Weirder Shadows Over Innsmouth

The garbage. It had heaped itself around the Fed and, just like it had with the wino, it started to heave and bulge upward. Not another goddam wino!

But it wasn’t. The Fed started to scream. No exaggeration. He screamed. The wind was shrieking around us now, like a banshee, but the Fed’s scream tore right through it. I shuffled back, my gun aimed at the garbage pile. I swear to God it was bunching itself together. Shaping itself into something. And the wind was doing it. Like a potter kneading clay. All that garbage that had come rolling down into the alley was now gathering itself.

And the Fed went on screaming. The garbage shape raised itself. It now looked about the size of a man, hunched over, neck-less, its rounded, incomplete head a massive paper blob on huge shoulders.

I fired twice at it. Trust me, those bullets went right into its guts. But it didn’t make any difference. I stepped back, but my heel came down carelessly on the wino’s discarded bottle. I was over on my back before I knew it, the air punched out of me by the landing, Beretta spinning away. I could just about see the garbage-thing bending over the Fed.

A few seconds later the screaming stopped. And the thing turned round to look for me. I say look for me, but it had no face, no eyes. Like a dried papier-mâché golem gone wrong, it shambled forward, spurred on by the wind, which seemed like it was howling with glee, encouraging its malformed offspring. The contorted arms that reached out for me were wet and dark with the Fed’s blood.

No time to think. Just do. Whatever. Instinct took over.

My left hand was inches from the bottle that had betrayed me. I grabbed it. The limbs of the thing above me were a couple of feet from my face. I was still holding my lighter in my right hand: I stuck it in my teeth. I rolled aside, snatched up some sheets of paper, made crude spills of them and rammed them down the neck of the bottle. Still on my back, I faced the oncoming shape again. I used the lighter to ignite my impromptu touch paper. Please God it was meths or something like it in that bottle.

I shoved the bottle up into where the mouth should have been. Something soft and pulpy gave, like I was punching a bowl of jelly. But the wine bottle stuck firm. I rolled over a few times, just in time to avert the sudden whoosh of fire as the spirits ignited. The mock arms that had been about to grab my face were suddenly beating at the head and chest of my assailant. With all that tinder at its disposal, the fire caught on fast. It crackled and snapped and the shape swung aside, blundering into the mound of debris by the fence, an instant bonfire. I watched as the bulging head dissolved into smoke and the upper torso streamed red fire.

I was on my feet fast, picking up my gun. I would just have a moment to look at the Fed. He was slumped down, but alive. His good arm groped for me. I yanked him to his feet and he almost swung round into the garbage and an early cremation. But I dragged him away. The smoke was coming in dense clouds. There was going to be one helluva conflagration in no time.

I put my arm round the groaning Fed, straining to get him across the alley. I could feel my eyebrows singeing in the ferocious heat. Nothing for it now but to get through the door into the warehouse. We made it across and I yanked at the handle so hard that it snapped off. But the door swung open. I pushed the Fed in, took one last look at the inferno behind me and got the door as near shut as I could.

He grunted, something clutched tightly in his good hand. It was a mobile phone. I prized it loose, but it was thankfully useless, squashed like an empty can, I guess by the paper monstrosity. But that suited me fine: I didn’t want the Fed calling up a swarm of his buddies. I flung the phone aside.

There were stone stairs going up. I flipped my lighter on. It would do. I got the Fed up the first flight, turned a corner and let him slump down.

I held the flame close to his face. There was blood on it. The guy was a real mess. But I couldn’t tell if mâché-man had drawn more blood or spread what was leaking from the gunshot wound.

“Can you hear me?”

His eyes opened, blinking tears, and he nodded.

“Pal, you have to talk to me,” I snapped. “What in hell is going on here?”

As if suddenly coming round to our position, he jerked upright. “Where is it? That thing—”

“Gone up in a blaze of glory,” I told him, waving the lighter.

“There may be more—”

“Not from the alley. It’ll take a fleet of fire wagons to clear it. So what was it? Tell me I’m not going nuts.”

“He sent it. Zeitsheim. He has very strange connections,” the Fed gasped, wincing as more agony lanced through his arm. “He’s protected. For the love of Mike, don’t try going after him, Stone. He’s in this warehouse. But you’ve seen what he can do.”

“So he’s some kind of magician?”

“He has equally dangerous enemies. You work for them. I doubt if you know who they really are.”