The Lovecraft Squad: Dreaming

by Stephen Jones

  “Dream Division. Got it.”

  The FBI director pinned Elwood with an intense stare that briefly gave him the sensation of being an insect stuck to the display board of a master entomologist. After a second, Hoover said, “Elwood, I’ll level with you: something big is going down. We’re not sure exactly what it is, but Carter believes the Armies of the Night have almost succeeded in opening a permanent gateway between our dimension and the Dreamscape. If that happens . . . mankind is over. And right now, the Human Protection League may be the only thing that’s keeping it from happening.”

  Elwood swallowed before responding. “We’ll stop them, sir.”

  “Good man. Dismissed.”

  Elwood was almost out of the office when Hoover called after him. “Oh, Agent Elwood . . .”

  Elwood turned back. “Sir?”

  “Did you get my memo this morning?”

  A jolt of nervous adrenaline shot through Elwood. “I did, sir.”

  “I’ve heard rumors of certain—let’s say highly placed—members of the Justice Department snooping around lately, and I’d just as soon they not get their noses into the business of the HPL. I’ve got my hands full with this situation happening on the 31st, organized crime, and this Southern preacher, King.”

  “Completely understood, sir.”

  “Thank you, Agent Elwood.”

  Hoover turned back to another report on his desk, indicating the meeting was at an end.

  Elwood managed to keep his knees solid until he returned to his office beneath the Washington Monument.

  V

  He hovers above the great city, not sure how he’s arrived there or what force keeps him aloft. He is propelled forward by some sort of gust or current; he sees he still wears the same pajamas he dressed in for bed, that his feet are bare, but he feels neither cold nor heat. He realizes he’s not alone—before and beside him are conglomerations of shifting geometric shapes, shimmering from dark magenta to iridescent blue, and he’s not sure if they’re living things or mechanical devices or something unnamed that exists beyond either organic or inorganic. He senses that they are traveling with him, perhaps even leading him.

  They descend now, moving down past the tallest spires (is that the same one he stood on a few nights ago?) toward a section of ornately carved structures that suggest museums, or governing seats . . . no, temples, he realizes. As they get closer, he sees the buildings are covered in friezes depicting scenes he can’t entirely comprehend. He can make out an image here and there—a giant figure lowering a single, screaming man into a gaping maw, a fish-frog thing lifting a blade over a human sacrifice—but most of it bewilders him. He recognizes the greenish, faintly glowing stone that holds the dreadful scenes, though.

  He feels terror well up as he sees they are approaching the entrance to the largest of the temples. For a second, he struggles against the force that pulls him forward, but he is nearly overwhelmed by an immediate sensation of agonizing control, and so he cedes himself to it. As he and his—Guards? Porters? Fellow ghosts?—pass beneath the massive frieze (which he sees is three times taller than he is and extends indefinitely to the right and left), for an instant he glimpses crumbling stone walls filmed in slime and dampness, but then he’s swallowed by the vast dark within the great temple.

  Eyes (does he truly still possess eyes?) adjust, and he sees the temple actually pulses with its own illumination, but he cannot guess the source. The floor is occupied with scurrying acolytes. Some are vaguely human, although beneath their cowls the heads are misshapen, elongated, ridged. Others are bloated nightmares, with no hint of humanity about them; he finds it difficult, in fact, to even look at some of the things rushing about the temple.

  The preparation centers on a raised platform near the front of the structure—an altar. Some of the acolytes use small shrieking creatures to paint the altar in blood. Others kneel on the floor, inscribing complicated diagrams that mean nothing to him. What he does comprehend, however, is that the way is being laid for some sort of significant ritual.

  Reality is shifting around him, but it’s not part of his dream—he knows, instinctively, that forces are gathering for the coming ceremony, forces that are powerful enough to rip the very fabric of the cosmos apart. He doubts that many humans would survive that event; the fact that he might be one of them gives him no comfort.

  But how can he alone stop the end of the world?

  It was after 2:00 A.M., the 30th having clicked over to become the 31st, before Elwood and his men found the Order’s ritual.

  They’d been working their way along River Street in Arkham since they’d arrived in the town at just after 3:00 that afternoon. The day was overcast, and the mist from the Miskatonic River that ran along the other side of River Street seeped through coats, penetrating through skin right down to the bone. Elwood had managed to pull together a team of four, including O’Hara, who had promised to take his two young children trick-or-treating. His partner wasn’t happy at instead having to spend Halloween in Arkham, but he agreed that the fate of human existence outweighed two costumed tots and their treats. They were joined by Kretzmer, a solid blond man who’d been with the HPL for twelve years, and Jefferson. Kretzmer and Jefferson each carried duffel bags loaded with guns and a few hand grenades.

  The team had started in the French Hill area. The warehouses were old, made of groaning timber and crumbling brick; they stank of mildew, stagnant water, and organic rot. Most were empty. They’d briefly considered illegally breaking into the buildings to search them, but peering through greasy, sooty windows showed no lights on inside, no circles of chanting cultists. Two warehouses had been legitimately occupied by workers, loading crates of fish and blocks of ice into the backs of delivery trucks. Elwood examined the faces of the workers, but saw none of the aquatic taint of Innsmouth in their features. The workers in one warehouse grew nervous when Elwood and his men entered, but their anxiety centered on some large wooden crates behind them stamped in Spanish; Elwood guessed the crates contained illegal Cuban cigars. Normally he would have taken great pleasure in busting a smuggling operation, but not tonight.

  Just after 10:00 P.M. they’d stepped into a dockside tavern called The Witch’s Brew, anxious to ward off the late autumn chill with food and drink. They’d just ordered burgers and beers when a man entered the tavern, glanced around warily, and then approached their table. He was a small man with a long nose and teeth that jutted in every direction, giving him the appearance of a particularly mangy wharf rat. “You the fellows what been roustin’ the docks today?”

  Elwood glanced at his men before turning to the new arrival. “I wouldn’t say we’ve been ‘rousting.’ More like just . . . interested.”

  The man’s eyes shot right, then left, then skittered over Elwood. “I might be able to help you with that interest, but you gotta make it worth my while.”

  Elwood smiled and leaned back in his chair. “What we’re really hoping to find is the best Halloween party in Arkham. Something with real power. Something that can only happen tonight.”

  The rat-man nodded frantically. “Yep, I pegged you fellas right.” His eyes fell on Jefferson and lingered too long there. Jefferson held his gaze, not blinking, until the ugly little man looked away. “The Lovecraft Squad, aren’tcha?”

  “Maybe,” Elwood said, with a nonchalant half-smile. “Can you get us into that party?” Elwood reached into a pocket, withdrew his wallet, and slid a hundred-dollar bill toward the man.

  The man eyed it critically. “Sure, but the way I see it, there’s four of you.”

  Sighing, Elwood withdrew three more bills and added them to the first. The informant snatched up the money, then shot a glance at Jefferson. “And one of you’s gonna be harder to handle.”

  Jefferson remained impassive. Elwood made a show of standing to return his wallet to a pocket before stepping close to the informant and speaking in low, urgent tones. “I’m the one who is about to be harder to handle. Are you going to take us
to this party now, or do I need to take that money back?”

  The informant held up his hands. “Okay, sheesh. Let’s go.”

  Kretzmer and Jefferson rose, but O’Hara shouted in indignation, “Oh, fer Chrissakes, Frank, don’t we even get to eat our burgers? I’m starvin’.”

  Elwood clapped a hand on O’Hara’s shoulder. “Sorry, Gerry. There’ll be burgers and Halloween candy when we’re done.”

  O’Hara frowned, but followed them outside.

  The fog had built up, so the four HPL agents had to hustle to keep track of their informant. The streets were empty aside from them, sounds and lights muffled by the thick, yellow vapor. Elwood called to their informant, “What’s your name?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I thought it might be useful if I require your services again in the future.”

  The rat-man looked back, briefly baring his oversized teeth. “No chance of that—I’m leaving Arkham as soon as I show you what you’re looking for.”

  “How do we know we can trust you?”

  “Because I want you cats to stop what’s going on. This is bad, as in—very bad. Since these creeps from Innsmouth arrived, there’s been a lot of weird shit in the air, but news goin’ around is that this thing they’re working on tonight is the weirdest and the worst. I want you boys to stop it, but I also don’t want to be here if you can’t.”

  O’Hara muttered under his breath, “Great.”

  After a block, they crossed the street; below the sidewalk, the Miskatonic River gurgled as it pushed up against the ancient algae-lined stone walls. “Why are we crossing the street? There are no warehouses over here,” Elwood asked.

  The rat-man led them down a short flight of stairs to a precarious, tilting wooden dock. “We’re not going to a warehouse.” He avoided stepping onto the dock, though, and jumped to a small dirt bank below it. He looked up and said, “If you boys have got any kind of lights, now’s the time to fire ’em up.”

  Kretzmer and Jefferson set down the duffel bags, unzipped them, and removed four strong flashlights, which they distributed and turned on. The four jumped down beside the rat-man, who indicated a man-sized circular opening in the stone wall. “In there.”

  Elwood knew none of the four were happy about venturing into the dank, tight sewer tunnel, where an ambush would be all too easy. “How far is it?”

  The rat-man shrugged. “Not far—in fact you should hear ’em before you see ’em. Good luck, boys—you’ll need it.” With that he deftly leapt back up onto the stairs and had disappeared into the swirling fog before they could haul him back.

  Elwood and O’Hara shone their lights into the tunnel, seeing only several inches of brackish water with more slowly dripping from overhead. Turning back to his men, Elwood said, “What do you say—keep on this path, or go back up and continue searching the warehouses?”

  Kretzmer spoke first. “I say we follow this lead. We know these cultists like being underground.”

  O’Hara added, “And I believed our rat-faced little friend was really scared, so I vote this way too.”

  Elwood looked to Jefferson. “How about you, Herbert?”

  “If this doesn’t pay off, there’s still time to check the warehouses, right?” Before Elwood could stop him, Jefferson plunged into the tunnel. The other three followed.

  They’d gone a few hundred yards, avoiding squeaking rats and tumbled-in side tunnels, when Kretzmer stopped them. “Hold on a second—listen.”

  They did . . . and heard a faint rhythmic sound. “Is that drumming?” O’Hara asked.

  Jefferson hurried on again. “This way.”

  Within a minute of pressing forward, the sound had become unmistakable: Drums, whistling atonal flutes, chanting voices. Elwood reached forward and grabbed the rookie’s shoulder, holding him from going on. “Wait up,” he whispered, and then turned to address O’Hara and Kretzmer as well. “I think we’re close. We need to proceed from here with extreme caution. Jefferson, let me take lead.”

  Jefferson nodded, albeit reluctantly. Elwood held a finger to his lips, indicating quiet, then led the way forward. They came to a place where multiple tunnels intersected; after pausing to listen, Elwood chose one to their right. It was more narrow than the line they’d been in, causing them to stoop and crab-walk as they made their way along. The sounds grew louder, echoing off the sides of the slime-coated walls. Finally light entered the tunnel from ahead, and Elwood paused his team long enough to be sure they all turned off their flashlights.

  They inched forward again, following the tunnel as it curved to the right—and then Elwood held out an arm, stopping them. The tunnel mouth was no more than ten feet ahead. It opened onto a large underground space that seemed to have been a natural cavern; the walls, which were lost overhead in darkness, were rough, untouched limestone, as was the floor. The light was provided by flaming torches, most held by robed figures.

  Elwood flattened himself out as much as possible and crawled forward through the foul-smelling sludge in the tunnel. His view broadened as he neared the oval tunnel mouth; at last he was able to see fully what was happening.

  There were perhaps thirty of the robed figures present, arranged in a semicircle around a large stone altar. The platform was carved with strange hieroglyphics, some of which Elwood recognized; the sculpted scenes, however, were immediately obvious, showing human victims being consumed, torn apart, or violated by monstrous organisms that didn’t belong in this world. Looking up, Elwood saw more of the scenes roughly sculpted into the cavern walls.

  The crowd of acolytes was swaying slightly to the drum-driven consonance, and Elwood glimpsed something happening at the altar stone: a priest was poised above it, holding a knife in one hand and a leather-bound volume in the other. The priest had protuberant eyes and huge, moist-looking lips, marking him immediately as an Innsmouth emigrant. Elwood couldn’t make out the particulars of the book from this distance, but he guessed it might be a copy of the Mad Arabs’s Necronomicon, the chief grimoire of the Armies of the Night.

  There was a child on the altar. Human, unconscious, bare feet, its small body dressed in ceremonial robes, hands and head painted in blood with more of the magic symbols.

  The ritual was plainly reaching a climax. An unseen presence filled the space, and beyond. It couldn’t yet be seen, but Elwood knew all those present felt it—it scratched at their consciousness like a nocturnal predator seeking a way into its prey’s burrow. Elwood had faced cultists, creatures that were mostly vapor, men descended from fish, gigantic shoggoths . . . but what waited for this sacrifice was older, bigger, and far greater than any of those.

  Elwood had only seconds. He turned to his crew, ready to issue orders—but when he saw them, he froze. Their faces, anxious yet dedicated . . . they would likely all die here tonight.

  Die . . . or worse.

  “Frank?” That was O’Hara, whose kids were at home, safe for now, in bed. In the years to come, they might hate the name Frank Elwood for what would happen here tonight.

  Elwood gestured at Kretzmer’s duffel bag. “Slide that over here.” He briefly considered a grenade, but feared it would bring the whole place down on top of them . . . and if that victim on the altar died by his hands, would it help the monstrous thing that was trying to come through? Instead, he pulled out a Browning automatic rifle. With its twenty-round magazine, he thought he might be able to take out most of the acolytes before they rushed him. If they were confused, he might have time to pop in a fresh magazine . . . or they might reach him as he struggled with it.

  The priest raised his blade.

  There was no time left to think. Elwood slammed the magazine home, unfolded the bipod below the barrel, and took aim.

  He was squeezing the trigger when everything changed. A cry went up from the acolytes, some of whom started forward. The priest fell back, dropping the knife. The pressure of the waiting deity changed, from anxious anticipation to confusion.

  Al
l because of the man who now stood beside the altar.

  Because he was surrounded by a pulsing shimmer, Elwood flinched away at first, unable to clearly see. Then his eyes adjusted, he looked again . . .

  His heart skipped a beat when he saw the broad, handsome face, the thick brown hair, concerned gaze . . .

  “Frank?” That was O’Hara again, whispering behind him. “What’s happening?”

  Elwood lifted himself away from the gun. “A man just appeared, but—it’s not possible . . .”

  “What’s not possible?”

  “The man . . . it’s Kennedy.”

  Kretzmer overheard and asked, “The A.G.?”

  “No—the president. John F. Kennedy.”

  The other men pressed up close behind Elwood to see, and he moved aside to let them. He wanted confirmation that he hadn’t gone mad.

  “Holy Christ,” whispered O’Hara.

  “The president,” he heard Jefferson blurt out, too loudly. Elwood held up a warning hand as he scanned the members of the Esoteric Order of Dagon for any sign of alarm, but they were focused on the lone figure standing before them.

  Elwood saw now that the president was incongruously dressed in pajamas, but he stood confidently before the assemblage. The very air in the cavern changed; the nearly palpable charge of dread was calmed, gentled to nothing. The acolytes stood in perplexity, the priest backed away. Kennedy strode through their midst to the altar, picked up the sleeping (or drugged) child, turned, and walked away. He stopped one last time, gave the cultists a stern but benevolent look.

  Elwood waited, his finger ready on the Browning’s trigger in case the president was rushed . . . but no attack came. After a few seconds, Kennedy, holding the small child, walked off into the gloom of the cavern’s far end and was lost to view.