“I'm about three seconds from breaking your neck,” the man said. “Now who are you?”
“I ain't telling you shit, pal,” Brent said.
Brent felt the man's grip tighten and for a moment thought the guy really was going to snap his neck. Then the man pitched Brent to the ground.
“That tells me enough,” the big man said. “Your bosses know something's happened at the research lab and you're here to clean it up. Just like Crowley said.”
“Got no idea what you're talking about,” said Brent.
The man said, “Gather your weapons. They won't do you any good, but go ahead.”
“I get the idea you do know what's happened here.”
“Some of it.” The man turned, but he said back over his shoulder, “Get in my way and I'll kill you next time.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
The man turned back and grinned. “Which one of us is lying in the mud? If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead.”
The guy had a point, Brent had to admit, as the man lumbered off into the darkness. He sure as hell did.
Kharrn went loping away from where he left the soldier. The man's equipment marked him as some sort of Special Forces operative, but his uniform wasn't from any of the normal branch of the military. Jonathan Crowley had expected someone like that might be coming and he had been right.
Kharrn and Crowley had split up right after arriving on Russell Island. It gave them a better chance of reaching the laboratory undetected. The machine gun fire had drawn Kharrn to the spot where one of the soldiers had been eviscerated, and he had caught a glimpse of something. Not what he had been expecting. Not exactly. But something.
The storm seemed to be gaining in intensity. The wind whipped Kharrn’s long black hair and tugged at his clothing. The wind also dispersed some of the sea-born fog. In the distance, Kharrn could just make out the exterior lights of the laboratory. He picked up his speed. If he could see the place, so could the soldiers.
As Kharrn started up a sandy slope, a misshapen figure loomed up between the giant man and the lab. There was enough light now that Kharrn could see the thing clearly. It had the rough outlines of beings he had seen before. Humanoid in shape, with protuberant, fish-like eyes and a squamous hide. But this one was far bigger than any he had ever seen of the species, bigger than Kharrn himself.
Its arms were too long and its webbed hands had long fingers tipped with wickedly-hooked claws. The creature’s mouth was open, showing rows of sharp teeth. So this was what they had been doing at the research facility. Making something inhuman into something monstrous. The thing made a gurgling hiss and started toward Kharrn.
“Wait!” Kharrn said. “I came here to help you.”
Kharrn knew the creatures this thing was based on were extremely intelligent and capable of human language. Some of them had once been human. But this one wasn’t listening, and if it was capable of speaking, it didn’t have anything good to say.
Kharrn unbuckled a strap that held a flat leather case across his back. He swung the case around and unzipped it with the speed and ease of much practice. He reached into the case and withdrew a huge double-bladed axe. He didn’t want to hurt the creature, but it looked like that decision had been taken from him. The thing had gutted one of the soldiers with ease. Kharrn didn’t plan on sharing that fate.
The fish-man lunged forward, swiping at Kharrn with its claws, trying no doubt, for the same disemboweling cut that had finished the fallen soldier. Kharrn evaded the cut and returned one of his own with the axe.
Despite the keenness of the blade, the axe didn’t penetrate the creature’s thick skin, through it left a deep gouge in the hide. That was something else the bio-engineers must have done. The creatures Kharrn had encountered before didn’t have that sort of skin.
Missing the cut had left Kharrn too close to the thing, and he paid for it when the fish-man’s claws tore through his fatigues and the flesh of his shoulder. Kharrn threw a kick which stopped the creature’s forward rush and made it stagger backward.
The fish-man roared in frustration and lunged forward again. Kharrn blocked with the haft of the axe and the creature grabbed onto the weapon with both clawed hands, attempting to wrest it from Kharrn’s grasp.
As close as they were now, Kharrn was looking directly into the thing’s eyes. He could see nothing of the intelligence that had built great cities in the deep, nothing of the skilled artisans who had crafted intricate gold filigree on bracelets and tiaras. Just an unreasoning, mindless fury only death could stop.
Kharrn let his own fury match that of his opponent, calling upon the sheer savagery born before the memory of man, which had carried him down the long years. He twisted the axe away from the fish-man and drew it back in one motion. Kharrn grunted with effort as he aimed a blow at the creature’s neck. The axe sank deep and brackish blood spurted and the fish-man stumbled back.
Kharrn pressed forward, cutting again and again at the creature until it finally collapsed from the sheer force of the blows. Kharrn stood, breathing hard, and glaring down at the fallen fish-man. He felt no surge of pleasure in his victory. Someone had made this being into something that couldn’t be reasoned with. That same someone had forced Kharrn to kill the creature. And that someone would pay.
Phone calls made the difference. Back in the time before technology allowed for phone calls, it was often a game of waiting and hoping that someone would get to him via postal service and later by telegram.
He smiled at the thought of Mister Slate, his companion back when telegraphs allowed the first glimpse of fast communication. The man had once asked him how it was that he could come into a town and have a telegraph waiting for him. Not giving his friend a straightforward answer had proven a very amusing diversion.
That was a long time ago, back when most firearms were single shot and the notion of a telephone was impossible for most people to even consider.
The cell phone in his pocket was all that was needed for most people to call on him in their time of need. Small wonder he was always busy these days.
This time around the call had come from Jacob Parsons, a dabbler in paranormal research who made good money off his bestselling novels and movies. He was nice enough, but Crowley had no doubt the man would get himself killed if he kept going. He'd come close enough times.
“Hi, Jonathan.” As was often the case, Jacob’s voice had a dreamy quality when he called.
“What's on your mind, Jacob?” Sometimes he had a pleasant conversation with the caller, mostly because it amused him. They seldom remembered the calls.
“Well, a few years ago I went on a trip to Golden Cove, Massachusetts. Have you heard of the place?” Crowley admitted that he had not. “It's a hell of a story, Jonathan. Hell of a story.” Parsons spent almost an hour filling him in on the details of Golden Cove. The most important first detail was the fact the town had once been known as Innsmouth.
After that the story came down to a man who understood the denizens of Innsmouth, and their progenitors, the Deep Ones, were chimeric in nature. They could quite literally mate with anything.
“What's your point, Jacob?” Crowley kept his voice pleasant enough, though he had already turned his car around and was once more heading for the Eastern Seaboard. The idea of going home and resting had been a pipe dream, same as it almost always was.