, slumped on a gigantic throne carved from a single huge meteor...
“It's curious, how you and Cthulhu were both in a kind of doze, since the day you nearly woke him,” Kline remarked, glancing at his watch. It was almost time. “You in Rio de Janeiro. He...it...in the wreckage of this old city...”
“Yes, it is curious,” Seekley admitted, barely audible. He undid the buckles about his waist, and, grunting with effort, sat up to gaze out over the half sunken, broken shell of R'lyeh. “But in sleep, the master speaks to many who might someday be of use. His mind never sleeps, you see. Not really. And in my own sleep, these decades of coma...sometimes great Cthulhu spoke to me! He told me things I did not wish to know—so that when I woke I was no longer sure of what I wanted. I had seen, perhaps, a bit too much...”
The CallTab chimed. Kline took the tablet from the gurney’s basket. “Answer.”
Ihlala Gulahosi’s face appeared on the CallTab’s screen—clasping her long black hair was a red scarf picked out in gold thread; she was a dark woman with large brown-black eyes.
“Receiving,” Kline said. The signal flickered, for a moment—few satellites were left intact—and he had to wait for it to stabilize.