Cthulhu Shuffle

Cthulhu Shuffle

By

J.K. Ashwell

Copyright 2013 J.K. Ashwell

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and locations are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

For my brother ... for filling my empty mind

and

Sue Ellen – Friend and Muse

and

Double-0 Donna – Just because

Table of Contents

Part I

International Intrigue

Part II

Domestic Intrigue

Part III

Inter-Dimensional Intrigue

Part I

Foreign Intrigue

Chapter 1

A loud voice was ranting in Spanish behind me – closing fast. I spun defensively to see a lone man in a blue business suit storming past, flailing his hands while loudly yelling into empty space – giving it hell. The small, Mr. Spock device attached to his ear like a plastic leech confirmed that it probably wasn’t schizophrenia, but a Bluetooth infection; they were common here. I was adrift in a strange world called Miami International Airport. I had been here for hours. Outside, barrages of wind and nearly horizontal rain hammered the plate glass of Gate F-10.

I had been migrating through dark blue, worn out vinyl chairs for most of the afternoon, along with a large herd of fellow travellers. Some were currently seated, others milled about on the carpeting that seemed specifically designed to subliminally induce depression. It was now early evening and I was trying to ignore the fact that I was getting hungry again. Several hours had passed since I suffered down a synthetic sandwich that cost as much as a decent steak anywhere outside of an airport. I had some protein bars and other dried food in my pack, but I was trying to conserve that. I had no idea what would be available at my destination, but wanted to be prepared for the worst.

I was tired of the book I was reading and tired of roaming back and forth past the useless shops on the concourse. Every five minutes the PA system announced the Homeland Security threat color du jour, undoubtedly striking fear into the hearts of any Miami Mujahideen roaming the concourse.

Above me, one of the countless, inescapable 42-inch plasma screens poured out vacuous drivel. Occasionally the odious talking heads were interrupted with flight status updates showing the latest delay extension. I wondered why more people didn’t go mad in airports; my own sanity was desperate to walk out in a huff. I was once more occupying one of the chairs. At my feet lay an over-stuffed backpack; my left leg threaded through one of the shoulder straps to prevent it from being adopted as I slouched across the seat with my eyes closed. As I listened to the storm raging outside I mentally replayed the evening six weeks ago that put me in this miserable damn chair.

. . .

Douglas had been lounging in his leather recliner, a frosted chimney glass in his hand, casually regarding me as if I were the crazy one. I had been staring back from the matching leather sofa in silent annoyance. We were once again embroiled in the "Lovecraft discussion, which, without fail degenerated into the Lovecraft argument." We’d flogged this show so many times over the years that it should have been telepathic by now, but there we were again, re-running the same tired dialog, both knowing the other’s script so well that if one of us left the room the other could champion both sides without missing a beat.

Responsibility for this rift in an otherwise solid friendship goes to H.P. Lovecraft, deceased author of horror stories. His tales, written in the nineteen twenties and thirties were still fueling new books, movies, video games and anything else marketable to the horror genre. The conflict revolved around the dividing line between reality and fantasy.

Although all of Lovecraft’s stories were stand-alone tales, many were linked by a common thread; often kept in the background. This was the pantheon of The Great Old Ones, a race of monstrous beings from another dimension who dominated the earth eons before man, possibly created man, and wanted their old job back.

Having been defeated by another race of inter-dimensional beings with whom they occasionally warred, the Great Old Ones now lay trapped in their vast hidden cities; some on earth, others scattered throughout the universe. Although they could never die, the Old Ones were currently helpless to reclaim their dominion over the earth, being trapped in their hidden tombs throughout eternity by powerful spells.

Twiddling their huge evil thumbs through measureless spans of time, the Old Ones laid their plans for escape. They spoke telepathically to susceptible humans through dreams. These ancient humans formed a secret cult which spanned the globe, and whose only goal was to remain vigilant through the millennia, passing the secrets of their mission from generation to generation, waiting for the cosmic window to open. When "the stars were right", and aided by an ancient book of untold evil, The Necronomicon, they would recite the ancient spells and perform the secret rituals. The Great Old Ones would be released from their tombs to reclaim the earth, wiping away humankind forever. Exactly why the cult thought this was such a great idea was never made clear.

Lovecraft’s creations were taken up and expanded upon, with his approval, by other writers, and the legacy of Nyarlathotep, Yog-Sottoth, Hastur, Dagon and of course the leader of the pack, Cthulhu, have been wreaking havoc in books and movies to this day. And that’s just fine.

However, as much as the two of us had always enjoyed these stories, Douglas was recently becoming obsessed with them. With the enduring popularity of Lovecraft’s work, and human nature being what it is, it was inevitable that there would evolve a lunatic fringe that actually believed that the stories held secret truths. Lately I was beginning to think that Douglas was shopping for real estate in their zip code.

Most of my visits to Douglas’ home were casual drop-by’s or occasional invitations when he wanted company. We had been friends since high school, and years after going our separate ways, always seemed to end up back in each other’s orbit. I even had my own remote opener for the front gate of his estate.

Tonight’s visit was different. The three messages that had stacked up in my voicemail within twenty minutes was unusual compared to the normal Why don’t you drop by tonight if you’re not doing anything. I arrived with the distinct impression that he wanted to discuss something important. If this was the case he seemed in no hurry to reveal it and the conversation soon devolved into the same tired old argument.

Well, not quite the same. This time he seemed more deeply entrenched in the subject than usual, and more adamant about trying to pull me into his way of thinking. His insistence was just short of becoming belligerent and I was getting annoyed. In the back of my mind I was wondering how I could casually recommend therapy without upsetting him.

I can’t seriously believe you give any credence to this crap, I said a little more sharply than I intended.

You read his work as much as I do, maybe more, he stated as if that fact somehow strengthened his position.

True, I like them; they’re fun – but they’re fiction. You seem to be loosing your grasp on that point. You’re like some college freshman going into Weidner and demanding to see their hidden copy of Necronomicon; it’s embarrassing. I’m surprised that you didn’t try to apply to Miskatonic U when you went to school – or did you?

Douglas said nothing, just regarded me with that smug "I know something you don’t," smile of his.

I’m starting to get seriously concerned about you, I continued, for some reason feeling the need to lecture him. "There’s no Innsmouth, no Dunwitch, no Arkham and no Great Old Ones; they’re fantasy, plain and simple. Lovecraft himself openly stated that they were purely products of his imagination and nothing more. So how do you, nearly a century after the man’s death, claim to have more knowledge about his work than he did? Inter-dimensional monsters are not coming to take over the planet."

Of course the stories are fiction, he replied in a condescending tone. Have you ever heard me say otherwise? But that doesn’t rule out an underlying base of hidden knowledge. You’ve read the biographies; Lovecraft spent his childhood buried in a lot of very old and very odd books. How can anyone really know what he discovered there? The inspiration for those stories had to come from somewhere.

"The inspiration came from a fertile imagination fueled by a warped childhood, aided as you say by a bunch of old fictional books. I’m serious, I’m starting to worry about you; you spend way too much time in this place and way to much time in those books. You need to start getting out more; take some trips, it’s not like you can’t afford it. Go on a cruise or a safari or something; I’ll help you plan it if you like. I received the same smug smile and sighed. I don’t know why I even come here any more."

Because you have no friends, he replied. Speaking of which, how are you getting on with that woman you were seeing?

She left the state.

No, not her, the one you were seeing last month; the red head.

She left the state.

Two in a row left the state?

Three.

Three! That has to be some sort of record.

Fuck you.

I certainly hope you’re not getting that desperate; you'd think it would be easier for them to just get a restraining order or something.

What the hell did you call me over here for?

Douglas stopped jabbing and got serious, which usually meant that something bizarre was on the horizon. It was. You should be pleased, he said in a jovial tone, as coincidence would have it I may be taking a trip very soon and I wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t be concerned over my absence.

Are you going to be allowed visitors?

You’re humor, as always, leaves me nearly incapacitated. The fact is that I received some new information that could be very important. If it turns out to be valid I’ll be out of the country, maybe for some time.

You – out of the country? You never stick your nose out the front door; you rarely leave this room for all I can tell. Where are you going?

Somewhere in the East Indies, I haven’t nailed down the exact island yet.

Does it have a mountain shaped like a skull and a big wall?

Don’t be a smart ass – although I suppose it could.

Regretting it before the words left my mouth, New information about what?

Cthulhu.

I tried valiantly to control my frustration. I failed. You really need to find a new windmill, I snapped. Why don’t you start a quest for Kennedy’s missing brain?

Betelgeuse.

Betelgeuse?

Kennedy’s brain, it’s on Betelgeuse.

AND WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR BRAIN ON! I’m leaving now in case you’re contagious.

. . .

I exited Douglas’ air-conditioned home and entered the muggy Florida darkness. Flapping my hands through the gauntlet of mosquitoes I discovered that I‘d left the car windows open, meaning I would be battling the little bastards the whole way home. I couldn’t imagine Douglas actually going off to the East Indies; the idea was ludicrous. The only time I’d ever known him to leave the area at all was when he went to college, and that didn’t last long. He was not the adventurous type.

Perhaps that was changing. He was obviously growing more and more entrenched in his Lovecraft obsession – and he was rich. He was in fact incredibly rich. Exactly how much he was worth I didn’t know or care, as it was none of my business. The massive gated estate sitting on an isolated strip of east coast Florida beachfront through which I was currently driving said all that needed saying. His wealth was actually what had me worried. Living alone, except for a few servants, with lawyers and accountants to take care of everything, he had nothing to keep him grounded. As far as I knew I was his only contact with the outside world. With no need to maintain a job, and no social obligations, he was completely free to drift off into delusion.

I remember when he got rich. It was on his eighteenth birthday; until then he had been a resident of the county orphanage. Institution life was hard on someone as naturally reclusive as Douglas, who like me was pretty much of a loner. I’m still not sure how we ever became friends, probably because outcasts attract other outcasts.

In our school days we were both overly absorbed in escapism, taking any opportunity to vacate the drudgery of public education, even if the expeditions were only in our imaginations. Science fiction and fantasy, books, movies and anything else we could find became our vehicles; neither of us had any interest in sports or any other mainstream activities. Although there were other Si-fi fans at school, some of them quite fanatical on the subject, we soon became somewhat elitist and bored with the mainstream fare and started digging deeper, seeking out the most obscure and esoteric works we could find, relegating us to the "weird kid" strata of society, even among the weird kids.

Douglas had no family, and although I came from a more or less normal middle class home, I never quite caught on to the concept of normal. Normal always seemed to be something bewildering that I was curiously observing from the outside.

School behind us and still outcasts, as I have come to accept as a permanent condition, we drifted our separate ways. Lacking the funds, and probably the discipline for college, I pursued my ambition to be a self-taught renaissance man. Moving through various jobs, classes and ersatz hobbies, I ended up as a sort of jack-of-all-trades, acquiring a variety of skills and knowledge both useful and useless. Although finding the want ads short on positions for a renaissance man, I managed to keep the bills paid. With my frugal, some would say cheap nature I even managed to maintain a small surplus that I sparingly used for travel or the occasional frivolous toy. I currently called myself a photographer, but was always open to other options.

On his eighteenth birthday Douglas got a hell of a present. A letter from a hither to unknown law firm announced that he had suddenly become incredibly wealthy, the sole heir of a completely unknown relative. Trying to get a handle on his new situation he decided to go to college, majoring in nothing in particular. I think his goal was to become a wild man on campus, the Douglas that lived in his imagination. But that lifestyle never materialized. We are who we are.

I don’t know if he ever earned a degree, but at some point he decided he was done with higher education. Cloaked in the armor of wealth, he returned to familiar territory, built his place on the beach and spent his life pretty much the way he pleased. As the years passed, the way he pleased meant becoming more and more obsessive about the works of Howard Philips Lovecraft. Now he was talking about trekking halfway around the world to track Cthulhu.

For his place on the beach, Douglas built a castle – literally. Three stories of coquina rock with rampart capped walls and a tower at each corner, the whole thing surrounded by a twelve-foot high, ramparted wall. Iron gates front and rear allowed access to the beach in back and a sparsely traveled two-lane road in front. When he first moved in he was continually annoyed by passing motorists, and finally put up a sign stating that it wasn’t a tourist attraction, there was no ticket booth and you couldn’t make dinner reservations.

Slapping the remote clipped to my sun visor, the big iron gates swung open. I left fantasyland and headed north to the causeway that connected the barrier beach island where the castle sat, to the mainland, where people like me lived. It never really occurred to me that I had free access to one of the most affluent and mysterious residences in the state. It was simply Douglas’ place, which happened to be somewhat larger than mine – as well as having towers and a moat. As I drove through the darkness swatting at residual mosquitoes I kept wondering about Douglas’ sudden urge to travel.

If he actually was serious about this trip, he must have found some really premium nonsense from some obscure source, most likely the Internet. He was not pried out of his little universe easily. If the impossible happened and he actually did make the trip, I assumed it would be spent in a four-star hotel with limo trips to obscure back alley junk shops. He would return triumphantly with a Hindu snow globe or some equally useless piece of crap, claiming to have found the key to another dimension, if only he could figure out how to work it; funny how those things never come with an instruction sheet.

An expedition into the real world might actually be good for him if he stayed out of trouble. He might actually notice that there was more to life than existed inside his castle walls. On the down side, anyone with his kind of wealth and gullibility was a prime target for scammers. I considered offering to go along but decided it was a bad idea. I really couldn’t afford it and I didn't want him to think I was fishing for a free trip, even though he would know better. Getting scammed a little might just wake him up. Of course getting scammed a lot might just get him killed. Sometimes I worry too much about things that are none of my business.

. . .

The letter arrived on a rainy Thursday afternoon between two bills and a business envelope. The business envelope contained an unprecedented offer to purchase term life insurance that would save my loved ones from certain doom in the event of my untimely death. I tossed this astounding offer into the trash. I have no loved ones and was not currently planning an untimely death. That of course was before I opened the letter.

The stained and mangled envelope appeared to be hand made from brown wrapping paper and tape. It was in worse condition than most self respecting garbage and I knew immediately that it must be from Douglas. The unfamiliar symbols on the stamps and cancellation indicated that it was from parts unknown. After turning it over a few times and finding no further clues of its origin, I opened it.

We’d had no contact since our last meeting over a month ago. Apparently he had really gone to the East Indies. The letter itself was so badly damaged and water stained that the bulk of it was illegible. All that I could read was:

"Imperative …sland of Mallaa in … Gilmon Hot…l.

must arrive befo… Spring …qu...ox

Matt … fe and death.

I’ll …over all expens…s."

That was it – Shit.

A quick look at the calendar revealed that the Spring Equinox was just over a week away. Why that mattered I couldn’t guess, but if I was going to take this seriously I had to move fast. Being self employed, or unemployed depending on how you look at it, time off work wasn’t a problem. Being self employed, or unemployed depending on how you look at it, and calling myself a photographer made the trip a good tax deduction as long as I remembered to take a camera.

I hoped that Douglas hadn’t gotten himself into anything too bad. The fact that he was sending home for help meant it was something that he couldn’t simply buy his way out of. I decided that I had better get involved; if I didn’t and something bad did happen to him, I’d have to live with it the rest of my life.

A quick web search revealed that Mallaa was a tiny independent island sitting directly on the equator, west of Sumatra. The main industry seemed to be the production of highly deceptive tourist brochures, the primary export being exotic tropical diseases muled out by the dehydrated, sunburned, rain soaked, insect bitten tourists who read those brochures. (It has been said that the brochures are secretly subsidized by the pharmaceutical industry, but as yet no legitimate link has been discovered. Equally unsubstantiated is the rumor that the World Health Organization has declared the departure area of the Mallaa International Airport a super site). Nice place. Why the hell couldn’t Douglas have gone looking for Cthulhu in Tahiti? I found nothing online about the Gilmon Hotel; apparently they had no web site.

So here I sat in a worn plastic chair at gate F-10 while the Florida storm continued hammering on the glass. I had given up trying to interpret the garbled noise from the PA speakers that lurked in the ceiling. Whenever a new message rattled through I’d crack an eyelid to see if the other members of the herd were reacting. Finally detecting motion around me, I opened my eyes and slowly got to my feet. Backpack, passport, and boarding pass in hand, I wearily joined the slowly moving crowd as it entered the feeding tube that emptied into the stomach of a London bound Boeing 747 for the first leg of my journey.

At that precise moment in time, at Gate F-8, a nearly identical Boeing 747 had just arrived from the Netherlands and was disgorging its live cargo. Before the weary coach cattle were released the first class passengers came trotting out. Among them was Douglas, hugging a heavy package as if it were solid platinum. Three gates to the east I folded myself into my coach seat and headed to the other side of the planet to look for him.

Chapter 2

Fifty-seven uncomfortable hours and thirty-two miserable minutes of cramped seats, bad food and missed connections later I wobbled off the last plane and onto the sweltering terra firma of The Republic of Mallaa. Living for nearly three days in airports and airliners tends to put one into an alternate state of reality. Coming out of it in a place like Mallaa doesn’t do much to improve things.

I moved in a fog of fatigue, mindlessly following the rest of the disembarking passengers from the hot, intensely bright outside sunlight into the dark, hot immigration building. Following the rope-guided path along the rough cement floor, various uniformed people examined, stamped and re-stamped my passport and I eventually found myself in the equally dingy baggage claim area.

This was a large open room that smelled of mildew and unwashed crowds. It lacked the traditional luggage conveyors usually dominating such places, as well as ventilation. Heat, gloom and time were having the usual effect on the crowd. Tempers started getting short as people tried to maneuver their way to imagined better locations, displacing others in the process. Just as I decided to start looking for a safe, out-of-the-way place to wait out the inevitable riot, a rusty garage door in the far wall began rattling open. Frequent fliers of this region knew the drill and moved quickly away from it as baggage began careening through the opening.

Those in front of the crowd, eager to claim their bags first received the brunt of the first fusillade. Prevented from moving back by the unyielding crowd behind them they were pelted with duffels, rollaways and plastic coolers trimmed in duct tape.

Not about to be passive victims, they grabbed the projectiles and slung them forcefully in all directions, some of it bombarding the crowd behind them, some actually flying back out the door, causing frequent mid air collisions with incoming bags. I spotted my one small duffle as it made a graceful arc through the air, was deflected by a rusty ceiling beam and disappeared into the center of the mob. I decided to give it a little time.

The crowd eventually started to thin out as people left with their bags, or somebody’s bags. I caught a second brief glimpse of my duffle on the floor just as it migrated back into the jungle of legs. A moment later, propelled by a swift kick, it escaped and came sliding across the floor, obediently stopping at my feet. The system was obviously more efficient than I had given it credit for.

After claiming my bag I inched slowly through the stagnant heat of the customs line, which took less time than I had feared. The baggage claim process was highly successful at eliminating bottlenecks further down the line. I don’t like to judge things prematurely but looking around at my surroundings as the agent roughly rooted through my bags said that no fun was going to be had here.

With sweat running down my face I stuffed my now disorganized belongings back into my bags, left customs and followed another rope-guided path toward the outside world. There was a chaotic sea of people, all of who seemed to be yelling at or shoving anyone in range. I decided that my best bet was to find a cab and get someplace sane so I could plan my next move.

My bleary eyes locked onto a cardboard sign held high above the roaring throng. "Taxi – I Speak English." I rammed my way through the mob and latched onto the man holding it before anyone else could. I felt like I just chose door number three and got the new kitchen set.

First I had him guide me to a currency exchange booth where I converted some cash into Mallaan dollars, the exchange rate being about a hundred and fifty thousand to one, give or take twenty thousand depending on the weather. That done, we traversed the demolition derby designated as the parking area and with a squeal of bending metal my driver proudly opened the door of his rusting cab. It suddenly dawned on me that everyone around me was speaking English. English as it turned out was the official language of Mallaa.

The depressing environment of the airport turned out to be a valid preview for the entire city, probably the entire island. Perhaps there were nice areas somewhere, but nothing of the sort was in evidence. Even the advertising posters and billboards were depressing, showing nothing but huge black and white portraits of local politicians, all sporting shark-like smiles.

My driver, who introduced himself as Malik, closed the car door, which emitted another painful groan, and slid behind the wheel. Where shall I take you sir? We have Hilton, Holiday Inn, and Motel 69.

I chuckled and said, I think you mean Motel 6.

Maybe in America, he said giving me an exaggerated wink. Here, it’s more like Motel 69.

What I really wanted was a decent meal, several drinks and about two days of sleep in a clean bed, but I decided that the sooner I began my quest, the sooner I could go home. Take me to the Gilmon Hotel.

He paused. Gilmon Hotel? You don’t want to go there.

I really do, I replied, a bit annoyed.

Gilmon Hotel is in Bogtown.

Fine, what’s Bogtown?

The part of town where you don’t want to go.

Why?

Very, very dangerous, especially to outsiders. He continued, perhaps sensing my annoyance; "Bogtown has always been a very bad place, but much worse these past several years. Strange people have been moving in and taking over. They even look strange – not from here. Nobody knows where they come from, only that they are trouble. People go into Bogtown and never come out. Lots of people that go in there never come out. You really don’t want to go there. Why don’t I take you to the north side of the island; nice hotels, nice beaches, nice ladies."

Well, I said, I really have no choice. I have to find someone and the Gilmon Hotel is where he said to meet him.

He has very bad taste. Malik sighed in defeat and locked all the doors; on the forth try the engine started and in a cloud of blue smoke we were on our way. I gazed out the window at the squalid surroundings. What had Douglas gotten himself into? What had he gotten me into? Everything I had seen since my arrival was in a state of disrepair, but as we proceeded through the city things got worse. We were currently navigating narrow streets and alleys, most of them unpaved, between one and two- story shanties. The more affluent of these were made of unpainted cinder block or stucco, but the majority were combinations of rotting wood mixed with improvised garbage. Rusted sheet metal, old tires and retired oil drums seemed to be a popular motif.

In the distance I could see a few taller, more modern looking buildings, which I assumed marked a more affluent business district. As we approached these however I saw that they too had fallen into decay, remnants of whatever colonial power had abandoned this