Cthulhu resurgent, p.1
Cthulhu Resurgent, page 1
part #2 of The Collected Harrison Peel Stories Series
CTHULHU RESURGENT
The Collected Harrison Peel Stories
Volume 2
David Conyers
“Conyers is like some impossibly perfect distillation of Lovecraft, Fleming, Barker and Ludlum. There’s an awful logic to his terror and action.” — PETER CLINES
“David Conyers, I have to say, is my favorite mythos author. He does what would have made Lovecraft weep with joy.” — CJ HENDERSON
“Every bit as disquieting as anything found in the oeuvre of Lovecraft.” — BLACK STATIC
“I started reading a few pages… and it grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. A fast-paced read with a great plot and some DAMN scary Shoggoths!” — LOVECRAFT EZINE
“When it comes to eldritch espionage action, nobody does it better.” — CODY GOODFELLOW
“The versatile David Conyers greatly impresses. He is gifted with much imagination, the knack for intriguing plot, suspenseful pacing, and compelling characters. I suspect the man can do it all, and will.” — JEFFREY THOMAS
“David Conyers is like the physicist who is all too happy to remind us that the solid world is only an illusion. Time and again, Conyers rips open the universe for us, to show us how empty it is, and how dark.” — D.L. SNELL
“There are a very few authors still living today that I can point to and honestly say that they have inspired me. David Conyers has.” — BRIAN M. SAMMONS, editor of WORLD WAR CTHULHU
“David Conyers is the reigning king of the Cthulhu Mythos Down Under. With Conyers at the helm, you won’t be disappointed by your journey.” — HORRORSCOPE
“David Conyers is a rising star... So good are the scenarios he dreams up that I'm beginning to wonder if he is really a time traveler from the future.” — SF CROWSNEST
“David Conyers spawns with frightening ability scenes that could fuel the most terrifying of nightmares.” — DARK WOLF FANTASY REVIEWS
Cthulhu Resurgent © 2021 David Conyers
First published worldwide 2021.
All Rights Reserved All characters, events, companies and organizations portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or companies or organizations, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, by photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express permission of the author.
“The Spiraling Worm” (2007) with John Sunseri, The Spiraling Worm, Chaosium Inc, USA, © 2007 David Conyers and John Sunseri.
“The Road to Afghanistan” (2013), What Scares the Boogeyman? Perseid Publishing, USA, © 2013, David Conyers “The Eye of Infinity” (2011), The Eye of Infinity, Perilous Press, USA, © 2011 David Conyers.
“The Temporal Deception” (2015) with C.J. Henderson, Cthulhu Detective, USA, © 2015 David Conyers and C.J. Henderson.
“The Gravity Museum” (2021), Cthulhu Resurgent, USA, © 2021 David Conyers.
The character Harrison Peel, © 2005, 2021 David Conyers. The character John Dixon, © 2007 John Sunseri. The character Emerson Ash, © 2014, David Kernot. The character Jordan, © 2006 Brian M Sammons. The character Joan de Molina © 2015 CJ Henderson. The character Rudolph Pearson © 2005 William Jones.
Special thanks to Dori Barrett, David Anderson, Brian M. Sammons, David Kernot, William Jones, C.J. Henderson, John Goodrich, Shane Jiraiya Cummings, Angela Challis, Mike Davis, Glynn Owen Barrass, Jeffrey Thomas, Paul Mudie, Cody Goodfellow, George Anderson, Frank Ludlow, Bob Neilson, John Kenny, Konstantine Paradis, Peter Rawlik and Peter Clines.
All reprinted stories revised and expanded in this edition.
Cover Image © 2016 Can Stock Photo / grandfailure
CONTENTS
The Spiraling Worm | with John Sunseri
The Road to Afghanistan
The Eye of Infinity
The Temporal Deception | with CJ Henderson
The Gravity Museum
Copyright
About the Author
The Spiraling Worm
with John Sunseri
Vapors carried the scent of rotting death, but the source wasn’t a corpse.
Both alert and tense, Harrison Peel marched from the jungle mist towards the origin of the smell. Chimpanzees, unseen in the foliage, heckled the Australian, unsure whether they should fight him for the wounded prey crumpled in the clearing. A cut soldier.
Peel chambered a round into his Glock 9mm. His concern wasn’t that the Nigerian mercenary accompanying him would think him rash. His concern was that the butchered man before him might believe one of Peel’s bullets would end his life. Chances were, one would, unless Peel heard exactly what he expected to hear.
The victim didn’t resemble an American soldier, but three years as a POW could change a man in horrific ways, physically and mentally. Peel’s intel secured through spurious sources had reported Fargo’s capture three years earlier, by a fanatical guerrilla outfit that mutilated its team members, and the report hadn’t been far wrong. Lips missing, ears sliced and elongated, and finger bones showed where something had chewed off the meat. Rightfully, Fargo should have been dead, but some unnatural power kept him alive.
“I’m the man you’re looking for,” said the unnatural living abomination.
Peel crouched. “Why should I believe you?”
Crippled fingers, raw with grossly infected flesh, held a dog tag. The metal identifier belonged to Fargo, all right.
“I still need confirmation. Blood tests and fingerprints will do, and of course you already know we can’t perform those here.”
The man widened his palm. Long ago, someone had sliced his fingertips clean away, the stubs rough and mangled.
“Blood tests, then.”
Gunfire rattled in the distance, the chatter of automatic assault rifles. The Congolese rainforests were the battleground for Africa’s bloodiest international wars, had been so for decades. Peel had no desire to join the millions of casualties, so he hand-signaled Sergeant Moses Zouga and the rest of his mercenary outfit to join him. “Let’s take this one back to camp.”
“You sure about that, my friend?” Zouga came up behind Peel with his FN-FAL loaded and ready.
Peel stepped close to the mercenary. “Don’t let appearances deceive you, Sergeant Zouga. He’s one of the Spiraling Worm.”
The man’s eyes widened. “A sorcerer-soldier?”
“Why do you think he’s still alive?”
They looked together at the wounded man. Bent, rusted nails through his chest and forearms told of old mutilation, sores that had bled for years. Wounds that would have killed him, if he were still fully human.
Fargo — if it was Fargo — witnessed their repulsion and grinned with his lipless mouth. “I’m glad you trusted me, Major. I’m so glad.”
Peel wasn’t glad. His instincts told him this was all wrong. Even the jungle warned him, for he now heard what he most wished not to hear: nothing. The chimps, knowing more than they let on, had vanished.
But he had to take Fargo with him.
“Time to move out, Sergeant Fargo.”
——
“You can’t be serious, Peel,” said Jack Dixon, yawning. He’d gone to the kitchen with the phone to let his Jessica sleep, and now he sat at the breakfast bar with a couple fingers of Glenfiddich in front of him on the counter. Outside, crickets chirped in the darkness.
“You owe me, Dixon,” came the voice of Peel from half a world away.
“Bullshit,” said the NSA man. “If anyone owes anything, it’s you, you bald bastard. Besides — I’m NSA. If there’s anything to what you say, it’s a job for the CIA.”
Peel laughed, his voice crackly and thin over the cell connection. “For a cypher spook, you get around, my friend. Argentina, Australia, Italy, Antarctica, Russia—”
“You’ve got proof this Ackerman’s still alive?” asked Dixon, sipping his Scotch, closing his eyes and enjoying it.
“Proof? No. Just the word of a ruined soldier, and the desperation of a CIA black ops officer assassinated in Lagos. But if Ackerman is alive — and I think Fargo’s telling the truth about this — then you Americans are going to be in the middle of an international shit storm.”
“We’re good at that lately,” said Dixon, opening his eyes again. It was peaceful here in Virginia. The evening was cool and clear. He had a beautiful woman in his bed, and the Orioles were above .500. He really didn’t want to go to the Congo. That’s where that Ebola shit was from, and where tribes with unpronounceable names tried to wipe out each other with machetes and machine guns.
Dixon sighed. “Tell me more. Why are we in another shit storm if the news gets out?”
“Fargo says they were prisoners together,” said Peel. “Prisoners of the Ulimari Revolutionary Party.”
“URP,” said Dixon, memorizing the acronym. “And what is the Ulimari Revolutionary Party, exactly?”
“A cult,” said Peel. “A powerful one. They’re tough and dedicated and vicious, and they’ve been around in one form or another for almost a century, possibly much, much longer.”
“Yeah?” said Dixon, reaching for the bottle. “Good for them. What are they — Communists? Anarchists? Islamic Jihadists?”
“They’re trying to bring back the elder gods to the world,” said Peel. “Rather like those blokes in Vatican City you dealt with all those years ago.”
Dixon paused, the Glenfiddich hovering over his glass.
“And according
Dixon shook his head slightly and poured. This time, he didn’t stop at two fingers. He picked up the glass and tossed half of its contents down his throat — then thought about it for a second and drained the other half. “Why me?” he asked finally. “Why bring us Americans in?”
“Ackerman’s a Green Beret, American Special Forces, SOG!” said Peel. “Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” said Dixon. “You’d play this close to the chest if you could. There’s some other reason you want me involved.”
Peel laughed, his voice breaking up as the connection faltered. “You’re not stupid, are you?”
“Of course I’m stupid,” said Dixon, sliding the empty glass down the counter toward the sink, sliding the whiskey bottle toward him. “I’m actually thinking of going to my boss with this.”
“Good,” said Peel. “I need your resources. Australia can’t put together an air strike team in anything like the speed we need it put together, and definitely not in Africa — but you can. Besides, you know how it goes; I’m out of favor back home these days.”
Dixon nodded. Their last operation together in Sydney, Peel had saved the city but killed thousands. His people didn’t court-martial him, but they wanted nothing to do with him anymore either. Peel had a dishonorable discharge on his service record now, and as far as the global intelligence services were concerned, he barely ranked as a deniable contractor.
“Air strike?” asked Dixon, returning to the conversation.
“It’s a rescue mission, mate,” crackled Peel’s voice. “But it could easily turn into a bloodbath. Call your boss and get back to me.” The Australian left the name and number of the hotel in Nairobi where he was staying, and hung up.
Dixon clicked off as well and carefully set the phone down. He looked at it for several long seconds as though it were a poisonous spider. For a moment, he seriously considered just ignoring the call — just pretending it had never happened. He could go back to the bedroom, wake up Jessica and make love to her, then fall into the arms of Morpheus for some comfortable slumber…
“Aw, fuck,” he said, and picked up the phone again.
Images filled his mind as he dialed Joss Plenary’s number. He remembered a horror that looked like a mile-wide oil slick churning up into South America, devouring everything it touched. He remembered a frozen pit full of dead Russians, their bodies riddled with bullets, their faces covered with icy blood. He remembered the burning, burgeoning form of the fire-god Cthugha as men chanted it into existence in the chamber of bones deep beneath Vatican City, and the terror he’d felt as it grew stronger and more violent… and he remembered Harrison Peel lying in a hospital bed, covered with radiation sores and third-degree burns.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispered. “Goddamn. Oh, sorry, Caroline. Patch me through to the boss, will you?”
He tipped the bottle up to his lips as he listened to the voice of the night operator at NSA Headquarters. “Yeah, I know he’s asleep,” he said, swallowing. “But he will not be for long.”
——
Peel met Zouga at the bar in the Nairobi youth hostel, overlooking the swimming pool crowded with black kids splashing madly in the waters. The two men drank beer through straws, because the bees liked the taste, and if they stung you on the way down the throat, chances were you’d never breathe again.
Zouga checked out the Nordic backpackers in their high cut shorts and barely there t-shirts. Peel was thinking of his girlfriend Nicole, back in America now since she could not secure work in Australia despite a promise from the Australian Government to join their intelligence operations against horrors from other dimensions, so she was back with the FBI. As soon as he secured a reputable job, he would move to the United States so they could be together again. That was proving more difficult than he thought, considering his best friend in the world was a Nigerian private military contractor who dabbled mostly in illegal enterprises, worked only in Africa, and was the only man willing to pay Peel a decent wage. Despite his gratitude, Peel knew his reputation was sinking further by the minute associating himself with private military contractors, and the longer Nicola and he were apart the less likely their relationship would survive. He’d tried calling her this morning, but the lines wouldn’t connect.
“You sure you want out of this mission?” Peel asked, wondering if he had the stamina to drink another beer and remain sober, for the heat was wearing him down.
“Killing cultists in the Congo jungle, cultists who, mind you, mutilate themselves horrifically and don’t die from their wounds? No thank you.”
“It could get yourself more work with the CIA?”
“Yeah, and look how that worked out for us.” Zouga pointed to the pool, where a tall, dark-skinned, slim woman barely twenty walked the length of the pool wearing the tiniest of bikinis. “You won’t see sights like that in the Congo.”
Peel laughed. Happily married with children of his own, that didn’t stop Zouga from chatting up women at bars and pool sides, and he had a knack for gaining their interest. But he never followed through. Peel had to admire that in the man, that he was faithful.
“Peel, I’ll dig up what I can about Dirk Kinsella for you, but that’s it. I’m going home, building up the team again, get involved in some local work, and keep things simple for a while.”
“Fair enough,” Peel said, finishing his beer. He called over one of the hostel staff, ordered another because it was too hot.
“When are you picking up your contact from the airport?”
“I’m not,” Peel grinned. “He’s getting himself into town.”
“He’s been sub-Saharan before?”
Peel savored his beer, savored this moment, because it wouldn’t last. “I don’t think so.”
“So he wants to prove himself?”
“Don’t we all?” said Peel, draining his beer quickly.
——
Nairobi was not as humid as Dixon had expected, but it was just as dirty and teeming as he’d imagined. The matatu he strapped into rumbled and jostled through the crowded streets. He kept expecting the little bus to run over at least two people who milled unheedingly before it, but they kept melting away an instant before certain death.
“You British?” asked a fellow passenger. Dixon looked at the white face and saw a tourist — a nervous tourist, probably Spanish. The man clutched his camera tightly, kept his suitcase gripped between his feet, and there was a bulge in the front pocket of the man’s slacks that showed he’d moved his wallet up there. An average of four people per seat, so there was a lot of leaning and pushing. Dixon had the weight of at least five Kenyans against him.
“Afraid not,” said Dixon. “I’m American.”
“Oh,” said the other.
Dixon smiled at him and turned back to the front, where he watched three black bodies leap out of the way just as the matatu careened through them and further along the potholed street. Americans weren’t the most popular people on earth right now — he’d seen it enough over his career. He’d been in Madrid after the train bombings, and seen the demonstrations, felt the anger of the crowds chanting outside the embassy…
Maybe I should have flown in with the strike team, he thought, but shook his head. He needed to talk to Peel before anything else happened, talk to him face-to-face, and figure out what was wonky with this whole scenario and what the best move to make would be.
He whirled and whipped his hand down, hardening the edge of it and smacking the guy’s forearm with enough power to snap bones, and heard a crack and a howl of pain as the pickpocket’s wrist splintered beneath the jujitsu blow. The man had been sitting behind him and had somehow snaked his hand between the cracked plastic and fake-leather seats and worked Dixon’s wallet halfway out of his pocket before he’d sensed something wrong — and wouldn’t that have been a fun thing to explain to Plenary, how a common thief had stolen his identification and cash before he’d been in-country fifteen minutes?
“Driver!” Dixon barked, standing up and leaping out into the aisle to stop the would-be thief from escaping. “Get the police!”
