The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack (40 Modern and Classic Lovecraftian Tales) (54 page)

Damn the heat! Sand all around him. Hills of it, mountains. All alike they were, like the crumbled, cyclopean ruins of titan cities. All were burning, smoldering in the fierce heat.

The day was endless. Time, ever an illusion, lost all meaning. Stugatche’s weary body throbbed in bitter anguish, filling each moment with a new and deeper torment. The horizon never changed. No mirage marred the cruel, eternal vista; no shadow gave surcease from the savage glare.

But wait! Was there not a shadow
behind
him? Something dark and shapeless gloated at the back of his brain. A terrible thought pierced him with sudden realization. Nyarlathotep, God of the Desert! A shadow following him, driving him to destruction. Those legends—the natives warned him, his dreams warned him, even that dying creature on the rack. The Mighty Messenger always claims his own…a black man with a staff of serpents… “He cometh from out the desert, across the burning sands, and stalketh his prey throughout the land of his domain.”

Hallucination? Dared he glance back? He turned his fever-addled head. Yes!
It was true, this time!
There was something behind him, far away on the slope below; something black and nebulous that seemed to pad on stealthy feet. With a muttered curse, Stugatche began to run. Why had he ever touched that image? If he got out of this he would never return to the accursed spot again. The legends were true. God of the Desert!

He ran on, even though the sun showered bloody kisses on his brow. He was beginning to go blind. There were dazzling constellations whirling before his eyes, and his heart throbbed a shrieking rhythm in his breast. But in his mind there was room for but one thought—escape.

His imagination began playing him strange tricks. He seemed to see statues in the sand—statues like the one he had profaned. Their shapes towered everywhere, writhing giant-like out of the ground and confronting his path with eerie menace. Some were in attitudes with wings outspread, others were tentacled and snake-like, but all were faceless and triple-crowned. He felt that he was going mad, until he glanced back and saw that creeping figure now only a half-mile behind. Then he staggered on, screaming incoherently at the grotesque eidolons barring his way. The desert seemed to take on a hideous personality, as though all nature were conspiring to conquer him. The contorted outlines of the sand became imbued with malignant consciousness; the very sun took on an evil life. Stugatche moaned deliriously. Would night never come?

It came at last, but by that time Stugatche did not know it any more. He was a shambling, raving thing, wandering over the shifting sand, and the rising moon looked down on a thing that alternately howled and laughed. Presently the figure struggled to its feet and glanced furtively over its shoulder at a shadow that crept close. Then it began to run again, shrieking over and over again the single word, “Nyarlathotep.” And all the while the shadow lurked just a step behind.

It seemed to be embodied with a strange and fiendish intelligence, for the shapeless adumbration carefully drove its victim forward in one definite direction, as if purposefully herding it toward an intended goal. The stars now looked upon a sight spawned of delirium—a man, chased across endlessly looming sands by a black shadow. Presently the pursued one came to the top of a hill and halted with a scream. The shadow paused in midair and seemed to wait.

Stugatche was looking down at the remains of his own camp, just as he had left it the night before, with the sudden awful realization that he had been driven in a circle back to his starting-point. Then, with the knowledge, came a merciful mental collapse. He threw himself forward in one final effort to elude the shadow, and raced straight for the two stones where the statue was buried.

Then occurred that which he had feared. For even as he ran, the ground before him quaked in the throes of a gigantic upheaval. The sand rolled in vast, engulfing waves, away from the base of the two boulders. Through the opening rose the idol, glistening evilly in the moonlight. And the oncoming sand from its base caught Stugatche as he ran toward it, sucking at his legs like a quicksand, and yawning at his waist. At the same instant the peculiar shadow rose and leapt forward. It seemed to merge with the statue in midair, a nebulous, animate mist. Then Stugatche, floundering in the grip of the sand, went quite insane with terror.

The formless statue gleamed living in the livid light, and the doomed man stared straight into its unearthly countenance. It was his dream come true, for behind that mask of stone he saw a face with eyes of yellow madness, and in those eyes he read death. The black figure spread its wings against the hills, and sank into the sand with a thunderous crash.

Thereafter nothing remained above the earth save a living head that twisted on the ground and struggled futilely to free its imprisoned body from the iron embrace of the encircling sand. Its imprecations turned to frantic cries for mercy, then sank to a sob in which echoed the single word, “Nyarlathotep.”

When morning came Stugatche was still alive, and the sun baked his brain into a hell of crimson agony. But not for long. The vultures winged across the desert plain and descended upon him, almost as if supernaturally summoned.

Somewhere, buried in the sands below, an ancient idol lay, and upon its featureless countenance there was the faintest hint of a monstrous, hidden smile. For even as Stugatche the unbeliever died, his mangled lips paid whispered homage to Nyarlathotep, Lord of the Desert.

THE CHILDREN OF BURMA, by Stephen Mark Rainey

The Manuscript of Colonel Kenjiro Terusawa, Imperial Japanese Army

In January, 1942, I was appointed commanding officer of the 212 Engineering Corps, a unit of the XV Army in Burma, under the direct command of Lieutenant General Shojiro Iida. For over a year I had been the Corps’ executive officer; as commandant, I was charged with the responsibility of renovating a captured British airfield near the village of Myatauki, a tiny settlement of Burmese natives on the border of Thailand, about 200 miles southeast of Rangoon. In the opening days of the new year, the army had begun its invasion of Burma, both to secure its valuable oilfields and to erect a bulwark against an advance by the British from India. Gen. Iida’s most immediate goal, however, was to sever and seize the Burma Road, the only means the Chinese had to supply their few strategic bases in the Yunnan Province, several hundred miles to the north. Achieving this objective would require close air support. The 212 was ordered to be on site by the morning of 21 January, and was allotted 48 hours to complete its assignment; the invasion timetable called for an Army Air Force fighter squadron to be operating from the field by 23 January, and for the airstrip to be able to support heavy bombers as needed.

For a week, escorted by the 213 Infantry Regiment, 33 Division, my unit had traveled at high speed up the Kra peninsula from southwestern Thailand on the Tenasserim Road, occasionally skirmishing with scattered regiments of the Burma Rifles, all of which were summarily defeated. Our march took us through dense jungle and low-lying farmland along the Andaman coast, but at Ye, we turned eastward, separated from our escort, and began a long climb into the Bilauktaung highlands on a narrow, treacherous path the British had carved through the trees and underbrush.

Our ascent took us through some of the darkest and most humid jungle we had yet experienced, but my unit’s bulldozers efficiently cleared our passage whenever necessary. Along the route, we encountered a wrecked tractor and a large pile of crushed rock, indicating that the British had intended to upgrade the road prior to their departure. By midmorning of the 21st, we finally saw a thinning of the green canopy far above and ahead, guiding us toward the plateau where the airfield lay. As the bulldozers and supply trucks rolled out of the jungle, the grating rumble of their engines, no longer smothered by the thick vegetation, echoed across the field like the exultant roars of lions suddenly freed from captivity.

The runway was a long, rutted swath of blood-red earth that stretched into the distance. I judged it to be no more than 300 meters in length; too short to accommodate any plane larger than a Ki-43 Hayabusa fighter. The only structures I could see were an open-ended Quonset hut and a larger metal framework building that had never been completed——apparently a hangar. And off to one side lay the shells of two Hurricane MkI fighters, probably damaged in combat and abandoned when the British evacuated the site. At the far end of the strip, tall teak and mahogany trees pressed close to the runway, effectively diminishing its usable area even further. I judged that, for our G4M and Ki-21 bombers to fly in, we would need to extend the strip by another 100 meters.

I ordered my chief engineer, Lt. Isao Tajima, to reconnoiter with his squad and provide me with a realistic estimate of the time and resources necessary to complete the project. Apparently, the British had demolished the facility before leaving, specifically to hamper our progress. But Lt. Tajima soon reported to me that the existing runway could be bulldozed and partially matted by day’s end, the extension area cleared by mid-afternoon the following day, and metal matting laid over the entire surface by noon on the 23rd. Satisfied, I left Tajima to oversee his task and went to coordinate siting the fuel, ammunition, and maintenance depots with Lt. Tochiro, our construction specialist. He was one of our youngest officers, a proud and pragmatic man whose brother piloted a Ki-43 in the IJAF and would likely to be assigned to the Myatauki fighter group. Tochiro looked haggard, as did most of the men, but his bespectacled eyes still gleamed with eagerness to perform his duty.

“There are several good sites for the depots, sir,” he said. “We can use some of the material left behind by the British to supplement our own. And I will have the Quonset hut set up as your HQ within an hour.”

“Excellent,” I replied, pleased that the men seemed to have been revitalized. As the work teams dispersed to begin their tasks, I went to the Quonset hut with my aide, a stern young captain named Shindo. I admit that I felt somewhat disconcerted by the tenebrous aspect of the structure; its near wall had collapsed, and inside, the ridged metal skin was blistered and blackened. The enemy had probably tossed in a couple of grenades before abandoning the place. I was about to step inside when Shindo paused and called to me, pointing upward at something beyond the hut.

I stepped back and looked in the direction he was pointing. The wooded ridge rose several hundred meters above the plateau; for a moment, I saw nothing unusual. Then I realized that the tall trees near the top of the ridge were swaying and trembling, as if something large and unseen were passing among them, moving from south to north.

“What do you suppose that is?” Shindo asked.

There was no wind, and after a few moments, I detected the faintest aural vibration——something I actually felt more than heard. It was an irregular, deep buzzing, almost like the droning of an immense swarm of bees. Shortly, though, the movement amid the trees ceased, and the barely perceptible sound dwindled and died.

“Enemy?” he asked softly.

I shook my head. I did not believe that the sound could have been from engines or other machinery, but neither did it suggest some natural denizen of the jungle. “I do not wish to have our timetable ruined by attack or sabotage,” I said. “Send three men to reconnoitre. Have Sgt. Ishida lead.”

Shindo saluted and hurried to obey my command. Though our advance brigade had driven the British from the country, I could not rule out an encounter with another regiment of the Burma Rifles. Also, I was aware that even in the remotest jungles of this country, isolated tribes of primitive natives still thrived. Most of the Burmese people were friendly, and up to now, we had only come upon one hostile village. But the inhabitants had been of a strange, physically degenerate type—possibly a result of inbreeding—and were fearlessly aggressive. Regrettably, I had been forced to have them all killed, including the women and children. Lest I be judged cruel, to my mind, the greater evil would have been to spare them to live without their husbands and sons. I took no joy in the extermination of an entire village, but their almost inhuman ferocity made them too dangerous to suffer.

Shortly, my aide returned with the reconnaissance team. Sgt. Ishida was our most capable scout, a rugged man of 33 years——two years older than myself——a veteran of the bitter China campaign. He had selected two younger men: a private named Koseki, about whom I knew little, and another private named Sakai, who had been on the team that executed the natives. He seemed a ruthless, driven young man for whom the war was but a proving ground for his cunning instincts. If he survived his tour of duty, I felt he might become a dangerous man among our peaceful people; but under the circumstances, he was a wise choice.

“Sergeant,” I said, “Take your team to the top of the ridge. I believe there may be hostile personnel in the vicinity, but take no action unless you are threatened. Report your findings to me by 1500 hours.” Ishida replied affirmatively, understanding that his party was to move unseen. I dismissed the men and watched as they quickly and silently entered the shadowy, tangled rainforest. Even after their long, uncomfortable march, they showed no sign of physical or mental dullness.

Happily, the bulldozers were able to quickly smooth the pitted runway and move the earth off to the sides, where the digging crews began to sculpt it into revetments for our aircraft. True to his word, Lt. Tochiro had scoured the inside of the Quonset hut and constructed a thatched panel to replace the destroyed wall so that I might have a temporary headquarters. Here, I found a single table and chair, and a small, battered file cabinet. The field radio had been placed in one corner of the hut, and outside, I could hear the low grumbling of our portable generator. Seating myself at the table, I proceeded to indulge myself in my one sacred personal ritual: from my valise, I took my small, leather-bound journal, and from it let fall a number of dried, pressed cherry blossoms——a reminder of my home in Okayama. I poured one cup of water from my canteen and dropped the blossoms in. Then, also from my valise, I took the picture frame——its glass cracked——that held the portrait of my beloved Machiko and our three children: my son, Joji, and two daughters, Hiroko and Etsuko. Placing the frame on the table, I offered a brief prayer for the safety of my loved ones to Kamimatsu, the spirit from which, according to ancestral lore, my family had descended.

About 1400 hours, Lt. Tajima reported to me that one of the bulldozers had thrown a tread; it could be repaired easily enough, though it would result in at least a half-hour’s delay. Then, as Tajima consulted with me outside the Quonset hut, we heard from the distance the unmistakable crack of a standard issue Model 99 7-7mm rifle. Shindo came running, and we all gazed anxiously toward the ridge, but no more shots came. Then, from a great distance, I heard a high-pitched cry. Shindo gasped audibly.

Tajima asked in an anxious voice, “Colonel, should we investigate?” I shook my head. “Continue the work. We will learn what has happened when Ishida reports.”

“Yes, sir,” Tajima replied, his expression sour. I knew him to be fond of Sgt. Ishida, and I sympathized. But he returned to the stalled bulldozer and unleashed his frustration by pushing his team to work harder and faster.

At 1500 hours, when Ishida was due to report, there was no sign of him or his two men. Tajima came again, suggesting that another small team be sent to investigate; again I denied him. As strongly as Tajima, I wished to see this situation resolved quickly and satisfactorily. But the brutal fact remained that if our work was not completed to the minute, we would fail in our duty to the Emperor, and to each and every man on my team, such a humiliation would be worse than a thousand years in Hell. I knew that, above all, even if something had happened to Ishida, he would never want the unit’s failure on his conscience.

* * * *

By 1700 hours, I was forced to accept that we probably would not be hearing from those men again. But I did not have the manpower to mount a search party, nor the desire to place any more men in possible jeopardy. Two hours of daylight remained, and with the bulldozer now back in operation, I was determined to press on. The crews worked furiously until the sun dropped beyond the trees; by now all of them knew that we had lost three of our comrades. Finally, as the last light faded from the sky, we broke for our meager evening meal: a few kilograms of rice, dried fish seasoned with sesame oil, and some fresh peanuts we had gathered on our journey.

After supper, the men began to set up their living quarters, and by the time the last light faded from the sky, thirteen tents had been pitched beneath the sheltering branches of the tall mahogany trees and coconut palms. A number of campfires burned brightly to dispel the deep shadows of the jungle, now alive with the sounds of nightlife: chirps, caws, and trills of unseen creatures that seemed thoroughly ambivalent about this group of humans that had infiltrated their territory.

I decided to double the watch for the night and instructed Tajima to lay a strip of landmines outside the perimeter, and to unroll a spool of barbed wire inside the nearest trees. This was accomplished quickly and expertly by lantern light, and once done, a certain sense of relief seemed to spread among the troops. I had no tent, but intended bed down inside the Quonset hut, along with Cpt. Shindo. A fatigued silence pervaded the camp as I made a quick inspection of our defenses. Tajima himself had taken the first watch, along with seven of the enlisted men; he stood near the rear of the Quonset hut, facing the dark jungle, his hands tensely gripping his rifle. At my approach, he lowered his weapon and snapped a salute.

“It is a hard thing to lose friends,” I said softly.

“I have lost many.”

“As have I.”

From the darkness near the most distant of the tents, I heard a low humming sound, then the voices of several men raised in a soft, melodic song. For a moment, it brought to mind the image of Machiko’s face, and a whisper of breeze suddenly swept through the camp, brushing my cheek like the touch of her soft fingers.

The song went:

We have traveled far

Each day that passes, we go farther still

I fight beside my brothers

One brother will never see home again

Another will come home broken

I would fly on the wind

To return to you again

Tajima looked long into the darkness, and finally said, “It is a song of mourning. Ishida is gone.”

“Be watchful,” I said. “If any of those men come back, they will expect our defenses but will not know which way to bypass them.”

“Yes, sir.”

I bade Tajima good night and returned to the Quonset hut, where Shindo had laid out our beds of thin rush matting. The warm glow of a single lantern cast long shadows in the close confines of the building. I was weary to my bones, yet I knew that sleep would be a long time coming. To my delight, Shindo surprised me with a small bottle of plum wine.

“I was saving this until our mission is accomplished,” he said. “But I think tonight it is more vital.”

I had just finished my cup of wine when I heard a sudden rapping on the door of the hut. Shindo sprang up and opened the door to admit a grave-looking corporal named Torohataone of the guards Tajima had posted. He saluted me and said, “Sir, there are lights in the jungle.”

I took my rifle and followed him out of the hut. Indeed, far up the ridge, deep within the trees, I could see a number of flickering lights moving slowly in a southerly direction. It was difficult to determine whether they were descending toward us.