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  Cthulhu’s Minions

  Book One in The Arkham Detective Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2015, Cthulhu’s Minions

  www.ByronCraftBooks.com

  Artwork by Fredrik King

  ISBN-13: 978-1974267125

  ISBN-10: 1974267121

  DEDICATION

  To my lovely wife Marcia who daily says

  those three little words to me,

  "Write or die!" She is truly my inspiration.

  Origin

  Cthulhu’s Minions, in this story, are Pilot Demons. They originally came into being in my novel “The Alchemist’s Notebook” based on my screenplay for “The Cry of Cthulhu.” They are creepy little things that became such great supporting characters (in a terrible sort of way) that I thought that they deserved their own separate story.

  “Cthulhu’s Minions” takes place in an alternate universe somewhat like the 1930’s when H.P. Lovecraft was writing his Cthulhu Mythos and writers like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler were creating the hard-boiled mystery drama. Indeed, it is as if we are being treated to a Dashiell Hammett meets H.P. Lovecraft collaboration. The protagonist of the tale is the Detective with No Name. He is a case-hardened police officer that does not believe in things that go bump in the night, until…

  Cthulhu’s Minions

  Some say that they have always been there. A guy down on Delancey Street once said they were the remains of aborted fetuses. But the story I liked the best was told to me by an old tramp at the Nathaniel Derby Soup Kitchen. He said they were what was left over after a great war; a war that took place millions of years ago between good and evil. In my business evil prevails too often, but in his story, they lost. The Dark Ones, as he called them, were cast into some kind of underworld although a few managed to stay behind.

  There were many stories, but I didn’t believe any of them until Jefferson Buck had his face chewed off.

  Jeff had been my partner back in the days when we wore the blues and drove black and whites. A few years later, a series of budget cuts put cops alone in their squad cars. A very dangerous situation for a policeman in a big city when there is no one to watch your back, a situation that followed us even after we both made detective. Oh sure, if we were investigating a homicide, the coroner would be at the crime scene along with a police photographer and one of the guys dusting for prints, or at the scene of a robbery there would normally be a uniform officer in attendance with me, but that was it. Most of the time, like all guys on the force, I was on my own, knocking on doors in some tenement or cold water flat questioning perps, looking for clues in back alleys and speakeasies.

  Detective Jefferson Buck was found face down in the basement of the old Crowley Milner Building. The long forgotten department store had been closed for decades. Most of the windows in the twelve story brick structure had been broken out over the years, leaving it open to the wind. It had become a haven for drifters and street people. The guys from forensic said that Jeff had been dead for several hours before they got there. One of the bums, looking for a safe place to shoot up, found him. His screams carried through the opened windows and an officer on the beat heard the clamor.

  Jeff’s face was completely gone. I had seen something like this before. A couple of years ago I was called to the scene of an accident. A drunk had fallen off of a dumpster and cracked his skull for good. His face had been gnawed away by rats; not a pretty picture, but this was different. Jeff Buck’s features hadn’t been removed by a hundred little fangs like the drunk’s; instead, it looked like it had been done by one size-able bite as if it had been made by a large animal.

  “An alligator,” a young forensic assistant blurted out. His assumption was quickly ruled out. There were rumors of alligators living in the sewers, but in all my years on the force, I had never seen one. Besides, there were several chilling things in addition to Jeff’s condition. His .38 had been discharged…six times. Whatever he ran into down there, he had emptied his Smith & Wesson into it before it took him down.

  Also, there was plenty of blood at the scene, mostly Jeff’s, but there was some that didn’t appear to be his, next to an open storm drain. It was pale, very nearly pink, like veal, giving the impression of whoever this second party was; he must have been very anemic.

  ***

  I went home that night looking forward to cold fried chicken and several belts of Scotch. The cozy thought didn’t last long. The phone rang. I almost let it ring off the hook before I answered it. “What?” I challenged.

  There was no, “Hey how ya doings,” or “long time no sees.” The chief just said, “Get your ass in here. You’re pulling extra duty.”

  I didn’t argue. I knew the old fart had no choice. I should have seen it coming. We had two detectives on extended leave pending investigations, and now with Jeff gone, we were really short-handed. “I’ll be there in a half an hour,” I said and slammed down the receiver.

  Chicken and whiskey weren't a very proper homecoming. Except for the lack of sleep, the station would probably be a better place to hang out. I might be able to catch a few winks in my office. I had been living on my own for quite a while. The wife took the kid and left me three years before, and my old man died when he was sixty, too much booze and too much cholesterol.

  Alimony and a disastrous economy left me broke for the most part. When my dad died, he didn’t have much either. He left me his roll top desk and his 1911 Colt. Dad was a cop, and so was his old man. It runs in the family I guess. I could have sold his desk to an antique dealer and his semi-automatic pistol to a gun collector for a good piece of change, but I liked keeping them around. They reminded me of him. He was a great guy. Once a month I’d get out the furniture polish and give the old roll top a rub down. Then I’d field strip the Colt .45, oil it and replace the loaded clip. It was my way of saying, “Hi Dad, how are you doing up there?”

  My car was parked at the curb in front of my house. It would probably be another quiet evening on my block because Bill, my next door neighbor, who was gainfully employed by Whateley Petroleum and his family were gone. They were on vacation, and Bill had left his tanker truck that he used to refuel service stations, parked in their driveway. I guess some people would have complained about it as an eyesore but there were too few of us living on that street to make a fuss, and I could give a damn.

  ***

  It was midnight. I drove the Chevy towards the precinct. It was supposed to be an unmarked car. It had been painted orange. You could see me coming six blocks away. Purdy, a beat cop, flagged me down. “Your radio work, Inspector?” he asked in a hurried voice.

  “Yeah, what do you need my boy in blue?”

  He leaned in through the window on the passenger side. It was raining outside, and water dripped off the brim of his hat. “A guy’s been murdered across the street.”

  “How do you know he’s been murdered?’

  “There’s blood all over the place,” he answered looking ill. He appeared to be badly shaken.

  “Any perps in custody?” I asked.

  “No, I just got here.”

  “Where’s the body?”

  “In that boarded up store,” he nodded in its direction. “The plywood over the front entrance is missing. He must have wandered in there and got mugged.”

  “You keep the site free of any gawkers, and I’ll call it in.” There are times when I wonder how I ever got to be a detective. I radioed our precinct for an investigative crew and was laughed at.

  “You are on the sc
ene detective,” taunted the voice on the police radio. “Do you need a policeman or do you want us to call your mommy?”

  “No,” I croaked. I was told that the coroner or a forensic official would be there when one could be found.

  Feeling like a piece of crap, I got out of the orange billboard and walked across the street. I was soaking wet before I reached the curb. Inside, Purdy was a safe distance from the corpse shining his flashlight on it.

  “Any onlookers,” I asked.

  “Not in this weather,” he squeaked.

  I took his flashlight and started to examine the body. There was a lot of blood. The vic seemed to be middle-aged, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I needed a closer look. He was face down.

  “Come over here and help me turn him over,” I shouted to Officer Purdy.

  The lanky young policeman hesitated and then approached slowly. “Grab his shoulder while I keep his head from bobbing all over.” We turned the corpse over, and Purdy threw up.

  Looking up at us with bloody empty sockets where his eyes used to be was a head with its face ripped off.

  ***

  Forensics got there an hour and a half later. The preliminary results were the same as Jefferson Buck’s except there were no anemic blood splatters. Poor Purdy was so ill that I sent him across the street to Sallie’s Café for a Bromo. When I left the body in the care of the coroner, I had another rude awakening. Outside the rain had subsided and my car had vanished. Someone had stolen the unmarked car. I went over to Sallies to use the pay phone and get a cup of coffee. I dropped in a nickel. It was very embarrassing to have me, one of the city’s finest, report that his car had been stolen. I told them to get me a black and white because the orange billboard was no more. After all of the cat calls were over, the dispatcher on the other end agreed to send someone for me.

  I hoped it would be a while before they came for me. I wanted to curl up in one of Sallie’s booths with a cup of Joe and take a nap. As my luck would have it that evening, I didn’t even get to drink my coffee because a few minutes later an officer was looking at me from the opened front door. I could see his police cruiser parked at the curb.

  ***

  The sun came up around 5:30 the next morning and I got to watch it from my office window. I still hadn’t slept. The Chief kept me filling out reports until the crack of dawn. It was probably my punishment for losing City Property. I did get to drink a lot of coffee, gallons of it, and it helped to keep me bright eyed and bushy tailed. On the down side, the coffee at the precinct always tasted like worms, and with every disgusting cup, I drank I kept thinking of the coffee I missed at Sallie’s Café, let alone the Scotch and fried chicken along with a good night’s sleep.

  I read forensics’ preliminary report on Jeff’s murder. They hadn’t finished analyzing the pink blood yet. All they knew so far was that it wasn’t human. The crazy thing was that the six rounds that were fired from his service revolver were all over the place instead of one general location. It was as if he was firing wildly or, God forbid, blindly. I didn’t like the looks of it. There could have been another reason for the dispersed shooting pattern, I thought. Maybe there was more than one assailant.

  The papers had already jumped on the story about the two murders from the night before, screaming, “Deranged Serial Killer on the Loose.” How they got it on the street so fast I don’t know, but I knew it would make my boss’s blood boil.

  The ashtray on my desk was filled with butts. I emptied them into the wastebasket and removed a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes from a lower drawer. Just when I was going to light up, I heard the chief shouting for me down the hall. I don’t know why he did that. It was as if he didn’t know how to use the intercom. “Coming Mother” I shouted and ran down the hall to his office.

  ***

  It was one of those lousy tips that cops always get. Some guy reads the paper and thinks he has a clue as to who did it. I got stuck with tracking it down. The Chief got me a black and white with orders to go talk to this fellow. Part of my punishment again, at least I had wheels once more, a squad car.

  Father Monahan lived in the rectory next door to Saint Matthew’s. Both faced Arkham Boulevard. The Priest’s house was a helluva big place. It must have had eight or ten bedrooms. At one time there must have been a half a dozen guys with their collars on backward living in the rectory. Nowadays the neighborhood has gone down the dumper. Saint Matthew’s, on a good day, doesn’t see more than twenty parishioners for Sunday services. The old church can no longer support the priesthood it once held. God seemed to have forsaken this part of the city as well. It probably wouldn’t be long before the Archdiocese shut the place down.

  I was shown to a large parlor, and Father Monahan walked in waving a scrap of dirty paper. “This is what I wanted to show you, my son,” he said without a trace of an Irish accent. I was disappointed. I was hoping for Barry Fitzgerald from Going My Way. Instead, I was looking at a fat middle-aged man that looked like he should be patching potholes on the boulevard instead of preaching from the pulpit.

  “What is it?” I said, trying not to look bored.

  “It is part of a page torn from an old book called the Necro, Necro...something or other.”

  I took it from him. The damn thing stunk to high Heaven. The smell was familiar. Ten years ago the city started its so called “War on Rats.” They covered the town with poisoned pellets. A week later all the back alleys smelled like this piece of paper.

  There was this odd writing all over it. “I can’t read it. It’s in another language.”

  “It is Latin my son.”

  If he called me, “my son” one more time I thought, I’ll belt him. I was pissed that I had come there on some lame brained wild goose chase. “What does it say,” I asked trying to hold my temper.

  Returning the scrap of paper to him, he read aloud, “He that sleeps will come before him comes the sentinel and before the sentinel come the pilots. So goes the pilots, so goes their master, and so goes the master’s Master.”

  Most of it didn’t make sense but all the same, it gave me the shivers, and somehow I knew, deep down, that it had something to do with the case. “This is gibberish. What does this have to do with the two murders last night?”

  “It’s the coming,” he answered slowly as if I was too dumb to follow.

  “The coming, like Jesus and stuff, the second coming?”

  “No, it is the Dark Ones. I think their time is near. The onslaught has started. They have sent their children ahead to prepare the way.” His voice became a suppressed whisper.

  “Children?” I queried.

  “Ethereal puffs of smoke that sometimes solidify and take shape…Pilot Demons,” he answered as if he was reciting something he had read before. “They are like the pilot fish of whales that gather around the gigantic mammal. I fear that they will guide their dark master to the surface of our world.”

  “Demons?” I snapped back not believing my own ears.

  “Pilot Demons, I have seen them.”

  Now I knew the Chief was truly a vindictive person for sending me to this loony bin. “Where did you get this paper,” I asked.

  “From Father Gilvaci, a Jesuit archeologist and an old friend of mine.”

  “Where is he? I want to talk to him.”

  “Buenos Aires”

  “Convenient.”

  The priest held the slip of smelly paper before me. “It is from an ancient text he translated from a notorious book in Catholic circles. The part of the old book that this paper came from describes the rule of a race of monstrous entities that once dominated and ruled our world long before the appearance of man. The “pilots” are a modern rendering of minor entities that acted as servants, heralds, of these beings.”

  “What happened?” I asked, humoring the good father. “Where are these old ones now?”

  “They were expelled from our plane of existence, from our space and time,” he said simply. “But they are always trying to come bac
k.”

  “How?” I countered.

  “There is a terrestrial brother to these Great Old Ones who was always accompanied by those servants I mentioned, hence the title of ‘pilot.’ But when he was hurled into another plane it, unfortunately, created a gap allowing some of those minor servants, these ‘Pilot Demons,’ to penetrate our reality where they continually make attempts to bring their master back here, to earth. Detective, I believe these are the culprits you are seeking.”

  I stared at him in disbelief.

  “You may have this piece of the old book Detective if you think it will help.”

  I was pleased that he didn’t refer to me as one of his offspring again and said, “Thanks, Padre but this thing stinks. I don’t want to put this in my pocket because my other suit is at the cleaners. Can you Xerox it for me?”

  “Certainly,” and he left the room.

  I hung around waiting for the old screwball to return. I figured that rattling around alone in that gigantic ancient house had scrambled some of the Padre’s brains. It was best to humor him and besides, it provided me an opportunity to give the place the once over. A good detective is a snoop.

  For a second, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a bulge in the plaster. I wear bifocals and sometimes when turning my head a certain way my glasses might catch a refracted glare of ambient light or capture a reflection of something in another part of the room, or even excite a retinal after image. Whatever, the lack of sleep was getting to me. What I thought I saw was a protrusion the size of a fist that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Taking long strides, and not taking my eyes off the area, I came within a couple of feet of the spot. There was nothing out of the ordinary. The plaster had been textured, stippled I believe is the word, and looking at it a certain way I saw a face grinning back at me through the gypsum. It was one of those silly things you do, like looking at clouds in the sky and with a slight stretch of the imagination, you see a dog or a cat. Stepping back a few feet my devil in the drywall disappeared. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t conjure up the image again.