Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth

“Not good enough, my man. The storm’s coming. We have to be ready.”

“Then schlep down to Santa Monica and steal... requisition... some more goddamn rolling stock. Rip off an owner’s manual, while you’re at it. These configurations are a joke.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” said Charlie.

Tex gave his commander a salute.

Everyone looked at Leech, then at Charlie for the nod that meant the newcomer should be treated with respect. Chain of command was more rigid here than at Khe Sanh.

All the buggies were painted. At one time, they had been given elaborate psychedelic patterns; then, a policy decision decreed they be redone in sandy desert camouflage. But the first job had been done properly, while the second was botched—vibrant flowers, butterflies and peace-signs shone through the thin diarrhoea-khaki topcoat.

The ranch-house was the basic derelict adobe and wood hacienda. One carelessly flicked roach and the place was an inferno. Round here, they must take pot-shots at safety inspectors.

On the porch was propped a giant fibre-glass golliwog, a fat grinning racial caricature holding up a cone surmounted by a whipped swirl and a red ball cherry. Chocko the Ice Cream Clown had originally been fixed to one of the ‘requisitioned’ buggies. Someone had written ‘PIG’ in lipstick on Chocko’s forehead. Someone else had holed his eyes and cheek with 2.2 rifle bullets. A hand-axe stuck out of his shoulder like a flung tomahawk.

“That’s the Enemy, man,” said Charlie. “Got to Know Your Enemy.”

Leech looked at the fallen idol.

“You don’t like clowns?”

Charlie nodded. Leech thought of his ally, Ronald.

“Chocko’s coming, man,” said Charlie. “We have to be in a state of eternal preparedness. Their world, the dress-up-and-play world, is over. No more movies, no more movie stars. It’s just us, the Family. And Chocko. We’re major players in the coming deluge. Helter Skelter, like in the song. It’s been revealed to me. But you know all that.”

Funnily enough, Leech did.

He had seen the seas again, the seas that would come from the sundered earth. The seventh flood. The last wave.

Charlie would welcome the waters.

He was undecided on the whole water thing. If pushed, he preferred the fire. And he sensed more interesting apocalypses in the offing, stirring in the scatter of McDonald’s boxes and chewed-out bubblegum pop. Still, he saw himself as a public servant; it was down to others to make the choices. Whatever was wanted, he would do his best to deliver.

“Old Lady Marsh don’t make motion pictures any more. No need. Picture Show’s closed. Just some folk don’t know it yet.”

“Chuck offered to be in their movie,” explained Tex. “Said he’d do one of those nude love scenes, man. No dice.”

“That’s not the way it is,” said Charlie, suddenly defensive, furtive. “My thing is the music. I’m going to communicate through my album. Pass on my revelation. Kids groove on records more than movies.”

Tex shrugged. Charlie needed him, so he had a certain license.

Within limits.

Charlie looked back, away from the house. The film company was turning over again. Riff was pretending to chain-whip Junior.

“Something’s got to change,” said Charlie.

“Helter skelter,” said Leech.

Charlie’s eyes shone.

“Yeah,” he said, “you dig.”

* * *

Inside the house, sections were roped off with crudely lettered PELIGROSO signs. Daylight seeped through ill-fitting boards over glassless windows. Everything was slightly damp and salty, as if there’d been rain days ago. The adobe seemed sodden, pulpy. Green moss grew on the floor. A plastic garden hose snaked through the house, pulsing, leading up the main staircase.

“The Old Lady likes to keep the waters flowing.”

Charlie led Leech upstairs.

On the landing, a squat idol sat on an occasional table—a buddha with cephalopod mouth-parts.

“Know that fellow, Mr. Fish?”

“Dagon, God of the Philistines.”

“Score one for the Kwiz Kid. Dagon. That’s one of the names. Old Lady Marsh had this church, way back in the ’40s. Esoteric Order of Dagon. Ever hear of it?”

Leech had.

“She wants me to take it up again, open store-front chapels on all the piers. Not my scene, man. No churches, not this time. I’ve got my own priorities. She thinks infiltration, but I know these are the times for catastrophe. But she’s still a fighter. Janice Marsh. Remember her in Nefertiti?’

They came to a door, kept ajar by the hose.

Away from his Family, Charlie was different. The man never relaxed, but he dropped the Rasputin act, stuttered out thoughts as soon as they sprung to him, kept up a running commentary. He was less a Warrior of the Apocalypse than a Holocaust Hustler, working all the angles, sucking up to whoever might help him. Charlie needed followers, but was desperate also for sponsorship, a break.

Charlie opened the door.

“Miss Marsh,” he said, deferential.

Large, round eyes gleamed inside the dark room.