Godzilla versus Cthulhu: American Apocalypse Part Five

Read Part Four first!

                The two gods met in a Nebraska cornfield. They stopped and faced each other half a mile apart while a gentle breeze blew among the corn, rippling the long green leaves and swaying the yellow tassels. Godzilla thrust her head forward and roared; Cthulhu responded with a deafening volley of alien bleats. The battle commenced.

                The earth shook as they rushed toward each other and the impact of their collision sent out a shock-wave that leveled the corn in an expanding circle around them like a rock thrown into a pond. Their gigantic clawed fingers grappled, struggling to find a purchase, and Cthulhu was the first to fall. With a hand on each shoulder, Godzilla forced the winged creature to the ground. Cthulhu blasted her with a series of pulsing bleats and its tentacles writhed upward, wrapping themselves around Godzilla’s massive head and pulling it downward.

                Godzilla’s spikes glowed and she poured a torrent of blue fire into the creature's face. They rolled over, Cthulhu's tentacles now dripping blue, and Cthulhu grabbed Godzilla’s mouth, clamping it shut. The two gods stared into each other’s eyes for a brief and silent moment. Then Godzilla turned quickly, whipping her thick tail around and dashing it into Cthulhu’s side. Cthulhu staggered and fell backward into the cornfield. A nearby stand of silos toppled to the ground.

                Cthulhu rose slowly. Dirt and cornstalks showered down from the monster’s shoulders as black membranous wings spread. Rising into the air, Cthulhu glared at Godzilla with impenetrable eyes before hurtling downward. They collided and this time it was Godzilla who fell, plowing backward through the field with the tentacled creature perched on her chest. The gods writhed and they battled, clawing, kicking and rending the air with their titanic siren calls. They rolled across the land, obliterating a farm house and neighboring barn beneath them, eventually collapsing motionless on the torn earth.

                Helicopters circled overhead. The monsters, though breathing, did not move for some time. Even with the reverberations of the helicopters, the world seemed to have grown quiet. Godzilla stirred first. She rose to her feet and shook the dirt from her body. Cthulhu rose beside her, wings outstretched. Together they raised their heads and roared at the sky in unison.

Godzilla versus Cthulhu: American Apocalypse Part Four

Go read Part Three first!

If the tourists sitting at the slot machines were worried about some giant creature that had destroyed Los Angeles and was now heading east, they didn’t show it. The girl tending the Big Chill Bar at Circus Circus flipped the channels trying to find something that didn’t show a giant dinosaur, but she was unsuccessful. A drunken man in a seersucker jacket he’d been in since yesterday stumbled to the counter and thrust out the giant blue plastic sippy cup he’d purchased from her earlier.

“I need a refill, baby. And a side order of you.”

“You’ll get neither,” she said. “Now run along.”

He didn’t though, and another man, equally drunk, staggered up beside him. This one had a green cup.

“God Bless America!” Green Cup shouted. There was a large smear of barbecue sauce on the lapel of his wrinkled linen suit and another across his cheek.

“Wassat song?” Blue Cup asked.

“What song?”

“The one about America.”

Green Cup raised his green cup in the air and bellowed, “… and I’ll proudly stand up next to you!”

Blue Cup joined in and they shouted in discord, “… and defend her still today! ‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land! God bless the USA!”

“Do I need to call security?” the bartender asked.

But they didn’t reply. Their drunken gazes had found the television. Blue Cup sipped loudly from his plastic straw and seemed unaware that he was drinking only air. A slightly frazzled reporter was standing on a windy desert plateau.

“Despite the military’s inability to contain the creature that so recently destroyed much of Manhattan, top officials are confident they can halt the progress of the beast that has been labeled Godzilla. As you can see behind me, Godzilla is continuing eastward through Death Valley.”

The camera zoomed in over the reporter’s shoulder and far in the distance a black form was visible.

“We regret,” she continued, “that we are unable to provided closer footage as the military has established a no-go zone approximately fifteen miles around Godzilla. They plan to strike the monster with a nuclear device before it can leave Death Valley. Evacuations are underway and authorities are confident the danger to civilians is minimal. They hope to destroy the creature before it can reach another population center.” 

“I’ll give you twenty to one,” Green Cup said, “that they don’t get it.”

“It’s a nuclear bomb,” Blue Cup said, pronouncing it ‘nukyular’. “Of course they’ll get it. S’America we’re talking about.”

“They didn’t get that one in New York.”

“Scientists agree,” the reporter continued, “that the creature is a female, but as of yet there are many conflicting theories on its ... on her age and why she has chosen now to emerge from the ocean.”

A trio of jets screamed over the reporter and the camera panned upward to follow them. They shot toward the distant form. A cloud erupted from the ground and obscured the monster and the camera rocked moments later as the shockwave arrived. The monster appeared again through the dust, moving forward at the same steady speed as before.

“It appears,” the reporter said, “that the nuclear option has been unsuccessful. Anyone in the creature’s current path is urged to take shelter.”

The screen switched to aerial footage of Las Vegas, which was a gridlock of thousands of cars trying to leave the city and military vehicles trying to set up a perimeter.

An electronic voice echoed through the Circus Circus. “All guests choosing to remain at Circus Circus should stay on the lower floor until the danger has passed. Please see any associate for assistance. For your convenience, all bars, buffets, and gaming areas will continue operation as normal.” A loud cheer went up. “Thank you for choosing Circus Circus, Las Vegas’ most vibrant casino since 1968.”

Blue Cup banged his blue cup on the bar. “Hey, how about that refill?”

The bartender looked at him coldly. “What the hell. Why not?” She filled the cup. He handed her a fifty and she rang it up as a twenty. “And how about you, sir?” she asked Green Cup.

“Fill ‘er up!”

He handed her the cup and wad of crumpled bills that turned out to be seventy-three dollars. She entered another twenty and handed him back the cup.

“Now why don’t you boys run along and win some more money.”

“Come on,” Blue Cup said. “There’s a blackjack dealer over there that’s got a pair like you wouldn’t believe.”

They made their way to the blackjack table and found two empty seats.

“See, what’d I tell you?” Blue Cup said, nodding his head toward the dealer.

“Deal us in, baby. Little strip poker on the strip, if you know what I mean?”

She ignored him, dealing the cards as efficiently as a machine.

“Eighteen,” she said. “Dealer stands.”

“That ain’t the only thing standing,” Blue Cup said. “Hit me, baby.”

She gave him a ten and took his chips. A few hands passed until Green Cup reached into his jacket and came up empty.

“I need some more chips.”

There was a dull thud, followed shortly by another. The voice came again.

“Attention guests. You may hear the report of guns and other weapons outside as our Armed Forces deflect … Godzilla’s … course. Please remain inside on the lower floor and do not be alarmed. Thank you for choosing Circus Circus, Las Vegas’ most vibrant casino since 1968.”

The thuds were closer. Chips jumped on the blackjack table. They could hear the muffled blasts of guns and tanks outside. Television screens showed the great beast at the western end of the strip. Everyone in the casino was now following the battle and some began screaming and running for the door as Godzilla easily breached the military line and began moving toward the strip.

“This I gotta see,” Green Cup said. He joined the flow of people running for the doors and Blue Cup got up to go with him, but first reached into his jacket and put a business card down the neck of the dealer’s shirt. She was fixated on scenes now showing Godzilla trampling the planes at McCarran Airport and didn’t notice.

“Room 213, baby,” Green Cup whispered. “Let’s get together later.” He joined the surge for the door and looked around for his partner.

The strip was chaos. Godzilla had moved through the airport and was now approaching Mandalay Bay. A line of tanks positioned themselves in front of the Luxor and began blasting the monster. She stopped for a moment and looked down at them. There was a strange humming sound like a giant electric engine coming to life and the lowest of the jagged spikes on the monster’s back began glowing blue. The blue light surged up the larger spikes and the beast opened its mouth. A torrent of blue flame burst forth and washed over the tanks, melting them into shapeless glowing hulks.

A fighter jet flashed by and its missiles struck without effect. The jet swung around for another pass, too close this time, and Godzilla swatted it with the back of a reptilian hand, dashing it into the side of the Bellagio. The monster roared and moved forward, destroying the Excalibur with a swipe of its tail.

Blue Cup stumbled and fell to the asphalt. He reached up and grabbed someone’s leg. Linen pants. It was Green Cup. He fell down on top of Blue Cup. Waves of people washed over them, mindlessly kicking and stomping. Their cups were crushed and the colorful drinks spilled out on the pavement like alien blood. The ground was shaking and Godzilla was looming over them looking a million feet tall. The monster raised a gargantuan foot and it blotted out the sun as they disappeared beneath it.

Godzilla versus Cthulhu: American Apocalypse Part Three

Go read Part Two first!

The F-16s roared through the air while a procession of tanks and Jeeps crawled up Interstate 95 below them. One plane dipped low over the interstate and Boomer’s voice came over the radio.

“Got your ears on, Hoss? How about we wake up the ground pounders?”

“Roger that, Boomer.” Hoss dropped down behind him. They pushed the planes up to Mach I and smiled while they imagined people jumping from the sonic boom.

“HQ’ll have your ass for that,” Shag said.

“Thanks mom.”

“Now tell me again,” Hoss cut in. “Why can’t they get a tank into Manhattan?”

“Communication breakdown,” Shag replied. “They get to the Hudson River and then no one seems to be able to function anymore.”

“Wrong,” Hoss said. “They can’t get a tank into Manhattan because New York decided they had enough pansies on the ground already.”

“Nice,” Boomer said.

“Breaker breaker,” the squad commander interjected. “Real cute, boys. Now quit grab-assing around out there.”

“Roger that,” Boomer said laughing. “No grab-assing here, sir.

“Official word from the Pentagon is this thing emits some kind of frequency that interferes with communication,” the squad commander said. “You’ll likely be flying dark.”

“But I like it with the lights on,” Hoss said.

“So does your boyfriend,” Boomer said.

The squad commander ignored them. “Go in hot and hit it hard.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Civilians?” Shag asked.

“Collateral damage is expected and justifiable.”

“Lima Charlie,” they replied. “Roger Wilco.”

The spires of New York were now visible and they could already see the thing, black and hulking on top of the Empire State Building.

“What in the hell?” Boomer asked.

“This just in,” Hoss said, “Boomer’s mother vacationing in New York. And it looks like she got into a fight with the Statue of Liberty.”

“Looks like she kicked its ass too.”

They banked right over Jamaica Bay and circled the city.

“That thing is three hundred feet tall,” Shag said. “Gotta be.”

“Let’s see if it likes Sidewinders,” Hoss said. They shot out over Newark and made a wide right turn, crossing the Hudson River again and coming in low over Yankee Stadium.

Boomer wanted to say something funny about catching a ballgame but found himself unable. He wanted to fire the missiles and blast the creature from its perch, but his hands wouldn’t comply. It seemed as though the creature was the entire world now. It was in his head, not because it wanted to be, but because it was the only thing that mattered anymore. He felt the same sort of horror that someone who is completely paralyzed might feel if a giant spider were crawling up their legs toward their face. His hands fell from the controls and he slumped in his seat, overcome by terrible alien visions.

The F-16s screamed over Central Park, low enough to rustle the trees now. Boomer watched mindlessly as Shag slammed into a hotel and Hoss flew into Trump Tower so hard that his jet blew out the other side in ball of fire and glass. The upper half of the tower buckled and fell down onto the Crown Building, crushing it like a crystal hammer.

He was tearing down 5th Avenue now just feet above the cars and trucks that littered the street like toys abandoned by a child called off to dinner. His head rolled back and he could see the thing directly above him, crouching still like some monstrous statue save for the writhing tentacles, and then he collided with the Flatiron Building at five hundred miles an hour.

Neither the thing nor the chanting worshipers paid the screaming jets or fiery explosions any mind.

“ia! ia! Cthulhu!” they chanted. “ia! ia! Cthulhu!”

The thing turned its tentacled head westward. It bleated its terrible call once more and crouched down, crushing glass and concrete with its clawed fingers before leaping from the summit. The force of its legs destroyed the upper floors and sent them raining down where they obliterated the worshipers chanting below. The thing circled the city once, blasting the air with its horrific cry, and then flapped west over the Hudson River.

Godzilla versus Cthulhu: American Apocalypse Part Two

Read Part One first!

The thing had first landed on the Chrysler Building, its dark and glistening body contrasting sharply with the gleaming deco cathedral. The structure threatened to collapse under the immense weight as large pieces of the stainless steel ornamentation peeled away and plummeted nine hundred feet to the pavement where they crashed into sidewalks and streets and cars. The thing clung to the iconic spire a moment longer and then it pushed off, scattering what was left of the beautiful steel and sending the giant antenna down like a mammoth spear thrown from the heavens. The great wings made a dull roaring with each flap as it soared heavily over the Manhattan rooftops before settling at the top of the Empire State Building, where it thrust out its tentacled head and unleashed an unworldly sound, a sound that carried the passage of dimensions and millennia.

And yet there was no chaotic exodus, no screaming tumult as New York City’s millions fled the terror that had descended upon them. An unnatural quiet had seized the city. The world seemed to have gone dark, and people drifted through it with wide and terrified eyes that saw nothing. Their faces conveyed terror, not at what was happening around them, but the terror of battles being fought within their own minds, losing battles where the stake was sanity itself. The thing lorded over them all, blasting their senses with its terrible bleating call.

The passage of time had become difficult to calculate, but soon an ethereal procession marched down Fifth Avenue and stopped at the base of the Empire State Building. The mindless throng wore hooded robes and they chanted in unison, “ia! ia! Cthulhu! ia! ia! Cthulhu!”

The thing gave no indication if it heard them or not.

---

For reasons unknown to the two hipsters, Venice was completely deserted.

“Too much of that Skywalker last night, bro,” one said, rubbing his eyes. “I think we smoked the world away.”

“Dude, look,” the other one said. There was an open bar near the corner of Abbot Kinney and Venice Boulevard. They walked in just as the power died again. The bartender was waxing his mustache and appeared not to even notice the outage but it came back on after a moment. The TV over the bar flickered to life, showing the tentacled creature perched atop the Empire State Building with its great wings folded around it.

“Occultists believe that the creature you see here is an ancient entity known as ...,” the reporter looked at his notes again, “... Cthulhu. They presume that the seismic activity which destroyed much of the Bermuda Islands was the rising up of the lost city of R’lyeh.”

“Bro,” one of the hipsters said, “that is not Cthulhu.”

“Why not?”

“R’lyeh is not even in the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Says who?”

“Says Lovecraft, bro. South Pacific. ‘In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu lies dreaming.’ Atlantic is out of the question.”

“Dude, Lovecraft was a consumptive hack with a bad case of paranoia. Not exactly hard evidence.”

The bartender put his tin of moustache wax down on the bar.

“No one,” he said, “speaks ill of H. P. Lovecraft in my presence.” He turned his mustachioed gaze to the television. “Still, it does look like Cthulhu. Hard to argue with a beard of tentacles. Now, what are we drinking?”

“PBR,” one of the hipsters said. “Draft.” The friend rolled his eyes.

“Dude, that is very two years ago. Nobody drinks PBR anymore. Definitely not draft.”

“I know, bro. That’s why I ordered it. It’s so mainstream it’s ironic again.”

“I’ll have a Narragansett,” the friend said, idly twisting his beard.

The bar tender gave a noncommittal nod and shuffled toward a cooler. The TV was now showing a giant dinosaur.

“This just in,” the newscaster said, sounding more bewildered than anything. “Santa Barbara has been destroyed by a giant ... dinosaur.” Shaky footage played of mission-style buildings being crushed beneath a huge reptilian foot before whoever was holding the phone turned and fled. “Military efforts to contain the beast have proven ineffective. If you are in the dinosaur’s sphere of influence, please take shelter.” The screen showed a graphic of the towering creature surrounded by a large red circle that now included most of Los Angeles.

“Not a dinosaur,” one of the hipsters said. “Way too big.”

“It’s Gojira,” the bartender said as he put the beers on the counter. “I took a semester of Japanese before manga was a dead scene.”

“What’s Gojira?”

“Typical daikaiju. The Japanese often ascribe earthquakes to him, though he, or she, has never actually been seen.”

“Nuclear tests,” the other hipster offered. “That’s why we blew up all those islands in the fifties. Driving it back to the depths. I thought everybody knew that.”

A dull thud shook the bar. Little waves rippled along the surface of the PBR.

“I don’t think that was an aftershock.”

There were more impacts, and they grew stronger. Soon the glasses were falling from the shelves and crashing on the floor. A deafening roar tore the afternoon apart. The two hipsters walked outside and the bartender followed. They stepped out into the middle of Abbot Kinney and looked up at the looming monster.

“Definitely Gojira,” the bartender said.

Two jets flew by and blasted it with missiles that seemed to have no effect. The monster turned and swatted at them, whipping its gigantic tail around and leveling scores of apartment buildings. There was the loud clanking of metal treads as a cohort of tanks moved down Venice Boulevard and turned up Abbot Kinney, aiming their barrels at the enemy. They fired volley after volley, deafening the two hipsters and the bartender, but the monster paid them no mind and strode on toward downtown.

Godzilla versus Cthulhu: American Apocalypse Part One

A bank of TV screens in the window of an electronics store on East 180^th was trying to get some attention but nobody in the Bronx seemed inclined to watch. They shuffled by, tapping on phones or yelling at cabs, smoking cigarettes or whistling at girls, all the while completely ignoring the chaos unfolding on the 11 o’clock news.

The footage was grainy and frantic, but it looked like a security camera on the deck of a large container ship. The sea swelled in front of the ship and something rose out of the water. Something huge and black. Though difficult to discern in the churning waves, there seemed to be a mass of giant tentacles approaching the bow, and what could only be described as enormous clawed fingers grabbed the deck, wrapping around the ship and lifting it clear of the sea. Here the clip went dark and the news anchor reappeared, her muted words falling on deaf ears until the video played again, this time with a banner scrolling across the top of the screen.

*Breaking news – seismic event recorded in Atlantic – multiple cargo vessels missing and presumed destroyed – unknown aquatic creature possibly approaching Eastern Seaboard – stay tuned for details*

The video caught the eye of a grubby man digging half a Camel out of an ashtray. He lit it and exhaled a gray cloud at the glass, gesturing to an equally grubby acquaintance nearby.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Let him who would raise Leviathan curse the day,” the acquaintance said. “That's the book of Job. Chapter three, verse eight.”

“Hold on to your butts,” the grubby man said. “That’s from Jurassic Park.”

“I suppose the meaning is the same.”

A man appeared at the door of the store. He stepped outside and made a show of locking it behind him and lowering the security gate.

“You bums run on,” he said. “Gonna ruin my investment.”

“I have a feeling your investment will be ruined without any help from us,” the acquaintance said and the two men shuffled off as the anchor made another appearance.

---

A bank of TV screens in the window of an electronics store on West 7^th was trying to get some attention but nobody in Long Beach seemed inclined to watch. The ground shook again, and the big plate glass window, already cracked and hanging loose from the storefront, fell out onto the sidewalk and shattered. Clay tiles clattered down from the roof of an apartment building while a church steeple across the street buckled and collapsed in on itself. Smoke rose from myriad rooftops. Screams rang out, compounded by the wailing of sirens. The TVs flickered for a moment but came back on.

*Continued seismic activity along the coast from Los Angeles to San Luis Obispo – widespread structural damages reported – the Diablo Canyon nuclear facility has suffered severe damage and evacuations are underway – those not in an evacuation zone should remain sheltered – aftershocks will likely continue – stay tuned for details*

A grubby man stepped through the broken window, carefully avoiding the large shards of glass still sticking up. He unplugged a large TV from the display and hoisted it to his shoulder.

“Hey, you can’t do that!” a voice called from beneath the cash register.

“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” the grubby man said and stepped out of the store carrying his prize. The ground shook again but he didn't drop the TV.

---

The admiral stood on the bridge and surveyed the bustling crew as they tended to their myriad glowing screens and blinking lights.

“Chief Mate,” he said. “The sit-rep, if you please.”

“Looking good, sir,” she replied, brandishing a clipboard. “The entity is continuing northwest at a speed of roughly twenty knots. We intercept in approximately twenty seven minutes.”

“Excellent. And then we will show it what a United States destroyer is capable of. It’s one thing to pick a fight with cargo ships, but this is an entirely different playground.”

“Yes sir.”

“Guns are ready?”

“Yes sir, I have seen to them personally.”

“Excellent. I’d like to see the entity that can withstand our Mark 45.”

“As would I, sir.”

The minutes passed and a deck officer soon called up. “Two clicks leeward, sir. ETA approximately five minutes.”

The admiral nodded. Sirens sounded to clear the deck and then it happened. The thing rose from the sea in front of them. It brought blackness with it, not the blackness of night, but a different black. The sun still shone in a cloudless sky, but it was a black sun glowing in a field of ebony and the whole world had gone silent. There were no sounds of the engines, no beeping computers, no barking orders; there was only the ship and the thing that should not be in front of it.

The admiral wanted to fire the big gun but he could not give the order. His mind had become a landscape of strange buildings rising from the depths. They loomed at weird angles, not because they were old and falling down but because they were built that way, and they were gargantuan in size.

Someone managed to fire the Mark 45 and it erupted in a cloud of flame and smoke, hurling a five inch shell at the atrocity still rising from the depths. The shell struck somewhere on the bulbous head and exploded, blowing a plume of inky jelly into the sky, but the thing took no notice and the wound disappeared almost instantly. The admiral wanted to order a reverse but he had no voice and the ship continued forward. Through the fog of the dream city, he looked around at his slack-jawed crew. There was the Chief Mate, staring in mute horror. Her clipboard was on the ground. There were the deck officers, screaming silently. Someone should reverse the ship but it was too late. The thing had them now.

---

The anchor spoke calmly into the camera even as a tremor shook the news room.

“We have confirmed via the aerial footage you see here earlier reports of a geologic event in the Atlantic Ocean.”

The video playing behind her showed an expanse of ocean and then what appeared to be a looming island composed of large, irregular blocks. A ship that had run aground gave context to the massive size of the structures, and when the camera panned left or right the island seemed to stretch to the horizon.

“Earlier reports indicated a large earthquake along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge a few hundred miles east of Bermuda. Scientists believe this earthquake raised the island you are now seeing up from the seabed. They do not believe that this event and the seismic activity off the California coast are related.”

The footage segued to scenes of coastal destruction.

“The tsunami generated by the Bermuda earthquake was estimated at twenty five feet when it struck the Bermuda Islands, causing widespread destruction and loss of life. Though the killer wave weakened as it moved westward, it still retained enough force to inundate much of the coast along Georgia and the Carolinas.”

Someone handed the anchor a piece of paper.

“This just in: California has experienced a second earthquake, this one estimated to be at least 9.0 on the Richter scale. Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, and surrounding areas are experiencing widespread flooding and property damage and the reactor at Diablo Canyon is fully compromised.”

There was hectic coverage of screaming people running through city streets, of buildings collapsing and coughing up giant clouds of gray dust, and of the cracked domes of the smoldering nuclear plant. The famed Hollywood sign had lost an O and an L, and the roof of the Griffith Observatory had fallen in.

---

                A loose front page of the Daily News blew across Broadway. The cover photo was a grainy blow-up recovered from the Navy ship’s cameras that showed a mass of tentacles rising from the ocean, and the headline read ‘Release the Kraken?’ in large block letters. The paper caught on the shoe of a man trying unsuccessfully to negotiate prices with a hot dog vendor.

                “I’m not paying five dollars for a hot dog,” the man said.

                “Then you are not eating a hot dog.”

                “Come on man. They’re two bucks around the corner.”

                “Then you should go around the corner. His hot dogs are garbage anyway. You get what you pay for.”

                The man picked up the paper from his shoe and swatted it with his other hand as he showed it to the hot dog man.

                “Would you look at this?”

                The vendor glanced at the paper but he did not seem particularly interested.

                “What is this kraken?”

                “I don’t know,” the man said. “Probably one of them government experiments gone wrong.”

                “Yes. Now do you want the hot dog or not?”

                “Yeah fine. Four dollars.”

                “Five dollars.”

                “Five dollars, hot dog and a Coke.”

                “Eight dollars, hot dog and a Coke.”

                The man counted out eight dollars and put them down heavily. He took the hot dog and Coke and stamped off toward Battery Park, studying the errant Daily News page as he walked and ate. When he reached the walk along the water he sat down on a bench to finish the hot dog. He would not have said so to the vendor, but it was quite good, possibly even worth the five dollars. He looked out over the water and though the morning was foggy he could make out the Statue of Liberty standing tall just past Ellis Island.

                What he saw out there caused him to choke on the portion of bun he was eating, not because he was surprised but because his mind seemed to have forgotten even its most basic duties. Something huge rose from the water. It flapped two great, bat-like wings and lurched into the air, swinging one arm to the side and striking the Statue of Liberty. The great monument toppled slowly, twisting as she fell from her base and crashing to the ground with a loud metallic gonging that echoed across the bay. Her head broke loose and rolled down into the water where it collided with a ferry boat. The thing was not concerned with the statue and flapped toward land, its wings spreading darkness as he gasped his last breaths around the bun that had lodged in his throat.

---

Stearns Wharf and most of Santa Barbara was still soggy from the after-effects of the flooding. Palm branches and other debris littered the road but miraculously a shaved ice truck was parked near the pier and open.

“Look,” a tired man told the shaved ice vendor, “I’m not a tourist. I’m not paying ten bucks for some ice and food coloring.”

“Cataclysm prices, mate. Ice is at a premium.”

“My apartment is five minutes from here.”

“Then you should get walking,” the vendor said.

“Quake knocked out my power. And water.”

“Then walking won’t do you much good. Ten dollars.”

“Fine,” the man said. He slapped a ten on the counter. “Black cherry. And don’t skimp on the flavor. Or the ice.”

The vendor pocketed the money and began grinding the ice. Eventually he dumped some in a paper cup and squirted it with flavor.

“More,” the man said.

The vendor squirted some more flavor, this time missing the cup and landing some on the man’s shorts.

“Sorry mate.”

The man snatched the cup, spilling some of it on his hand, and stormed off toward the sand. While he ate the snow cone he inspected all the creatures so recently washed up. He really liked the starfish, especially the bristly ones with lots of arms. While nudging one with the tip of a palm frond the beach fell dark under a shadow, so he turned his head back to see what could be blocking the light.

The hand holding the cup trembled and the snow cone fell, staining the sand a deep purple. Towering out past the end of the pier was an impossible giant. It looked like a colossal dinosaur, like a tyrannosaurus but with tall spikes running down its back, and it blotted out the sun. The beast tilted its head skyward and roared, unleashing a sound that defied description. The man could feel blood trickling from his ears.

When it rose from the below, the beast had created a substantial wave that was now reaching the shore. The man thought to turn and flee, but the water was fast upon him, picking him up and bashing the life from him against the side of the shaved ice truck. 

The Sanguine Sea

     Marie saw the old spyglass in the window of that junk store on 5th street she liked to stop in after work sometimes. It was brass and had the natural patina of a couple of centuries or more, not like that fake stuff you find out of India. She walked inside, the door tinkling that familiar little bell overhead, and Mr. Nelson, the old guy who ran the place, shambled over from somewhere, some dark corner of musty books and unwound clocks.
     "Afternoon Miss Marie," he said. He was stooped over with the weight of ages. "Did you need something?"
     "I noticed that spyglass in the window. I haven't seen it before."
     "Yes, that is a special piece. I got it in only today." He shuffled over to the window display, his wake wafting a cobweb here and there, and retrieved the spyglass and its ancient leather case. The case was dark and stained. "There you are."
     She held it and it felt cold and heavy. The case had an odd smell but nothing some airing out couldn't cure.
     "Alexander would love this. It's his birthday today."
     "Is he your husband?"
     She paused. "Well, not exactly."
     "I see."
     "How much did you want for it?"
     Mr. Nelson put his craggy hands on hers and closed the case around the spyglass. "No charge dear."
     "Oh, Mr. Nelson, I can't just take it. Let me pay you." She reached for her purse, but he held up an admonishing finger.
     "I'll not hear of it. Now you run along."
     "Thank you, Mr. Nelson."
     "Thank you, dear." He moved off, back into the dim recesses of the bookcases and shelves that leaned at many and various angles, and she walked back out into the light with the musty leather case in her hands.
     When she got to the loft she shared with Alexander (what was it, five years now?) he wasn't home yet. She opened the patio door and listened to the waves on the beach across the street. He was out there somewhere, baiting hooks on the charter boat for drunken tourists, listening to them talk about whatever dentists from Minnesota talk about, lying about how he'd never had anyone catch a grouper that big on his boat.
     She mixed up some batter and got a cake in the oven and then sat down on the wicker swing out on the patio. Soon she was asleep.
     The smoke woke her up. "Damn it all," she said, jumping up from the swing. The apartment was full of smoke. She opened the over door, waving smoke around and grabbed the cake with a potholder. It was a charred brick now and while she was trying to figure out what to do with it, Alexander walked it.
     "Hey babe, having fun?"
     She smiled and said, "Happy birthday."
     "Should I blow that out?"
     "Would you? I'm sorry about this. I had grand plans." She dropped the cake in the sink and waved the smoke out of her face.
     "Thought that counts, right? What's this?"
     He picked up the leather case.
     She put a hand over her face. She hadn't wrapped it. Strike two.
     "It's your present. It was supposed to be a surprise."
     "I am surprised."
     He opened the case and took out the old spyglass.
     "Very cool," he said, pulling on the eye piece to extend it to its full length. He put it to his eye and something happened to his face, a tightening like he was in pain. He put a hand on the counter and steadied himself.
     "Are you alright?" Marie said.
     He nodded. "Yeah, I just felt ... sick. Out of nowhere." He put the spyglass down on the counter. "I think I need to lay down."
     He walked to the bedroom and she followed him.
     "Are you sure you're OK, babe?"
     He nodded again and got on the bed, still wearing his fishy clothes but she didn't say anything. She laid down next to him and traced a finger on his arm. It was brown from the sun.
     "Is there anything I can do for you?"
     He shook his head and closed his eyes. There were tears in hers from the smoke but it wasn't so bad in the bedroom with the fan on and the patio door open and the waves outside. She watched him sleep, wondering what could be wrong.
                                                                          - - -
     He was on a boat. No, a ship. He'd spent his entire life on boats but this wasn't a boat. He was on a bed in a cabin of some sort, a once ornate cabin that was now dark and dank. The wet bed smelled like a grave. He got up and lurched over to windows made of diamond-shaped panes of glass, throwing them open. The night sky was black and a full moon glowed low on the horizon, casting rippling luminescence on the dark waves. The air smelled like salt and copper.
    He leaned out for fresh air and a wave struck the ship, splashing him. It was thicker than any sea he'd sailed on and in the light of the giant moon he could see that he was covered not with water but blood. He could taste it in his mouth.
    Recoiling, he ran to the cabin door, yanking it open by the lichen-covered handle. Another wave struck the ship and he fell out onto a rotten deck. The sails flapped wetly. They hung heavy on the masts, like huge sheets of untanned flesh, and below the sheets were the oarsmen. They turned to look at him without stopping their eternal task. The sight of so many eyeless sockets, so many dripping bones, froze him motionless. Their skeletal fingers gripped the handles with the rigor of death and they pulled the heavy oars back against dripping rib cages while some unseen horror beat the rowing rhythm on a heavy drum.
     Turning, his eyes shot toward the helm. There was a bony captain at the wheel, an undead navigator who paid him no notice. The captain moved the wheel by degrees and reached into a leather case. It was then that Alexander ran to the moldering rail. He grabbed it and pieces of spongy wood came off in his hand, dropping into the sanguine sea. He took a last mad glance at the horrors of the galley and the captain looked at him. Those delicate bone hands shut the spyglass, the same spyglass Marie had given him, and tucked it back in the case, and Alexander cast himself over the rail into the irony filth below.
                                                                            - - - 
     Marie opened her eyes. She'd dozed off watching Alexander and for some reason she was soaking wet. "What now?" she said aloud, still half sleeping, and rolled over, throwing her arm over him. Alexander wasn't there though. Her arm landed in thick wetness and she woke completely, lashing out at the lamp and switching it on. Alexander was gone and she was covered in blood. Blood and something green. She screamed and tore it from her fingers. It was seaweed.

Dream Girl

Here's a brand new one, a classic tale of a boy and a girl. - T.S.
                
                I’m not very good with girls. Ok, that’s not entirely true. I’m terrible with girls. My whole life it’s been that way. Just my luck that the first one I really hit it off with gets me fired, too.

                And I don’t know what to tell mother either. I mean, I just got this job. She said it would be a disaster, and was she ever right. She can be pretty overbearing, but I have to give her that. She’s always right. Mother knows best.

                But we were talking about the girl, not mother, right? You should have seen her. Linda was her name. It comes from Germany (I looked it up) and it means “soft” or “tender”. Linda was both of those for sure.

                She was perfect. I remember the first time I saw her. She came in where I work and I was really excited, but I made sure not to show it. That’s what they say in the movies, you know. Be cool. Play hard to get, whatever that means. I’m sure I made a mess of it, but she didn’t seem to mind. First day on the job and here comes this beautiful creature. It was a little much for a guy like me, not being used to these sorts of things and all, but at least she didn’t run off. Linda wasn’t like all those other girls, and in the end, I guess that was part of the problem. She wasn’t like them at all.

                One thing I liked about the new job, it was always really quiet. Linda didn’t seem inclined to leave right away, so we had the place to ourselves, just me and her. We talked for a while. Really, I talked for a while, and I opened right up. I’ve never talked to a girl like that before. I mean, I told her everything. We talked about work and mother and I even told her that I’d never … well, you know.

                And that’s what was so great about her. She didn’t mind any of it. She had these eyes you could get lost in, and after looking in them for a quiet moment, I decided to go for it. I reached out and put my hand on hers. I was holding a girl’s hand! She let me, too. She didn’t jump back or anything.

                Like they say, one thing leads to another. I’ve seen enough movies to know how it works. You kind of caress the hand a little, look her in the eye, smile a little half-smile, and lean in for it. Imagine my surprise when my lips actually touched hers! First job, first kiss … I was really moving up in the world. If only mother could see me … well, on second thought, that’s not such a great idea. Mother can be kind of Victorian if you know what I mean.

                She had the perfect lips. Linda, I mean, not mother. We kissed for a minute and then I tried the tongue thing. I don’t know if I did it right, but it sure did feel good. I even eased a hand up onto her … breast. There’s not a real good word for that. She didn’t seem to mind, but I had a little problem. Well, not that little. A problem down below, if you catch my drift. I didn’t know if I was supposed to unzip my pants or wait for her to do it or what, but after all that kissing I was about ready to explode. I got them off a lot quicker than you see in the movies and then I kind of moved in on top of her.

                I wasn’t really planning on all of this, and I kind of forgot to lock the door. I mean, it was actually happening! The thing I thought I’d only ever dream about. And who should come through the door but Mr. Lee himself. He’s my boss, the funeral director. He yelled something and charged over to the table, snatching me off of my Linda. He called me all sorts of names, kicking and punching all the while. And Linda never even said a word. 

Hand in Hand

This one's a personal favorite. -T.S.

Just like before, I had waited in the parking lot until the time was right. Almost closing. The last customer left and I strode quickly into the bank and fired a couple of rounds in the ceiling. A woman reached under the counter and I waved the gun at her.

"Don't touch no buttons."

She nodded and I made quick work of the tellers' tills, ignoring the safe, and left less than two minutes after I entered. Smooth as silk, easy as apple pie.

The trouble all started with that damn sheriff. 

Random chance really, a cop passing by just as I fled the bank with a Thompson in one hand and a sackful of cash in the other, but it must have made a hell of a picture. The cruiser's brakes squealed, tires smoking as it wheeled into the lot. I fired a long burst in the cop's direction, the shells making dull thumps in the sheet metal, but the car kept coming, so I dove into the van and threw it in reverse, crunching the cop's fender. Bullets popped into the van, opening pinholes of light.

A quick glance in the mirror before I floored the gas showed the cop curse at his radio and hurl it against the dash. A bullet to the radio; maybe luck was swinging back my way, right? I tore out of the parking lot with the cruiser just behind me, racing toward the desert sun.

We roared away from the little town, the cat and the mouse, flying into the desolate sands. After a few minutes, I whipped the van onto a dirt road, the passenger side nearly leaving the ground. The cop plowed in right behind me, his rear tires kicking up huge rooster tails of sand as the back end of the car swung off the crude road. I reached over and picked up the big gun from the passenger seat, pointed it backward as best I could with one hand on the wheel, and pulled the trigger. It jumped around, blowing holes in all parts of the van, and when the drum was empty I let it go, clattering loudly on the van floor.

The road cut straight through a wasteland of flat sand and dry tufts of grass. I pushed the van up around seventy until a curve finally appeared. That's where the real trouble started.

As I slowed, the cop caught the rear corner of the van and pushed forward, spinning me around. I snatched at the wheel but over-corrected and the van rolled, throwing me out of my seat and hard into the roof. The desert day turned black.

"Wake up, boy," the sheriff said. Water splashed on me. One eye wouldn't open, but the good one saw black leather cowboy boots with silver tips, lightly sprinkled with dust.

"Stand up. Nothing funny now. Business end of a .45 looks like a black hole, don't it?" 

Indeed it did. The gun gestured, telling me to rise.

I shook my head a bit and slowly sat up. The sheriff waited a moment and kicked me hard in the thigh with the silver point of his boot.

"This just ain't my day," the sheriff said. "Lost my house keys. Dropped my wallet in the toilet. And now you."

The gun whipped out, catching the side of my head and knocking me back to the ground.

More water splashed down on me. "Get up. You're the one they call Dollface, ain't you? We'll have to fix that." He clubbed me again. And again. A pistol makes a terrible sound in your head when it's beating on you.

"You had enough, boy? I told you to stand up."

I grunted something at him. 

"That's how people get false teeth," he said and brought the pistol down once more. Both my eyes were closed now, refusing to open even a sliver. A rough hand grabbed me by the collar and pulled me to my feet. A car door opened and the sheriff shoved me in the seat.

"I've heard you're a hard man to contain," the sheriff said. "You ride up front."

Shoes moved softly through the sand and the trunk opened. There were sounds back there, probably the bank bag and the Tommy gun going in. I felt around with blind hands, finding a ballpoint pen in the door pocket. As the trunk slammed I closed my fingers around it.

The driver's door opened and the sheriff plopped down, rocking the car. He slapped a handcuff on my left wrist, then attached the other end to his own right hand.

"Reckon we'll ride together."

The sheriff started the car and pulled it into drive, the movements tugging at my arm. We rode in slow silence back down the sandy road.

How far ahead was the highway? Five miles? Ten miles? How much time did I have?

Slashing over with the pen, I felt it strike flesh, burrowing in. I ripped it out and stabbed again, feeling warm blood in my fingers. The sheriff made some gurgling sounds and fought with me, but I forced the pen deeper and deeper. The steering wheel turned this way and that and eventually the car rolled to a stop.   

The sheriff wasn't moving.

I reached over to put the car into park and removed the key. It was a single key, attached to only a plastic tag. I leaned over and felt around the sheriff's waist, and my movements grew more and more frantic. 

What had the sheriff said? 

Lost my house keys.

The key to the handcuffs. It had to be with them. The sheriff wasn't worried. He knew there would be another at the station.

The car was hot and full of the coppery smell of blood. I pulled against the handcuff but it was tight around my wrist. I tried pulling the sheriff's end of the cuffs off, but even covered with the slick blood it refused. 

"Can't win for losing," I said, and my voice sounded alien. 

The car was unbearable, so I opened the door and drug the corpse out the passenger side with me. There was a little shade on that side of the car, and I slumped down in it, beads of sweat rolling down my forehead and over my poor swollen eyes.

We had driven off the road in the struggle and the sand was loose and warm beneath me. Which way was the highway? The town? It seemed like the sun was on my left, but then again, the sun seemed to be everywhere, even here in the shade.

The gun. The sheriff's gun. I unholstered it and positioned it on the sheriff's end of the handcuffs, bracing the dead hand against the wheel for support. One of his fingers, already colder than I thought they'd be, wore a fat ring, a hallmark of some faded high school glory. I pulled the trigger and there was only the click of an empty chamber.

I laughed, and it was a dry and deathly sound. While I laughed, I felt around on his belt for another clip and when I found one my fingers told me it was empty too. How many times had the damn sheriff fired?

When the laughter died, I looped my hands under his armpits as best I could and pulled him up, draping the body over my shoulders. If the sun was to my left, I would go right. I started walking.

The sheriff was a solid man. He weighed a ton. Thick, half-clotted blood ran down my back and mixed with sweat, sticking the shirt to my back. My face was hot and I lamented the loss of my shady fedora. 

The sandy earth was peppered with tufts of desert grass, each threatening to upset my balance, so I walked slowly, feeling ahead with my feet. Even so, I tripped over a shallow washout, spilling the dead sheriff to the ground, the body pulling painfully at my arm.

I should have reached the dirt road by now.

For a long while I stayed on my back, breathing heavily. My skin no longer burned and I couldn't feel the sun in my eyes anymore. A light breeze picked up and my arms broke out in goosebumps. Something I'd read in school so long ago. Something about the desert nights being cold. I should keep moving.

As I was already blind, the darkness was no more a hindrance than the day. Grunting, I hoisted the dead sheriff again, but I'd not gone far when the sounds came, high and keening on the night air. Yipping. Barking.

Howling.

I stopped to listen. Jesus Christ, what could that be? Wolves? Were there wolves in the desert? That didn't seem right.

No. Not wolves. The old man at the gas station, the one I'd filled up the van at before the bank job, he was cursing the coyotes. They ate my dog, he'd said.

They ate my dog.

What would they do to a dead sheriff?

Though I walked away from the sound, the howling seemed closer and I panicked, running, stumbling, fighting with the dead weight of the sheriff. Dead weight, get it? I fell, fought with the body, and ran some more, until finally I pitched over in the sand, breathless.

It was quiet now. I tried to close my eyes and laughed at myself, that hollow sound again. Close my eyes! I laughed and laughed and fell into a restless half-sleep. 

My body was a network of agony, all sore muscles and broken skin. I was cold, shivering. And what was that sound? It was wet and obscene. Reaching out an arm, my hand touched fur. I recoiled and the creature made some kind of noise. There were others too, and they joined in.

I screamed, thrashing my arms around, flinging handfuls of sand at the sounds. The creatures yipped and yelped and scurried into the night.

I stared at the backs of my eyelids and it seemed as though colors washed over them. The handcuff felt cold on my wrist and any movement brought a reminder of the package on the other end. Ages passed and the colors of my eyelids changed to pale light. The air got a little warmer. The sun was out.

The first attempt to sit up brought dry, sputtering curses, but I worked my way to my feet. My mouth was dry and foul. When I tried to stand I lost my balance, falling onto the sheriff, and as I frantically pushed off the body my hands felt raw, gaping wounds under the tattered uniform.

They ate my dog, the old man had said.

No. No no. It couldn't end like that. Eaten by some dogs in the desert.

"Not dogs, boy. Coyotes." It sounded like the old man's voice. What was he doing out here? I whipped my head around, still unused to the fact that I was blind, and I stretched out my free hand, feeling the air around me.

"Help me, please," I said, the words cracking against my arid lips, "help me."

No help came. Eventually, I stood and hoisted the sheriff again onto my shoulders. The body felt lighter than yesterday, but it was slippery with blood. For a moment my legs threatened mutiny, but I bent them to my will and remained standing.

Honestly, I had no idea which way I'd come from. The sun seemed to be on my right now. If I had headed away from it yesterday evening, I should head toward it in the morning. That made sense. I started walking, picking my way through the tufts of grass.

How long had I been in the desert now? Twenty four hours? Carrying around a dead body, no less. No food. No water. I should have come to the highway by now.

It felt like the sun was on top of me. I eased the sheriff down to the sand and sat beside him. There had to be a way to get free. I grabbed the handcuff around his wrist and and fought with it. The skin ripped and tore and yet the handcuff would not slide over his wrist. I felt around and found a small rock, bashing it against the metal and skin to no avail. A few tears squeezed through my swollen eyelids.

My stomach churned. I used my free hand to pull some dry grass loose from one of the clumps and slowly put it in my mouth. There was no saliva. Swallowing the dusty, tasteless grass was nearly impossible.

"They ate my dog," that voice said again. "They'll eat you." 

"The hell they will," I said, picking up the sheriff. He smelled loathsome and there were flies everywhere. I shuffled on, straining my ears for the sound of a car, but there was nothing save the buzz of flies and the sounds of my feet in the sand.

After an aeon of walking, I could feel night in the air again. My legs were done, so I bent and dropped the sheriff. Then I laid down next to him, propping my head on one of the grass tufts. Sleep washed over me and I dreamed strange dreams. It was long ago and the sheriff was my friend and we were playing in the park. It was night and we were camping together in my backyard. I had a pet dog and it was howling because it wanted in the tent.

Howling.

I woke quickly, my eyes darting around beneath my eyelids.

They were back.

I tried yelling at them, but found I'd lost my voice. Only a low rasping came out and the night creatures didn't seem to mind that. I threw sand at them but they growled at me. One sounded very close, inches, and I punched it. The creature bit me on the forearm, drawing blood, and then returned to the sheriff. A part of me thanked them for what they were doing. The longer they stayed, the less he seemed to weigh.

"They'll eat you too," the voice said again.

"We're friends," I said, laughing, "but I never really liked him!"

I sucked at the blood on my arm, letting it fill the dry cracks of my mouth.

The coyotes grew bolder. They tugged at the sheriff, perhaps intending to drag him off somewhere a little more private, but I refused to go with them and they eventually gave up. I pulled him back toward me and now he moved easily.

Dawn broke once more, cold and gray. I ran my free hand over my face, pulling at my cauliflower eyelids. The right one separated and a beam of light broke through, a piercing ray that burned like fire. I screamed, a terrible cracking sound. 

But it was light! I forced the eye open, holding it until the blinding white resolved into an unbroken expanse of flat sand and grass. No distant power lines marked the horizon, no cars moved along some far off road. There was nothing.

Did I dare look at the sheriff?

I did. The coyotes had done terrible things to him. His face was a red mask of bone, and his stomach gaped empty save for a trailing intestine that pointed the way they had gone home. I let the eye slip closed again so I could tend to our morning ritual.

First I tucked what was left of his insides back in as best I could and, though he felt awfully light, still I struggled to lift him. Everywhere I touched broke open clotted blood and made him all slick and greasy. When I finally got him across my shoulders, he felt like a bundle of wet sticks.

I was a ghoul, a ghoul dragging my carrion prize through hell. My face and hands were boiled with sunburn, my torn clothes were a matted mass of gore, and everywhere was the stench of death. Occasionally I stopped and opened my eye to check on my progress, once spotting a few joshua trees in the distance. My heart leapt at this little variety and I walked faster, turning my path slightly to meet them. Hours later I arrived and sat among the stunted trees. Maybe I spoke with them. I know I wished them farewell when the sheriff said we should be moving on. 

After a couple of miles it began to get dark and for once I could see the sunset. I put the sheriff down and held my eye open, watching as the sky turned to orange fire and cooled to purple ash and then it was black, the blackness of infinity studded with a billion pricks of white. 

It was hard to sleep knowing they'd be back, and it wasn't too long before the accursed howling began. I could hear the pads of their feet on the sand as they got closer, and then I could hear their breathing. I knew they valued privacy, so I kept my eye closed while they spoke with the sheriff for a while. They wanted to talk to me too, but I thrashed around too much for their liking. When they left, I finally dozed off but it seemed only a few minutes before the first rays of morning fell on my tortured eyelids.

My right eye flickered a bit and managed to stay open. Ah, the sweet little victories that make us feel alive. The sheriff was gone, but he'd left his arm behind. It was still attached to mine, so I picked it up for him. He'd probably be looking for it.

Making sure the little joshua trees were behind me, I started walking again. Well, shuffling or hobbling is probably what you'd call it. I shuffled along, a bloody, bony ghoul keeping an eye out for my friend who'd lost his arm. Get it? An eye? One eye? It's not like I had an extra.

There were beetles crawling across the horizon every now and then, fast little beetles, some going one way and some going the other. Having nothing better to do, I decided to investigate. 

"Those aren't beetles, you idiot. They're cars."

Right you are, old man, right you are. Cars. But shouldn't you be worrying about those coyotes? I've heard they are notorious in these parts.

As the sun climbed, the road came into focus. Random chance really, that when I stumbled down to the ditch the first car that came by belonged to a policeman. I flagged him down, raising the sheriff's arm up for the extra height so he'd be sure and see it, and he skidded to a stop in front of me.

For some reason, the policeman was very angry. He pointed a gun at me and yelled something without meaning.

"I ... I could use a lift," I said. "My van's back that way."

He didn't seem to hear me, so I waved the arm at him. The long arm of the law.

"And I need to give this back. He lost it."

That only made him even more angry, but I walked toward him calmly. If I could just give him the arm, he might at least drive me around a little while to look for the sheriff. Maybe we'd even find my van. It was stupid of me to leave it out there in the desert. But he only yelled at me some more. I couldn't really understand what he was saying until I got a little closer and stuck the sheriff's hand out for him to take.

"You bastard!" he yelled. "That's my brother's ring!"

And then he pulled the trigger.