Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 3 Rev3

by Pulver, Joseph S.

  The sheep and bird-masked men that had been checking invitations shoved their way forward and grabbed Carter. The sheep pulled a Stanley knife from within his robes and sliced it swiftly across Carter’s palm. Warren lunged forward, and Williams swung the gun towards him.

  “I told you not to move, Harley!” he snapped.

  “So you did. Silly me, I must not have been listening,” Warren said.

  “You never did,” Williams said acidly. He gestured to the book. “According to al-Din, it takes the right sort of blood to quicken the sleeper who dies not, and I’ll bet you’ve got the right red stuff, eh Carter?” He cut a glance at Warren. “Otherwise, Harley wouldn’t have brought you, would he?”

  “What—what are you saying?” Carter said. He looked at Warren. “Warren?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Williams. You never did,” Warren said. “And you have no idea what you’re doing now, either.”

  “I beg to differ. I’m doing exactly what you’d be doing, if I hadn’t got there first—pick up the pace, gentlemen,” Williams said as sheep and bird forced Carter’s bloody hand onto the lid of the coffin, over the signs of Koth.

  Carter struggled in their grip. “Warren, help me!” he shouted.

  “Calm yourself, Carter,” Warren said.

  St. Cyprian reached the edge of the crowd. He’d lost sight of Gallowglass. He wasn’t worried—she knew what to do. The sound of the sea had grown almost intolerably loud. He glanced at Warren, who didn’t look so much worried as he did interested. His eyes were almost glowing in the dim torchlight, and St. Cyprian felt a momentary chill.

  “Yes, calm yourself, Carter. Listen, listen! The bells of Northam are sounding! Do you hear the bells, Harley? He’s waking up.” The sounds of the sea thrummed through the floors and walls, no longer simply a tuneless roaring but now filled with terrible purpose, like the echo of distant church bells.

  On the altar, the coffin began to shudder and tremble, as if something within was waking up. Smoke rose from the sigils carved into the lid. The bells of Northam continued to peal, and the chamber seemed to shudder in sympathy.

  “He awakens!” Williams howled, spreading his arms. “Let the bells sound to signal the birth of the new age!” The pealing of the watery bells grew louder and louder, as the coffin’s shudders became more violent.

  St. Cyprian knew that they could wait no longer. “And that’s my cue, I think. Ms. Gallowglass, two rounds rapid, if you please,” he shouted, startling Williams and causing him to turn around. Gallowglass stepped out of the crowd, tore off her mask, and shot both of Williams’ bully-boys. As sheep and bird dropped, releasing Carter in the process, Williams spun with a curse. His automatic snarled and Gallowglass jerked out of the way. St. Cyprian seized his chance and fired. Williams flinched, and looked down at the red stain growing on his chest. “Oh...bugger,” he breathed. Then he toppled backwards, as the bells continued to sound, echoing thunderously through the cellar.

  Warren lunged forward towards Williams’ body as the crowd broke apart in a cacophony of shouts and screams, and robed shapes began to hurry back towards the stairs. Most of the attendees had enough experience to know that when the barker dropped dead, it was best to get out of the tent as quickly as possible.

  Book in hand, Warren grabbed Carter and jerked him back from the coffin. “Carter, are you—ah hell.” He grabbed Carter and flung him aside. “Look out!” The coffin shook and, with a sound like tearing silk the lid was ripped off by an unseen force and sent flying, right into Gallowglass, who looked up just in time for it to crash into her and knock her flat.

  “Gallowglass!” St. Cyprian shouted, hurrying towards his fallen assistant. He froze, as the sound of bone rubbing against cloth suddenly slithered through the cellar. He turned, his heart turning to ice in his chest.

  The thing in the casket sat up with a creak of ancient bone and dried flesh, as the bells of Northam rang loud, long and triumphant. It was wrapped in a shroud heavy with the filth of ages and its fleshless jaw sagged, expelling dust and maggots. The head rotated and fiery sparks blazed to hideous life in the black holes of its eye sockets. There was something wrong with the shape of the skull. In life, beneath a mask of flesh and fat and muscle, it would have perhaps not been noticeable. But now, for the most part shorn of such coverings, its malformation was all too horribly apparent.

  A too-long jaw snapped, and a sloping brow slid from the hood of the shroud as dead fingers clutched the edge of the lead casket. It pushed itself upright, tearing the shroud as it did so.

  In life, Lunaeus had been a large man, a soldier and a master of men. In death, he was something both more and less. All his magic had gone into keeping himself alive for all those centuries, trapped in his lead prison. Now that he was awake, it and the blood he had ingested was all that was keeping him on his feet. But the longer he was free, the stronger he would grow.

  “Damnation,” St. Cyprian hissed as he stared in horror at the dead thing. “I thought that was all rather too anticlimactic to be the end of it.”

  “Unpleasant is that which nestles in a sorcerer’s grave,” Warren muttered, clutching the book to himself like a talisman. St. Cyprian didn’t reply. He levelled the Bulldog and fired without hesitation. The twisted skull snapped back as the bullet struck home. The dead thing reared back, and made a sound like sand scraping metal. Then, impossibly quick, it bent forward and sprang from its casket, bony talons spread.

  St. Cyprian yelped in pain as the talons sank into his forearms. He was whipped up and sent sailing, as if he weighed no more than a feather. He crashed to the ground hard, all the air knocked from his lungs.

  Warren shoved Carter aside as the dead thing turned its attentions to them. Its eyes blazed with greed as it reached for Carter, obviously intent on finishing the meal it had started. But Warren interposed himself, spitting torturous syllables and making the oddly fluid gesture of the Voorish Sign. The creature twitched back, as if it had struck a wall. Then, as the bells continued to sound, it bulled forward. Warren was smashed to the ground and stepped over, as it made for Carter.

  Gallowglass struggled out from under the casket lid. “Oi!” she shouted. “Turn around, you leathery shit!” As the creature turned, she forced herself to her feet and fired the Webley-Fosberry. The dead thing cowered as the bullets punched into it. Then, with something that might have been a laugh, it bounded towards her. It scooped her up, grabbing hold of her wrist and throat.

  St. Cyprian got to his feet as the creature hefted Gallowglass and dragged her, kicking and cursing, towards its open jaws. Spells and mystic gestures ran through his mind, but he suspected none of them would be effective.

  Carter, clutching his bleeding hand, was crouched over Warren. He gestured towards the lid of the casket. “There: the lid! The markings on the lid!” he shouted.

  St. Cyprian looked blearily at the casket lid, and saw what Carter had meant—the sigils on the lid were ones designed to keep the dead safe in their caskets. Immortal he might have been, but Lunaeus had still required help to escape that prison. Despite Williams’ desecration, they might yet have the power to put down that which had been awakened.

  He raced towards the lid and heaved it up. His muscles quivered with effort as he rammed the lid into the dead thing’s back. Lunaeus dropped Gallowglass and gave out a rattling, raspy shriek. It turned and St. Cyprian smashed the lid into it, trying to drive it back. The creature’s strength seemed to melt away, as it tried to hold him back, but it was strong enough to bring him to a standstill. They stood for a moment, man and monster, the lid trapped between them. Then, inexorably, the dead thing began to push him back. A moment later, Warren and Carter joined him, throwing their combined weight against his side of the lid.

  Lunaeus groaned and staggered back, but only a few steps. Gallowglass scrambled up and threw herself beneath the dead thing’s feet, tripping it up. The creature tumbled backwards, back into its casket. St. Cyprian and the others slamm
ed the lid down. The coffin shuddered and shook, as the Tribune pounded at the underside of the lid and wailed like a dying cat. Gallowglass, Carter and St. Cyprian sprawled across or sat on the coffin, trying to hold it shut. Warren produced the Stanley knife that had been used on Carter and, with barely a trace of hesitation, sliced it across his palm. Speaking quickly in a language that St. Cyprian only vaguely recognized, he used the blood dripping down his fingers to draw strange sigils on the flat surface of the lid. The dead thing grew quiet, and the coffin stopped shaking.

  Warren staggered back, clutching his bloody hand. “Well,” he said, “wasn’t that exciting?” He reached over and plucked a handkerchief from Carter’s coat pocket and wrapped it around his hand. “But, it all worked out for the best, didn’t it? Just like I said, Carter.”

  Carter said nothing. He stared at Warren as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Think he’s dead?” Gallowglass asked, knocking on the coffin lid.

  “Close enough to call it a night, at least,” St. Cyprian said. He leaned back on his elbows and closed his eyes. The sounds of the sea, so loud before, had faded to their normal dull crash and roar. The bells of Northam had fallen silent once more. “And hopefully forever more,” he murmured.

  But as he watched Warren page through the blood-stained book he’d wrenched from Williams’ dead hand, he feared the sentiment was in vain.

  Joshua Reynolds has been published previously in Innsmouth Free Press, as well as the anthology Historical Lovecraft, and he has a novel, Knight of the Blazing Sun, coming out from the Black Library in 2012. Visit Joshua’s website at joshuamreynolds.blogspot.com.

  Story illustration by Nick Gucker

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  What You Leave Behind

  by Evan Dicken

  Fussy gave a surprised cough as the bullet tore through her neck. She managed another few strides before pitching forward in a tangle of hooves. I hurled myself from the saddle before she could crush my leg, the rocky Texas hardpan scraping my hands raw. Fussy was on her side, painting the dirt red as she struggled to rise. I crawled the few feet to her, close enough to run a hand through her mane. It came away sticky with blood. Fussy choked, the look she gave me equal parts pain and reproach.

  The knowledge of what I had to do was bitter as a misspent youth, but Fussy had been a fine horse, and only cowards don't take care of their own. My Colt's report was distant, muffled as if carried along the buzzing string of one of the tin can telephones Simon and I used to make from Ma's empty bean tins.

  Fussy jerked, and fell still.

  My Sharp's carbine poked from its saddle holster like an accusatory finger. In the clenched fistful of seconds it took my unknown assailant to reload, I'd snaked the rifle from its case and slipped a percussion cap and bullet into the breach. I saw the glitter of muzzle flash from some scrubby bushes on a ridge a few hundred yards distant.

  The shot kicked up a spray of dirt to my right, but I didn't duck. Either the shooter had me dead-to-rights or he didn't, and I was betting on the latter.

  I could tell from the way he hadn't repositioned after firing he wasn't an experienced sniper. If he'd been a Comanchero or road agent it would've likely been me watering the hungry ground rather than poor, old Fussy--though maybe not if he saw the woman under all the leather and trail dust. Might be he wanted me alive. If so, he'd be sore disappointed. I'd seen enough at the battle of Tabasco to know I'd rather die than be taken. The derringer in my ankle holster had two bullets--the first for him who tried, and the second for me, just in case.

  My shot came fast on the heels of his next one, close as the beats of a drum roll. His bullet scraped a long divot in the dirt near my boot. Mine went right where I'd sent it.

  This was the most dangerous part--not knowing whether you'd plugged your man or he was laying low. I put another shot into the scrub. Nothing. Either he was dead, or a damn sight cooler than I'd given him credit for. I reloaded, then eased onto my battered knees, carbine braced against my shoulder.

  After a few long breaths, I knelt to pat Fussy's cooling muzzle, my voice thick as molasses. "Rest easy, girl. I got him."

  I approached the ridge cautiously. Gunfights were rare, even in my line of work, but usually when someone started flinging lead my way I had a pretty good idea why. It couldn't have been a rival bounty hunter--there was no reward for the man I was after. That I'd run into a shooter this far south of nowhere just seemed to be another hand in the run of bad cards I'd been dealt since I left Slaughter Ridge.

  I smelled the body long before I saw it. The breeze brought the expected reek of bourbon-laced sweat, along with a brackish smell, like the Houston waterfront on a hot day. The shooter was doubled over. When I nudged him with my carbine he slumped to the side, dead. His eyes were large and glassy, his nose little more than two slits. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, which gaped wider than it had any right to. He was dressed in preacher's robes, though they were purple instead of vulture-black, and closed at the throat by a gold choker.

  He wasn't carrying much apart from the robes and the rifle: three empty canteens, bullets, percussion caps, and a twist of jerky. His skin was grimy as a cowpuncher fresh from a three-month drive. Up close he smelled like he'd been dead for five days rather than five minutes. I undid the choker. It had the heft of solid gold, and was wrought to resemble a circle of crashing waves. When I turned it in the light, the image shifted, breakers transforming into a herd of running horses, their manes etched in arcs of sea foam, the pounding surf captured in the delicate curve of their necks.

  I'm usually not one for jewelry, but I was still choked up over Fussy, and the necklace seemed like a mighty fine way to remember her. Besides, it looked damn fetching when I regarded myself in the polished blade of my Bowie. Even so, I cinched my scarf up to hide it. Gold might be fine for cotillions and whatnot, but nothing good ever came from flashing it out here.

  The remains of a greasy campfire told me the shooter had been here at least a day, probably more judging from the scorched bones and refuse amidst the ashes. There wasn't much else. This fellow might have been here a spell, but it didn't look like he'd planned to stay much longer.

  A soft whicker led me to a pinto mare roped to a stand of desert willow. The white patches on her coat were the color of bleached bone, and I could see her ribs clear as if I'd skinned her. I clenched my jaw against the expected upswell of emotion--Fussy had been bad-tempered even at the best of times, but she'd never let me down. This pitiful thing looked like she could barely carry a rider. Still, it would be a long walk to La Puerta, and I didn't fancy hauling my own gear.

  A pail of water did the mare a world of good. It was my last, but she needed it more than me. The mare snuffled at the bucket, almost biting my fingers in her haste. I collected my gear and cinched the saddle around the pinto's chest. My quick tightening of the straps would've earned a glare from Fussy, but the mare didn't even glance up from her water.

  I left Fussy and the shooter for the coyotes, just like I hoped someone would have the courtesy to do for me one day. Never fancied dirt much, and burning always seemed like a waste of good tinder. Nature takes care of her own well enough.

  From a distance, La Puerta looked just like every other boomtown--a mess of tents and clapboard shacks clustered around a few semi-permanent buildings. I'd seen plenty of the same farther west, sprouting like mushrooms around ore veins, except as far as I knew, there weren't gold-bearing hills within a hundred miles of here. The town only got stranger when Thirsty--that’s what I'd taken to calling her--and I ambled in. In my experience, towns like this tended to be quite lively at night, but the rutted dirt road that served as La Puerta's only thoroughfare was almost empty, despite it being early evening.

  I led Thirsty past a pale Oriental in a coat of green and gold brocade unloading what I was pretty damn sure were bodies from a covered wagon. A snake oil salesman had staked a claim in one of the empty plots, his brightly painted
wagon advertising cures for everything from rheumatism to the runs. The man himself stood out front, arms crossed and top hat tipped forward over his brow. The tips of his waxed moustache twitched as he watched us pass, his glare sharp enough to draw blood.

  A group of mestizos squatted out front of half-circle of tents. They carried themselves like presidiales--most likely the remnants of some Mexican unit left high and dry by Guadalupe-Hidalgo. I hoped my scout jacket was too tattered and dusty for them to notice the corporal's stripes. They were passing around a bottle of tequila, watching an old woman with a face like weathered hardpan sketch strange symbols in the dirt. I thought I recognized a few signs from Ma's books, but wasn't curious enough to risk being gunned down just to have a look.

  The town's saloon was a drab affair, its false front listing like a sleepy drunk. A vulture and a crow perched on the worn hitching post out front. When I approached, they looked up like I was interrupting something. Thirsty whinnied and the birds took flight with an air of wounded dignity. I had to tug at the bridle to get her hitched up proper, as she'd already plunged face first into the trough. Fussy would've turned up her nose at the musty water, but the pinto almost bathed in the stuff. It must have been the darkness, but I could've sworn the dark blotches on her coat were growing.

  A dozen rough tables crowded the room, although only one was occupied, the single patron little more than a shadow in the dim light of the saloon's handful of gas lamps. The whole place smelled of cedar and vomit--the first normal things I'd encountered in La Puerta. The proprietor hunched behind the bar, scribbling in a leather-bound book. He was a skeleton of a man, rawboned and pinched, with thinning hair slicked back over a scalp shiny with sweat.