I watch them turn and roll, sloughing off their slumber like giants, like continents rising out of the sea with the steam and stink of Earth-birth hazing their grey-green skin. The water around us boils as if a volcano had grown.
Limbs like monumental trees shift, torsos like cliff-faces heave, visages bereft of benign intent turn themselves upward so they might find the underside of the sea’s surface and know which way to go. They uncoil their bodies, stretch towards the sky and the air, think and seek to break the hold the waves have upon them and to reach once more into the dreams of men.
“Rise,” I say, and they do. Released from sleep they believe it a time when they might reclaim all that had been theirs.
Their largest, their lord, their priestly god ascends first, speeds upwards fastest to break free. The strokes of his great arms cause tidal waves; the bubbles from his newly filled lungs, his once-forgotten breath, move big as buildings. Dead Cthulhu rises from his house in R’lyeth, his dreaming done and his waking mind focused upon an end, a finish, a catastrophe. Around me, his kin, his followers hum a tune of destruction, one that sounds so like my song that I feel a’sudden the keen dagger of my betrayal.
I think of what I have done. Of the promise I have broken, the covenant I have dishonoured. I think of the disappointment on my wife’s face should her shade discover my treachery. And I weep though my tears mix with the sea and no one but I would know of my remorse. I feel my own sleep creep upon me; a death and a forgetting, so close, so sweet.
And I fight it.
I put my hands once more to the sinuous strings of my harp and strum a tune to draw them back, these monstrous mountains, these Great Old Ones who could bring only ruin to whatever roams above, whatever takes wing in the skies. All would fall beneath the merciless behemoth feet.
My voice catches all of them. Most of them. All but one. The others still close enough to be caught upon the sweet hook of my song, the enchanting notes of my harp, settle once more. They go back to their dead, drowned houses, open the doors of heavy stone and retire.
But the greatest, the first amongst them, him I did not snare.
Cthulhu in rising, not dreaming, escapes the bonds of slumber.
Cthulhu rose and I know not where he resides or what destruction he causes. But I remember his terrible eyes as he swam upwards, as he gave me a single contemptuous glance and knew what I had done, both to him and his, and to my own kind. He judged me a hollow water-logged thing, a thing that remembers itself a man, barely worthy of a glance.
And it is that look, that longest, shortest of looks that keeps me playing, praying that my notes will linger forever.
THE LONG LAST NIGHT
by BRIAN LUMLEY
I HAD MET or bumped into the old man on what was probably the very rim of the Bgg’ha Zone. And after careful, nervous greetings (he had a gun and I didn’t) and while we shared one of my cigarettes, he asked me: “Do you know why it’s called that?”
He meant the Bgg’ha Zone, of course, because he had already mentioned how we should be extremely careful just being there. Shrugging by way of a partial answer, I then offered: “Because it’s near the centre of it?”
“Well,” he replied, “I suppose that defines it now. I mean, that’s likely how most people think of it; because after a number of years a name tends to stick, no matter its actual origin. And let’s face it, there’s not too many of us around these days—folks who were here at the time—people like myself, who are still here to remember what happened.”
“When the Bgg’ha Zone got its name, you mean?” I prompted him. “There’s a reason it’s called that? So what happened?”
Getting his thoughts together, he nodded and said, “The real reason is that shortly after that damn Twisted Tower was raised when They first got here, after they came down from the stars and up from the sea, or wherever, the only time anyone went anywhere near the Twisted Tower voluntarily—‘to find out what it was like’ I’ve heard it said, if you can credit someone would do such a thing!—the damn fool came out again a ragged, shrieking lunatic who couldn’t do anything but scream a few mad words over and over again. ‘The Bgg’ha Zone!’ he would scream, laughing and skittering around and pointing at that mile-high monstrosity where it stands dead-centre of things. And: ‘The Twisted Tower!’ he would yelp like a dog. But he was harmless except to himself, and making those noises and a mess was all he did until they bound and gagged him to keep him quiet. Then his heart gave out and he died with a wet gag in his mouth and the froth of madness drying on his chin…”
“You talk too much and too loudly,” I told him. “And if I really should be as afraid of this place as you make out, then what in God’s name are you doing here?” Before he could answer I shook another Marlboro from its pack, lit it, took a drag and handed it to him. I had no reason to antagonise the old boy.
“God’s name?” he turned his head and stared at me where we sat amidst the rubble, on the remains of a toppled brick wall; stared at me with his bloodshot eyes—his sunken, crying eyes that he’d rubbed until they were a rough, raw red—before accepting and sucking on that second cigarette. And: “Oh, I have my reasons for being here,” he said. “Nothing to do with God, though. Not the God we used to pray to, anyway; not unless I’m here as His agent, sort of working for Him without really being aware of it. In which case you might think He would have chosen a better way to set things up.”
“You’re not making a lot of sense,” I told him, “and you’re still much too noisy. Won’t they hear you? Don’t they sometimes patrol outside the Bgg’ha Zone? I’ve heard they do.”
“Patrols?” He took a deep drag, handed my smoke back to me, and went on: “You mean the hunters? And do you know what they hunt? They hunt us! We’re it! Meat!”
He took back the cigarette, and after another drag and a sly, sidelong glance at me from eyes still bloodshot but narrowed now: “Anyway, and like I said, I have a good reason for being here. A damn good reason!” And he balanced a small, battered, heavy-looking old suitcase on his thighs, using his free hand to hug it to his belly.
“But as for right now—” he continued after a brief moment’s pause, while the look he was directing at me became rather more pointed, “—I reckon it’s your turn to state why you are here. I never saw you before, and I don’t think you’re from the SSR… So?”
“The SSR?”
“The South Side Resistance, for what they’re worth—huh!” he answered. But I wasn’t really listening. Having taken back my smoke again, I was watching his veined right hand moving to rest on the gun at his bony hip, as again he asked, “So?”
“I stay alive by moving around,” I told him. “I don’t stay too long in any one place, and I live however I can. I go where there’s food, when and where I can find it, and cigarettes, and on rare occasions a little booze.”
“The old grocery stores? The shattered shops?”
“Yes, of course.” I nodded. “Where else? The supermarkets that were—those that aren’t already completely looted out. In the lighter hours, the few short hours of partial daylight when those things sleep, if they sleep, I dig among the ruins; but stuff is getting very hard to find. Day by day, week by week, it’s harder all the time, which is why I move around. I ended up here just a couple of days ago. At least I think it was days; you never can tell in this perpetual dusk. I haven’t seen the sun for quite some time now, and even then it was very low on the horizon, right at the beginning of this… this—”