Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 3 Rev3

by Pulver, Joseph S.

  The lab was unimpressive from the outside. It lay perched halfway up a small mountain and had the appearance of two double wide trailers stacked next to one another. A small wooden staircase led up to a small landing where a lone figure beckoned me to climb. Serge.

  I did a double take when I reached the top of the stairs. Surely my friend could not have evolved into this emaciated, middle aged form in the span of two years. The only features I could recognize were the unfashionable rimless glasses and the pale blue eyes that sat on top of the unkempt beard that could not hide the hollowed out cheek. After a terse and formal greeting he took me on a tour. Most of the facility was actually inside the mountain, with the trailers merely providing a reception area. The interior consisted mainly of non-descript cavernous rooms where pipes and wires of all sizes and materials twist about every which way on the ceiling while large blocks of machinery filled all available space outside of the narrow walkway. The ceiling lights were too few and too low, for I kept seeing moving shadows out of my peripheral vision even though we were the only ones there. The purpose of the these machinery, Serge explained, is to process the sulfates present in these rocks and ground them into fine particles, which are then released into the stratosphere in huge balloons. These sulfates should reduce the amount of the sun’s energy that reaches Earth’s surface and cool the area below. The isolation and lack of air streams in this locale make it an ideal proving ground.

  I asked about the people he works with.

  “Once a while we have scientists from Los Alamos come and perform experiments, and we often have maintenance personnel here to fix things, but today it’s just me.”

  “Must have been a major culture shock from Manhattan.”

  “Actually I prefer the quiet.”

  “Well, I don’t know about quiet.” I was referring to the whooshing noise that would permeate the facility from time to time. It sounded like wind but was so high pitched that sometimes it went beyond the range of what the human ear can pick up.

  “Oh, that’s just a draft in some of the rooms. Let’s go to my office and talk.”

  I was taken to a small chamber that seemed to have been carved out of limestone. It was lit by the greyest of fluorescent bulbs and felt too warm and humid for a room that housed a large server computer. He brewed two cups of black brick tea using the same samovar that he had in New York, and laid out some old biscuits. My original plan was to avoid broaching the reason of my visit and instead engage in catching up, and after a few hours ask to borrow a workstation to check email when I would then use the flash drive in my pocket that was modified to surreptitiously load a backdoor program that would allow me to hack into his computer later. Ironically Serge was the one who taught me that trick. But I didn’t know whether it was the heat, the exhaustion or a general sense of trepidation suddenly I didn’t feel like staying, so as soon as decorum allowed I went right out and stated the purpose of my visit. Yes, I am grateful he had given me the chance to make some money in stocks, but I had lost most of the money and would it be possible to give me more “sneak previews”?

  He just sat and nibbled the biscuits as I talked, and continued to chew as though he wasn’t listening even after I was done. Finally he got up, asked if I had a flash drive, took it and put it into his computer.

  I still follow the market and have guessed the reason you wanted to see me, and I had gone ahead and prepared the information you need. He explained as he worked. Remember that time we infiltrated that computer hacker convention? Those were the salad days, weren’t they? He handed the flash drive back to me, walked me to the exit and with a firm handshake begged to be excused as he has much work to do as new equipment will be arriving tomorrow. As I stepped back out into the desert air I noticed goose bumps on my arm, even though it was hardly cold inside.

  I drove straight back to Albuquerque despite my exhaustion, hopped on the next flight back to New York, and didn’t rest until I was back in my Brooklyn brownstone. As soon as I got back I popped the flash drive into an offline laptop and browsed its content. It contained only a single file, a spreadsheet, with ticker symbols, dates and closing prices. The last date is about a year from today. That should do. I opened the properties window of the document and saw that it was created and modified on the day before last. The earliest price was tomorrow’s, when the market opens for the week. I copied the file to a secure location, reclined on the couch, and promptly fell into a dark and dreamless slumber.

  When I came to sunlight was no longer streaming into my east facing windows. I had asked for three days off and was in no hurry, so I picked up the tablet on the coffee table as a matter of habit and was about to skim the major indices when a headline grabbed my attention:

  “Explosion in Los Robles, New Mexico. Climate Research Center Destroyed.”

  The article did not contain a whole lot of details, except that an explosion so strong that half of the mountain had collapsed, completely burying the facility. The sheer volume of debris scattered throughout the area prevents any serious rescue attempt from being mounted, and in any case the only expected casualty, resident scientist Serge Mufel, was not expected to have survived the initial blast.

  That must have something to do with the new equipment that he was supposed to receive today. I picked up the phone and dialed Serge’s number. No answer. I sent out a text perfunctorily, not really expecting a reply. I was quite shaken by the temporal proximity of my visit to this violent event and I spent the next hour randomly changing the news channels but not absorbing much of anything. Something had bothered me since I walked out of the lab. Serge had acted as though he knew what I was up to. He even asked if had a flash drive on me. Why didn’t he call me out on it? Thinking he might’ve been attempting electronic shenanigans of his own, I reviewed the content of the flash drive again. It still contained only that single spreadsheet but its property window said it was half full. I changed the display to show hidden files and was rewarded by two new folders.

  The one named “Utah” contained nothing but jpg graphic files. The first one showed a semi-arid plain with a mountain range and a handful of boulders in the background. Aside from a carpet of bluish-green grass, clusters of short shrubs, and a few deer or antelopes in the background it was empty. The time stamp showed a date in 2028. I changed the sort order to reverse chronological and looked at the time stamp of the newest file. It was taken on a date in June, 2046. I was not exactly surprised to see this. If Serge had devoted the last year of his life to climate issues he must’ve tried to use his invention to gather more data.

  The second folder contained saved emails with stock and commodity prices all the way up to 2020, and an application that can be used to parse these files and exports their content to a spreadsheet. Looks like Serge found a way to transmit data directly from the internet of the future. Think of all the things he might’ve learned from it. I didn’t find anything resembling a note or an instruction in the flash drive. Running out of ideas I went back to the Utah folder and played its content as a slideshow. The first part was about as interesting as watching paint dry, with the same arid landscape undergoing typical seasonal changes, but right around the year 2034 that started to change. First, the amount fauna and flora shown began to decrease and then finally disappear altogether. The landscape was populated then only by what appeared to be mini-tornadoes, but as the slideshow progressed I saw that these mini-tornadoes were actually polyporous forms with a variety of shapes. Some even had limb-like protrusions from their sides. In a few of the images these polyps took on the appearance of dancing as they seemed to twist, undulate and even float horizontally in mid-air. My attention was then drawn to a black object the upper right corner of the frame around which a number of these polyporous things would hover. It was the size of a smudge initially but then it grew taller and taller and eventually turned into a tall, windowless tower of black basalt. After this obelisk-like structure was completed the polyps mostly disappear from the images, except for t
he occasional individual that could be seen emerging from its side. The last few images were mostly devoid of activity until the very last frame, which was greyish and very blurry and I thought the elements had finally gotten to Serge’s camera. I used an image-processing program to enhance its quality and the result became the template of my future nightmares. I could see three of these polyps hovering right in front of the camera at point blank range, one of them appearing to manipulate the device with its appendage.

  It’s been suggested that human memory is a fickle thing, prone to embellishment and suppression. After that day whenever I replayed in my head the visit to Los Robles the dark shadowy shapes in the corners of my eyes invariably coalesce into polyps. I would see groups of them hovering about the cavernous rooms of the facility, staying just out of sight in shadows. Sometimes one of them would grow a smoky tendril out of its bulk and extend it toward Serge and me only to have it dissolve into thin air right before contact. I could not be sure that these images were real, but at the same time I could not stop seeing them when I close my eyes any more than I could un-ring a bell. I took the week off, lying out on the couch while relying on my subconscious to put the pieces together.

  I was able to draw but few conclusions. I believe that Serge had meant to provide me with these files. The fact that he had to resort to subterfuge to accomplish that suggests he was being watched. The polyporous things on these images could only have been living entities, and the last image suggests they were studying Serge’s device. Could they have found a way to follow its signal all the way to its target, to the present? Was the explosion Serge’s only means of escaping them or was it the punishment inflicted on him for his betrayal? Could events depicted in these images be undone, or do the rules of temporal physics dictate that they must transpire? If the future is not locked in place, will the images magically redraw in front of my eyes when my actions change it? What was I expected to do with my newfound knowledge? I wanted to kick myself for the myopia I displayed in not showing more interest in temporal physics while one of its greatest practitioners was still alive.

  I went back to my job and finished out the year as planned. I rebuilt my net worth quickly with the new prices and entered law school. The year I graduated I started a public interest firm devoted to defeating all legislative action designed to combat climate change, while the foundation I started lavishly funded research projects conducted by contrarian climate scientists in order to undermine the scientific legitimacy of the issue. I kept myself extremely busy in order to avoid sleep or daydreaming. In most weeks I could be seen in print, on cable talk shows, in academic seminars, or testifying before legislative committees. I’ve been called an ignoramus, a Luddite, a hack, and worse names. I’ve received so many death threats that I never go anywhere without security. Sometimes it occurred to me that this crusade of mine need not be a lonely one, and that I could prove everything just by producing the stock prices, but the risk of forfeiting my fortune and therefore my influence was just too great.

  I kept every corner of my residence well lit and had all of the non-loadbearing walls removed to minimize corners and shadows. I also took care to place all networked devices in a room separate from the rest of the house, and above all I avoided access to any device that may have come into contact with any of Serge’s inventions. I don’t know if anything I do can keep the black obelisk from rising, but if must rise then let it wait until its appointed time. Until then its denizens are not welcome in my home.

  Michael Wen writes computer code by day and fiction by night. Some of his stories have appeared in ezines like Bewildering Stories and The Flash Fiction Offensive. A chronic procrastinator, you can easily keep up with his output at relativeabsolutist.blogspot.com. He lives in Houston, Texas with his wife even though he would rather be somewhere cold.

  Story illustration by Nick Gucker.

  Return to the table of contents

  Evolved

  by Kenneth W. Cain

  Spring’s hardened earth is cool against my flesh as I flee men I once considered equals. Now we find ourselves separated by differences I cannot explain. As their intent is to kill me, I am left with no other option. And so I make haste to escape them.

  Casting an upward glance while crossing the dense field, I find a hint of daybreak in the unceasing sky. The heavens are without clouds, not a single star left to wink out. This is how empty I feel. I am an outcast among my own people. And while darkness has aided in my escape thus far, with the moon paling an orange burst will soon illuminate the mountaintops.

  Straying from predictability is my best hope for survival, but still I am drawn to the canopy of trees. The forest does not accept me without effort. Exposed tree trunks, a drapery of vines, thick brush, and fallen limbs impede my progress. Traversing these same obstacles will not be as difficult for my pursuers, and I am filled with regret for having chosen this path.

  Behind me, they grunt, communicating in their rudimentary way. One of them breaks off to the left while another heads right. Both men are gaining, almost passing me. My pulse quickens with anticipation. There is a tightness growing in my chest, as they close in on me.

  Knuckles dragging along the forest floor draw my attention left, and then right. Even with their spears in tow, they use their arms like a third and fourth leg to assist them across the terrain, reminding me of animals. They know nothing of walking upright, yet despite their crude nature, I know how skilled they are at the hunt.

  Branches thrash against my chest and face. Each lashing brings a unique sting to delay my escape. Trying to avoid these hindrances seems almost futile, but still I attempt to do so. While I am able to sidestep a few protruding limbs, I am unsuccessful at navigating the fallen branches.

  Edges of cracked wood, exposed roots, and sharp rocks are but a few of the impediments I encounter. Meanwhile, these men I once broke bread with move about these obstructions with little trouble. Here in these woods I am not their equal. Comparable to a bird with clipped wings, I am forced to this unfamiliar means of passage.

  My eyes catch sight of an object flying through the sky, accompanied by an audible whistle. I turn in time to watch the spear strike the earth, only a handful of footfalls ahead of my location. If I had been but a step faster the spear would have brought my life to a sudden end.

  Up ahead I spy something magical. My heart eases at its glimmer and I am desperate for these waters. The stream bears off to the left, and I divert my route toward this haven. But as I near the water, one of the men intersects my path. His mouth is twisted in a hateful grimace, his spear raised in an effort to strike me down. He bounds into me using his free hand to steady himself. Close enough to smell his breath, his spear falls on me and I make an attempt to avoid it.

  The spear slices through my belly, leaving a long tear in the initial layer of flesh. I reel from the blow and come to an abrupt halt. Blood gushes out, a sensation bringing streaks of wet heat on my lower extremities. Cringing, I find the will to defend myself before the man has time to ready his weapon.

  Fear seizes this man as I turn on him, glaring into his eyes. Although I recognize this man as my wife's brother, I force myself to violence. We clash with only one difference separating us, the fact that I am the hunted. Because of this knowledge I fight with desperation. Hopelessness alarms the man when I seize his neck in a panicked flail of my limbs.

  I squeeze and he attempts to scream, but all that comes is an unexpected gurgling sound. Even in this dimness I am able to identify the way his face turns blue. In this second of time, my sole intent is on crushing. This man I once called brother has chased me down, endeavored to kill me, and he deserves this end because of his callous behavior. Yet, something inside of me remembers the thing that binds us, a woman we both love. In his widened eyes, black holes staring back at me, I am offered a glimpse into another world. It is this expression that reminds me of my reception upon returning to camp. Does this man not recall that I am betrothed to his sister?


  The others near, preceded by their crude language. Thinking fast, I make a choice I believe I will soon regret. Throwing the man aside, he tumbles to the forest floor gasping for air. The others ignore my presence to aid their fallen brethren, allowing me time to escape.

  Entering the river without hesitation the water is soothing. This is a sensation that spreads fast over my body, stabilizing my heartbeat. My lungs no longer struggle. Calm finds me, and a flood of memories wash over me while I continue to flee. I see an image of myself fishing, scaling the rocky embankment of the nearby sea. My spear always ready, I behold myself diving into the waters, welcoming me back to their depths.

  In my brief vision, a large fish cross my path and I am swift with my spear. My weapon pierces the swollen belly of the fish, ending its primitive life. Toting the fish to shore, I tossed it among the rocks and go back for more. Those waters are where I have always felt most comfortable, having worked hard to train my lungs to withstand the pressure for lengthy intervals of time. Then I noticed something unusual among the varied structures of the underwater landscape. Holding my breath, I approached this object. And as I neared it, an illumination equal to that of a morning sun greeted me. I felt no fear, only the hint of a change that was beginning even then.

  A grunt to my right pulls me from my memories. I glance up and discover a man advancing alongside me in the trees. On land he is swift, but the water is to my advantage. I glide over the slime covered rocks with ease while he does not share in my luck. He stumbles and falls, allowing the others catch up to him. My wife's brother is with them and they help this man to his feet.

  With them is the man who has been my leader for a lifetime. He sees me and the anger on his face reveals a hatred I have never known this man to express. I am saddened by this and run. I will continue to do so until they no longer follow. This is my penance for being so dissimilar.