CHAPTER NINE: SCAPA FLOW
by Josh Reynolds
“Go! Up the steps,” Roland shouted, his pistol booming as he fired at the batrachian forms of their pursuers. Trish needed no encouragement. She led the way toward the surface, moving as fast as she dared on the sea-slick steps.
Mabati stumbled, and she turned to catch his arm. “Keep up, Mabati. We need to get some distance between us and them,” she said, hauling him up and shoving him ahead of her. “Think you can work some of your hocus-pocus when we get up there?”
“I– yes. Yes, but it won’t be enough,” Mabati said. “There are too many of them!”
“Sounds like Roland is doing his best to thin them out,” Trish said, encouragingly. The truth was, everything she’d read about these creatures, and everything she’d seen so far, told her that some of them were definitely bulletproof. She risked a look back and saw that Roland was still backing his way up the steps, but he’d slowed down some. She cursed under her breath and chivvied Mabati the rest of the way up. They’d make a stand at the entrance – maybe they could even get the stone back into place – maybe…
Mabati cried out in warning, and Trish saw a scaly claw plunging down through the opening to grab him by the front of his coat. She tried to hold onto him, but to no avail. He was torn from her grasp and yanked up and out of the pit. Trish shouted to Roland and hurried up the last of the steps, weapon in hand.
She stopped dead when she reached the top of the steps. A hulking Deep One, the size of an industrial vehicle, crouched atop the tumulus, waiting for her. It held Mabati in its massive, flabby paw, and bared its teeth as it caught sight of her. Belatedly, she realized it was the same creature they’d faced on the ferry. Evidently Mabati’s magics hadn’t killed it. She kept her weapon trained on it, though she knew it would do no good. “Are you still alive, Mabati?”
“Y-yes,” he groaned, struggling in the creature’s grip. “For the moment at least.”
“Good,” Trish said. She glanced back down, to see if Roland was close. He reached the top a moment later, hastily reloading his weapon, but froze when he saw the creature waiting for them. To his credit, he finished reloading.
The Deep One shuffled back, its gill slits creaking like bellows, as if to make room for them. Trish and Roland stepped out onto the grass. She could hear the sounds of their pursuers getting closer. She looked at Roland, and he gave a terse shake of his head. He wasn’t planning to abandon Mabati, no matter how much sense it might make. Trish didn’t blame him. Nor did she make any move to run. No, the only sensible option was to let things play out and see where it took them.
Silence fell, save for the not-so-distant rumble of the sea. Contrary to her expectations, Deep Ones didn’t pour out of the pit. Instead, only Pickell emerged, shading his eyes from the dreary light of day. “There is no escape,” he croaked, in a chiding tone. “I know better than most.” He gestured and the giant Deep One dropped Mabati to the ground. Roland helped him to his feet while Trish kept Pickell covered.
“You know,” she began, “I thought the photo we had of you reminded me of something. I’ve heard it called the Innsmouth look. Only you’re not from Innsmouth.”
“There are other places in the world,” Pickell said. “Dunwich, for instance. England, not Massachusetts. The first Dunwich. Dommoc, as it was known when my kin made common cause with a family named Pikewell. They were fishermen, I am told. Only too happy to let the salt into their blood and mingle waters with the sea-folk.” He gestured. “But not Dommoc alone. Orkney, too, and Shetland. There are knuckers in Sussex that go deeper than any imagine, and marl-pits in Lancashire where mermaids wait to be courted by men who understand the glories which are offered to them.”
“This is my fault,” Mabati said. “If I hadn’t helped you, you would not have heard the call of the sea. You would not have changed; your wards…”
Pickell motioned dismissively. “I threw my wards away long ago. They kept me from seeing clearly. From understanding what must be.”
“And what might that be?” Trish asked, trying to keep him talking. The longer he talked, the more time she had to think of a plan. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. Pickell swung his orb-like eyes in her direction.
“The ocean surges, the land resists,” he said. “I thought what I did was right, as you do, but – but we were not the first masters of the world, nor will we be the last. It has been a battleground for longer than mankind has walked upright. Successive waves of colonizers, of invaders, each making war on the other. Humanity cannot resist what is coming… not without allies. Strong allies, who understand the horror that awaits us.”
“The Deep Ones,” Trish said. Pickell nodded.
“They alone value us. They alone can protect us. Man must join them in the embrace of the sea. There is safety in the deep. I understand that now. As will you.”
“Is that what happened to all those missing ship’s crews?” Roland asked. “Were they conscripted – or consumed?”
Pickell fell silent. Trish figured that was answer enough. She looked around. Just Pickell and the big one. Why? What were the others waiting for? Trap, she thought. But not for them. Who, then? “What do you want?”
Pickell blinked. “I have said–”
“No. Now. What do you want now? Here? You got roped in, fine. Every man has his price, even a Foundation agent. Maybe you never had a choice, really. Salt in the blood, right? But you said we were bait. For who?”
“Probably me.”
The words were followed by a gunshot. Pickell staggered, and darkness blossomed on his chest as he slowly toppled backward. Trish turned to see the man from Southampton stalking toward them, a pistol in his hands. Where he’d come from, she couldn’t say. Maybe he’d been there all the time, waiting for them to pop back up.
He was dressed differently than she’d last seen, in a dark uniform-like outfit, and wearing military webbing beneath his trench coat. There was a rifle slung across his back, and grenades hooked to his belt. He paused as the giant Deep One turned towards him with a roar and shouted, “Three rounds rapid, gentlemen. Make them count.”
A fusillade of gunfire erupted from all across the hill as concealed riflemen let loose. The Deep One stumbled, swiping ineffectually at the air. A moment later, Trish heard the distinctive roar of a Browning automatic rifle. Then two – three – four. The Deep One wailed like an injured animal and hunkered down, trying to protect itself, to no avail. Handguns might have struggled to pierce its flesh, but the Brownings chewed through it. The creature threw back its head and uttered a keening cry before collapsing in a bloody heap.
The echoes of the cry took several long moments to fade. As it did so, a dozen men rose from where they’d been sheltering in the lee of the hill. All were dressed similarly to the man from Southampton. He, in turn, holstered his weapon and trudged towards Trish and the others. “Well. Looks like that took care of it. I trust you’re all in one piece. Mr Mabati?”
“I shall live,” Mabati said, clutching his ribs as if they pained him. “And to whom do we owe this expeditious rescue? Not British Intelligence, I think, given your accent. Boston?”
“Close. Kingsport.”
“He’s Foundation,” Trish said, looking the newcomer up and down. She knew that gear. She’d seen it in the files Taylor had let her peruse. It was what the Foundation wore when things got dicey. When it was no longer about concealment, but quarantine. She felt a tingle of unease. She hadn’t been aware that the Foundation had agents like these. They didn’t look like investigators so much as soldiers. The newcomer returned her interest and smiled.
“Agent Spencer Lumley, at your service.”
“You were watching us in Southampton,” Roland said.
“And on the ferry. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I didn’t say thank you,” Roland said, bristling slightly. Lumley’s smile widened.
“I noticed.” He pushed past Trish and looked down at Pickell, who was gasping out his last few moments. “Poor fool.”
“Y– you are the f– fool,” Pickell wheezed. “Took the bait. The way we knew you would.” Lumley blinked and then shot the dying man. Roland took a step towards him, his expression one of shock, but Trish stopped him. Before she could speak, an eerie cry, reminiscent of the Deep One’s dying howl, echoed up from within the tumulus.
“It was a trap,” Trish said, snatching a grenade from Lumley’s belt. “They wanted you to show up.” Without waiting for a reply, she popped the pin and dropped the grenade into the pit. The resulting explosion shook the tumulus and knocked her off her feet.
Moments later, dozens of grotesque shapes rose from the sea and lurched towards the tumulus, emitting eerie cries. There were so many that the sea seemed alive with them. Their cries were echoed from within the hill, and Trish knew that the Deep Ones below were planning to make a rush for the entrance. “Trap,” Trish coughed.
“Do tell,” Lumley said, as he waved several of his men forward. They raced to the edge of the hill closest to the shore and set up a firing line. The others established themselves near the pit. He offered Trish his hand, but she got to her feet without taking it. She studied Lumley’s serene expression. She didn’t trust a man who looked that calm in circumstances like this. There was serenity, and then there was psychosis; sometimes it was hard to tell where the line was.
“You knew,” she said.
“Of course. These things aren’t all that subtle when you get down to it. Once we figured out why Pickell had gone missing, we put two and two together easily enough.” Lumley checked his wristwatch. “I’d duck.”
“What?”
The thunder of artillery swept the shoreline. Deep Ones were scythed apart by the rain of fire, and the shallows turned an inky hue. Trish hunkered down as the bombardment continued for several minutes. Lumley crouched nearby, eyes still on his watch. He held up three fingers and counted down. When he’d finished, the bombardment ceased. Silence reigned, save for the slap of disturbed water.
“What was that?” Roland demanded, gesturing towards the water. He looked angry, shocked. Trish kept her own face studiously blank.
“Naval artillery,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’ve got boats as well.”
“Ships,” Lumley corrected. “Just a favor from our friends in the Royal Navy. I expect Mr Mabati can vouch for their desire to see a cap put on this whole affair.”
A dull crump unsettled the air, as one of Lumley’s men dropped another grenade down into the pit. Trish blinked smoke and dust from her eyes. When her vision cleared, she saw Lumley’s men descending into the tumulus with military briskness.
Lumley watched them go, his expression as placid as before. “I think we can safely say that this is now officially a mopping up operation,” he said. He glanced at Trish. “Anything of value will be catalogued and processed according to Foundation protocols, obviously. But I suspect we can close the books on this particular line of investigation, eh?”
Trish looked at Roland and Mabati. Roland still seemed slightly shellshocked. Mabati looked concerned, like he wasn’t certain what to make of it all. He wasn’t alone in that. She was still trying to figure out what was going on, but she had a feeling they weren’t going to get any answers today. They could press the matter, but they were at a disadvantage here. Worse, they’d been used as stalking horses. That implied they were expendable. She wondered if Lumley would have come down after them, if they hadn’t come up. She pushed the thought aside and squared her shoulders. “What say we leave that up to Commissioner Taylor, huh?” she said, firmly.
Lumley shrugged. “Fine by me. We’re all on the same side here,” he said, placatingly.
Trish didn’t reply. She was too busy listening to the sound of gunfire and screams of things that might once have been human, echoing up from below the earth.
Read or listen to more of Arkham International Season Two: Call of the Cursed Sea.
Read or listen to Arkham International Season One: Shadow of the Drowned City.
