New Cthulhu: The Recent Weird

by Michael Marshall Smith

  Sixty years ago there was a war and he was a young man. He was in the Emperor’s army and he went to the South Pacific, and there was an island. The Americans dug in, and forced the Japanese troops to retreat.

  They sneaked away at night, from the point at Cape Esperance. Personnel boats had been waiting. “There were thirteen-thousand of us,” he breathed to himself in his native tongue. “And we left in the middle of the night, while the Americans slept.”

  The water had been black and it had been calm, as calm as the ocean ever was. Hushed, hushed, and hushed, the soldiers slogged into the water to meet the transports. In haste and in extreme caution, they had boarded the boats in packs and rows. They had huddled down on the slat seats and listened to the furtive cacophony of oars and small propellers.

  He seemed to recall a panic—not his own. Another man, someone badly hurt, in mind and body. The man had stood up in the boat and tried to call out. His nearest neighbor tackled him, pulled him back down into his seat; but the ruckus unsettled the small craft.

  Baku was sitting on the outside rail, one of the last men crammed aboard.

  When the boat lunged, he lost his balance. Over the side he toppled, and into the water. It was like falling into ink with a riptide. Fear was halted by the fierce wetness, and his instincts were all but exhausted by days of battle. He thought to float, though. He tried to right himself, to roll out of the fetal suspension.

  And something had stopped him—hard.

  Even after sixty years, the memory of it shocked him—the way the thing had grabbed him by the ankle. The thing that seized him felt like a living cable made of steel. It coiled itself around his leg, one loop, two loops, working its way to a tighter grip with the skill of a python and the strength of something much, much larger.

  Inside Baku’s vest he carried a bayonet blade made of carbon steel. It was sharp enough to cut paper without tearing it. It was strong enough to hold his weight.

  His first thought and first fear was that this was a strange new weapon devised by the Americans; but his second thought was that this was no weapon at all, but a living creature. There was sentience and insistence in the way the thing squeezed and tugged. He curled his body up to pull his hand and his knife closer to the clutching, grasping thing.

  And because he was running out of air, he arched his elbow up and tightened his leather-tough wrists. Even then they’d been taut and dense with muscle. He’d grown up beside the ocean, cutting the fish every day, all day, until the Emperor had called for his service and he’d taken up a gun instead.

  So it was with strength and certainty that he brought the knife down into the thing that held his leg.

  It convulsed. It twitched, and Baku stabbed again. The water went warmer around his ankle, and the terrible grip slackened. Again. A third time, and a fourth. In desperation, he began to saw, unafraid that he would hit his own flesh, and unaware of the jagged injury he created when he did so.

  By then his air was so low and he was so frightened, that he might have cut off his whole leg in pursuit of escape. But after several heroic hacks Baku all but severed the living lasso; and at that moment, one of his fellow soldiers got a handful of the back of his shirt. Human hands pulled him up, and out, and over—back into the boat. A faint and final tug at his leg went nearly unnoticed as the last of the thing stretched, split, and tore.

  On the floor of the boat Baku gasped and floundered. The other soldiers covered him with their hands, hushing him. Always hushing. The Americans might hear.

  He shook and shook—taking comfort in the circle of faces that covered him from above and shut out the star-spangled sky. At last he breathed and the breath was not hard-won.

  But he did not feel safe.

  Around his leg the leftovers clung. He unwound the ropy flesh from his own quivering limb and the dismembered coil fell to the boat bottom where it twitched, flopped, and lay still.

  “What is it?” someone asked. “What is it?” the call was echoed around the boat in quiet voices.

  No one wanted to touch it, so no one did until the next day.

  Baku stared down at the thing and wondered what it had once belonged to. All he had to judge it by was the lone, partial tentacle, and it did not tell him much. It was a sickly greenish brown and it came with a smell to match—as if it were made of old dung, spoiled crab meat, and salt; and suction pads lined one side, with thorny-looking spines on the other. He did not remember the bite of the spines, but his leg wore the results.

  “What is it?” the question came again from one of his fellow soldiers, who poked at the leavings of the peculiar predator with the end of his gun.

  “I don’t know. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “Never.”

  Never before that night had he seen anything like the tentacle. It represented no squid or octopus that Baku knew, and he was born into a family that had fed itself from the water for generations. Baku thought he had seen everything the ocean had to offer, even from the bottom-most depths where the fish had blind-white eyes, and the sand was as fine as flour. But he’d never seen a thing like that, and he would never forget it. The scars on his legs would remind him for the rest of his life, even when he was an old man, and living in America, and lying in bed on a cool spring night . . . half dozing and half staring at the ceiling fan that slowly churned the air above him.

  And it was that smell, and that remembered texture of stubborn rubber, that had reminded him of the sulfur stench at Guadalcanal.

  Twice in his life now, he had breathed that nasty, tangy odor and felt a tough cord of flesh resist the push of his knife.

  His stomach turned.

  The next day at work, Baku wondered if the store manager had noticed anything strange about the sushi. He asked, “Are we getting different meat now? It seemed different yesterday, when I was cutting it for the rolls.”

  The manager frowned, and then smiled. “I think I know what you mean. We have a new vendor for some of the fish. It’s a company from New England, and they carry a different stock from the Gulf Coast company. But they come with very good references, and they cost less money than the others, too. They distribute out of a warehouse downtown, by the pier at Manufacturer’s Row.”

  “I see.”

  “Was there a problem with the fish?”

  Baku was torn.

  He did not want to complain. He never liked to complain. The manager was happy with the new vendor, and what would he say? That the octopus meat reminded him of war?

  “No,” he said. “No problem. I only noticed the change, that’s all.” And he went back to work, keeping his eyes open for more of the mysterious meat.

  He found it in the squid, and in the crab. It lurked amid the pale bits of ordinary fish and seafood, suspicious landmines of a funny smell and a texture that drove him to distraction.

  Baku watched for the new vendor and saw him one day driving up in a big white truck with a large “A” painted on the side. He couldn’t make out the company’s name; it was printed in a small, elaborate script that was difficult to read. The man who drove the truck was a tall, thin fellow shaped like an egg roll. His skin was doughy and hairless.

  When he moved the chilled packages of sealed, wrapped food on the dolly, he moved with strength but without hurry. He walked like a sea lion, with a gently lumbering gait—as if he might be more comfortable swimming than walking.

  His big, round eyes stared straight ahead as he made his deliveries. He didn’t speak to anyone that Baku ever saw, and when he was handed a pen to sign at the clipboard, he looked at it blankly before applying his mark to the proper forms.

  “I think he’s challenged,” the Sonada’s manager said. “Mentally challenged, you know. Poor man.”

  “Poor man,” Baku agreed. He watched him get into his truck and drive away. He would be back on Tuesday with more plastic-wrapped boxes that emitted fogged, condensed air in tiny clouds around their corners.

  And meanwhile, business boome
d.

  Every night the restaurant was a little more packed, with a few more patrons. Every night the till rang longer, and the receipts stacked higher on the spike beside the register. Every night the waitresses ran themselves more ragged and collected more tips.

  By Saturday, Sonada’s was managing twice its volume from the week before. By Sunday, people were lined out the door and around the side of the building. It did not matter how long they were told to wait.

  They waited.

  They were learning an unnatural patience.

  Baku took on more hours, even though the manager told him it was not necessary. A new chef was hired to help with the added burden and another would have been helpful, but the kitchen would hold no more workers.

  Baku insisted on the extra time. He wanted to see for himself, and to watch the other men who cut the sushi rolls and steamed the sticky rice. He wanted to see if they saw it too—the funny, pale meat the color of a pickle’s insides. But if anyone noticed that something was out of order, no one spoke about it. If something was different, something must be good—because business had never been better.

  And the old chef knew that one way or another, the strange meat was bringing the customers in.

  Even though Sonada’s served a broad variety of Asian food, no one ever ordered fried rice anymore, or sesame chicken. Egg rolls had all but vanished from the menu, and Baku couldn’t remember the last time beef was required for a dish.

  Everyone wanted the sushi, and Baku knew why.

  And he knew that something was happening to the regular patrons, the ones who came every night. From the kitchen window that overlooked the lobby he saw them return for supper like clockwork, and with every meal they took, they were changed.

  They ate faster, and walked slower. They talked less.

  Baku began to stay longer in the kitchen, and he rushed hurriedly to his car at night.

  Baku paused his unending slicing, cutting, scooping and scraping to use the washroom. He closed the door behind himself and sighed into the quiet. For the first time all evening, he was alone. Or so he thought.

  All the stall doors were open, save the one at the farthest end of the blue-tiled room—which was closed only a little way. From within it, someone flushed.

  Out of politeness, Baku pretended not to see that the other man had left the door ajar. He stepped to the nearest sink and washed his hands. He covered them with runny pink soap and took his time building lather, then rinsing under the steamy tap water. He relished the heat.

  The kitchen had become so cold in the last week, since the grills were rarely working and the air conditioner was running full-blast. Instead of sporadic warmth from the stoves, the refrigerator door was incessantly opened and closed—bringing fresh meat for the sushi rolls. The chefs handled cold meat, seaweed, and sticky rice for nine hours at a time.

  His knuckles never thawed.

  But while he stood there, warming his fingers beneath the gushing stream, he noticed the sound of repeated flushing foaming its way into the tiled room. Dampness crept up the sole of Baku’s shoe. Water puddled on the floor around his feet. He flipped the sink’s chrome lever down, shutting off the water.

  He listened.

  The toilet’s denouement was interrupted before the plumbing could finish its cycle and another flush gurgled. A fresh tide of water spilled out from under the door.

  Baku craned his neck to the right, leaning until he could see the square of space between the soggy floor and the bottom of the stall. Filthy gray sneakers stood ankle-deep in overflow. The laces were untied; they floated like the hair of a drowning victim.

  “Hello?” Baku called softly. He did not want a response. “Can I help you with something, sir?” His English was heavy, but he was careful with his pronunciation.

  He took a cautious step forward, and that small shuffle cleared nearly half the distance between him and the stall door. He took a second step, but he made that one even tinier than the first, and he put out his hand.

  The tips of his fingers quivered, as they tapped against the painted metal door. He tried to ask, “Are you all right?” But the words barely whispered out of his throat.

  A groan answered him without offering specifics.

  He pushed the door.

  He found himself staring at a man’s hunched back and a sweaty patch of shirt between his shoulder blades. The shirt itself was the beige kind that comes with an embroidered nametag made in dark blue thread. When the man at the toilet turned around, Baku read that the tag said “Peter,” but he’d guessed that much already. He knew the shirt. It was the uniform worn by the man who drove the delivery truck each Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday.

  Peter’s eyes were blank and watery. They looked like olives in a jar.

  The deliveryman seemed to know that his peculiar ritual was being questioned, and he did not care for the interruption. With another petulant groan he half lunged, half tipped forward.

  Baku recoiled, pulling the door closed with his retreat.

  Peter was thwarted a few seconds longer than he should have been. Perhaps it was only his innate imbecility that made him linger so long with the slim obstacle, but it bought the old chef time to retreat. He slipped first, falling knee-down with a splash, but catching himself on the sink and rising. Back into the hall and past the ice machine he stumbled, rubbing at his knee and shaking from the encounter. It had been too strange, too stupidly sinister.

  At the far end of the dining area a big round clock declared the time. For a moment he was relieved. He needed to go home, and if the clock could be believed, he had less than an hour remaining on his shift.

  But his relief dissolved as quickly as it had blossomed. The scene beneath the clock was no more reassuring than the one in the bathroom.

  Dozens of people were eating in silence, staring down at their plates or their forks. They gazed with the same bland olive eyes, not at each other but at the food. The waitresses and the one lone male waiter lurked by the kitchen window without talking. The cash register did not ring.

  Where was the manager? He’d been in and out for days, more out than in. The assistant manager, then. Anyone, really—anyone who was capable of sustaining convincing eye contact would suffice.

  Into the kitchen Baku ducked, anticipating an oasis of ordinary people.

  He was disappointed. The cooks stood in pockets of inattentive shoe-gazing, except for the two who had made their way back into the refrigerator. From within its chilly depths, Baku heard the sounds of sloppy gnawing.

  Was he the only one who’d not been eating the sushi?

  He turned just in time to hear the bathroom door creak open. Peter moaned as he made his way into the corridor and then began a slow charge towards the chef.

  The grunting, guttural call drew the attention of the customers and the kitchen staff. They turned to see Peter, and then the object of his attention. All faces aimed themselves at Baku, whose insides immediately worked into a tangle.

  Two nearby customers came forward. They didn’t rise from their seats or fold their napkins, and they didn’t put down their forks. Together they stood, knocking their chairs backwards and crashing their thighs against the table, rocking it back and forth. The woman raised her hand and opened her mouth as if she meant to speak, but only warm air and half-chewed sushi fell out from between her lips. Her dinner companion managed a louder sound—like an inflatable ball being squeezed—and the low, flatulent cry roused the remaining customers and the kitchen staff alike. In a clumsy wave, they stumbled towards Baku.

  On the counter, he spied the folded roll of his fine German knives. He fired one hand out to snag it; then he tucked it under his arm and pushed the glass door with his elbow.

  Behind him the crowd rallied, but it was a slow rally that was impeded by everything in its path. Chairs thwarted them. Counters baffled them.

  Baku hurried. Outside the sky was growing dark with a too-early dusk brought on by a cloudy almost-storm. He tumbled into the
parking lot and pulled the door shut behind his back.

  The bus stop was empty.

  The chef froze. He always rode the bus home. Every night. Rain or shine he waited under the small shelter at the corner.

  Over his shoulder he watched the masses swarm behind the windows, pushing their hands through the blinds and slapping their palms against the glass. They were slow, but they wouldn’t give him time to wait for the 9:30 bus.

  He crushed at his knives, taking comfort from their strength wrapped inside the cloth. His knuckles curled around them.

  As a young man he’d confronted the ocean with nets and hooks, drawing out food and earning his livelihood. Then he’d been called as a soldier, and he’d fought for his country, and to serve his Emperor. In the years that followed he had put away his bayonet and had taken up the knives of a cook; he had set aside the uniform of war and put on an apron.

  But knives like these could be weapons, too.

  “I am not too old,” he breathed. Behind him, a dozen pairs of hands slapped at the windows, rattling the blinds. Shoulders pummeled at the doors, and the strained puff of a pneumatic hinge told Baku that they were coming. “I am not too old to work. Not too old to cut fish. I am not too old to fight.”

  Peter’s delivery vehicle sat open in the parking lot’s loading zone. The refrigerated trailer compartment hung open, one door creaking back and forth in the pre-storm breeze. A faint briny smell wafted forth.

  Baku limped to the trailer door and took a deep breath of the tepid air. The contents within were beginning to turn.

  He slammed the metal door shut and climbed into the cab. He set his knives down on the passenger’s seat and closed his own door just as the first wave of angry patrons breached the restaurant door.

  At first, he saw no keys. He checked the ignition and the glove box. But when he checked the visor a spare set tumbled down into his lap. He selected the engine key without a tremor and plugged it into the slot. The engine gagged to life, and with a tug of the gearshift, the vehicle rolled forward—pushing aside a pair of restaurant patrons, and knocking a third beneath the van’s grille.