Cthulhu Armageddon

by Phipps, C. T.

  Kingsport resembled old, crumbling photos I’d seen of Las Vegas and Reno. However, it was obvious no matter how much construction had been done to make it reminiscent of those two, it was still a pale imitation. Indeed, it looked like a smaller version of a modern city combined with a Bronze Age city-state. I could see large numbers of caravans built around the edge and miles of mud farms stretching behind them.

  “And lo I beheld Babylon,” I said under my breath, appreciating both the good and the evil of the city that had risen from the desert.

  “Babylon grew.” Katryn shook her head. “This is a city which festers.”

  I disagreed. “It lives. That, by itself, is an accomplishment.”

  Even if I had to make a deal with the Old Ones’ worshipers to do so.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kingsport was a surprisingly well-organized anarchy. The original inhabitants wouldn’t have recognized the city, the founding warlords and Four Families having done their best to make it into a garish traders’ town. While it didn’t approach the glories of old Earth, it was impressive how much sleaze they’d managed to jam together into one tiny area.

  Neon signs scavenged from across the countryside were fused to older buildings made into gambling halls, brothels, drug dens, distilleries, food stands, and hotels. The bright pink and red paint jobs were painfully flamboyant but there was still grandeur to the place. Despite how crude the industries propping up the city were, it was still a place which had emerged triumphant and alive from the Rising.

  None of the city’s few skyscrapers were terribly impressive; the tallest stood no taller than a few dozen floors. Yet, they’d been maintained as much as humanly possible with scavenged parts from other ruined cities scattered across the countryside. In Medieval Europe, many ancient Roman sites had been cannibalized for the building of castles and towns. It was interesting to see the modern-day variant.

  The city lacked the resources to power itself with solar energy the way the Remnant did, but myriad windmills and the methane smell that clung to the air showed they didn’t want for power here. Indeed, it was lit up like a Christmas tree. All of my earlier complaints about the waste of power in New Arkham paled to what was being done in Kingsport, during the daytime.

  I was especially impressed by the roads. They were composed of cobblestones, replacing asphalt that had long since turned to powder. We weren’t the only car on the city streets but we were the most noticeable. We drew attention wherever we drove, people marveling at the Blue Meanie. I took the time to stare at them back, looking at the populace of the first major city I’d visited other than New Arkham.

  The populace was a fascinating mixture of humanity’s survivors: a group of a hundred or more refugee populations which had come together under the warlords who settled Kingsport and promptly interbred. There were individuals of African, Caucasian, Chinese, Hindi, Korean, and even Native American descent. All of the Pre-Rising humanity in the former state of Massachusetts had banded together to survive—and had.

  Their clothing and mannerisms had over a century to develop along its own lines and I could observe, but not fully comprehend it, at a glance like so many other Wasteland communities I’d seen. Some individuals were dressed like they’d stepped out of the 1940s, with significantly more grime, while others were full-on punks. I wished there were anthropologists left to record the phenomenon.

  On a purely emotional level, Kingsport reminded me of a detective story’s setting. I’d seen several such movies back at New Arkham, made with posters on the back of the wall and patch-worn costumes. The crumbling but functional buildings had a sense of seediness clinging to their every curve. The signs were mostly written in a pidgin form of English combined with Chinese and Arabic writing, giving a sense of otherworldliness.

  Steam pipes linked everything together, filling the air with random spurts of white smoke. Storm clouds had moved in over the city as we entered and a light rain was now falling on us, a few of the citizens surrounding us pulling out patched and worn umbrellas. It was the sort of place you could open the description of with the words, “The city had a million stories.”

  “Wow, Ms. Mercury would hate it here,” Jackie said, looking over the car door. “It’s not nearly science-y enough.”

  “I’m not sure science-y is a real word,” I said, keeping a shotgun firmly placed on my lap in plain sight. A substantial number of the pedestrians around were armed. I guessed many of them would kill for a tenth of what the car contained, be it passengers or the weapons in the trunk. Others, I suspected, would kill just for the car.

  “Of course it is, she made it up,” Jessica corrected me.

  “Touché,” I said. “I think Mercury would like it, actually. Once she got a hand on the environment at least.”

  “Sell everyone and your mother out to survive?” Jessica said.

  “Exactly.”

  We continued to drive slowly down the streets, my eyes darting to the various windows above us. I surveyed for any sign of a rifle sticking through, unlikely as it would be to spot one from my position. Any of them could contain Peter Goodhill. Sniping was just his style; it minimized his personal danger while allowing a stronger opponent to be killed.

  I tried not to let it make me paranoid.

  “So where’s this army of Dunwych?” Jackie said. “I haven’t noticed any pretty white-haired tribals running around yet.”

  “My family is unique,” Katryn said, moving her hand to a tiny bone charm bracelet on her right wrist I’d barely noticed before. It contained hundreds of little grotesque idols to the Great Old Ones. Only by listening in intently could I hear her muttering unintelligible prayers to each of them.

  I did not know what sort of magic she was doing but I felt automatically more secure. As much as I disliked magic, it having burned me rather badly, I put faith in Katryn’s ability.

  “To answer your question, Jackie-girl, it seems there’s the army of Dunwych,” Jessica said, pointing down at the end of a side street I turned the Blue Meanie into. The same sort of strange organic-seeming piping music I’d heard playing in Azathoth’s court, though significantly less surreal, was playing on the other side.

  Passing down the street was a parade, if such a description could be applied to a Dunwych religious ceremony. Thousands of Dunwych stood on the sidelines, even more diverse-looking than Kingsport’s population. Hundreds more of the Dunwych’s best warriors carried idols on sedans and walked down the street, covered by flower petals flowing down on them from nearby windows. Naked flute-players and horn-blowers of both sexes accompanied the procession, continuing their surreal offerings to the aliens who had annihilated the world. I recognized the parade as a ceremony called the Karrab-Jaffan, a Dunwych ritual devoted to warriors making their peace with death.

  They thanked the Great Old Ones, also gods like Azathoth and Yog-Sothoth, for destroying the world and thus giving them the chance to prove themselves against great adversity. The ceremony would end itself in eating, drinking, and lovemaking as they all prepared to meet their end at the hands of the enemies they would soon engage. The ceremony was never performed save in the direst of circumstances. I’d first witnessed it right before my last confrontation with the Color. In a way it was strangely moving, highlighting that ancient need of humanity to personify those forces that were beyond its control. For good or ill, Great Cthulhu cared nothing about humanity, so worshiping him was pointless.

  Yet, his effect on humanity told us much about our capacity for good and evil. The cult serving Alan Ward had been driven to madness by their need to act as if mankind’s near-annihilation was part of a greater plan. The Dunwych confronted the disaster as if it was a way to prove their strength. I had to say, I much preferred the Dunwych’s version.

  Even in fatalism, there was beauty.

  That was when a group of men with shotguns and pistols came around the corner of the street behind us. Apparently, they were trying to sneak up on us. It was insulting, really,
when groups tried to do this. First, I was an R&E Ranger and trained to notice this sort of thing. Second, I didn’t put much stock in getting up close with an opponent if armed with a gun. These jokers looked like they were trying to get right up in our face with their weapons. Seriously, if you were going to kill a person with a firearm you should take advantage of the whole “range advantage” thing they’d been created for.

  “Dammit,” I muttered under my breath, not turning around. “Jessica, do you see them?”

  “Hmm?” Jessica asked, sounding confused. Apparently, she hadn’t.

  “Don’t move, Jackie,” I said, expecting her to turn around. After all, she was just a child rather than a trained soldier.

  “What?” Jackie said, not bothering to turn back. Instead, she was engrossed in the festival before her. I supposed for those who had never seen a parade before, especially one as eerily lovely as the Karrab-Jaffan, the sight must have been bewitching.

  “I sense them, John. Do you wish them to die?” Katryn alone seemed to have detected the presence of our coming attackers. Yet, she hadn’t looked around either. She just stood there looking forward, an amused expression on her face.

  “Not yet.” I kept my tone even. “I just want everyone to be prepared for the time we might have to kill them.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Jessica straightened her back and concealed her six-shooters underneath her legs.

  Looking into the vehicle’s rearview window, I got a good look at our attackers. They were composed of four men and two women. All of them were dressed in Kingsport’s fashions, though a slightly higher class than the rest of the surrounding citizenry. They also sported garish jewelry in the form of gold medallions, rings, and teeth. It made them look simultaneously rich as well as trashy.

  Their numbers bothered me; sending only six after us was downright insulting. If they’d truly intended to kill or intimidate my group, they should have sent at least twelve. Six could possibly kill or injure one of us but it wasn’t likely. It made me wonder if this group was a random group of hijackers or just a group of overconfident fools who didn’t know who they were dealing with.

  Waiting for the greasy-haired figure leading the annoying little posse to get close, I wished I had some gum. When he finally arrived, he pushed a home-made shotgun to the side of my face. This particular man stood about five foot eight, weighed two hundred and twelve pounds, and wore a striped business suit with a number of well-sewn patches. His teeth, unlike the others in his group, were almost entirely gold and he had a glimmer in his eyes. I instantly took a dislike to him, taking him for the sort of man that got his thrills by bullying others.

  The shotgun itself was a shoddy piece of workmanship with two pipe barrels, a pair of triggers on the back, and leaky re-usable shells as likely to explode in someone’s hands as take out the enemy. My distaste for the man grew. There were a fairly large number of talented gunsmiths in the Wasteland. The fact that he stuck with such a crude weapon told me he either liked the loud noise such a gun would make or simply had no decent knowledge of firearms. I suspected both to be the case.

  The man’s language was as coarse as his manner. Poking me in the side of the head with the ends of the shotgun again, he said, “Listen, you piece of shit. I’ve got a gun pointed right to the side of your stinking New Arkhamite face. You make one move and I’ll blow your fucking brains out. Do you got it, you little queer, so … oomph!”

  I slammed the car door onto his genitalia while Katryn moved like lightning with her spear, knocking three of the others on their backs. Jessica shot the guns out of the hands of two more aggressors, causing them to probably lose fingers in the process. Grabbing their leader by the throat, I stuck his own shotgun into his mouth, holding his hands above the trigger. If he moved an inch, I’d force him to blow his own head off.

  “You, sir, will learn how to behave in front of children. I also strongly suggest you avoid insulting a person because of their sexuality. I’ve known many honorable men and women who’ve favored the same sex,” I said, fully prepared to splatter his brains across the back of the Blue Meanie’s windshield. The difference would be, I’d tell Jackie to avert her eyes.

  “Mmmph!” the gangster tried to scream, panicking. I just shoved the rifle butt a little farther into his mouth.

  “I do not operate according to the rules of other men. I am the product of a hundred years of humanity winnowing away the fat off its military doctrines. I was trained under conditions which would kill most men. I was forged in situations where it was me or the other man, repeated endlessly.” I kept my finger on the trigger, visibly so. “Now, you are going to behave. Tell me who you are and why you’ve come or I’ll just have the women behind me kill your associates. Then I will kill you.”

  I was fairly sure the man was about to do something stupid when we were interrupted by a man walking into the alley from the street where the parade was passing by.

  He stood six feet in height, strongly resembling Katryn in terms of face and body type. The figure sported long silver hair, covering it with a brown safari hat that made him look like a big-game hunter. He was dressed like one too, wearing a long brown trench coat over his khaki pants and lightly tanned shirt. Several necklaces made of Deep One and Ghoul bones hung around his neck as his hands sported bracelets similar to the one Katryn wore. The man’s left eye was missing, covered with a black eye-patch decorated with an Egyptian falcon. I recognized him as Mister Death.

  “You do not have to kill him, Captain Booth. He is stupid but only following his orders. Blame the dog’s owner, not the dog.” His voice had inflections of indeterminate origins, neither Dunwych nor any other culture in the world. The closest reference point I could put was South Africa by way of New England.

  “You also put down rabid dogs,” I replied to the Dunwych mystic. “I have had a seriously bad day, Your Eminence. I do not need this sh—arbage.” I corrected myself before I swore in front of Jackie. It wouldn’t do to set a bad example for her.

  “Hello.” Jackie waved to him. “Could you please keep Mister Booth from killing this guy? Not because I like the guy threatening us but because I think it’d be really gross and ruin Mister Jameson’s car interior.”

  “Certainly, child. John, would you be so kind as to not kill this man?” Mister Death stepped forward, raising a hand which was tattooed with the yellow eye of Hastur. “I consider it a favor to both me and my flock. Besides, I do not believe you want to blow the head off a man in front of a young girl.”

  “I’m not a young girl,” Jackie muttered.

  “I won’t kill him once I have some answers, provided he doesn’t pose a threat.” I grabbed the gangster’s hand as he reached for a pistol in his jacket, showing he was even stupider than he looked. Mister Death was right though, no point in avoiding foul language if I was going to cover the walls in the man’s blood.

  Taking the thug’s pistol, I slid it into my own jacket pocket as I looked to see what the girls were doing. Jessica and Katryn were already out of the car, having seized the other members of the group’s weapons. The two were holding the other five at gunpoint, a sensible move. Jackie was watching the ordeal as if it were a particularly exciting television show.

  “I will answer your questions,” Mister Death said softly, his voice low and almost melodic.

  “Fine.” I pulled the shotgun out of the gangster’s mouth and threw him against the side of the nearest building in one easy gesture. The gangster attempted to regroup only to be knocked down again by the car door hitting him in the groin followed by a swift punch in the jaw. Stepping out, I put my foot on his chest to hold him down before turning to him. “You were saying, Your Eminence?”

  “Please, John, call me Mister Death. All my friends do,” the Dunwych high priest said. “As for who they are, they are ‘Made Men’ of the King crime family. Very highly placed members of Mister King’s organization.”

  I looked over at them. “They’re not terribly impressive.”
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  “Compared to a bear, the dog doesn’t look that vicious, but the rabbit is still afraid of him,” Mister Death said. “Few they face are seasoned warriors.”

  I wrinkled my nose, remembering the old man’s “mysterious sorcerer” routine when I’d first encountered him. “Mister Death, kindly abstain from the folk wisdom. I’m not here to enjoy the local atmosphere.”

  “Fair enough.” He proceeded to walk over to me and placed his hat over his heart. “Lord King wishes to speak with you.”

  “He actually calls himself Lord King?”

  “What else would he call himself?” Mister Death raised an eyebrow.

  “What does he want with me?” I asked.

  The gangster underneath me struggled a bit, so I twisted my foot on his chest before placing my finger on the trigger of his shotgun. The man with gold teeth stopped moving, realizing just how close he was to death.

  Smart man.

  Katryn held the end of her spear underneath the neck of a female gangster, looking as if she was waiting for a reason to kill her. “Lord King is an old friend to the Dunwych, mostly due to his willingness to pay tribute rather than futilely fight against us. He would be a powerful ally, provided he forgives us for humiliating his minions.”

  “He should be grateful we haven’t killed any … yet.” Jessica added, kicking one of the men in the jaw when he made a move for his gun.

  Mister Death let out a belly laugh at Jessica’s comment, despite it not being terribly funny. “Unfortunately, Ezekiel King told me of this desire only after he sent his men to fetch you. I would have warned him otherwise. You are not individuals who respond well to force, at least if my daughter’s descriptions of you in her psychic messages to me are any indication.”

  While the idea Katryn had been talking to her father psychically was troubling, I was more concerned with how Lord King had learned of our presence. The occult arts were one possibility. So, was Katryn informing him through her father? The most disturbing possibility was Peter Goodhill spreading the word I was coming. I had enough troubles without him hiring mercenaries to go after me. “I admit his methods don’t incline me to talk with him.”