The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack (40 Modern and Classic Lovecraftian Tales) (55 page)

“Torches,” Shindo said. “Almost certainly natives, wouldn’t you say?”

I listened intently for several moments, but could hear nothing in the distance. I realized that, apart from the soft crackling of a few nearby fires, the night had gone eerily silent. I ordered all fires extinguished and the men to assume defensive positions. Though we were a unit of engineering specialists, we were thoroughly trained in all aspects of warfare and ready to challenge any threat. Torohata slipped away to spread the word through the camp, and soon, our fires were all smothered, leaving us in darkness, total but for the distant flickering torchlight. A few moments later, Tajima joined me, his rifle at the ready.

“I count twenty individual lights,” he said. “I estimate they are 400 meters distant and moving toward us.”

I nodded, pleased with his expert appraisal. Just then, I noticed a faint tickling behind my left ear and, much like earlier in the day, a low, buzzing hum began to rise and fall erratically, slowly growing louder until it seemed that we were surrounded by a vast swarm of hornets. In the darkness, Shindo and Tajima’s eyes darted back and forth nervously. Nothing I saw could possibly account for this almost unearthly sound.

Then, like the concussion of a bomb many miles distant, I heard a low, very deep thud, the vibrations of which crept up my legs like a horde of tiny spiders. Several seconds later the sound was repeated, this time louder, more powerful. And it continued——a heavy, almost nauseating pounding that came at regular intervals like the beating of a monstrous kabuki drum. Tajima suddenly pointed to the ridge, saying softly, “The lights are gone.”

Each of us waited expectantly as the pounding grew louder, more deafening, assaulting our senses like a barrage from the guns of a battleship. Yet these were no explosions. Just as it seemed the unseen source of the thunderous sounds were right on top of us, an overpowering, noisome odor assailed our nostrils, and I heard Tajima beginning to gag. I can liken it only to the singularly foul stench of burning flesh, mixed with the acrid sting of sulfurous fumes.

And then…it was gone.

The pounding fell silent, the buzzing faded, and only the faintest lingering echoes served to remind us that we had actually experienced some nightmarish and inexplicable phenomenon. At last, the stench of brimstone began to drift away, to be replaced by the sweet smell of woodsmoke from the extinguished fires. Yes, we were truly awake, not dreaming, for now I could hear the sounds of men coughing and choking, and several exclamations of shock and disbelief.

And then, the most terrible thing of all: the high-pitched, piteous sound of a man screaming, “Yaieee!”

Together, Shindo and I rushed into the darkness toward the source of the sound. Suddenly, golden lanternlight burst to life a few meters ahead of me, and I saw Tajima, his face a mask of unutterable revulsion. He lifted one arm and pointed to a sight that, for several seconds, my mind simply could not accept.

Three staves of bamboo sprouted from the earth at the edge of the runway, and atop them, the decapitated heads of Sgt. Ishida and his two men were mounted like bizarre trophies, their eyes open and staring, mouths open as if to scream their agony and disbelief. Rivulets of blood poured freely down the pale lengths of bamboo, indicating these murders had been committed all too recently.

“Ishida,” Tajima groaned, shaking his head violently. “He was the son of my father’s closest lifelong friend. I have known him since we were children. He was like an older brother to me. Oh, my friend Tadao.”

I squeezed Tajima’s shoulder as he slowly dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“We never spoke of it,” Tajima whispered. “We both knew…that one of us might be lost. But not like this!”

At last collecting my scattered wits, I finally said, “We must continue our work. It is our duty to the emperor. But we must defend ourselves. Whatever was in the jungle must still be there. We cannot lower our guards for an instant.”

Shindo gazed at me appraisingly, his eyes finally affirming that he understood my decision. I saw several of the men take up their rifles and turn away from the profane totems, their training and solemn devotion to duty overcoming their personal fears. I allowed Tajima several moments to grieve silently before telling him, “You will be in charge of removing these…travesties. See that Sgt. Ishida and his men’s remains are laid to rest with the utmost honor. Do it now, and then return to your post. Whom-ever-what-ever-is responsible must not be allowed to overcome us again.”

In a quavering voice, Tajima replied, “Yes, sir.” And he rose, his eyes hard and focused, his body rigid and strong, no longer weakened by grief or uncertainty. He and his men performed the grim task quickly and efficiently, burying the pitiful remains of his friend and the others with whatever personal items he could find. At Tajima’s side, I attended the saying of prayers at the gravesite.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, though I am certain not a single man slept so much as an hour. At dawn, the camp came alive again, but I could tell from the men’s lethargic pace that the night’s ordeal had taken a dreadful toll on them. Once we had eaten our breakfast of fruit and dried beef, I transmitted a message to Lt. Gen. Iida and informed him that three of our party had been lost, guardedly expressing the opinion that the security of the region was in question.

Gen. Iida’s reply came: “Continue with the work as scheduled. XVII Tank Group is 18 hours from your position. A single element will divert to assist.”

That our operational commander would offer so much as a small group of tanks to reinforce our position improved the morale of the men so that they worked at a pace belying any deprivation of sleep. At 1200 hours, I was so pleased with our progress that it was almost possible to believe that the horrific events of the previous night were now long passed, and that from this point on we had nothing to fear. Still, at any given time, three men now stood guard at the jungle perimeter, with license to open fire at the first sign of any trespasser. However, if opportunity presented, I wanted any human that might come near to be captured and brought to me immediately.

And so it was that, at about 1430 hours, a commotion erupted not far from my Quonset hut headquarters. I went out to see Cpl. Torohata emerge from the trees, his bayonet thrust into the back of a squat, bronze figure who was being dragged, struggling, by two other guards. As I approached, followed by a dutiful Shindo, the guards grasped the creature’s arms and hurled him to the ground in front of me. I saw at once that this was a native much like those we had executed a few days before. He appeared to be roughly 130 centimeters tall, his features brutish, with opaque black eyes beneath a curiously scaly, bony brow, and an awkwardly protruding lower jaw. He wore only a loose, robe-like garment of tanned animal hide.

“I saw him watching us just beyond the minefield,” Torohata said. “I ordered Serizawa and Fuchida to take him alive. Beware, he moves quickly. He almost escaped and I thought we might have to shoot him.”

“Excellent work, corporal,” I said. Glaring at the evil-looking creature, I leaned close, only to be repelled by the sour odor of decay that his coppery flesh exuded. Even realizing he could not possibly understand Japanese, I growled, “Do you speak, animal?”

Torohata spoke adequate, if not fluent Burmese and spouted a few interrogatives at our captive, who gazed at us with unconcealed hatred, seemingly oblivious to the words. I knew that tribes in the mountains often had languages of their own, and the one this beast belonged to was probably no exception.

With a smile that revealed unnaturally long, sharpened teeth, the man growled,
“Mi, byong yi. Eh go me shogo na, byong mi rien.”

Torohata shook his head. “It’s not unlike Burmese, but it makes no sense to me.”

“Colonel, look at his hands,” Shindo said.

Leaning perilously close to the hissing thing, I found that the short, clumsy-looking hands were covered in coarse, dark hair and ended in sharp, claw-like nails that glistened like burnished steel. Though he bore a resemblance to those natives we had seen before, his physical degeneration was far more pronounced.

“What came to us last night?” I asked. “Who killed my men?”

Though the words might make no sense to him, the creature seemed to comprehend my meaning. His lips spread in a malicious smile and, with saliva spraying from his mouth, he hissed,
“Go-go, mi ingah eh cho-chiyo gah san!”

And then, like a blazing wind, I felt the arrival of pure hatred. Lt. Tajima strode past the guards and leaned down to regard our fidgeting captive. Almost as if he recognized Tajima, the brute smiled again and said in a wickedly gleeful voice, “Ba-kai! Ong, jin yi tadami dah. Baung shaggat!”

With controlled rage, Tajima raised an arm and slapped one bony cheek with enough force to send the brute reeling backward. The thick lips parted in a gasp as he fell upon his still-bleeding bayonet wound. With an effort, the squat man managed to get back to his knees, and for the first time, I saw a hint of pain in those black, impenetrable eyes.

“Colonel,” Tajima said in a somber voice. “We are wasting our time with this beast.”

Every officer in the Imperial Japanese Army carries with him a sword, which is a sacred symbol of his honor. I now drew mine, its long blade gleaming before the pained eyes of our captive. Some of his defiance seemed to melt, but his lips curled into a feral snarl. Speaking in a tone that I was certain he would comprehend, I said, “You are useless, animal. Whatever pit you crawled from, you will not return to it alive.”

I raised my sword, making clear to all my intention to use it. But then, seeing the dullness of disappointment in Tajima’s eyes, I paused and lowered the weapon. Tajima glanced at me in surprise; but then I nodded to him, and he understood. He unsheathed his own sword and drew it back slowly, his muscles coiling. Now, peering straight into the brute-man’s eyes, he growled triumphantly, “For Ishida.” Then with all his strength he brought the sword down and around, crying, “Aiiee!”

The kneeling creature’s eyes flashed with terrible realization, just as the blade bit into the flesh of his neck, sweeping through muscle and bone like a scythe through stalks of grain. The head toppled from the body, and a fountain of blood spurted from the gaping wound. We watched with grim satisfaction as the headless body struck the ground with a thud, the purple blood mingling with the dust until it formed a vile-looking pool of thick black mud.

Lt. Tajima took a white handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiped the blade, and with a smooth motion resheathed his sword. Then, with cold deliberation, he picked up the head by its long, coarse hair and carried it to one of the blood-drenched staves that still stood nearby. He lifted his trophy and firmly forced it down onto the sharpened bamboo tip, stepping back to regard his handiwork. With a hiss, he spat at the unseeing, coal-black eyes beneath the bony brow; then, unleashing a heartfelt sob, he turned and walked away, his thoughts all too clearly focused on the memory of his lost friend.

And now, knowing my duty, I ordered the men back to work, including Tajima. While this unpleasant episode had been unavoidable, we had lost precious time. There were clearly more of these debased tribesmen in the jungle, and I expected some sort of retaliation. And not a one of us could forget the indescribable horror of the night before, of the monstrous pounding of the earth, of the gut-wrenching odor that had swept over our compound. My greatest fear was that, whatever otherworldly evil reigned here, it might be somehow allied to the subhuman children of this dark country.

We had only been back at work for a short time when Cpt. Shindo approached me, his demeanor uncharacteristically furtive. In a near-whisper, he said, “Colonel, there is something up on the ridge. I have been unable to get a clear view of it. But I know that it is there.”

He led me past the line of new revetments to the edge of the runway, where we had a clear view of the ridge’s crest. Without pointing, he said, “Look toward the top, just to the right of its highest point.”

I did as he suggested and, at first, saw nothing unusual. But as I started to look away, something at the corner of my eye turned my head.

It seemed little more than a heat haze rolling from the jungle. When I looked straight at it, it disappeared. But as I focused my gaze to one side of it, I could see an indistinct, blurry mass, almost like the illusory dark pools that sometimes appear on a road beneath the hot sun. But from this patch of discoloration, I could see what appeared to be thin tendrils of shadow wriggling and creeping down the mountainside. Above, a few cirrus clouds crept across the sun, their wispy shadows undulating over the side of the ridge to mingle with those unnatural, barely visible streamers.

“Shindo, have Sgt. Hikaru order up his gun crew.”

Shindo replied in an equally low voice, “Yes, sir,” and left to fetch Hikaru, who would be working on the revetments. Our unit, like most of similar size and composition, was equipped with two 70mm Howitzers, which were ideal for shelling over ridged and mountainous terrain. I found my mind clouded with doubt, for how could I be certain that we would not be firing at a mirage? But Shindo had seen it; if I looked away from the crest of the ridge, I could still see it. And the more I tried to view this thing that had no place in the rational world, the nearer I came to breaking into wild, panicked flight. Only my well-honed sense of duty and years of military discipline kept me rooted to the spot.

The four gun crewmen reported within moments, each eager to have a shot at whatever target I might order. Some of them scanned the ridge with questing eyes, but none apparently saw what Shindo and I had seen. When I glanced back, I confirmed that the wavering blur still hovered menacingly above the tallest trees. But from the disturbed expressions that suddenly stole over the men’s faces, I judged that they, too, perceived something awry.

“Men,” I said, “I want you to lay down a series of shots along the very top of the ridge. North to south, starting there,” I pointed to the steeply angled summit, off to my left, “and finishing about twenty degrees to the south.”