The Symbiot

by Michel Weatherall

  "Was it the woman's face who told you to wait for her at the gate?"

  "No!" Veronica immediately answered, "No, it wasn't. If anything it was the woman who tried to stop whomever was trying to say it to me."

  Howard removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Well," he began, "let's go back to bed and get at least some sleep tonight. We'll pick it up tomorrow.

  "And Veronica," he added, "don't worry about the dream. It was nothing but a nightmare."

  Veronica smiled and said goodnight. They both knew it was a lie. Upon returning to her bed she thought about Howard, about how she was finding him more attractive by the moment, and how five years was a long time. She fell asleep with thoughts of Professor Neilson.

  Howard returned to his bedroom but didn't sleep. He couldn't. He knew something was up, something monstrously huge. For he knew the dream Veronica had better than she knew it - for he himself had the very same dream!

  He must have picked it up from her, for he remembered it through her eyes. That was the reason why she had forgotten it and he hadn't. The woman in the dream had forced the dream from Veronica's memory – but she couldn't have known about Howard.

  He abhorred himself for lying to Veronica. It was only a nightmare, he chuckled to himself in disgust. But she wouldn't have handled the truth, now would she?

  He had witnessed the whole nightmare. The woman's face that materialized out of the storm, that had stopped the two shadowy figure's message, was also familiar to Neilson. All too familiar, except he could remember where he had seen her before. He remembered that face from the Oxford Police files of '87. He knew who she was, and the fact that if things were right, she should be long since dead. But this dream confirmed his worst fears.

  It was the two shadowy figures – the pair that became one – that tried to communicate to Veronica that disturbed him. But what disturbed him more was the fact that he knew these two incorporeal figures were trying to send a message and that the woman had stopped their attempt. He also realized that for the woman to reach into someone dreams, as she had done, she would have to had been free... from her prison-universe. The implications were catastrophic.

  He picked up his notepad and wrote down the time when Veronica had the nightmare. 3:16 am.

  All he could do now was to sit and wait. How could one simply sit and wait for something like this?

  He began to churn the thought over and over in his head. Even when he said the words he could not truly grasp their meaning:

  Nyarlathotep was free.

  Chapter V: Memories of Tomorrow

  He was soaring through black abysses, through dreadful voids of nothingness – beyond the confines of time and space. He could not feel gravity – for gravity emanates from mass. His body was the only mass present – and since there's nothing for gravity to pull, thus no gravity.

  Flying through nighted abysses... (could you truly fly, for that matter even move through nothing?)

  His mind was churning with thoughts, for to stop thinking was to be absorbed into this Nothingness.

  Did she receive our message? he thought. Did we send it through in time?

  He soared across unimaginable gulfs of darkness – it didn't matter whether she got the message or not. Not anymore at least. He'd know for certain momentarily.

  Something broke the dark monotony of the Nothingness. A dot. A dot of purple light. The Gate!

  Warten sie auf mich bei der shranke, he thought. Had she understood? His ability to remember language was so poor now. How long had it been since he spoke to someone, something, anything? What was time in a world without it? Had that much actually passed? He only hoped she understood the message.

  The time had come, he thought as he flew towards the livid violet beacon. It seemed to remain constant and motionless, but he knew this was only illusionary. The Gateway was closing, collapsing upon itself – contracting. This effect was counteracted by his rapid approach to the Gate itself, causing it to appear steady and stable.

  As he hurtled towards it he sensed vibrations – sounds... distant and distorted at first, but becoming more distinct and audible. Now the purple dot grew into a sphere. It was a neon-blue veined purple ball of light – and still it collapsed and began dispersing its mass into the surrounding Nothingness – being consumed.

  His vision was filled by the Gate's purple light as he plunged through...

  June 26th, '92, 10:40 pm (13 hours in the future)

  ...he stepped out of the contracting Gateway. His foot landed on a hardwood floor. Everything was dark.

  The closing Gate behind him gave off a dull violet light. It took only moments for his eyes to adjust. He stood in a large room. The walls seemed covered with, what? Spikes? No - covered with pointed foam. Like some hi-tech audio-recording studio. One wall used to be all windows but the glass all lay smashed in a myriad pieces on the floor.

  Behind was a smaller room filled with smashed and twisted electronic equipment. A young man stood within this catastrophe, ridged and shocked. He had shoulder length dirty blond hair. He was wearing tight black jeans, a heavy metal t-shirt and a black leather jacket.

  There were others in the main room. Three of them. One was a short, stocky balding man. He held his right wrist as if it were hurt. Professor Neilson?! By God, it was him!

  Beside him was a woman. Her identity was unmistakable. Veronica Francois! Had she gotten the message?

  The third person was a tall gaunt man. Wide eyed and staring at the body that lay on the floor. He had a smoking revolver in his hand.

  There was an overwhelming stench of pennies and salt and electric burn in the room. Who was the body on the floor? The Gateway's light had diminished near completely. The Gate would nearly be shut.

  The body had a bullet hole through its head. It was a woman. An auburn-haired woman. He recognized her empty green eyes staring into nothingness. He knew her! Good Lord! It was Nadia de LaFountaine!

  He had to get the message through to Veronica. He called out her name: “Veronica!”

  At the same time the door burst open. All three jumped. A fourth person entered running. He was a muscular, big boned Hispanic man. His deep soulful brown eyes were wide with panic and distress. His thick black hair with a peppering of gray bounced with his frantic strides. He was shouting something in Spanish. The other three turned their attention. The Hispanic man resorted to English, “My God! Don't shoot! Veronica!-”

  It was at this point that the tall man with the revolver turned back towards the collapsing Gateway. All he saw was a humanoid silhouette superimposed over the violet light.

  “Holy shit!” he shouted over the Hispanic's deafening volume, “It got back out! It got back out!”

  The Gateway shut. Snapped out of existence, plunging the room into darkness. The tall man with revolver shot. Only one shot.

  The Symbiot was momentarily blinded with the sudden plunge into darkness from the Gate's disappearance, coped with the ballistic flash of the revolver.

  He felt the bullet connect with his forehead – directly between his eyes. He heard bone crunching, the sound of his brain sizzling from the bullet's heat, and then felt the back of his skull explode and the splatter of grizzle as the bullet exited his head.

  He dropped to his knees. Something hot and viscous dribbled down his face. He collapsed on the floor. Everything went black. He fell into oblivion...

  ...he slowly felt the effect of gravity again. His fingers and toes were numb. Cold? Frozen? No, numb. Pins and needles ran through them. They hurt.

  He lay on his belly, face down. His head throbbed. There was a strangely refreshing pain in his chest – a heartbeat.

  His arms lay crumpled beneath his chest. He was breathing now. He slowly, painfully freed his arms. It was so cold.

  His breath was erratic at first but was calming down. He smelled something. Something... beautiful and reminiscent. It smelled like smoked bacon and fresh damp pine wood. It was the smell of a newly built house after a rainstorm.<
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  He lay there breathing. The pain in his arms and legs and chest was subsiding. He breathed calmly now. The air was crisp and fresh.

  He opened his eyes. It was daylight. The sky was overcast. It seemed like early morning.

  He pushed himself upright and sat. He looked around. He was sitting at the edge of a residential street – on the paved road. It was snowing. Great big snowflakes. He watched them for a moment trying to get his bearings.

  There was a gentle breeze. It made the giant snowflakes dance. He noticed the lawns were still green. Could this be the first snowfall? These monstrous snowflakes would softly land and immediately melt away. He felt his trousers growing wet as he sat on the pavement.

  There was a briefcase and newspaper laying on the road next to him. He picked them up as he climbed to his feet. He began walking home. He knew where home was but could not be sure how he knew.

  He opened the newspaper. The date was in Spanish and read, June 23rd, '92. He didn't remember speaking Spanish, but more importantly, it was three days in the past!!

  A thought came to him. Veronica! He said it out loud. Veronica! My God, the message didn't get through to her! She hadn't understood. It all came back to him. She didn't understand! It all came in a flood of information.

  He had just stepped through the Gate - the Gateway out of Nyarlathotep's Prison-Universe. The tall man with the revolver shot him... shot him dead. Now he was Juan Emilio Sanchez-Vasquez. But... but he retained his former memory also! How?

  There was no time to wonder now. He knew he was in Rio Gallegos, Argentina. He remembered spending the last few days with a prostitute named Rosalina. But these memories seemed like something he had watched rather than experienced. They seemed artificial. How... what was going on?

  Again, there was no time to waste. He must get himself to see Veronica. He must immediately catch a flight to Montreal, Canada; La Bellefeuille Maison! Yes, that was were Veronica lived. He remembered now!

  As he picked up his pace he began to plan the trip in his mind.

  He would take his private jet. Yes, that was – but no! Damn it all! He had sent his chauffeur home only minutes ago.

  Okay, he would get home momentarily, give his chauffeur a couple of minutes to get home, call him to come back and take him back to the airport.

  His private jet would take a little time to refuel and he would have to get a hold of the pilot again... but he could be on his way to Montreal this very day. Good! It was decided.

  As he arrived at the front door of his home he took out his keys.

  * * *

  June 26th, '92

  Miskatonic University

  9:40am, 13 hours earlier:

  They had just finished breakfast. Veronica sat at the table drinking her coffee. Howard had picked up their dishes. He was carrying them to the kitchen counter, scraping off the leftovers into the garbage and putting them into the sink.

  Veronica wrapped her fingers around the coffee mug. She liked the heat. She quietly watched Howard. Oh, how he was adorable! He was wearing a navy blue terrycloth bathrobe. His hair stuck up on one side.

  She smiled. He reminded her of short, stocky monk with his robe on. His baldness only added to this effect. He still hadn't shaved. How long had it been now? At least two days. It was long enough to just pinch between your fingers, she thought. She wanted to. But that would be too forward.

  He began to fill up the kitchen sink. Veronica finished her coffee and walked into the kitchen. She dropped the mug into the sink.

  “You wash, I'll dry?” she asked.

  Howard smiled. “No, you just sit and relax. I'll do it.”

  Veronica ignored this and picked up a dishcloth. “Nonsense.” Howard was so clean, she thought. But, then again, she was a guest. Of course he would go out of his way. She imagined every other morning. How he probably left the dishes for days. But maybe she was wrong. He had prepared breakfast, hadn't he?

  Home made pancakes, bacon, eggs, and home-fries. Nothing to scoff at. She had watched him make the pancake batter, not from the box, but from scratch.

  He baked potatoes, cut them up and fried them. The home-fries were cooked to perfection. Not too dark or burnt, but just that golden colour. She shouldn't be too surprised though, she told herself. He did live alone. He had never worn a ring and didn't have a tan line on his wedding finger. He was single, she was sure of it. He had to know how to cook. But he didn't have to, she argued. The University had a cafeteria. He could have eaten his meals there.

  Howard had just finished the last of the dishes when there sounded a knock at the door. He dried his hands and answered the door.

  It was a very tall and immaculately dressed man. He stood over six feet and had very dark hair, all slicked back. His gaunt face was cleanly shaven and very pale. He had an almost sickly complexion.

  “Morning Howard!” he cheerfully greeted.

  “Michael!” Howard's beady little eyes opened wide. “Come in, come in! Would you care for some coffee?”

  The tall man gracefully declined. “There's a young man here to see you,” he said. “He arrived around half an hour ago. He's quite upset. Seems he rode in from Boston through the early morning. His name's Tim Paupst. Says he knows you; one of your students.”

  “Paupst?” Howard asked. “Paupst? What does he look like?”

  “Long dirty blond hair. Skinny. He's studying audio-engineering. You know, the kid with the recording studio in his basement.”

  “Ah! Timothy!” he exclaimed. “Yes, yes, I know him! He's quite the engineer! Where is he?”

  “He's in my office,” answered the tall man. “I didn't want him wandering around the faculty residences in his state. I think you should talk to him. Now.”

  The two men exchanged knowing glances.

  “Yes,” answered Howard, “Please, go get him. We'll talk in my apartment. You're staying, correct?”

  The tall man nodded. “Yes, I'll be back in... what? Fifteen minutes? Is that enough time for you to get ready?”

  Howard nodded. “Fifteen minute then.” The tall man left.

  * * *

  Professor Neilson answered the door. He had showered, shaved, and dressed. Veronica was taking her turn in the shower.

  The tall man – Michael Richardson – stood there behind a younger man. Tim Paupst was nearly six foot even, but was much thinner than the tall man. He couldn't have weighed more than 130 lbs. He had shoulder length dirty blond hair and an earring in his left ear.

  The gangly youth had a teenager's moustache. He looked around 19 or maybe 20 years old. He wasn't mature enough to grow a full mustache, but like many young men his age, tried anyway. He was wearing tight black jeans, white running shoes, a black leather jacket and a heavy metal concert t-shirt. Megadeth is was. The band's metal shrouded skull mascot leering out from beneath the jacket's leather lapels.

  Tim Paupst seemed dishevelled and distraught. There was dried blood on his lower lip and chin.

  “Professor Neilson,” Tim began, “am I fucken' glad to see you!”

  Neilson gave him a stern look for swearing but thought better of scolding him in his current state.

  “Mr. Richardson. Timothy.” Neilson greeted them. “Come in. Let's sit at the kitchen table. I have some coffee brewing.” The two entered and sat in the kitchen.