Blows land on my shoulders and kidneys. They’re smashing me with fists and goalie sticks. I whirl around, slashing blindly. There’s pulped tissue in my hand. An eyeball stuck on the nail of my right index finger. I flick it off, appalled. Now it’s my turn to pay the price of distraction. I take a shot to the face. I blur down. I’m on my knees. I’m about to pass out.
Imagine what will happen to them if these people get inside the house.
There’s a booted foot kicking at me. I bite into the ankle. My snouted jaws go clean through. I bat the foot away. Its owner falls. It’s Stanton, from across the way. I grab his body to use as a shield against further blows. Some neighbors stop hitting, others keep on. Stanton bleeds out, twitching. Behind him I see Ronna Adkins, the student who rents our basement apartment, slip on his gouting blood. Clamping hands grab me and pull me out from under Stanton’s body. Already it smells dead and fortifying. It’s Ted Nolan hauling on me. He gets his face in mine. I bite it off and spit it out. I clamber up, grabbing Mr. Falcioni, who shares his pears in the fall. It’s his arm I have in my grip, and I pop it from its socket. He collapses; with a swift kick I rake his balls off.
“You were going to kill my family!” I try to yell. It’s all meeps and murmurs.
Most are running away now but a few have yet to get the message. They’ve lost their fucking minds, I guess. I stuff both my hands into Molly Hohman’s mouth, smashing through teeth on the way in. Then I pull them apart. Dan DeVille I slash open from hip to collar. It’s like turning him inside out. The Ward kid is trying to light a Molotov. I bound at him and one-eighty his neck. The lighter catches the rag as he dies. I hurl it at my retreating neighbors. Mr. Hay, Mrs. Rose, and Tad Hentges run around burning.
They’re all fleeing, except for some slackjaw teenager I don’t recognize. He’s reaching for the gun, not getting that it’s empty. I only break his wrist, crushing it with my springy heel.
I burst through the door, my white-green hide painted blood-red. The kids recoil, even though the resemblance between us has never been tighter.
She’s there, too. She has a flare gun from the cottage ready to go. It fits poorly in her clawed fingers.
More flashes: no one ever got us as a couple. We never really got us. Why we were drawn together so completely, so immediately. Despite our lack of apparent compatibility on every outward metric: money, heritage, education, looks, age, biography, resumé, temperament.
The connection was in our arteries.
I pull her close. We cry, as best we can.
She licks the blood off my snout.
Months later, only the survival voice is left. The sky is always red. We’ve found a safer den. It hooks up to tunnels. They in turn lead to a land of dreams. That isn’t what it used to be, we’re told, with most dreamers dead.
On the bright side, there’s lots of food. The youngest comes in with a charred hand. He’s taken a few chews out of it. We’re teaching him about sharing.
The bounty of corpses won’t last forever. The remaining humans aren’t reproducing much. So there are long term worries. A civil war might be coming, between the original ghouls and all of us new ones. No point worrying about that until it comes, though.
We’re together, and that’s the important part.
Welcome to Cthulhuville
Larry DiTillio
The tropical sun felt good on Santiago’s face. Heat nourished his soul. He cracked one eye open to glance at his wife, Marisol. She was at the edge of the shoreline playing with their six-year-old daughter Esmeralda. She was a beauty when he married her and the last ten years had only added to her splendor. Watching them laughing together in the surf, he felt like the luckiest man alive. Not bad for a poor nino from East L.A. he thought, as the cabana boy approached.
“Can I get you anything sir?” Santiago smiled. Not bad at all.
He ordered three Chi-chis, one virgin. The cabana boy nodded and turned away. As he did, Santiago noticed what looked like a brand in the shape of an octopus on the boy’s shoulder. As he looked at it, it looked back at him and the sky darkened. Santiago heard screams. He turned and saw a vision from hell.
Pouring down from the firmament were black, faceless things with large bat-like wings, and curved tails. They swooped over the beachfront, carrying people away. One took Marisol; another seized Esmeralda. Santiago jumped from his chair, grabbed a chunk of driftwood and raced toward them. One of the things came for him. He crushed what passed for its head with the driftwood, but it was too late. The creatures holding his wife and daughter soared away, their screams echoing in his mind. He sank to the sand, praying to God to save his family.
Santiago jerked awake from the recurring dream, with an anguished cry, a cry gagged by a sudden mouthful of hot blood. He retched up the meager contents of his stomach and fell face forward into them. Ugly laughter cackled in his ears as he struggled to his knees. Then he saw the blood was not his own. It spouted like a human fountain from a jagged neck wound on the decapitated torso of a heavyset man. His head lay at his own feet, dead eyes gazing comically at his mutilated flesh. Santiago rolled away from the corpse and found himself at the feet of a hulking brute with a gore-stained machete in his hand. The brute sneered down at him; displaying teeth filed to points, and spoke.
“You trying to suck up my red, dog shit!?”
Santiago didn’t quite get it but he knew it meant trouble. He looked up at the brute with hard eyes, gathering what strength he had left. The brute hesitated for a moment, as Santiago’s gaze bored into his; then with a smirk, raised the machete.
From his knees, Santiago smashed his balled left fist into the brute’s cojones, doubling him over. He caught the man’s descending jaw with a right uppercut, knocking him to the ground. The machete flew from his hand. Santiago dived for it as the brute began to rise. The feel of the blade in his hand gave him new hope. He whirled as his foe charged with a howl! He side-stepped the move and buried the machete in the brute’s shaven skull. The man swayed for a moment, eyes wide with surprise, then toppled. Santiago roared skyward, pumping his fists in victory until something hard hit him just behind the left ear.
He stumbled forward and as fog began to fill his brain he thought he heard cheering.
Mac McMahon studied the man asleep on the makeshift cot. He seemed to be in his early thirties, his brown skin and facial features suggesting a mix of African and Hispanic. He was some six feet tall and in better shape than most of those who found their way to Canyon Haven. His muscle tone indicated an athlete, body builder or perhaps a convict. He had killed Farrow’s Chief Guardian easily, as if he were used to killing. Mac hoped that was not the case. There were already far too many such men in the Canyon.
He rummaged through the man’s blood-soaked clothes, which had been removed to dry. He found a hooded jacket, some worn blue jeans and a Lakers T-shirt from the 2014 NBA finals. Mac smiled as he remembered watching Game 7, a great game. It seemed so long ago now. Mac let it go. He couldn’t think that way. For better or worse, this place was his world now. He turned back to his examination of the new arrival, distracting himself from the bleak reality that was 2015.
There were several old scars on his body, three from what looked like knife wounds, one from a bullet. There were also tattoos: a professional heart on his left shoulder with the name “Marisol,” and three tear-drops on his right forearm that were definitely prison work. Mac shook his head; just another lost soul. He left the stranger to his rest and exited the small cavern to get some food for him.
Moments later, Santiago awoke, head pounding like a conga drum. His eyes fluttered open to see a small cavern, dimly lit by glowing fungi. He was on the floor, lying on some kind of strange ass smelling bed and naked save for his socks and sneaks!
He tried to sit up but made it only part way when his head began to swim. He lay
back and shut his eyes but the swimming continued. The glowing mushrooms made the cave look like some insane Flintstones discoteca. He was
n’t sure if he was dreaming again when he smelled something, something like… hot food! His stomach’s rumble echoed like an ogre’s laughter in the small cavern.
“Sounds like you’re hungry son,” said a kind voice.
Santiago dared to open his eyes. Looking down at him was a tall, lanky white man in his mid-seventies with Irish eyes, white hair and a moustache that crept across his face like a scrawny albino caterpillar. He was dressed in a tattered white shirt, stained black slacks and Dr. Comfort shoes. In his hands he held a stone bowl of some steaming liquid. This he set upon a low stone table a few steps away from the cot.
“This should quiet your belly for awhile,” he said. “Can you stand?”
Santiago wasn’t certain he could but he was not going to show weakness in front of a crazy old man. He took a deep breath and rose carefully from the floor. He swayed a bit but didn’t fall. He looked down at himself and back toward Mac.
“I could use my clothes, man.” Mac lifted a sopping garment from the pile he had searched. Multiple cascades of water fell on the stones of the cavern floor from it.
“Still wet. Wear this until they dry.”
Mac threw a small bundle to him. Santiago caught it and untied the length of rope holding it together. It was a worn blanket with a hole in the center, a makeshift poncho. He slipped it on, tied the rope around it, went to the low stone table and sat. Mac stood watching him, as he looked warily into the stone bowl. It contained a lumpy reddish brown stew, with an enticing aroma.
Santiago poked at it. It seemed to be mainly mushrooms, the same ones that lit the cavern by their shape. He licked some off his fingertip. It was a bit salty, but not bad. He lifted the bowl, took a bigger swallow. The mushrooms were meaty in texture and felt good in his long-empty stomach. He consumed the rest in one greedy gulp and burped with great satisfaction.
“I don’t know what the hell it is but it hit the spot, vato.” Mac extended his hand.
“The name’s McMahon. You can call me Mac.” Santiago shook his hand and replied in kind.
“Santiago.” Mac commented on the name.
“It means St. James you know.” Santiago laughed.
“Everybody in East L.A. is named for a saint or the Virgin.”
“You’re from California then?” asked Mac. Santiago sighed and spoke, the ordeal of the past weeks spilling out of him.
“I was, before the big one. It was days before I dragged myself out of the fucking hole that used to be L.A. Weird thing is, everything was gone, like it had just been erased. No roads, no cars, no buildings, no people, nada! I was hoping to find a coastline but I never did. I just kept moving until I couldn’t go on. I guess I must have passed out. When I woke up I was here, wherever here is..”
“We call it Canyon Haven. It’s a survivor’s camp,” Mac replied. “It has a primitive ecosystem capable of sustaining human life. Just food and shelter at the moment but it will do until we can find out what’s happened in the rest of the world. Would you like to see more of it?”
Santiago hesitated. He’d seen his family taken but the fact that others survived gave him a modicum of hope. He nodded affirmatively to Mac. Mac smiled and moved to a small niche in one of the cavern walls. He drew a folded black jacket from it and put it on. From the pocket of the jacket he drew a clerical collar which he fastened about his neck. Santiago’s eyes widened at this.
“You a priest, man?” he exclaimed!
“For what it’s worth, yes,” sighed Mac as he started out of the cavern. Santiago followed, chuckling to himself at the irony of a priest in hell.
The cavern mouth was on a slight downhill slope at one side of the Canyon. Santiago emerged and saw what looked like a gruesome parody of a Stone Age movie.
Canyon Haven consisted of an asymmetrical box canyon of black basalt. Its walls rose from thirty to two hundred feet high and showed no obvious break. At the base of the walls sat cave mouths, some big, some small. The bottom of the canyon, the size of four futbol fields, was dotted with patches of thick black moss. A few odd trees stood here and there. Small black fruits hung from their gray branches.
Hundreds of people milled about in the canyon. They represented a cross section of society but no young children, fewer women than men and almost no old people. Most of them moved in a listless fashion, performing some task or other with languid movements. Others pranced about like broken puppets, chanting in a strange tongue. They were all watched by armed men with shaven heads. These were obviously compatriots of the brute Santiago had slain, confirmed when one of them noticed him and slashed a finger across his throat. Santiago clenched his fists but Mac gripped his arm tightly and spoke firmly.
“No more trouble. There’s too many dead already.” He knew Mac was right. If he were to survive in this place, he didn’t need enemies. The shred of hope he’d carried into the canyon was gone. He felt empty now.
A teenage Japanese-American boy in an anime T-shirt and cargo pants approached them. “Farrow’s ready for you guys, Father Mac.”
“Thank you Shige,” said Mac. The boy looked at Santiago, excited and a bit fearful, but spoke up in a gushing tribute.
“You killed Andreas good man. That was peench!” He held up a high-five and Santiago slapped it. Mac dismissed the boy with a frown of disapproval. Santiago responded with a sheepish grin as he followed Mac toward one end of the Canyon.
“I’m guessing Andreas is the cabron I killed. So who’s Farrow?”
“He leads the Brotherhood. They run the camp.”
“I hope you don’t mean the Aryan Brotherhood,” laughed Santiago. Mac rolled his eyes, as they continued across the floor of the canyon.
Farrow sat regally in a throne-like chair of carved stone. He was a tall, lean man, attired in a full length black and red djellaba. His skin was the color of copper, his features angular; his eyes black as a raven’s feather. They were accentuated by thick black eyebrows, the only hair on his bald head. His long fingers ended in two inches of talon-like nails. These he waved toward the Guardians attending him as Mac and Santiago entered the cavern. They bowed briefly and left. This encouraged Santiago. Whoever this obvious nut job was, he didn’t seem to be afraid of him. Big mistake! Mac stepped forward.
“Farrow, this is Santiago. He came from Los Angeles. He…” Farrow’s voice interrupted the priest. It was an unpleasant voice, a rustle of dead leaves.
“That will suffice, Father. First we must discuss the matter of Andreas.”
Farrow rose from the chair. Santiago weighed his options at light speed. He could run or take Farrow as a hostage. Farrow was as tall as he was but obviously many years older. There were only some ten paces between him and the throne—and then there weren’t….
Farrow’s face was somehow an inch from his own, his black eyes staring into Santiago’s. It felt like ants crawling into his eye sockets. More dead leaves rustled.
“So tell me Santiago how is it a starving man who has traveled so far kills my Chief Guardian in a few seconds?”
Santiago chose his words carefully and delivered them calmly.
“The muthafuka was trying to take my head off. I took his first. Sorry.”
Mac sucked in a breath. There was an eternal moment of silence, then, amazingly, Farrow stepped back, and laughed!
“Excellent answer, honest and to the point,” he said.
Santiago was still wary.
“So we’re good, right homie?” Farrow smiled; took a step closer to Santiago and whispered into his ear.
“Andreas was blood sick and stupid. But he was my best. So I must have something—homie.”
Farrow flicked his finger across Santiago’s left cheek, drawing blood. This he delicately licked off his fingernail. In his mind Farrow saw Santiago’s whole life in a matter of seconds. Every misdeed, every lie, every beating, every killing. And with his family gone, hate was the dominant emotion in his heart. He was perfect for what Farrow had planned.
“What the fuck was that for?” spit
Santiago.
“To remind you that actions carry consequences even in this insane world,” replied Farrow. ‘Now go. We’ll decide how we can best use your skills here later. You can bunk with our good priest for the moment, if it’s alright with him.”
Mac nodded and Farrow grinned—the latter a sight Santiago hoped to never see again.
That night Santiago had a dream. It started as usual, with the memory of his wife and daughter being taken but then came a new twist. He heard a female voice, mysterious and sultry.
“Santiago, I weep for you,” it purred. He turned and saw a woman in her late twenties coming toward him on the now abandoned beach. She seemed to glide over the sand, her black maxi dress fluttering around her like angel wings. Her hair was dark with a streak of white and fell to her waist. Her left eye was deep blue, her right jade green. Her mouth was a sensuous slash of red. She hovered before him and spoke again.
“Come to me Santiago. I hunger for you. Let me be your Marisol now.”
Santiago could feel the heat radiating from her lovely body and it aroused him. He moved to embrace her but she was already floating away, holding out her arms to him, her voice fading to a siren whisper as she moved toward a huge dome atop a cliff overlooking a dark sea.
“Come, Santiago; let us lay together in New R’lyeh.”
As she vanished thunder rolled and lightning crackled. In the brief flash he saw something unimaginably massive blotting out both the huge dome and the cliff. A voice spoke, an unearthly voice like the singing of a million whales.
“Santiago, you are my sword.”
He woke, trembling and confused. Then he heard another horrid sound nearby. He turned fearfully but it was only Father Mac, snoring like a bull moose in heat. Santiago let the priest sleep and lay back down on his cot, struggling to make sense of the dream.
Shotguns v. Cthulhu Page 25