Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
“Last Friday a Baghdad liquor store was completely destroyed by a RPG attack. This makes three liquor stores on three Fridays.”
“So?” asked Caprice sullenly. He didn’t like Sprague much.
“Baghdad is one of the only Muslim countries that allow alcohol, much to the dismay of traditional Muslims who disdain the drinking of alcohol. Friday is a day when most Muslim businesses close and is intended for quiet contemplation of Allah, not unlike Sunday in the Western world. Friday is also the day those who want to have a little party on the weekend like to buy their hooch.”
“And someone is letting these local entrepreneurs know their capitalist spirit is not appreciated, huh?” asked Hammer.
Sprague nodded. “The results of these attacks are that more and more of these shops are indeed closing on Friday. However, the Agency thinks these attacks are an entrance onto the main stage by a new player in the global terror show. We need you to capture some of these attackers for interrogation.”
Sprague’s whitish-blonde head winked out and was replaced by a map of their current location. Data streamed afterward.
“This is the place.” Hammer looked the street up and down. They were all wearing traditional Iraqi garb.
“Doesn’t look like much,” said Archive.
“Why don’t you have a coffee over there.” Hammer pointed at the al-Jamoun coffee house across the street.
Archive wrinkled his nose. “Not fond of Iraq coffee.”
Hammer ignored him. “Hotpants, you take a sniper position up on the roof. If anybody’s going to hit this place, I’ll need you to be my eyes and ears when it goes down. I’ll get the civilians out of there--”
Caprice blinked. “Why? I thought our mission was to take these terrorists out. If we start trying to evacuate civilians we might warn them.”
“They wouldn’t stay open on a Friday anyway,” said Hammer.
Caprice shrugged. “Hey, I’m just trying to think about how to pull this off successfully after the last debacle.”
“And I’m just trying to be a human being,” said Hammer.
“And what are you going to do?” asked Archive.
Hammer jangled a pouch full of Dinars. “I’m going to buy me a liquor store.”
Hammer entered the liquor store. The proprietor looked him up and down.
“We’re closing for the evening,” the man said in Arabic.
“You are not open on Fridays?”
The proprietor snorted. “No sane man would be these days.”
“I am not a sane man,” said Hammer. He clinked the pouch full of dinars on the counter. “I would like the shop to stay open.”
The man’s eyebrow shot up. “Oh?”
“I’m willing to pay you for it. Seven thousand dinars.”
The proprietor laughed. “You are an American, yes?”
Hammer was taken aback. “Why do you ask?”
The proprietor put up one hand. “It’s not your accent. Your Arabic is excellent. It’s your methods. You Americans think you can buy anything.”
Hammer started to pull the pouch back when the proprietor put his hand over it.
“But that does not mean I am not a reasonable man. For ten thousand dinars you can have the store.”
Hammer released his grip on the pouch. “You would give it up so easily?”
The proprietor shrugged. “Until Iraq becomes more stable, I’ve been looking for a new line of work that’s…less dangerous.” He quickly counted through the dinars. “This will do nicely.”
The proprietor concealed the pouch in his robes. “Be careful, my American friend,” he said at the doorway. “No matter how prepared you are, a cornered rat is still a rat.”
Hammer thought about that as he started prepping the shop for Friday.
Friday passed uneventfully until six o’clock, when a suspicious character walked into the store.
He looked around for a few minutes, then bought a bottle of cheap, homemade Iraqi Gin.
Hammer tapped his cistron. “You see him?”
“I saw him,” said Caprice, who was getting tired of sitting on a roof for nearly a day straight.
“Track him.”
“I’m on it,” said Archive.
A half hour later, Caprice reported in. “There’s an incoming vehicle, driving by at a relatively low rate of speed every half hour.”
“You sure Hotpants?”
“I saw it too,” said Archive. ”I lost the guy I was tailing. But I just saw him again in the back of that car.”
Hammer tried to act casual, watching the entrance to the store. “Lay low,” he said. “That’s a surveillance team. They’re checking to see if it’s a trap.”
The waiting was interminable. Finally, Archive spoke up. “Think they saw us?”
“Don’t think so,” said Caprice. “They just shot off a red flare.”
“What does a red flare mean?” asked Archive.
There was a pause. “Judging by the three motorcycles riding towards us, I don’t think it matters.”
The hit team consisted of six men riding three motorcycles. The first two carried a driver and a gunner armed with an AK-47.
Hammer and Archive flanked the motorcycles as they approached. Archive tossed a tear gas grenade at the first driver as Hammer fired both Glocks at the second driver.
People screamed and dove to the side as all hell broke loose. The AK-47s fired aimlessly into the smoke and dust. One of the motorcycles fell over. The other motorcyclist was incapacitated from Archive’s grenade.
“Hotpants!” shouted Hammer. “The third one’s got a Stinger!”
“Where?” shouted Caprice, scanning through the sight of his sniper rifle. “I don’t see it!”
The two motorcycles in the front were a screen for the two man team with a Stinger. The second man lifted the Stinger to his shoulder…
CRACK! The man’s head bobbed backwards in a spray of red as Caprice’s bullet found its mark.
The man lolled backwards, the Stinger still at his shoulder. In the terrorist’s death spasm his finger clutched the trigger…
FWOOSH! The Stinger rocketed into the air.
Hammer craned his neck at the sound. “Oh no…GET OUT OF THE WAY!” he shouted to the crowd in Arabic.
The remaining bystanders who hadn’t already fled scattered. Archive grabbed one of the men he had knocked unconscious and dragged him to safety.
Two of the terrorists, eyes watering, reloaded their AK-47s to spray anyone around them. The whistling of a rocket above caused them to look up.
The explosion engulfed most of the street, flattening stalls and setting inventory ablaze.
“So much for being a human being,” muttered Caprice.
The captured terrorist was dropped off at an abandoned warehouse. Hammer was snapping on his gloves when they got a call to defuse an IED. An alert patrol of U.S. Marines had spotted an abandoned car on the side of the road.
“Why us?” asked Archive.
“Sprague didn’t say,” said Hammer. He was aggravated about missing the opportunity to interrogate a terrorist.
“It’s not like we have expertise in defusing bombs…” began Archive.
Caprice cleared his throat. “Actually, I do.” He grabbed a pair of binoculars from Archive. “Looks like it’s on the front seat. The device is composed of a cell phone, which acts as the detonator.”
“Detonator for what?” asked Archive.
“Take your pick,” said Caprice. “It’s connected to a satchel filled with explosives. The back seat of the car is filled with metal gas cans and bags of nails.” He stood up from behind the concrete barricade. “I’m going in.”
“Are you serious?” Archive looked at Caprice in disbelief.
“I don’t see anyone else around here who knows how to do this,” said Caprice.
Hammer nodded. “Hotpants is right. My area of expertise was back at the warehouse.”
Caprice donned bomb-defusing gear and crept his way towards the abandoned car. Archive shook his head at the thought of disarming a bomb and went back to scanning the road with his binoculars.
Caprice reached the car and set to work disabling the cell phone.
“It should be a simple matter of disabling the cell phone—“ began Caprice over his mic.
“Uh oh,” said Archive.
“Uh oh?” asked Caprice. “This is really not a time when I want to hear those words.”
“Car, twelve o’clock!” shouted Archive.
A car careened down the road at high speed toward the road block and the IED.
“I’m on it,” said Hammer. He calmly climbed over the concrete barriers and took aim with his Glock.
“If he’s got the detonator…” said Archive.
“Not. HELPING,” hissed Caprice as he fiddled with the IED, a screwdriver in his teeth.
The Marines stationed with them unleashed a hail of fire on the vehicle, but it kept coming.
Hammer took careful aim and fired two shots.
“Wait!” shouted Caprice. He had just disabled the IED’s cell phone.
Hammer’s shots found their mark. The driver slumped over, his head hitting the horn as the car swerved to the left and crashed into a barrier. Its horn blared mournfully.
“It may be pressure release activated—“ was all Caprice got out before the explosion ripped through the barricade.
Thanks to the barricade, Archive and Hammer managed to survive but not without shrapnel wounds and severe burns. Caprice was far enough away that he escaped unscathed.
Sprague didn’t give them much time to recover. Ten days later they were in the middle of a convoy to Umm Qasr.
Hammer winced every time they hit a bump. “The terrorist we captured was a dockworker who was smuggling explosives into the country. We think Saladin may be there.”
“So SINNER’s plan is actually working?” Caprice shook his head in disbelief.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Hammer.
There was the familiar sound of a shrieking rocket and the truck ahead of them exploded in a ball of flames.
“Ambush!’ shouted Archive. He swerved the truck to the side, momentarily forgetting his wounds.
A second later the truck behind them exploded. Gunfire pierced their truck.
Caprice was ready this time. He lifted a Stinger over one shoulder and propped it on the hood of a truck.
“This is Agent Archive,” he shouted into the cistron. “We are under attack. Requesting air support!”
Hammer sprayed the area with gunfire while Caprice locked and loaded the Stinger.
FWOOSH! The rocket struck a group of the ambushers, scattering them.
“Ha!” shouted Caprice. “Not so tough now are ya?”
Suddenly the hills to either side of them sprung up with dozens of terrorists armed with AK-47s and Stingers.
“You had to say that, didn’t you?” Hammer lowered his pistols. There was no point. They were outnumbered.
The thudding of a helicopter caused their attackers to look over their shoulders.
Rattling gunfire heralded the arrival of Archive’s backup. A Blackhawk helicopter armed with two M240H machineguns tore through the ranks of the terrorists.
One of the Marines in the chopper waved at them as they went past. Hammer waved back.
Archive tired to put the truck in drive, but the gears shrieked. “Too much shrapnel,” he said.
“Now what?” asked Caprice.
Hammer reloaded his pistols. “Gear up,” he said. “We’re going to catch ourselves a terrorist.”
Hammer and Archive came in from one side while Caprice snuck in from the other.
Terrorists were pacing the warehouse, stock full with munitions. Crates were everywhere with warning signs in every conceivable language. Caprice couldn’t read them all, but he knew they were bad news.
He stealthy padded from one large crate to another. Standing on one of the largest collection of crates was the terrorist known only as Saladin. He was a handsome, tall Arabic man in his early 50’s. He had a well-tanned complexion and distinguished and noble looking face, with sharp features and an immaculately kept beard.
Caprice came up behind the nearest terrorist toting an AK-47 and raised his knife…
Catching sight of Caprice’s attack out of the corner of his eye, the terrorist whirled and lifted his rifle, blocking the blow. Caprice hurled the assault weapon out of the man’s grip.
The terrorist drew his own knife. For a second the two attackers sized each other up. Holding the knife’s handle outwards with the blade flanking his forearm, Caprice blocked the first knife slash. The two opponents blocked and slashed, parrying each other’s knives as deftly as two fencers.
Caprice’s arm darted outwards and slashed the terrorist’s chest. The man groaned in pain.
Gunfire erupted on the other side of the warehouse. They had found Archive and Hammer.
Caprice made a quick stabbing motion and pierced the man’s clothing. The terrorist backed up, then pressed the offensive with a flurry of knife blows.
Caprice slashed the man’s wrist, but he kept coming. The terrorist kicked Caprice backwards. He windmilled and nearly lost his footing, but the terrorist continued his knife assault.
Caprice was forced to hop backwards. They were making their way slowly up a series of stacked crates. He sensed the edge of the crate at his heels.
With no other choice, Caprice grabbed the terrorist’s knife arm just as his assailant grabbed Caprice by the wrist. They struggled on the crate, knives inches away from faces.
The knife quivered near Caprice’s eye. It was so close…
Caprice bit down on the knife with his teeth. Releasing his hand from the terrorist’s arm, Caprice jabbed his thumb into his opponent’s eye. The man screamed.
Caprice stabbed him through the forehead. The terrorist’s body fell over the edge of the crate to the ground.
An explosion shattered one of the crates, spreading burning embers everywhere. On top of the main crate, Saladin and Hammer were engaged in their own duel to the death.
Only it couldn’t be to the death. They needed him alive.
Caprice grabbed the dead man’s AK-47 and took careful aim. He squeezed off a shot…
Saladin jerked as it struck home. Archive, down below the crates, grabbed Saladin by his heels and pulled. The man smashed into the crate and bounced off of it.
“Go go go!” shouted Hammer. He and Archive were limping out of the warehouse with Saladin in tow.
Another explosion tore through the warehouse as the embers found purchase. Caprice dove off the docks into the water just as the flames blasted over its surface.
The Marines picked them up and transported Hammer, Archive, Caprice, and Saladin back to a nearby base.
“There’s one thing I want to ask you,” said Hammer in Arabic. The Marines exchanged glances but said nothing.
Saladin leaned forward, curious. “Yes?”
“Who is the Karotechia?”
Saladin’s features went blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He leaned back into his seat and refused to answer any questions after that.
When they reached the base, Saladin was packed into a truck in handcuffs. It drove out of sight.
Their cistrons beeped. Hammer picked it up.
“Mission accomplished,” he said.
“Trying to be funny?” asked Sprague. “I thought I told you to bring him back ALIVE.”
“But we—“
“It’s unfortunate that Saladin died in the explosion,” said Sprague with a straight face. “But then I shouldn’t expect much from a team that caused an international incident.” Sprague shook his head. “Fortunately, somebody above me likes you, so you won’t be disavowed. This time.”
The cistrons winked out.
“What the hell?” Caprice grumbled. “Did he have a stroke or something?”
Archive shook his head. “I think that was code for never-speak-of-this-again.”
Hammer nodded. “Far as we’re concerned, Saladin died in the explosion, just as he said. That’s what I’ll put in my report.”
“So we went through all that trouble to capture this guy, and now we’re going to pretend we never caught him?” Caprice kicked a nearby garbage can. “This job sucks, man.”
“Who knows?” Hammer shrugged. “Saladin may well wish he was dead by the time Majestic-12 is done with him. But I know one thing for sure – he knows more about this Karotechia group than he’s letting on.”
This scenario, “The House on McKinley Boulevard,” is a Cthulhu Now scenario from Chaosium’s Last Rites. You can read more about Delta Green at http://www.delta-green.com. Please note: This story hour contains spoilers!
Kurtis "Hammer" Grange (Fast Hero) played by George Webster
Joseph “Archive” Fontaine (Dedicated Hero/Acolyte) played by Joe Lalumia
As is probably evident by now, I’m a fan of action horror. There’s a lot to be learned from horror movies in this regard, who have to cram in character development, dread, potential victims, an obstacle or monster to be overcome, and a resolution in just two hours. I’ve also discovered that movies that move the plot along quickly are less likely to strain credibility. The scenario states that, “as the danger in the house becomes more apparent, the investigators may try to get the squatters to leave, perhaps offering them money to do so, or attempting Fast Talk and Persuade rolls against each individual. Try to avoid this. The resident’s psychologies and quirks make convincing excuses…” This is exactly what the agents did, but since I accelerated the threat it was less of a problem.
I’ve stated before that haunted house scenarios really don’t work in role-playing games. At best, if the house is viewed as a threat, the PCs just leave and blow it up. At worst, if the PCs are trapped in the house, they smash their way through a wall and leave. So for a haunted house scenario to work, there must be 1) a reason to stay beyond physical barriers, and 2) events have to happen quickly before the National Guard is called in.
Using these two tenets, I introduced the various squatters as typical horror movie victims. Thus we have the Stoner, the Hysterical Girl, the Fearless Kid, and the Doubting Authority Figure (or in this case, anti-authority figure). These victims in turn gave the agents a reason to stick around as opposed to just calling for backup.
This scenario is essentially one of the “mini-monsters attack” movie plots. After rooting around on the Internet for awhile, I found The Gate, a bad 80s horror movie that suited my needs perfectly. It had everything from little demons attacking people to a summoning gone awry, to a giant monster at the end.
This scenario also worked best because it had only two agents in it, raising the stakes and reinforcing the terror. If one agent went down, they both went down.
Defining Moment: The hole to the temple goes from spitting things out to sucking things into it, and Hammer and Archive are trapped in tight confines, surrounded by little monsters in the dark.
Our house, in the middle of our street
Our house, in the middle of our…
Something tells you that you’ve got to get away from it
--Our House by Madness
Quote:
Archive approached an old Norman-Style Victorian home of three stories. Most of the windows and doors were boarded up. A few plywood panels seemed to have come loose and fallen away from second story and attic windows, or perhaps been kicked away to let in light.
He pressed on the thick oak and iron front door and it swung open. Inside, the rooms were extremely dark. A little light came in around the window boards, just enough to make out the general layout of the rooms.
As Archive glance into the dining room, he could make out a huge table. It was covered with recently eaten food and drink. He could hear laughing and talking in the distance.
But it was just a television. On the screen, a nude man sacrificed a dog, spilling its blood over a hole in the ground. He chanted “Ftaghn, N’kai, Zhothaqquah, Zhothaqquah, Zhothaqquah!”
The cultist repeated the process, this time with a screaming little girl dressed in a nightgown. He slit her throat, and as the blood leaked the shadow of something rose up, looming over the cultist.
“No…I summoned you!” shouted the cultist. He reached for a battle club.
“Get back!” he shouted as the shadow covered him completely. “Get back!”
Just then the movie paused for a commercial break.
Archive climbed the steps to another room, passing strange sigils carved into the walls.
He was in a child’s room. In it was a large white rocket labeled the Thunderbolt. Next to it was a box that reads, “SUR-LAUNCH. Compact launch system. Eliminates fuses. No false starts. Lift off today!”
The crying of a little girl reached his ears. It was coming from downstairs.
Intrigued, Archive clambered back down the steps. The crying was coming from the drawing room, specifically a large chair in one corner.
Archive leaned down to take a look. The sound was actually coming from a doll. The doll bleated pathetically for its mother over and over.
Archived picked it up. The doll’s eyes flicked open.
“He’s awake,” it whispered.
Then there was a great cracking sound behind Archive and then he awoke in his bed.
McKinley Boulevard: Part 1 – The Trail on the Stairs
BOSTON, MA – It was night. A long strip of road, McKinley Boulevard was once part of an upper-class residential area. Some crumbling manses had been razed or burned down. Others were cut up into apartments or rooming houses. A few, among them 17 McKinley, were more or less sound buildings that for various reasons were abandoned to vagrants, addicts, and runaways. Nearby small factories and sleazy businesses had for some time quietly used the abandoned properties as dumping grounds for refuse, adding to the general atmosphere of neglect and decay.
Archive parked the car at the front of 17 McKinley. Cars sped by recklessly. Vagrants huddled around open fires. Loud arguments occurred in the distance. Bottles were thrown and broke in impotent rage.
“You don’t have to do this you know.”
“I know,” said Hammer. “But someone’s going to have to watch your back.”
“None of the other agents agreed to this mission…”
“That’s because it’s not a mission,” said Hammer. “SINNER assigned it to us.”
“To me, you mean.” Archive looked back at the house, the same house that was in his dreams. “This is where it all started. The Labib Home for Children. An orphanage for raising future cultists of America.”
“This was the same place Richard Jacobs was raised,” said Hammer. “It later became the Allen Foundation under George Allen.”
“Right. That’s why Drake had SINNER dig up this info. If there’s really a cultist conspiracy, we’ll find it here.”
They got out of the car. In the distance, there was the flat crack of a gun firing.
“What are we looking for exactly?”
“Records of who those kids were and where they were placed,” said Archive. “Easiest way to determine the fate of those kids is to find out who they turned out be when they grew up.”
“Got it.” Hammer donned a headpiece with a flashlight over one ear. When Archive gave him a questioning look, he just put drew both Glocks.
With a solid kick, the wood over one of the window cracked. They crouched their way into the house.
The rooms inside were extremely dark. A little light came in around the window boards, just enough to make out the general layout of the rooms. The ceilings were eleven feet high. The rooms were stripped of most furnishings. Plaster had broken and fallen. Rain damage was apparent. Dust and dirt drifted everywhere along the walls. Trash, empty bottles, used needles, and moldering human wastes were present in most of the rooms.
The stairs in the entry hall were blocked off and propped up with odd lengths of lumber. A huge chandelier hung over the lobby.
Opposite the stairs were two statues, their great bulk almost too large to be noticed in the gloom. They were elaborately carved stone columns, each about three feet square and nearly eight feet high, flanking the entry between the first story vestibule and the hallway. One was horribly grotesque, made of an unknown element, combining the worst aspects of octopus, elephant, and human being. The other, in a similar style, portrayed a being that was very squat and pot-bellied, its head was more like a monstrous toad, giving somehow a vague sensation of both the bat and the sloth. Its sleepy lids were half-lowered over its globular eyes; and the tip of a queer tongue issued from its fat mouth.
“There’s a trail on the steps,” said Hammer. A fresh trail had been worn through the dust on the back stairs.
“There’s someone still here,” said Archive worriedly.
“Right,” said Hammer. “Let’s convince them to relocate.”
House on McKinley Boulevard: Part 2 – The Second Story
They climbed the rickety steps to the second floor. As they approached the hallway, a dark figure darted from one side of the hallway to the other and slammed a door.
“Hello?” shouted Hammer. “This is the police!”
Hammer made his way over to a door at the far end of the hallway. He knocked. “Anyone in here?”
“Go away!” shouted a man with a Jamaican accent.
“This is the police,” said Hammer. “You are to evacuate this house immediately.”
“You have no authority here!” shouted the man on the other side of the door. “You can’t make us leave. This is our home!”
“It’s not safe here,” said Hammer. “Look, I just want to talk with you.”
There was the sound of something heavy bumping up against the door. A woman’s sobs reached Hammer’s ears.
“Is there someone else in there with you? Ma’am? Are you all right?”
“She’s fine! Now ya get the hell out of here.”
Hammer shoved on the door, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Look…I’ll pay you to leave.”
There was barking laughter behind the door. “Hey, f**k you mon! We don’t need your damn money.”
“How about food? I’ve got power bars if you need it, all you want…”
There was a pause. “Who do ya think we are? That’s not going to work—“
There was a squeak as the door opened on the other side of the hallway. A thirteen-year-old boy craned his head out the door. “What kind of bars? Candy bars?”
Archive and Hammer exchanged a look. “I probably have one or two, but not on me,” said Hammer quickly. “We can get some for you though if you…”
“Don’t listen to ‘em Kristian!” shouted the man through the door. “We don’t know these people!”
Kristian sighed. “Good going Gideon, now they know my name.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Are you guys really cops? You don’t look like cops.”
“Something like that,” said Archive. “We’re more federal agents…”
Kristian’s expression lit up. “Secret agents? Cool! Are you here about the suicide?’
“Suicide?” asked Archive.
“Don’t tell them anything!” shouted Gideon on the other side of the door.
“Yeah. Andy. He committed suicide last year. Jumped right off the roof. He said he was hearing voices. I think it was the Workman.”
“The Workman?” asked Archive.
“Yeah. When they built this place, one of the workmen slipped and fell. The other guys were all illegal immigrants and didn’t want to call the police, so they buried him in the walls of this place.”
“Sure, kid,” Hammer said gruffly. “Where are you parents?”
Kristian shrugged.
“Is Gideon your father?” asked Archive.
“Nah. I just stay here with them. He’s cool, he just doesn’t trust cops…” Kristian looked the two agents up and down. “Or federal agents.”
“There’s a woman in with Gideon…” began Hammer.
“Oh that’s Clara. Don’t worry about her, she doesn’t deal with stress well. She probably figures you’re here to evict us.” He squinted at Hammer. “But you’re not, are you?”
Hammer shook his head. “We’re just trying to get you to leave because we’re concerned it’s not safe here. If everything turns out all right then there’s no reason you can’t come back. Who else is in the house?”
“There’s Dave and Diana.”
“Where are they?” asked Hammer.
“Diana lives upstairs. Dave’s right behind you.”
Hammer turned. A skeleton of a man, obviously a junkie, shuffled forward from the other side of the hall with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up. “You offering money, man?”
Hammer became very still. “Yes.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred dollars if you leave right now.”
Dave rubbed his nose. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Hammer reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He handed it to Dave, who snatched it out of his hands.
The man scrambled down the steps.
Kristian rolled his eyes. “He’s just going to spend it on drugs you know.”
“As long as he’s out of the house. Can you take us to see Diana?”
“Sure. Can I have one of your federal agent-type flashlights! I’ve seen the X-Files, those are cool!”
Hammer handed Kristian his Maglite.
“Cool!” said Kristian. Then he bounded up the steps towards the attic.
A haggard-looking woman lounged in the opening to her room. “You boys lookin’ for me?”
Hammer nodded. “We’re trying to get everyone out of the house…”
Diana swayed unsteadily. When Kristian beamed the Maglite on her, they could see that her pupils were pinpricks.
She sauntered up to Hammer. “I’ve always had a thing for cops.” She traced the lapel of his jacket with one chipped fingernail. “What can I do for you officer?”
Hammer swallowed. “Please miss, stay in your room. We’re checking the place out. We’re concerned that this place it’s unsafe.”
Diana snorted. “That’s why we’re here.” She managed a grin. “But it’s comfortable enough. I’ve got a bed in the back…”
“So you’re a junkie.”
“I…” she shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”
“And you turn tricks for drugs.”
Diana’s expression turned from sultry to furious. She turned and slammed the door behind her.
Hammer smirked. “That should keep her in her room for a little while.”
“Can you show us Andy’s room?” Archive asked Kristian.
“Sure, it’s right here.” Kristian pushed open a door on the opposite side of the hallway attic. “But Dave took all of his drugs.”
Scratched into the plaster walls were sigils.
“I recognize those sigils,” said Archive. “From my dream.”
Hammer inspected the sigils closely. “Looks like someone made this with their bare hands.”
Intermittent flashes of blue light pierced the room from across the street.
“What is that?” asked Archive.
Hammer peered through the window. “A bug zapper. Going nuts.” He turned back to Kristian. “Can you take us to the basement? I’d like to check out the rest of this place.”
“Sure!” said Kristian. “Follow me!”
He half-jumped down the steps.
“This kid is going to get us killed,” muttered Hammer.
By the time they got to the lower level, the sparking outside had become a cacophony of buzzes. Blue light flickered constantly through the boarded up windows, as if there were a fireworks display outside.
Hammer made his way over to the window facing the street. “What the hell is going on out there?”
Through the window he could see a twitching, smoldering mass beneath the zapper. It looked as if it were a pile of insects, so many that they were piling up in droves.
Hammer turned back to Archive. “Moths,” he said.
Suddenly the zapping stopped. Where ambient light made it through the window, now nothing was visible.
“That’s weird,” said Kristian.
Hammer turned back to the boarded up window. It was completely covered by something, darkening all windows on that side of the house as if it had been blanketed by a sheet.
A stray month crawled between the cracks and flitted into the room in an erratic spiral. It made its way past Hammer, landing on the floor in the center of what was once a drawing room. It crawled into the debris littering the ground.
Then another moth flitted out. A few more followed.
“Get away from the window—“ began Archive.
With a crash, the boards exploded inward as thousands of moths poured into the room in a raging torrent. Hammer grabbed Kristian and covered him with his body, diving to the ground.
The moths swirled in a choking cloud. They formed a huge, grinning, toad-like face in the center of the room.
Archive reached into his shirt and pulled out an amulet. It was in the shape of a pentagram, with a burning eye in its center. “IA! The power of the Elder Gods compels you!”
The toad-like cloud of moths shifted from rage to fear. They dissipated, spiraling in a long line into the debris on the floor.
Hammer stood up, dusting himself off.
“We’d better get out of here.” Archive looked to Kristian. “Are you all right?”
The boy’s eyes were wide, his mouth agape. For a second Hammer feared he was in shock.
“We need a fire extinguisher, fast,” said Archive. “If those moths come back we need something to—“
“Uh, I think we have bigger problems than moths,” said Kristian.
A creature loped into the lobby, blocking their path to the door. Standing at nearly two feet tall, it had an earth-like appearance as if formed wholly from clay. Its hide has a rubbery, pale texture to it. Sharps white claws, jutting forward like that of a bird, hung in front of the little beast. Its face was a mask of hatred, two bulging milky white eyes, slits for a nose, and a frog-like maw bristling with yellow teeth.
“Go upstairs.” Hammer drew his Glocks, not taking his eyes off the thing. “Stay in your room and put something in front of the door.”
Kristian nodded and ran back up the steps.
Hammer took aim. “Got something in your voodoo bag for this thing?”
Archive shook his head. “No, but—“
BLAM! The bullet struck home, piercing the thing right between the eyes. It collapsed to the ground, melting into a swarm of slithering white worms that disappeared into the wood below.
“—bullets might not have an effect either,” finished Archive.
“Looks like it’s effective to me,” said Hammer. “What are these things?”
“Not sure. Homunculi maybe.” Archive scanned the room. “But whatever they are, they’re part of something larger.” He pointed at one of the huge statues. “Look familiar?”
Hammer was about to say something when one of the little creatures leaped on his back from the chandelier.
He whirled but not before the thing sunk its teeth into his shoulder. Hammer hurled the thing into the drawing room, and took aim with his pistol. He squeezed off a shot, but numbness pulsed from his neck to the fingertips of his right arm and he missed.
Archive had his own pistol out. Another homunculus hissed at them from a china cabinet in the far corner of the drawing room.
Archive shot the homunculus that had bitten Hammer. The bullet found its mark. It fell down, hardening into stone, a dead statue.
Not wasting any time, Hammer sprayed the china cabinet with both pistols. The homunculus shrieked and melted away.
“Look out!” shouted Archive.
Three more homunculi loped towards them from the other side of the drawing room.
Hammer turned, backing up as he and Archive retreated to the center of the room. Suddenly all three of the creatures turned and ran.
“What just happened?”
Archive looked down as the sound of splintering wood trembled beneath their feet. “It’s a trap!”
First one plank, then another fell away. Archive and Hammer dove to the side as the planks in the floor ripped open with a tremendous blast, sucked down into the hole. All of the objects in the room were sucked down into the vortex, including the china closet and garbage that was strewn about.
Hammer lunged and grabbed the foot of the huge column. Archive slipped past him. Hammer grabbed hold of Archive’s shirtsleeve to stop him from being sucked into the hole. Objects and garbage flew past them.
Hammer was losing his grip. Archive’s shirt tore and he bounced along the floor, disappearing into the hole with a yelp.
Hammer couldn’t hold on any longer. He screamed, flying backward, towards the hole, but managed to grab onto the side of the entryway.
His body was horizontal, his feet dangling in the air in the direction of the hole. Hammer hung on for dear life. Objects continued to fly past him.
“For God’s sake, how do you stop it?”
The nails in the molding that Hammer held onto tore loose and the molding snapped free. He spun wildly away towards the hole. He was sucked down into the hole, like a particle swallowed by a deep funnel of draining water.
Hammer landed on something soft. It grunted beneath him.
“Archive?”
“Yeah,” groaned Archive.
They were at the bottom of the pit. The opening was easily thirty feet up. A strange wind whistled all around them through numerous two-foot wide holes. The pit narrowed at the bottom, which was where Archive and Hammer were wedged.
“Can you move?”
Archive strained. “I think so.”
Something chattered in the darkness.
Hammer fumbled for his pistols. He swung his head back and forth, catching glimpses of tiny clay bodies, the tilt and waver of their eyes glittering in his headlamp.
“We have to get out of here. NOW.”
Archive started climbing upwards, finding footholds in each of the holes. They struggled past each other.
One of the things scurried out of a nearby hole and sank its teeth into Hammer’s ankle. He screamed and kicked it off.
The chattering became unbearable. “Climb!” shouted Hammer. “Climb!”
He fired both pistols blindly around him. A rope made of bed sheets hung down.
A dark-skinned man in dreadlocks shouted down to them. “Hold on! I’ll pull ya up!”
Hammer shoved Archive towards the rope with his elbow. Then he resumed firing into the darkness.
Squeals and shrieks of rage responded. They bit him again and again, their poison seeping into his veins, but Hammer fought it with all of his willpower. He finally made it over the lip; strong hands lifted him up.
Hammer rolled over onto his back, gasping. “Thanks,” he said.
“I don’t normally help cops,” said the man with a Jamaican accent.
“You must be Gideon,” said Archive.
Gideon nodded. “I was lookin’ for Kristian. I heard him go into his room but he never came back out. I went in and he’s not there.”
“They got him,” said Archive. “We’ve got to find Kristian fast…”
Gideon was about to say something when their conversation was cut off by a scream upstairs.
They scaled the steps two at a time to Diana’s room. She was twitching on the floor when they found her.
“What the hell happened to her?” asked Gideon.
Diana’s clothing was torn. She was covered in tiny scratches. Her breathing settled into a deep, unnatural wheeze.
Hammer lifted her eyelids. “She’s slipped into a coma.”
From the looks of the room, Diana hadn’t given up without a fight. She had been dragged towards one of the heat registers, which was bent from her kicking. Judging from her position, they hadn’t succeeded.
“What did this?” asked Gideon.
“Homunculi,” said Archive. “Their bite is poisonous.”
“Is there a heat register like this in Kristian’s room?” asked Archive.
Gideon nodded. “I’ll show you.”
In Kristian’s room, there was much the same scene. It contained a sleeping bundle and some candles for light.
Archive looked around and found the white rocket. “This is just like in my dream.”
“The kid’s crazy ‘bout rockets,” said Gideon sadly. “We try to buy him one when we can spare the cash.”
“We’ll find him,” said Hammer. “Is there anywhere he might hide?”
“It’s a big house,” said Gideon. “The basement is huge—“
The basement windows were small, narrow, and at the ceilings—designed to let in light but baffle thieves. All the windows were boarded over. Though the walls of the upstairs were wood, in the basement the walls were of well-set stone. The house’s foundation had settled slightly in the southeast. A few inches of standing water covered most of the floor.
Hammer, Gideon, and Archive shouted Kristian’s name, peering into different rooms.
“Shh!” whispered Archive. “Did you hear that?”
It sounded like a young boy screaming for help.
They made their way into the laundry room, which was awash with several inches of foul-smelling water. There were wall faucets, but the water was turned off. Two pairs of concrete tubs with sides slanted for washboards rested on the floor. A locked door was set into the wall.
Archive put his ear to the door. “I can hear him, but it’s very faint.”
Gideon tugged on the handle but to no avail. Then he grabbed it with both hands and, putting all his strength behind it, strained to open the door.
Hammer tried, then Archive, then all three together. They tried prying it open with a piece of metal Gideon found in one of the other rooms.
“Screw this,” said Hammer. “Stand back.”
He blasted both Glocks into the door at point blank range. Wood splintered and exploded, some of it puncturing outward.
Hammer stared through the door, slack-jawed. “Son of a BITCH.”
There was only a blank stone wall behind the door.
Hammer stepped away from it. “There’s got to be another way around this.”
Gideon put his ear to the wall. “Kristian? Kristian, can you hear me? We’re coming—“
Suddenly Gideon screamed. A lumbering corpse in overalls stepped out of the wall and wrapped its arms around him. It had an odd, mannequin-like appearance, as if it had been sculpted.
“The Workman!” shouted Archive.
Hammer turned, pistols still smoking, and unleashed bullets into the Workman’s head, decimating it. The head tumbled off the neck, separating into two of the homunculi who scurried into the wall, merging with it.
It wasn’t enough. The Workman fell backwards with Gideon still screaming in his arms. They disappeared back through the wall.
Smelling of joss sticks, decorated with a beautiful leafy branch, Clara and Gideon’s room was by far the cleanest. Two mattresses were piled as a bed. Indian-print sheets hung from the ceiling. Ethnic rugs warmed the wood floors. A battered record player sat in the corner, with a guitar propped beside it. Numerous candles stuck into wine bottles illuminated the room. Well-thumbed paperback novels rested in stacks. A small camp stove provided warm food.
Clara sat in the center of the room, rocking herself.
“Do you remember if Gideon said anything?” asked Hammer. “Anything about the house?”
She shook her head. “We all heard weird noises sometimes. But we just figured it was rats.”
Archive caught sight of something. “What is this?” He picked up an old vinyl record cover. It was by God’s Lost Children, titled The Secrets of N’Kai.
“We found it in the garbage,” said Clara.
“Did you play it?” asked Archive.
“I don’t understand—“
“Did you PLAY IT?” he repeatedly urgently.
Tears filled Clara’s eyes. “Yes, I think so!”
Archive pulled the record out and put it on the player. He lowered the needle.
“In a time before the earth, before the sun, and before the light of the stars, when all was darkness and chaos, the old gods, the forgotten gods ruled the darkness. But what was theirs now belongs to the world of light and substance, and the old gods, the rightful masters, are jealous, watching mankind with a hatred that is as boundless as the stars, with plans for the destruction of man that are beyond imagining. There is a passageway between our physical world of light and pleasure and their spiritual world of madness and pain. A gate, behind which the demons wait for the chance to take back what is theirs! Ftaghn, N’kai, Zhothaqquah, Zhothaqquah, Zhothaqquah!”
Archive flipped through the liner notes. “According to the liner notes, the old gods will seek two human sacrifices to establish their hell on earth.” He looked up. “I think that whoever summoned this thing never finished. But now it’s coming back. And it needs two sacrifices. We’ve to get down there before the homunculi sacrifice them…”
Clara looked from Archive to Hammer. “Sacrifice them? What are you talking about?” She started to tear up again.
“Does it say anything about how to stop them?” Hammer asked impatiently.
Archive looked at the notes. “The demons can only be destroyed and the gate closed once again by a true spirit of gentle passion deriving energy from pure love and light.”
“Whatever the hell that means,” muttered Hammer. His gaze wandered over to the record player, which, having finished the incantation, was skipping. “Wait, that’s it! Play it backwards.”
Archive blinked. “Of course!” He shut the player off and slowly pushed the record backwards.
“Be gone, be gone, be gone!” came the warped voice. “Thou art hideous, filth-eating, unspeakable! We consecrate this ground, this world of light! We curse the abominations of darkness. We block the passage of evil! May the old devils depart! May they burn in the fires of their own damnation! May they freeze in the infinite cold and darkness of their own hideous creation!”
Archive stood up. “We’ve got our ritual,” he said. “Now we just—“
McKinley Boulevard: Part 10 – The Second Sacrifice
A trail of blood led from the entrance to the hole. Dave’s hooded sweatshirt was caught on the torn molding that Hammer had used to prevent himself from being sucked into the hole.
“Uh oh,” said Archive.
A screaming burst of smoke blasted out of the hole. For a moment, all was silent.
Then one huge, clawed paw found purchase at the rim. Lifting itself up was a toad-like monstrosity. It was very squat and pot-bellied, and its head was more like that of a monstrous toad. Its whole body was covered with an imitation of short fur, giving somehow a vague impression of both the bat and the sloth. Its sleepy lids was half-lowered over its globular eyes; and the tip of a queer tongue issued from its fat mouth. It was all vaguely clay-like.
“Tsathoggua,” said Archive. “We’re too late. He’s awake.”
Hammer reloaded his Glocks. “Start the ritual. I’ll take care of this thing.”
The idol of Tsathoggua lumbered forward with jerky movement, something like stop-animation and a Ray Harryhausen film. The expression’s on the thing’s face was one of curiosity.
“Be gone, be gone, be gone!” shouted Archive, extending the Elder Sign before him.
The idol’s expression turned from curiosity to anger. It took several shuddering steps towards Archive.
“Thou art hideous, filth-eating, unspeakable!”
Hammer stood in front of Archive and fired several carefully placed shots into the idol’s head. Its expression didn’t change as chips of clay flaked off of it.
“We consecrate this ground, this world of light!”
Boiling out of the hole were more of the homunculi. They scrambled towards the idol and dove into it, merging with the clay form and healing the chips where bullets penetrated.
“We curse the abominations of darkness.”
The thing lifted a paw and swiped at Hammer. He rolled to the side and came up firing. More bullets thudded into the clay idol with no effect.
“We block the passage of evil!”
The thing turned its attention back to Archive. It reared lifted one paw.
“May the old devils depart!”
Hammer concentrated his fire on the clawed palm. The bullets burst it into fragments. Howling, the thing backhanded the agent with speed that belied its size.
“May they burn in the fires of their own damnation!”
The idol turned back to Archive. It raised its remaining paw, maw grinning with uneven teeth, its tongue flicking in and out.
“May they freeze in the infinite cold and darkness of their own hideous creation!”
The effect was instantaneous. The idol collapsed into many scurrying homunculi, who in turn collapsed into worms, who in turn solidified into their clay-like forms. In seconds, they were dust.
Linear Mode
And yet another word from our sponsors
