Cthulhu Attacks!: Book 1: The Fear (4 page)

“
Tulu
,” Howard said as he looked into her eyes, “is risen.”

A shearing agony ripped through Kristen’s head, as scorching and corrosive as if someone had poured molten lead into her eyes and ears. She tried to scream but nothing but a choked
click
came out of her. She fell to the ground and writhed like an epileptic in grand mal. Her gyrations of absolute torment made her flop into the shallow swamp water. Was she having a stroke? The pain made her unaware of anything that might be happening to the members of the worship group, but after just a few seconds of the exposed-dental-nerve horror, she could tell she was breathing in the foul water and insect larvae and disease, but she could do nothing to keep herself from drowning. She hoped she would drown, actually—the horror inside her head would have to stop then. Between the crushing of her skull and the ingestion of swamp water, her vomit bloomed out into the green water like an undersea volcano. Then tunnel vision turned everything black but the fetid green marsh.

After a minute or so, the brutal pain stopped, as if shut off by a switch, and as the tunnel opened up again, she found herself lying flat on the moist land of the tiny swamp island. When she was able to focus her teary eyes, she could see the older children of the outmost circle, the ones who must have pulled her from the water and saved her life, looking down at her with concern.

They
hadn’t fallen down.

They hadn’t been tormented. If anything, they looked fresher and happier than before.

No, the group was obviously thrilled she was alive and actually—though Kristen herself could hardly believe it—didn’t seem to have suffered any pain or discomfort at all. Howard gently pushed through the small throng and offered her a hand. “
Tulu
protects, even as He takes what is His.”

Still woozy, Kristen could hear Howard, but she couldn’t understand the meaning of his words. It was English—she knew all the words and recognized that it was a declarative statement, but what it
meant
was utterly missing.

The next thing Howard said, though, she understood with perfect clarity as he and two other cultists (
yes, okay, they were cultists
) lifted her from the mire to a standing position.

“Let’s get you cleaned up. You are the one who will tell our story. You will tell the world what is happening. You will tell them about
Tulu
.”

Jackpot!
she thought, and then passed out, flopping face-first into the soft muck.

New York City, USA

40.7°N 74°W, 10400 km from the Event

Just shy of 2 p.m., Martin Storch had been awake for about ten minutes and frankly, staring bleary-eyed at the rococo ceiling of his room at the Algonquin, he didn’t care for it. Technically speaking, he had been awake on and off all morning, roused by his assistant every hour on the hour since calling it a night long after it had technically become morning. Percy (staying in the other half of the suite) opened the connecting door and shook Martin awake, handed him a Bloody Mary (with less alcohol each hour until he awoke for the day) with a bit of celery, and stood by his bedside while he staved off any hangover. It worked, as it always did, keeping alcohol always in his system, making him more intoxicated each day as midnight approached, then slowly tapering off to the lesser—but still significant—amount that he began the day with.
Avoid hangovers: Stay drunk
was a favorite aphorism for Martin Storch. This was the ritual they observed every time he was to appear on television or talk at an important conference, meaning that Percy never got into solid REM sleep that night. But his loyal assistant sucked it up and was allowed to sleep in on non-television days to catch up.
Fair enough,
Martin always thought.
Bless that Percy
.

Whenever a
Vanity Fair
or
Harper’s Magazine
did an interview with him or maybe just a feature on him, his drinking inevitably came up as a topic. He had been slightly annoyed at first, but then accepted it as part of his “brand.” Often three sheets to the wind, he nonetheless was famous for offering utterly sober analysis on everything from the most rarefied of subjects, such as how the Pope’s retirement affected those who pledged their
entire
lives to serving the Church, to the pulpiest and “lowest,” such as his towering tome defending the philosophy and writing of his favorite fictionist, H.P. Lovecraft.

Utterly sober analysis from an utterly besotted mien raised hackles while he knocked down those who let his love of wine prejudice themselves against him. It was always a terrible misstep on their part, and it soon ceased to be an issue with all but the most desperate (or naïve) of his debate opponents.

Martin wanted to look his best for the telly debate on Colbert, which would be taping in just a couple of hours. Thank goodness he had a system; he would be packing a flask—actually, a
bottle
—to ensure he stayed relaxed and in character as the West’s favorite insouciant high priest of irreverence. Hated or loved, he was
listened to
.

“His best” for the debate was an expensive cream blazer, an expensive open-collared shirt splayed over his lapels 1970s-style to show his fish-belly–white skin, and expensive jeans that sagged a bit, not able to crest his barrel chest and midriff and so settling in more around his hips than his waist. Let whatever Bible-beater he was to spar with wear a poly-blend suit—

No
, he admonished himself, as he had to do almost every time he was going to face one of the faithful for a nice bloody argument (Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Scientologists, he had defeated them all).
Treat your opponent with respect. No ad hominem
.
You have logic and facts on your side
.

It was a philosophy that had served him well through hundreds of on-stage and televised debates in the past twenty years against various factions of the religious-industrial complex, not to mention those who would dismiss writers such as Lovecraft, Bloch, or Pugmire. He had done this again and again since he had finished at Oxford and begun his climb to fame—or perhaps his slide into notoriety—as an essayist, curmudgeon, skeptic, and (he would often say as an ironic aside) a sad example of what passed as a wit in Britain, not to mention the States, these days.

Oscar Wilde could outquip me with half his brain tied behind his back
, Martin had said in interviews before with a faux-rueful smile.
Good thing my assassins murdered him sixty years before I was born
.

The door opened and Percy stepped through, starting a bit when he saw that his boss was, technically, awake. “Mister Storch, you’re awake,” he said with a pleased smile.

“Christ, don’t remind me,” Martin said, and reached for his drink, which by this time had just a breath of vodka in it. He sipped at it and said, “Mary is losing her touch. Give her a little help.” He held out the glass and Percy topped it with more vodka.

Percy chuckled at Martin’s comment and demand for more alcohol more out of duty than amusement, since his employer told him the same joke, mantra-like, every morning when he was (relatively) sober and finally ready to rise.

The assistant had thought maybe the ebbing of alcohol content was what actually awakened Martin, a crisis of ethanol deficiency, and this was his automatic response to welcome the day … with more booze. Percy appreciated Mister Storch’s staunch magnanimity when it came to not looking down upon his “servant” assistant. Such disapprobation from Martin would leave a wound, so sharp was his rapier wit.

Martin downed the rest of the tomato juice and munched the celery, allowing Percy to make another for him, this one a bit higher in octane. “So who is it tonight?”

“Which show, or which sparring partner?”

“Both.” He really didn’t have a trace of hangover. Paying due reverence to Mother Alcohol was the only religion he could stomach, and She showed Her appreciation.

“It is the
Late Show
with Mister Colbert.”

“Good, good,” he said. “I love that bastard.”

“Do you?” Percy looked surprised for the second time in as many minutes. “He never seems to take your side.”

“Precisely!” Martin said with a smile. “He butts out and lets me do the dismantling. Who is it tonight? I know you told me, but I have
you
to remember things for me while my brain just stays in the moment and dreams of oblivion.”

“Very poetic today, sir,” the assistant said, his own British accent making it sound more like an ironic statement than any kind of compliment. “Your opponent tonight is your venerable friend, Archbishop Morley.”

“
Morley!
Outstanding! He gives as good as he gets, that one. I assume you made our dinner reservations for after the taping?”

“Indeed, Mister Storch. A full plate and a full bar shall await you and His Excellency.”

This news got Martin to a sitting position on the edge of his bed. “Capital, Percy. I think Jimmy is the only one who can drink me under the table! He can—”

Percy arched his back in a galvanizing seizure that sent him to the floor even as his vomit spewed in an arc as he fell. Martin felt a sharp pang in his temples, not a terrible pain but one that came on so suddenly it made him lose his grasp on the Bloody Mary, which splashed red all over the carpet and wall. It wasn’t the most acute pain he had ever felt—nothing like what had poor Percy screaming as he curled into the fetal position on the floor, palms flat against his temples. Still, even for Martin, it was damned unpleasant.

It also made him highly dizzy. He pitched forward off the side of the bed and banged his head against the wall, which actually hurt his head more than the sudden onslaught of pain. He could hear Percy moaning desperately, almost screaming, still puking.

Then, less than sixty seconds after it had started, the torment vanished. Martin regained his equilibrium and Percy regained consciousness, splashed with his own bile but otherwise looking more stunned and weak than having suffered any permanent harm.

Martin looked at Percy and saw in the man’s expression exactly what must have been on his own face. “What,” Martin said as he forced himself to stand, “in the bloody fuck was
that?
”

Percy peeled himself from the expensive carpet and gradually pulled his body into a standing position as well. (They both ignored the horror of his sweater vest for the moment.) Only then did they notice the apocalyptic cacophony taking place outside and twelve stories down. The assistant went to the window and looked down at West 44th Street, where dozens, perhaps hundreds, of automobile and bus horns sounded in long screams of indignity at the damaged front of every vehicle crunched against the damaged back of the vehicle before it.

“My god,” Percy said, then winced when he remembered how very little his employer cared for that interjection.

Martin was used to people claiming the incredible and his obligation to relieve them of their credulity, but he could hear the horns—and now the sirens—himself from the streets below and stood to join his man at the window.

“My god,” Martin said.

“Was everyone in the city afflicted at the same time as we?” Percy muttered almost to himself as he stared at the mayhem. Every driver was outside his vehicle, staring at a crushed bonnet accompanied by a smashed boot. It was a good thing traffic never moved very quickly anyway on 44th between Fifth and Sixth Avenues—if this happened on open road, or on the American interstate where 88 kph was considered more of a
suggestion
than a rule … he shuddered to think. “And now, I gather, they have come out physically unharmed as well?”

“You know I don’t form hypotheses before I have data,” Martin said, but jocularly and with a pat on Percy’s shoulder, agreeing with his man’s conjecture. “Get on the line to Colbert’s people, please. If we’re not getting bumped, Jimmy and I have a brand-new ‘miraculous’ event to debate.”

“On it, sir.”

“Good. Maybe you could go change now, brush your teeth,” Martin said and looked at the splotch near the wall. “I hope tomato juice is easy to get out of wool carpeting.” Not that it mattered—Colbert was footing the bill (and thus the damage liability) for the room, but there was no reason to be an arsehole about it.

Martin stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. He took a moment to stare at his reflection in the mirror, getting in close to see his own bloodshot eyes, red not from a particularly bad bender (for once) but from his body’s reaction to whatever had just happened—to him, his assistant, and by the looks of it the whole of New York City.

There was going to be a book in this, he could feel it. Or at the very least, a new lecture tour and hot debates. The unwashed idiots of the United States—not to mention the superstitious in the UK and the rest of the world—were going to attribute this to an angry God. He would be the voice of reason and clarity—if not exactly comfort, depending on the cause of this event—to those with the powers of critical thinking and skeptical analysis.