Quebec City in Flames

by Nelson Rusk

  Muir guided the crowd with a brisk pace to the stairs leading to the basement. As he descended the steps, he retraced the familiar path he took every day to Phillips' and his own quarters. The narrator noted the unreal nature of the situation as he led the furious riot toward the residence of the man to whom he had devoted absolute hatred for months. When he arrived at Phillips' door, he knocked on it with several powerful blows. As expected, there was no answer, except for the exalted songs from Phillips' quarters.

  After a few attempts to get an answer, Muir waved to Amherst and McEntyre to help him break down the door. The three men put their shoulders to it. They only needed a few tries to break the latch and tear off the door frame. Inside Phillips' quarters, an abominable stench reigned, that of burning human flesh, combined with the awful smell of oil that followed the cult in each of its crimes. Thick smoke covered the ceiling. The rioters spread in the quarters, in search of the hated man, whom many knew only from the rumors that were circulating.

  Against all odds, Phillips' quarters were in a decent state, given the many deliveries of equipment he received. Muir concluded that most of this equipment was taken underground and used for the purposes he had witnessed. There was no doubt in the narrator's mind that an entrance to these underground passages existed somewhere in the aide-de-camp’s quarters. Muir instructed his allies to seek this access. The centerpiece of the approximately five-room dwelling was the huge stained-glass window, which workers had seen and described to Muir, piquing his curiosity. They had not overstated their descriptions. The piece was in a room with a floor that had been dug about three meters deep. This modification had made it possible to give the glass wall gargantuan dimensions compared to the cramped rooms of the castle.

  The wall depicted a multi-armed, filiform creature of a bright blue hue. The density of detail in the stained-glass window suggested that only a master could do such a work. Looking at the colored glass in the light of their lanterns, Muir could detect a passage in its unfathomable depths. It was located at floor level, about one story lower than the basement itself. The narrator doubted this passage was dug when their hallowed ancestors from this ancient city built the castle. It was likely that this was a later addition.

  Muir, Amherst, and McEntyre searched for the mechanism to activate the opening of the passage. When they could not find it, Muir became impatient and, with the help of a heavy candlestick, smashed an opening the size of a man. The glass made a thundering noise as it broke. However, the increasing intensity of the liturgical songs covered most of the noise. Bending their heads, the insurgents entered the passage.

  The tunnel cut into the rock was narrow and its uneven walls leaked with humidity, making it difficult to progress. The ground tilted on a slight downward slope for about twenty meters. Soon, the coarse rock face led to a large, spacious alley with stone masonry walls, indicating a more deliberate construction than the previous tunnel. Mr. Muir estimated he was about three stories below ground, but still below the Château Saint-Louis. The corridor ran in several directions. The insurgents went through the one from which the song, now closer and closer, echoed from one wall to the other.

  The coarse rock face led to a large, spacious alley with stone masonry walls.[1]

  The path continued in a straight line for a long distance. Muir would look behind him from time to time to make sure the crowd followed. Slowly but steadily, about a hundred angry rioters were visible. Fear was in their eyes, an apprehension born of the strange circumstances in which they found themselves. This fear, however, drowned in a torrent of anger, which lifted the crowd and made them pour into the underground corridors like a purifying stream. In the distance, Muir saw their destination and doubled in speed, followed by the shifting human tide.

  The corridor led to a large chamber with a raised ceiling. Moisture covered the floor as if it oozed a viscous liquid. Mr. Muir and the crowd stopped at the entrance to the room, stunned by the sight before them. A congregation of over fifty individuals in the characteristic clothing of the cult knelt in a circle, praying and singing in blissful adoration. For lighting, the heretics had installed massive torches at regular intervals on the walls. It took Mr. Muir some time to realize with horror they were humans. Jagged, rusty nails riveted their feet to the wall and a metal chain tied the wall to their necks, giving them enough lease so their body leaned forward at an angle. Flesh and muscle flaps detached as the voracious fire consumed their carnal envelope. Near each human torch, a cultist stood upright, a long pole in his hand ending with a container filled with this damned oil. From time to time, he would pour a burning stream on the victim, causing the fire to explode until it was almost out of control.

  Unholy engineers had mounted a series of tanks filled with the same smelly liquid in the middle of the room. These tanks, with their complex shapes incomprehensible to sane observers, resembled those that Mr. Muir had seen in the underground, but of a size magnified several times over. The narrator had witnessed the destructive power of this oil and said there was enough to transform Quebec City into a veritable Pandemonium. God knows how many diabolical sacrifices and blasphemous rituals the cult had to commit to accumulate such a quantity.

  At the center of the series of cisterns, a single promontory was the obvious focal point of the assembly. A right-angled obelisk stood on the promontory. The black stone that composed it resembled nothing earthly. Around this object, the lighting refracted at strange angles, as if the monolith attracted and distorted the surrounding light. A metal frame was attached to the obelisk and, in this frame, bound by a multitude of chains, was the despised figure of Phillips. Far from being surprised by the crowd led by Muir, he looked the officer straight in the eye with a sardonic and threatening look. His composure tested by such a scene, Muir still found the courage to seize the moment and initiate the hostilities:

  “Surrender, Phillips. Your schemes, whatever they may be, end here. You have failed. You can still avoid the slaughter of other human lives by ceasing your activities and surrendering to the authorities. Perhaps future generations will judge you more leniently if you do this. Otherwise, we are prepared to use force.”

  This threat was futile and Muir knew it. However, nobody could say this vile traitor did not receive one last chance to repent. Phillips laughed at him, which did not bode well. He replied, sneering:

  “You do not understand what’s going on here, Muir. Despite all your covert investigations and the people you have sent after me and whose deaths you have caused, you know nothing. And you're wrong. I did not fail, quite the contrary. Do you really think you came in here without my consent? I have more allies than you think. Your presence here is and always has been necessary to the success of my plans. By the wrath of Shiva the annihilator, I will purge you! In the illuminating flames of the Universal Destroyer, your body will be purified and reshaped! Iä Shiva! Iä Azathoth!”

  Phillips' last words filled the atmosphere with a quasi-electric charge that smelled of ozone. A flash of intense heat blew on Muir and the crowd behind him. Almost immediately, a hiss of air ran through the room at a blistering speed, followed by a gush of flames from the ground. The gush turned into a fiery wave that swept over the crowd, using the oil spilled on the ground as a conductor.

  Muir only had a moment of realization before the inferno reached him. He used it wisely. He threw himself forward, toward the congregation, and avoided part of the radius of the flames. It was only when he got up that he realized the ferocity of the blaze was such that it burned a portion of his leg. He was struggling to stand up. Behind him, the carnage was abominable. The conflagration had charred dozens of men in an instant. Only some lucky few standing at the front of the crowd could escape it, like him. The explosion had swept over Amherst, lifting him off the ground and blowing him away. McEntyre was out of sight and Muir feared the worst for him. A thick, opaque, and smelly smoke added to the chaos, reducing visibility to a minimum.

  Covering the moans of agony and the cries of d
istress, Muir heard the hymns of the believers. Soon, something joined them, something out of this world. From the center of the room, beyond the smoke, an unknowable speaker uttered syllables not meant for a human throat. Each was a thunderous slap, a physical and spiritual aggression all at once, as if these sounds could intrude into Muir's mind and take control. As these thundering words struck the air, Muir had to shake his head several times to regain control of his faculties. With a throbbing headache, he put his hand to his nose and felt a stream of blood. He collapsed to the ground.

  Muir does not remember if he lost consciousness due to the mental assault. When he regained his senses, a whirlwind had risen in the room, sweeping the ashes and making the flames whip up in all directions. Most of the fire had faded and the smoke was dissipating. Muir could see the entire room again. The liquid in the tanks was boiling. Spontaneous flashes of lightning circulated between them, running around the metal bases. The assembled worshippers were now prostrate, continuing their litanies. In the middle of the congregation, Phillips was unrecognizable. His whole body was tense in a constant spasm. A bluish fire ran over his body, haloed with flames. In his face, his veins were visible and his eyes had taken an inhuman black opacity. He continued to chant with a voice from beyond the grave, his face in total ecstasy or deep agony. Each of his words made the monolith behind his back vibrate. Symbols engraved on the obelisk, previously invisible, shone with a peculiar light.

  Muir struggled to get up. The catastrophe had charred all his allies. Only Amherst, propelled against the wall, was moving. The narrator approached him, trying not to attract attention. The great winds in the room made it difficult to stand up. Amherst was in bad shape and about to lose consciousness. He grabbed his weapon as if it was the anchor that kept him attached to his life. Blood was flowing from his mouth. He only opened his eyes in jolts. When Muir joined him, Amherst stammered, “Muir, is that you? You must finish what we started. I'm dying. Guide my hand to shoot the bastard. One bullet is all I need.”

  The narrator looked at Phillips. That’s when he noticed the change. The form on the monolith was no longer human. Or alternated between humanity and divinity. Even when he put the story in writing, Muir was not sure what he had seen. The area around the monolith blurred his vision. It distorted, stretched, and then retracted. What he glimpsed made no sense. He discerned a multitude of members, too many for a single creature. Each arm, each leg multiplied an infinite number of times. Phillips' grimacing face was demonic, his eyes filled with cosmic wickedness. He thought the shape had doubled in size. Or quintupled? Either should have been impossible given the space in the room, but the principles of physics no longer applied.

  Muir replied to Amherst, “It’s useless. How is it possible to kill that?” Muir laughed despite himself. Amherst looked, but Muir never knew if he saw the same thing he did. Perhaps the limbo of unconsciousness had too much control over his soul for him to see, discern, and comprehend. If so, the gods had been kind to him. Muir was agitated and frenetic as the ceremony seemed to head toward its climax and the chaos became palpable. He searched around the room for something that might help them. Finally, he whispered, to both himself and Amherst, “The tanks... Shoot the tanks... Blow everything up!” It took Amherst some time to understand. Finally, his eyes focused on the tanks and he raised his rifle. He said, “Aye. I have one in sight, it won't be a problem. Get the hell out of here. There's no need for both of us to stay there. Where's McEntyre? Probably dead. Get out of here. I'll wait as long as I can before I blow the whole thing up. Go!”

  Seeing in Amherst's eyes he was resigned to his fate, Muir laid his hand on the man's shoulder, gave him one last look, then rose up and staggered toward the exit. Not knowing how much time he had, Muir hurried despite the pain in his leg. The corridor he had traversed with the crowd seemed to him long, endless. The intoxicating wine of standing up body and soul against the infamous cult had exalted him on the way. Now, however, the bitter poison of defeat accompanied Muir. His allies had been decimated. Their cremated bodies covered the ground, a grim reminder of the cult’s destructive power. Muir’s courage dwindled before the horrors he had witnessed.

  The narrator reached the intersection where a tunnel led back to Phillips' quarters. Just as he was about to rush into it, a figure came out of the darkness in front of him. Scarred, part of his face and neck burnt, his clothes torn to shreds, McEntyre almost fell on Muir. Three men followed him, one of them carrying a torch for lighting. As McEntyre explained to Muir later, he escaped the massacre with a portion of the crowd. The governor’s troops had greeted them at the exit of the castle and opened fire in the crowd. Faced with this new threat, they had to descend back into the depths of the castle, with the soldiers at their backs. This way out was a dead end.

  Muir took little time to explain the situation to McEntyre. Both shared the same omnipresent thought: to leave the underground and never return. The two men, followed by the three strangers of the crowd who had joined them, dashed in the other direction of the underground, hoping to find another issue. They ran with desperation, heedless of the direction. Muir had the impression that this flight lasted an eternity but, in reality, only a short time passed before a detonation resounded behind them, followed by a muffled roar that grew in power until it became unbearable.

  An indomitable force threw the five men onto the ground as a shock wave ran through the underground passages, raising a massive wave of dust. The earth was shaking with force, jolted by a series of spasms of apocalyptic proportions. Many of the walls cracked. Debris and foundation pieces broke off the ceiling and collapsed with a crash around the men, powerless in the face of such a cataclysm. Soon, the roar faded, but persisted with slight tremors.

  Muir and the others ran again as soon as they regained their senses. After a while, they heard a wind rising from behind them. Muir could not help but look, and let out a cry of surprise when he saw a surge of bluish and opaque smoke in their pursuit. It covered the corridor everywhere in its path and was a sure death by asphyxiation for anyone who became lost in it. The dark cloud was catching up more and more with the fleeing men. In front, there was still no trace of external light. Muir did not know where they were at this moment and at what elevation. It was impossible to know if the exit was in front of them or above them.

  They saw on the wall of a corridor that extended further down a ladder leading upwards. Muir shouted at others: “This is our only chance if we want to escape from here. Pray it leads to the open air!” Muir clung to the ladder and climbed it. The others followed him. The man carrying the lantern dropped it, leaving them in total darkness.

  Muir had climbed about ten meters before the smoke blocked the lower opening of the ascending tunnel, showing the cloud had caught up with them. A strong updraft blew on them, gaining in intensity. Muir increased the cadence as much as he could. After about twenty meters, he hit his head on a metal plate and almost lost his footing. The men under him screamed and panicked, seeing their path blocked. McEntyre joined the narrator, and both pushed with all their might on the swiveling panel. Slowly, the heavy trapdoor rose away from the opening, revealing a plain, trees and the beneficent light of the moon. Muir and McEntyre got out, followed by two other men. The third one never emerged from the hatch. A geyser of smoke burning the lungs exploded with large puffs of smoke from the opening. In several places around him, Muir saw columns of the same smoke rising in the distance.

  The four men rested on the ground for a long time, exhausted and breathless. Muir got up first. He observed that they were at the eastern end of the Plains of Abraham. Large groves hid the trap door leading to the underground. A few hundred meters below, Muir could see the Château Saint-Louis. It was a unique vision that the narrator described in strong terms.

  A large part of the castle had collapsed into its own foundations while the ground sunk along the entire length of the building. From this rift, colored flames escaped, exceeding the height of the century-old trees growin
g nearby. From the base of the blaze emerged a bright blue aura that took on a purplish hue at the tip of the flames, in a gradation of colors evoking an artist's entire palette. It was a beautiful spectacle, the narrator admitted, if it had not been for the sadness and melancholy of seeing a jewel of Franco-Canadian architecture being devoured by the Universal Destroyer, to use the same words as those in the tale.

  As the fire raged at the top of the Quebec cliff, Muir was apprehensively aware that the spherical aberration invading the sky was still present. Clasped by an icy grip, he came to question what caused the explosion. Had Amherst gotten his revenge on Phillips or had another unknown cause intervened? Had the terrible conflagration that shook the cult’s headquarters been enough to clean this nest of vipers? If this was not the case, Muir knew he no longer had the resources or strength to resume hostilities against them. The last few weeks had required a terrible sacrifice from him, in the form of injuries, lack of sleep, and mental sanity. It is not healthy to broaden Man's imagination beyond what his nature allows him. Recent events had stretched Muir's faculty of reasoning to its limits.

  The narrator observed the fire for nearly ten minutes before noticing a change in the flames. They weakened and retracted. The fire took on an indescribable color, emitting several series of muted detonations. With each explosion, a similar reaction from the ghostly circle in the sky followed with a tenfold increase in force. Then, in a pale blue flash, the impassive eye that had been feeding the nightmares of Quebecers for weeks exploded into a spray of millions of blue and purple sparks. In a slow and winding path, the sparks fell to the ground with a silent melancholy. The inferno that devoured the Château Saint-Louis continued for an hour, then calmed down and died, leaving an empty carcass covered with a thick layer of greasy soot.