First Short Story

  

Soaked

By Chase Johnson

(Thanks to my wife, who is the first line of defense for potential readers and is my awesome co-writer, and for my buddy Marcus, who's feedback convinced me the story was incomplete.)




Charlie stood in front of the orphanage in the rain. Always rain. Sometimes it would just sprinkle, sometimes sheets would come in sideways, but from the moment he’d arrived in the little town of Gull, it’d been raining. It made his investigation miserable. The water would seep into everything; down his coat sleeves, under his official police parka to drip down the bill of his cap, and even his socks. By the end of the day his toes looked like raisins. Audrey Harper, the alleged suicide, was the reason his boss had sent him to the ass end of the coast, and he just wanted to finish and go home. In the orphanage was the last of three eye-witnesses. So far both testimonies had corroborated the official story, that of a suicide. One more night and he would be back in the city. Back to his life. Until then, it was rain.

Charlie checked his cell phone; three in the afternoon. Even if he didn’t get service out here, at least the clock worked. He was a half hour early, something he always strived to be as a detective. For anyone trying to hide something, arriving early put them on their heels. He knocked on the orphanage door again, admiring the craftsmanship of the brass knocker--the mouth of a fish.

The local cop who’d been assigned to escort Charlie around town was tearing at a salami, staring dead-eyed out towards the dock across the street. People nicknamed him Munch, and it wasn’t hard for Charlie to figure out why. Even for Charlie, who spent most of his time at his desk working hard not to work. His coworkers, when they thought he wasn’t listening, called him Chokin’ Charlie. Munch didn’t seem to mind his nickname.

The door cracked open, interrupting his thoughts. A small face stared out from behind it, a little boy who ran away when Charlie said, “Um.” It wasn’t long before another person arrived to open the door further, a young woman wiping her hands on her pants.

“Can we help you?” She asked

Munch’s mouth hung open longer than was necessary to take another bite. The woman was young and petite, scarred under the chin but a pleasant face, and Munch wasn’t hiding his interest. Charlie sneered a little. Munch gave off a creepy vibe, not a good look for an officer. His eyes were set apart farther than normal, and his mouth was wide like a toad’s. Right now those wide set eyes stared at the woman’s breasts, outlined nicely under a turtleneck. Charlie was suspicious of nepotism.

“What’s he doing here?” The woman asked.

“He’s my ride,” Charlie said. “May I come in?”

She looked between them and said, “You can. Munch, you ain’t allowed in here. You know that.”

Munch returned to his salami. Stared out to sea again. The end of the dock was obscured in a washed out gray. Miles offshore, lightning was occasionally visible, but it was the only chaos in an apathetic downpour. Even the ocean was still, all the boats moored were unmoving, like an old-timey photograph. Charlie looked out to the gray ocean also, but was bored immediately.

Stepping inside the orphanage was like entering another century. Antique candelabras lined the hallway, though no candle had been lit in ages. Charlie removed his hat. It felt like the right thing to do. The hallway connecting the front door split; the right side a throat that brought guests to the back of the house, while a cracked banister meandered up to a balcony overlooking the front door. He followed the woman down the hallway. The sound of rolling pebbles on the roof outside, along with the ticking of an old grandfather clock were the only noises, their steps muffled by thick carpet. Charlie studied a painting hanging on the wall. Two...monsters looked like they were engaged in combat amid a stormy ocean, a sea serpent and a giant...toad, maybe? It’s tongue lashed out wildly into the sky as it fell, the sea monster towering over it, and in the corner, almost unnoticeable, were naked women dancing around a fire. Strange painting for an orphanage, thought Charlie.

She stopped at the end of the hallway and motioned him through a kitchen doorway. A different woman sat preparing a meal, whittling away at potatoes, and wiped her hands on her apron. The matron of the house, a lithe elderly woman with strong cheekbones, her hair in a tight bun, addressed Charlie as he entered.

“Were you raised in a barn?” She asked, her chin raised.

“I’m sorry?” He straightened, reminded of his own mother. He lifted his boots, caked with mud, checked them over and realized he’d left footprints on the old carpet.

She pointed to Charlie’s hat. “You take off your hat and forget your shoes?”

“Oh.” He reached down to untie the laces of his boots. “Apologies, ma’am.”

‘Bah, Too late now, detective.” She held out her hand and Charlie shook it. “I am Mildred, some call me Millie. The boy is this way.” All business.

Before they could leave, however, the young woman stopped them. “Millie, the faucet won’t shut off again. It just keeps running.” In the sink were peeled potatoes, floating in a bath now fed by a slow drip.

“Want me to take a look at it?” Charlie asked.

Both women gave him a skeptical glance, but Mildred stretched out a hand and said, “If you think you can help.”

While he waited for tools, he noticed the marine theme on the walls. One in particular he found amusing--a merman. When he asked about it, the woman snorted a laugh and told him it was an image of Dagon, the sea god.

“There is a painting out there with two sea monsters.” He paused, turning to look through the wall where he thought the painting was. “What’s all that about?”

Mildred walked in, holding a tool box. “That’s a picture of Dagon and Gulgoa, the sea god and mud god, when Dagon threw Gulgoa into the Pit and trapped him beneath the earth. It’s an old Native American myth to explain the cave under the cannery.”

Charlie scratched his chin. “Huh...don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

She handed him the tool box, and he went to work. It took him about fifteen minutes and some Vaseline, but when he was finished the faucet no longer dripped. Charlie, wiping his hands off, said, “That’s only a temporary fix. You’ll need a new O ring, eventually.”

“Police academy train you as a plumber, too?” Mildred asked.

“Nah. Used to help my dad back in the day.”

“Everyone serves.” She said, prompting Charlie to look at the girl for the proper reaction.

When he was ready, Mildred led him to the bottom of the staircase and stopped. She yelled a name. “Arthur!” A few moments later the small boy who had answered the door peeked over the balcony. “Arthur. Stop skulking and come down here. This man wants to speak to you.”

Arthur stuck his head through the balusters. “‘Bout what?”

“‘Bout what? ‘Bout what’ll happen if you don’t come down this instant, young man.”

Arthur pulled his head free, ears folding backwards against the bars, and awkwardly descended one step at a time, gripping the guardrail the entire way. He never lifted his head, even after he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Charlie wasn’t sure how to begin. He’d never taken the statement of a child before. He cleared his throat. “How ya doin’ bud?” Arthur continued to stare at the floor. “They tell me you like swimming. Is that true?” Arthur raised his eyes for an instant, and turned away just as quickly. Charlie asked Mildred if there was somewhere they could sit down.

“O’course. You can have a seat in the den. Can I bring you tea?”

Charlie accepted the offer with a smile, afraid to deny her hospitality. After she disappeared into the kitchen, he and Arthur went to the den and sat across from each other, separated by a well used coffee table. Arthur took the couch all to himself, having to jump up to sit, his legs too short to touch the floor, and Charlie sat in a high backed chair. The girl stood in the hallway.

“So...Arthur, is it?” The boy nodded, never looking up. Charlie asked, “Do you know why I’m here?”

Arthur nodded again, pausing before he spoke. “You’re here because of Mom.”

Charlie nodded. “That’s right.” The two of them sat a moment, Charlie drumming his fingers on his knee, and Arthur swinging his feet, tiny hands gripping the edge of the couch. Charlie wasn’t sure how to ease into the question, so he finally said, “I’m here because some people want to know what happened to your mom...you know...when she died. Can you tell me what happened?”

Arthur’s legs stopped swinging. The little boy looked Charlie in the eye and opened his mouth, ready to say something, when Mildred swept into the room holding two cups of tea and coasters.

“Please use the coasters. That table has enough spots as it is.”

On that Charlie could agree. He thanked Mildred and lifted the cup of tea, taking a sip. The boy wouldn’t touch his, instead looking back and forth between Mildred, the detective, and the table. Mouth open, Arthur licked his lips, took one look at the tea, and finally said, “I don’t wanna talk about it.” Then he ran out the den and up the stairs, skipping as many as his little legs would allow. Charlie thought he heard the boy mumble something about being a good boy, but their conversation was over, which meant the investigation was over, and for which Charlie was relieved.

“You’ll forgive him, officer. The boy has been through quite an ordeal. If you want I can fetch him again.” She strained a smile.

Charlie rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am. The testimony from the boat crew should be enough.”

Mildred walked with him to the door, where Charlie put his hat back on. They said their goodbyes, the orphanage staff polite as ever, and Charlie ran through the rain to the squad car. Munch took his time, protecting his salami under his rain slicker, and heaved himself into the driver’s seat, the whole car rocking from the effort. Before they drove away, the girl with the scarred face was knocking on Charlie’s window, holding a jacket over her head. Charlie had been halfway to his pistol by the time he realized what was happening. He cracked the window enough so that he could hear.

“Yes ma’am?”

Her eyes flitted between Munch and him, and she said in a hushed voice, “I need to speak with you privately. Before you leave, meet me at your hotel lobby tonight, at 10 o’clock.”

Charlie considered lying and telling her he was married, but decided on a different approach. “I’m sorry miss, but my investigation is through and I need to get back to the city. If you need to talk to the police I can give you the number to--”

“I don’t--” She glanced at Munch. “I need to speak with you. Only you. Meet me in the lobby at ten.” Then she bounded back to the front porch of the orphanage, covering herself with her jacket, and ducked inside.

Munch waited to press the gas until Charlie signaled him to drive. The blinker clicked as they gently pulled out into the empty street, the windshield wipers humming a rhythm across the glass. At the station, a tiny one room office connected to a garage, Charlie wrote up his report and set one on the local Chief’s desk, emailing another to his sergeant in the city. The station had two desks, one for the Chief and one for Munch. The computers at the station still used Windows 2000, and were as slow as a snail going uphill, but Charlie hacked away at office work while Munch snored at his desk, feet on the table and hat covering his eyes. It was the only time Charlie saw him not eating. By the time he’d collected his hat and raincoat to step out the door, the only two people left in the building were Munch and an old janitor, focused entirely on his floor buffer. The janitor was portly, wore a camelback which he constantly sipped from, and had headphones covering his ears but the cord dangling at his side plugged into nothing. These people were different, Charlie thought. Walking out, he left Munch sleeping at his desk and locked the doors, though he doubted anyone in this town would break in. The evidence locker was actually a locker, like they’d borrowed it from the local high school basketball team, and empty, and the whole town was asleep after eight.

The streets were mostly dark, interrupted by two street lamps--the half that worked. Asphalt glistened from the rare break in the weather, and Charlie began his walk to the hotel, no more than a remodeled house. It was obvious the kitchen had been repurposed into an office, though after two days Charlie had never seen anyone sitting in it. The room was nice enough, a small bedroom packed with a twin bed and a dresser, and an old television with a VHS player built in bolted to the wall. No WiFi. Technology in this town stopped in 1999.

At the only stop light along the main street, he pressed the “walk” button and waited. A solitary car was parked across the street, an orange abandoned vehicle sticker in the windshield. Grass had grown six inches above the rear bumper. When the light changed, Charlie crossed to a gas station, the only business still open. He went to the back, grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey out of the cooler, and approached the register. A girl, barely in her teens, sat on a stool smacking gum.

“How are you doing, mister?”

“A little too sober.” Charlie mumbled.

“A little what?”

“Nothin’. How much for this?” He asked, pointing to the bottle.

After punching his order into the register, she said. “Eight ninety-five, mister. You having a party?” Charlie ignored the fact that she had not asked him for his ID. Another time and he might have said something, but today he just wanted to get back to his hotel and drink himself to sleep. He mumbled a thank you and stepped out the door, a bell ringing his exit. His head was down, stuffing the change from his purchase back into his wallet, when he ran into another man and dropped his whiskey onto the concrete, shattering the glass bottle.

Charlie stared for a moment at the ground, and brought his head up slow, to eye the man who’d run into him--the only person in the entire town not at home. Munch. Eating a sandwich now and looking at the scattered mess of glass and alcohol. He pointed, “You dropped something.”

“Yeah, no shit Munch. What are you doing here?” He looked around for a broom.

“Chief said follow you.”

He almost forgot how stupid the last two days had been, riding around with this inbred genius. After walking back to the small cashier and requesting a broom, he swept up the broken glass as well as he could and returned the dustpan behind the register, where the girl sat painting her nails. Before he left she asked if he wanted another bottle, but Charlie just sighed, glanced out the door at Munch, and shook his head.

There was a day, before the third rejection letter from the Bureau, that his liver was in good shape. He’d wake up and run two miles, had weights in the garage, and walked around with a shaker for his whey protein. He was an avid reader, and often doled out advice to people older than him based on the most recent book he’d read. Remembering made him sick, and the alcohol helped him forget. He used to be young, married, and positive...now people called him Chokin’ Charlie behind his back. He walked to his hotel sober and in the rain. His tail wasn’t far behind.

Several steps into another cold shower, soaking wet again, Charlie turned on Munch, practically yelling over the downpour, “Why are you following me?” He wanted to add more colorful language, but didn’t think Munch would appreciate it in the way he intended.

“Because Chief said--”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean all the way to my room, Munch. It’s almost nine o’clock at night. Go home.”

The chubby man didn’t say anything, but also didn’t turn around. They walked for a mile in the rain, passing the old Gull Cannery, a building too old to die and somehow the town’s primary source of income. Charlie had been told that despite the shoddily repaired windows and the black grease around the edges of the roof that had dripped and faded for decades, it was still in business. It was also the home of a giant toad god, apparently. Just the kind of sensationalist fare one would expect to find in a small town desperate to bring the townies in.

Dopey footsteps followed Charlie all the way to his hotel, where Munch parked himself at the door. Watching from his bedroom window, Charlie shook his head. He wondered if the man would have followed him over a cliff if he’d jumped.

Two hours went by. He turned on the TV on and attempted to fall asleep to the sounds of late night television, but couldn’t stop thinking about the little boy at the orphanage. Before the old woman entered, he looked ready to say something and changed his mind. And of course there was the girl who had stopped him at his car...what time did she ask him to meet her? He checked his phone again.

The laugh track from reruns on TV pulled Charlie from his thoughts. He folded his fingers behind his head, laid back and looked at the ceiling. Without alcohol, it would be too hard to sleep. He called a taxi. It was three hours back to the city, but at least he’d sleep in his own bed. Slowly, he packed up his things--extra clothes, toothbrush, 1000 lumens flashlight, extra magazines to his Glock 19, and a tactical knife his ex-wife had bought him for Christmas one year, back when the whole thing was still rosy--and stuffed it all into his black duffel bag. It was the same bag he’d planned on bringing with him to Quantico. He closed the door as quietly as its squeaky hinges would allow, and gently padded down the steps to the door. The time on his phone said eleven o’clock. It would be awhile before the driver arrived, so he sat on a bench at the bottom of the stairs, and waited.

His butt hadn’t even touched the seat when he heard, “I’ve been waiting an hour.”

Charlie spun around, looking for the voice. The young woman from before. “You?”

“I told you ten o’clock.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I said I needed to talk to you!” She glanced outside. Charlie did too, and his stomach tightened seeing Munch still standing there.

“Oh for god’s sake, he’s still here? Doesn’t he get bored?” Charlie stretched his neck to see what the man was doing, looking for what kind of mobile game kept him busy, but his hands were empty. He was as motionless as a gargoyle.

“Please, can we talk now? Preferably in your room?”

The woman touched him on the shoulder lightly, but Charlie wasn’t interested. “Listen ma’am. My taxi is almost here and I’m not paying extra for him to sit around. We can talk down here.”

Her face lost color. “You called someone to pick you up?”

“Yeah. You’ve heard of taxis, right?”

She started pacing.

“He just texted me, said he’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

She stopped pacing. “Your room. Now.”

She marched up the stairs, not waiting to see if Charlie would follow. He stood at the foot of the stairs a moment, his hand on the railing, then walked out the back door under the porch light, almost running into Munch again. The officer turned his fat head towards Charlie, stared for a moment, and took a bite of beef jerky. It was raining again, water dripping off his face, but Munch was unbothered. Charlie grumbled, turned and shut the door. On his way up the stairs he muttered, “These people are nuts.”

In his room, she pulled his dresser out and searching for something behind it. She went to the closet while Charlie followed her, confused, and eventually found something behind his nightstand; a black cord with a microphone on one end. She put a finger to her mouth, stopping Charlie before he could ask what was going on, and pushed past him into the bathroom, set the wire down and turned on the shower. Charlie had many questions.

“What’s going on? What was that? Why did it look like there was a microphone in my room?” She brought a finger to her lips again, ending his interrogation.

“Keep your voice down. They might still be able to pick up our voices. My name is Liz Harper.”

Harper. It only took a moment for him to connect the dots. “Liz Harper. You’re Audrey’s sister.”

She nodded. “Yes. Audrey and I moved here thirty years ago.”

Thirty years? Charlie furrowed his brow. Liz must have been older than she looked.

“So? What does that have to do with a mic behind my nightstand?”

Liz closed the door. “My sister was murdered, detective--”

“Charlie. You can call me Charlie.”

“Charlie.” She nodded. “It wasn’t a suicide.”

Charlie shrugged. “Is there evidence for this? Because both of my witnesses say they saw her jump from the cannery and into the rocks, and that’s where her body was found.”

“She didn’t jump from the cannery.” Liz looked out the window, watching the officer downstairs. “Someone killed her, and I think it was the man who escorted you to the orphanage today.”

Charlie shook his head. “That’s a heavy claim, Miss Harper. Again, you’re going to need evidence.”

Liz paused, looked out the window towards the ocean. “You think you were sent here to investigate a suicide. Did you look at the body?”

He said the next words carefully. “...I did. They said she jumped off the roof of the cannery head first, landed and broke her neck. Her trauma was typical for someone who jumped from a large height.”

“I saw her body, detective...Charlie. There was nothing left of her face.”

“The waves can do that.”

She was quiet for a while, biting her fingernails. It was obvious she was afraid to say the next part, but she did anyway. “You don’t live here. You don’t know anything about these people...about Mildred or...the people she calls her sisters. You see a sculpture and think it’s a merman, but you have no idea what’s in this town, what kind of people you’re taking statements from. They’ll do anything to protect each other.” She was getting a little too close for Charlie’s comfort. “Munch is a monster, and Mildred hated Audrey. You come here and just take everyone’s word that it was a suicide, but I’ve lived here thirty years. I know these people.”

Charlie shrugged. “I’m sorry Liz, but that won’t be enough for anyone to hear your case. It’s true, I don’t know these people, but that’s not what I get paid to do. I look at the evidence, and the evidence says an emotionally distant single woman selfishly left her son to fend for himself in life. Sometimes that’s just the way it is. Again,” His voice softened. “I’m sorry.” He turned to walk out the door.

“Why do you think your Chief sent you?” She called after him. “Why you and nobody else?”

He paused on the stairs. “Because I do my job. I try not to get involved.” The answer was rote, one that normally made him feel good about himself, but this time caused him to trail off the end of the sentence.

“Right.” She whispered, following him to the stairs. “You don’t ask questions. You do your job. And it probably had something to do with a failure early in your career, right? And your boss put in a good word for you? And you got a promotion anyway? Now you don’t want to disappoint him, so you just do what he says. Does that sound familiar?”

Charlie was hit in the gut. How could this girl know anything about his rejection from the Bureau? Or that his chief recommended him for detective? “That probably describes a thousand detectives.” He said.

“Almost thirty years ago, just after Audrey and I arrived, a woman committed suicide, and the detective sent to investigate was the same as you. Middle aged. Didn’t ask too many questions. Just wanted the official story and to be done as soon as possible. He retired about ten years ago.”

Probably the same year Charlie was hired, he realized. He shook his head,trying to shake out the conspiracies. “So...what? The chief trusted both of us and I’m here to do my job. I’m sorry Miss Harper, but your evidence is weak, and I’ve got other things to do.” He made to leave, but paused at the steps, turned over his shoulder and said, “I hope you and your nephew can have a normal life after this.”

The phone by the front “desk” rang. Charlie walked down to answer.

“Hello?”

Static covered the voice that came through. “Yeah...is this...Morgan?”

“Charlie is fine.”

“Hello?” Said the voice through more static. “...Mr. Morgan?” The cell service here was a joke.

“Everything’s fine. I’ll be out in two minutes.” The call ended.

Charlie set the old phone back in its cradle. Liz ran to the window, watching as the driver exited with an umbrella and walked to the door. She yelled downstairs, “Charlie! Call him back!”

Charlie told her, “I’m going home Liz.” Then he walked out the back door.

The noise inside the house went from a dull hum to a drum solo, another downpour filling the already saturated earth. That part his brain could handle, but what he saw in the dark made no sense. Rain came down in sheets, causing a reflection from the porch light that created a shimmering waterfall. Everything else was a graphite sketch, and pulling details was slow. It looked like a man made out of two pairs of legs, one stacked on the other, was standing next to the silver taxi. There was a grinding, crunching sound just above the steady ding...ding...ding of an open car door. He stepped forward. It was two separate people. The pair of legs on the bottom of the body belonged to Munch, and the other pair likely belonged to Charlie’s driver, squeaky clean Keds flopping and swaying to a curious rhythm. Was Munch shoving the man into a trash can? Charlie wondered. No. Munch was eating the man, his jaw disproportionate to his body, the size of a killer whale’s, his impressive gut engorged and stretched to fit the man. Dark liquid ran down Munch’s oversized chin, and the mutated cop had a mouth full of hundreds of teeth, so that even his lip was embedded with them, like dice or huge grains of salt rolling on a pillow of flesh. Munch’s plump hands pulled the legs in, cracking them at the knee and bending them to fit. Tendons snapped. Ankle bones ground against each other, and Charlie lost it.

With reflexes honed from years of practice, he pulled his pistol from its holster and fired. Seventeen rounds finding their mark. Blood and teeth exploded from the wounds after the tenth shot, splattering into the flooded ground. He shot Munch until the slide from his gun locked back, smoke snaking from the barrel. Charlie wanted more violence, wanted to unload another magazine, finding an anger and revulsion he didn’t even know existed, and realized that as he fired, he had stepped nearer and nearer toward the monster that was Munch. Its jaw hung from the joint, the broken rim of a laundry basket, and had split in two after Charlie’s onslaught.

Water dripped into his eyes, and he wiped it away with a cold hand. He’d never fired his weapon outside the range before. This was the first...thing Charlie had ever used his weapon on. He just stood there, in the deluge, studying the dead bodies. Somewhere a distant clap of thunder sounded, or maybe close. His ears were ringing, his sight coming back down from its tunnel vision. He thought he heard the waves break along the coastline, when Munch’s fingers twitched. It was difficult to see in the light, but Charlie was certain. Probably cadaveric spasms. But again they twitched. Then both hands flexed, slow as a chameleon’s. When the feet started twitching, Charlie decided Munch wasn’t dead enough. He walked back to the door to grab the heaviest object he could find in the hotel, and realized he was facing Liz. She looked at him grimly.

“We need to go. Now.” She said. Without waiting for him to respond, she pushed past him, giving the pile of flesh and body parts that was Munch plenty of room, and landed in the driver’s seat of Charlie’s taxi, a silver Prius. She yelled at Charlie again. “Now detective!”

Munch’s hand turned down and plump fingers gripped the turf. While Charlie watched, unable to move, something soft hit him in the head and he jumped, instinctively grabbing the spot that was hit. A tapioca lump was at his feet. “What the hell…” He bent to inspect it, and it flipped and croaked at him. A toad. It croaked again, and bit Charlie’s heel. The animal was too small to do much damage, but in anger Charlie crushed it with his boot, and Munch made a gurgling noise.

Liz practically screamed. “NOW Charlie! We have to go!” She revved the car’s little engine, hardly a buzz over the rain, and Charlie shook himself out of it. He jogged over to the passenger door, landing in the seat with an oomf. The squall outside hushed after he shut his door, the Prius tires spinning as fast as Charlie’s mind was racing. Reaching into his duffel bag, he pulled out all the extra magazines and put them into his jacket pockets, loaded a fresh one into his pistol, pulled back the slide and holstered his weapon. Then he grabbed the flashlight and knife, and tossed his clothes in the back seat. Finally he could ask questions.

“What the fuck was that?!” He yelled, mostly to the backseat, watching the twitchy body of Munch get smaller through the rear windshield. He didn’t take his eye off the back porch light, or the thing he’d emptied an entire clip into.

“Munch is a monster.” Liz said. “I told you.”

“I didn’t think you meant fucking literally.”

Something heavy struck the windshield, and Charlie spun around to face it, gripping the dash, knuckles white. Liz was unaffected. Then another, like people were throwing footballs at them, hit the car’s roof. Something careened off the mirror and folded it against the door. He craned his neck to look up towards the sky, seeing only darkness and infinite drops reflecting off the headlights. Finally another tapioca lump landed on the windshield and stuck. Another toad. It croaked at them and was hit by the windshield wipers, shoving it off into the darkness.

“Do you read the Bible Mr. Morgan?” Liz asked.

“The Bible?”

“Do you know about the twelve plagues of Egypt?”

Charlie remained silent, listening to the occasional thunt of amphibians smacking the car as Liz did her best to hit every single one.

“Maybe in Sunday school, a long time ago.” He said, checking his gun again, spinning around in his seat to check on Munch. But Munch was gone.

“Munch’s body.” He whispered, mostly to himself.

“Yeah, he’s gone.” Nodded Liz. “It’s impossible to kill the offspring of Gulgoa in the rain.”

Charlie didn’t know where to start asking questions. Instead he was silent as Liz careened along a back road through New England forests, everything a dark, wet mess. Even the road, covered in toads or frogs, was difficult to set apart from the background, but Liz had obviously navigated this before. She hugged each curve with expertise, probably having practiced at some point.

“What are the offspring of Gulgoa?” Charlie asked, finally.

“They’re half-human, half-demon monsters that Mildred creates during a special ceremony. All the men in town are what Mildred calls ‘offspring of Gulgoa’. She says Gulgoa is an ancient demon that found its way here at some point, on a Spanish ship or with ancient Phoenecians. I have no idea what he looks like, but Mildred calls him the mud god, and he’s represented as a giant toad demon.”

Charlie snorted. He couldn’t help himself. “A demon?”.

Liz didn’t take her eyes off the road. “You saw Munch. You saw what he was doing. Did that look normal?”

Charlie had been putting together an explanation since he saw the whole thing play out in front of him. The best he could come up with was that he shot a man for stuffing another person in a trash can. “But a demon?”

“If you have another explanation, I’d love to hear it.”

Charlie was quiet, replaying the moment when he shot Munch. It was dark, and his brain would only give him a picture of things he thought were rational, and then completely shut down. “It was weird. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

“And the frogs falling from the sky?”

That was weird too, but Charlie was quiet. Finally he asked, “You said earlier that you think Munch killed your sister, but that it was Mildred who ordered it. Why?”

“Because Mildred hated my sister, and used Munch to kill her.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Mildred controls them, the children of Gulgoa. She controls the demon sealed underground in the cannery which gives her power over them. That’s why Munch followed you all the way to your room. He wasn’t escorting you. He was there to make sure you didn’t help anyone.”

“There were two in the painting.” Charlie said. “Right?”

“Yes. Dagon is the other one.”

“So what the hell is Dagon?”

“Long story.”

He listened to the angry buzzing of the car’s engine until Liz slowed down. In front of them was the orphanage. It sat alone on a hill overlooking the ocean, the only light from a floodlight on a detached garage, sitting lower on the hill. A porch swing rocked with the wind and rain. Weather battered the old building, but like all the other buildings in Gull, it was as deceptively sturdy despite its age.

Charlie had been trying to use his phone to call in backup, but it was useless. No bars, no service. Stuck in 1999. He only looked up when the engine of the Prius shut down and the battery took over, and they came to a stop just in front of the driveway.

“Liz?” He looked at her, a little angry. “What are we doing here? We need to get somewhere with a working phone. Some place that is preferably not in this town.”

“We will. But I can’t leave Arthur.”

“Arthur? I need to tell my Chief about this. I promise we’ll come back for him.”

“No.” She said, opening her door and running, body low, up to the front door of the building, around the pool of light cast by the garage.

One of Charlie’s veins almost burst. “Liz!” He hissed to no one. Fifteen minutes went by, then twenty, until finally he got out of the car and walked to the driver’s side, the crunch of gravel under his feet. The door handle was a cool reassurance in his hand that home was only a gas pedal away, and he stood a moment while the rain soaked into his clothes for the hundredth time. He was so done with this town. With rain. With the falling frogs. He didn’t need this anymore.

“Just go home, detective.”

The voice was such a surprise Charlie pulled his gun, though only resting his finger on the trigger guard. He squinted into the darkness, trying to make out who was speaking. The shape of an old woman stepped into view, high cheekbones lit from below by the car’s brake lights. It was the woman who ran the orphanage...what was her name?

“Mildred?” He asked loudly, out into the dark, cocking his head. “What are you doing out here?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” she said, unmoving, water pouring over her eyelids and down her nose. Her normally tight bun had been released, and gray hair fell past her shoulders in wiry threads. Something was wrong with her eyes, Charlie thought. They looked gray and cloudy, like she had cataracts. And when she blinked…

“Listen, Mildred. You should go home. Lock your doors. Tonight could be a dangerous night to wander around.” He dropped his gun, but kept an eye on her.

Shapes in the darkness shifted around Mildred. Other people, Charlie saw. Forty, maybe fifty people. No. Fifty women. Mildred lifted her chin to deliver the next few words. “Tonight is dangerous, but not for us. Dagon protects us.”

Charlie shook his head. These people were crazy. “Terrific.” He pointed to the steering wheel inside the vehicle. “I’m just gonna go, then.”

“Of course, it is already too late to help the boy.”

The boy...Arthur? What did she mean?

Charlie turned around to look at the dark silhouette of the orphanage, then back to Mildred, her posse mostly hidden in darkness. “What’s Arthur got to do with this?” Mildred smiled, the lines at the edges of her lips stretching to reveal gray teeth. She was holding her gnarled hands in front of her, water flowing in rivulets over weathered knuckles. And when she blinked, her eyelids flicked across instead of down, Charlie was sure of it.

“He’s meant to serve, as well. The mud god waits for him.”

He didn’t hear Liz approach, and jumped when she yelled over his shoulder. “What have you done with him, Milly! Tell me where he is, or I swear to god I’ll--”

Mildred spread out her hands. “Your god is waiting for you too, sister.”

More shapes approached from the darkness, through the downpour, shuffling stones whose eyes reflected the light from the car. They waddled, making gurgling and burping noises. Charlie squinted, watching one shape in particular.

“Munch?” Then quieter, “How in the hell…”

The police officer turned monster still had his uniform on, but he no longer fit into it, the fabric torn around the neck. The shirt was untucked, and underneath was a tapioca belly covered in gray spots. His face barely resembled human anymore, the mouth stretching down into the man’s shoulders, the head had melted into place like a block of butter. And Munch was twice his original size. Charlie raised his gun arm and spoke in a low voice to Liz.

“Liz...get in the car.”

She did, keeping her eye on the shuffling monstrosities at the edge of the circle of women. Charlie saw the janitor in there, his headphones still connected to nothing. They were getting closer, and Munch the closest. When he was a few car lengths away, and had moved beyond Mildred, Charlie gripped the pistol firmly with his right hand, and felt for the driver’s side door with the other.

“Stay where you are, Munch!”

It only took a moment. Charlie glanced at the driver’s seat, now soaked with a spreading dark spot, when he felt an intense burning in his right hand. The gun hand. When he looked back, something boiled and writhed and twisted about his arm, red pustules and gray lumps covering what Charlie believed a snake attempting to strangle him. It pulled him to the ground, and suddenly he was sliding over the grass, tiny blades whipping at his face. He spun and dug his heels into the sandy ground, catching himself, and pulled against the snake tugging on his arm as best he could, tracking it to its source. Munch’s mouth gaped wide, the red and pink and gray snake coming from the man’s mouth. He saw the rows of teeth again, and for the first time since they’d met, Munch looked happy.

His wrist numb, Charlie gripped the gun tighter, fingers searching for the trigger, pushing his way through flesh and slime. Finding it, he pulled, releasing an explosion and the smell of nitrates and sulfur. The tongue immediately released, and Munch flopped backward. But Charlie’s gun hand was still numb. He’d lost the gun, and when he looked down he saw that the tongue had cut him, shredding his rain jacket. Blood poured from invisible wounds, but he ignored them and rushed the car door. Inside, he slammed it and shifted the little car in reverse, not concerning himself with who was behind him, driving maniacally and one handed. The tires spun and they were back on the road, people and others letting them pass. Charlie thought it was strange how easy they moved out of the way, letting them go. When he was comfortably down the road, he felt a sharp pain searing through his arm. He hissed.

“You alright?” Liz’s voice was soft.

Charlie grunted and straightened his back. “I’ll be fine.”

As they approached a fork, she said, “Turn here.”

“Here? That’ll take us back to town.”

“I know. Arthur is at the cannery. It’s the only place they would take him.”

Arthur. Her face was set. “If you don’t come with me I’ll go myself, but I’m not leaving him.”

Charlie slowed down and pulled the car over, fields of tall grass on either side of the road. For a moment he said nothing, listening only to the sprinkling of rain on the car’s roof. He flexed his left hand on the steering wheel, his other arm cradled gently against his body.

“Before we go to the cannery, you need to explain a few things.”

She nodded.

“Tell me what’s going on.” He pointed to his bleeding arm. “The thing that did this…how do we kill it?”

“There are a hundred monsters like Munch. We don’t need to kill it. We need to release the demon Gulgoa. Release Gulgoa, and we set those things free.”

“And you think a bunch of free toad monsters is better than toad monsters controlled by Mildred?”

“To rescue Arthur, yes. I think it’s the only way.”

Mildred. Did she really have so much power? “Your sister knew about Arthur, I suppose. She knew that eventually Arthur would be sacrificed to this...Gulgoa demon?”

“Yes.”

“And Mildred killed her for it?”

“And for other reasons.” Liz said, watching the numbers change on the Prius’ clock. “Mildred had Munch bash my sister’s head against the rocks until she was dead, because she was jealous.”

“Jealous?” Charlie remembered a picture of Audrey and Arthur, given to him before he was sent on this investigation. She was pretty. “Why didn’t your sister ever run away? The boy is five years old. Isn’t that enough time to hatch a plan and escape?”

“She tried, but it’s not that easy.”

“Why not? It’s not like this is an isolated desert community. There are plenty of small towns along the coast. Why not go to one of them.”

“Dagon would find us.”

Charlie leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t know what to make of this, all these gods and rituals and monsters--it was too much. He felt his arm, numb in places, and wondered how much blood he’d lost.

“I’m sorry I involved you.” She said. “But you’re the only person I knew who would help me save my nephew. The rest of the women here believe in Mildred. They believe in Dagon.”

Charlie opened an eye. “You’ve been here thirty years and you don’t have any friends?”

“Everyone believes in Mildred, in Dagon. I used to be one of them, and still would be, if it wasn’t for my sister. All of us owe Mildred a debt, in some way.”

From behind closed eyelids, he asked, “What kind of debt?”

She didn’t say anything for so long that Charlie wondered if he’d offended her. He looked at Liz, who had focused on some distant point down the dark road, and was hugging herself. He made to comfort her with a hand, but she held hers up in defense.

“My sister and I ran away from home a long time ago.” Liz shivered, remembering. “My dad’s excuse was always that he was protecting us.” Her laugh was short and quiet. “‘I’ll protect you,’ he’d say. Right before he’d take us into another room by ourselves...” She caught her breath, straightened. “We hated him, Audrey and me. We hated him so much, but we were also small, too young to do anything, and anyone we told brushed it off as sensationalist gossip, called us liars. One night we stole our dad’s car and drove away, and came through this town, where the women gave us a meal and a place to sleep. The men here would never hurt us, they said. So we stayed. They said everyone in the town was running from terrible people, and they wanted to help. Mildred wanted to help. They understood where we were coming from, and for the first time in our lives, it felt like someone really cared.” She quieted and tapped her finger on the dashboard. “But nothing in life is free.

“Somehow our good ol’ dad found us. No idea how. Maybe someone passing through town recognized his car, or saw us walking along the road. I don’t know. But he found us, and the first thing he said when he cornered us in our room was that he understood, pretended to be gentle and pretended to forgive. He just wanted us to come home. When we told him we hated him and that we were never going home he yelled back that we were. Things got violent. He wasn’t used to us resisting. He made me bleed and when Audrey pushed him, this...darkness came over him. We’d seen it before, but never like this. His face got all relaxed, like he was gone, and there was no more reasoning with him. He grabbed Audrey by the neck and smashed her head into the dresser, nearly knocked her out. Then he held her on the bed and unbuckled his belt. That’s when Mildred showed up. Like she was waiting for it, and you might think she’s small and weak, but she’s not. He acted surprised, shocked, but Mildred told him she knew what was going on. Said she was calling the police, and worked him up until he attacked her. That was when Munch was there too, standing deathly silent behind the door, and pulled him outside. There was a garbage truck. He screamed and begged while they shoved him into the trash compactor...but when it was over Mildred came upstairs and told me that Dagon watched over us now. And Munch held my dad’s arm.”

“Your dad…” Charlie glanced at her a moment, then decided not to press the story. They sat in the car until the rain stopped. It was strange, Charlie thought, without the constant white noise in the background. There wasn’t even a drizzle, and for the first time in two days Charlie enjoyed the clear weather, even if it was dark outside. He rolled the window down, took a deep breath of damp night air, and noticed a faint sound in the stillness. It was far off, at first. Maybe a football field away. Then the same sound on the opposite side of the road, like a low baby rattle or the pulling of stretch wrap. First dozens, then hundreds, then hundreds of thousands. Frogs and toads surrounded their vehicle, somewhere out in the darkness, lifted their voices in a chorus of chaos.

“We should move.” Liz said. “The frogs are messengers for Gulgoa.”

Charlie nodded and put his seatbelt on with his left hand. “We’ll get Arthur,” he said grimly, ignoring the pain in his arm. “I promise.” And threw the car in drive. The engine died, and Charlie let out a sigh. When it wouldn’t even turn over, he got out to look under the hood and learned why. A dead frog had chewed through the starter cable. There was a live one in the exhaust. “We’re walking,” he said through Liz’s window.

It was an empty road all the way to the cannery, Charlie sweeping his flashlight back and forth in front of them. The amphibians kept their distance, creating a circle around Charlie and Liz, and staying beyond Charlie’s ability to toss a well aimed rock. Even when Charlie would charge ahead, he would push them like metal shavings before a magnet.

When the cannery came into view, it was a lone, dark warehouse with a bright spot from the security light. It was the size of a barn, and the same color red. “GULL CANNING COMPANY” covered the side in white letters. Steps led down to a dock, its white paint weathered and cracked, spread lazily into the ocean, and the end bobbed with the waves. Only a day before, Charlie had walked out to that dock, and followed the boat captain to where she found Audrey in the rocks. Gentle waves rolled in, and could be heard under the raucous frogs, which created a separate, gelatinous green ocean that stopped in a ring around the entrance to the cannery. Charlie kept his eye out for gasoline and a match.

Standing at the gravel driveway that led to the front door, Charlie said, “What now?”

“Arthur’s inside. We just need to find a way in.”

Charlie stopped her with his good arm before she took a step. “Whoa. That’s not a plan. You’re sure Arthur’s in there?”

“I’m sure.”

Charlie wished he hadn’t lost his gun.

They ran low, up along the dark side of the building, opposite the dock. The ocean was much louder here, echoing off the wooden and concrete walls. Charlie thought it had a terrible fish smell, which shouldn’t have surprised him, but did. He couldn’t even imagine how bad it was inside. Liz stopped just below a window.

“Boost me up.” She indicated above her, the opening as high as a basketball rim.

“Then how am I supposed to get up?” Charlie asked.

“I’ll go inside and unlock the back door.” She pointed towards the oceanside wall of the cannery.

The back door? Charlie didn’t like that idea at all. “I won’t be able to help if something goes wrong.” He complained, though he was already lowering to his knee so she could use it as a boost.

Before she lifted herself through the window, she said, “Listen, they normally like to keep the building dark, so don’t be surprised if all the lights are off. There’s a cage where they’ll keep Arthur, but I know where it is.”

“I don’t like this.” He grumbled.

“Don’t worry. I know my way around.”

She stepped on his knee, his good hand steadying her leg, and groaned a little under the weight. After she disappeared in the building, he walked along the wall to the back, where light from the moon reflected just enough light to see. He felt his way along the brick wall, stepping over weeds and avoiding pipes, one pipe causing him to reel back in pain from the heat. He heard a hissing noise coming from beneath a storm cellar, and opened the cellar doors to check it out. Glaringly visible in such intense darkness was a flame underneath a boiler, and it gave Charlie an idea. When he was done he approached the cannery’s back door, noticing it was open a crack.

“Liz.” He whispered her name.

He pushed the door open and cringed as the rusty hinges groaned. It was so dark that Charlie might as well have been blind. He wandered into an open space, his hearing enough that he could tell he was in a large room. Despite it feeling open, the atmosphere felt cramped, oppressive, but he decided it was due to the darkness. Wherever the back door opened must have taken up most of the cannery.

“Liz.” He whispered again.

“Over here.” He heard her whisper back.

“Where is here?” He hissed.

“Shh,” she said.

With his left hand he pulled out his knife and flipped it open, the weight and curves giving him an empty comfort. Reaching into the darkness with his bad arm, he felt someone take his hand and lead him forward. “It’s right up here,” the voice told him. Then the lights came on. Charlie had to squint and shield his eyes. As he adjusted, two things were immediately obvious; there had been no one holding his hand, and he had walked into a cage in the middle of the room, where two people slammed the gate behind him. He ground his teeth and squeezed the useless knife tighter.

It looked like the whole town was there, men and women standing and watching the cage in anticipation, packed into the small warehouse along the walls and catwalks. Standing above them, on a catwalk that ran against a back wall, was Mildred. Beside her, holding Arthur close as they watched the show, was Liz. Looking up at his captors, Charlie clapped slow and methodical, his left hand gripping the knife.

“Well played.” He nodded. “Well played.” He was shaking his head on the outside, kicking himself on the inside. To Liz he asked, “Was this the plan the whole time?”

Moving Arthur behind her, she almost whispered, “I’m sorry Charlie. They gave me no choice. It was the only way they’d let me leave with him.”

Mildred opened her arms. “Everyone serves.”

The people in the room repeated, “Everyone serves.”

Charlie said. “So now what? We gonna sit in a circle and summon the dark lord?”

Mildred threaded her fingers together, like twisted roots. “We don’t have to. The old one, the mud god. He sleeps beneath your feet.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, but looked down. The enclosure he was locked in was built like a batting cage, all gray metal poles overlaid with chain link, and a comfortable size. The base was a square, built over two wooden trap doors carved with images of people raising their arms in the mouth of a toad. Outside his chain link prison was a circumscribed ring with Sumerian cuneiform written along the edge, and in a corner of his cage was a metal bowl of water with something dark swimming in it. A tadpole.

“Not very big, is he?”

Women muttered among themselves, the men blank faced beside them, unspeaking. Mildred told him, “We offer you a choice, detective.”

She paused, and Charlie studied the faces surrounding him, wondering what kind of trick this was. No one spoke or betrayed any emotion, except Liz, who’s eyes darted towards the exit. Unconsciously, Charlie looked as well, and Mildred smiled.

“There will be no escape for anyone, especially you. Men who come to this town are offered a choice. Join the mud god in this life, serve him here and in the next, or die now. It matters not to this community what you decide. The mud god will receive his sacrifice either way. Drink his seed and let it grow within you. Let it consume the failures of your sad life. Drink it or we open the pit, and you can take your chances with the mud god, face to face.”

Charlie walked to the fence and leaned into it. “Doesn’t sound like a choice.” He put his knife away. “So...how do I join this mud god of yours? Is there a secret handshake, or…”

Mildred sneered. “Sarcasm won’t help you Mr. Morgan. The women of this town have been protected from the likes of you and your kind for generations.” She smiled and let the next words slide out like a snake. “Choking Charlie.” They had his attention. Mildred leaned over the railing. “Yes, we’ve been given your name.” A few people in the crowd snickered. “We know you had a wife. You had a wife and she left you. I don’t believe this town has ever had a man who enjoyed strangling women, and I look forward to your eternal slavery to the mud god, where you will suffocate and come back to life over and over again.” Saliva dripped from the corner of Mildred’s mouth and down her chin, and she quickly wiped it away. “Did it make you feel powerful, Charlie? Did it make you feel powerful to suffocate the people you said you loved? If only your wife could be here now, she might feel justice” She turned to the crowd. “But we will serve justice anyway! Will we stand for such things?”

The women yelled an emphatic “No!”

“Then we have a sacrifice for the pit! Drink it Charlie! Drink it and choke on it!”

The crowd of mostly women began chanting, “All must serve! Drink his seed! All must serve! Drink his seed!”

The toad men had their own chant in monotone voices, “Everyone serves.”

Charlie walked over to where the tadpole swam in the bowl. Content. Unaware it might be ingested. He bent down and lifted the bowl, watching the light play on the metal sides, and studied the animal as it tried to wriggle away. Brought it to his lips. No one said a word, just watched. All two hundred people holding their breath in anticipation. Then he lowered the bowl.

“You know...it probably doesn’t matter to you people, but I can’t help but want to set the record straight about me and my wife.” Charlie studied the confused looks of the people in the room. “My wife…” He rubbed his chin and smiled, and Mildred tightened her jaw. “My wife really wanted to go to Borneo, Fiji, anywhere with a good beach. She wanted vacations and nice coats and just...nice things, really. Couldn’t fault her that. But, of course, she was married to me.” He paused, turned to Mildred and noticed Liz had already exited the catwalk and was making her way to the back door. “She was married to a man who couldn’t make it into the FBI, his only obsession. Does that make me a failure? Probably. You could even say I choked her--that’s what she told people--but not with my hands. My wife made sure to tell all our friends what a piece of trash I was, told people she felt trapped.” He looked back at the tadpole, stuck in the bowl, and looked up again. “Felt like our marriage was choking her. When we ended it, people started calling me Chokin’ Charlie.” He let the last words hang there. “I realize that’s not as exciting as the other story, but that’s how it happened.”

“Liar.” Mildred spat.

“If I’m lying…” Charlie shrugged. “Turn me into a toad.”

Murmuring swept through the room. Some people laughed and ridiculed him. Some continued to scream at him, continued to chant, but as Mildred felt she was losing control of the situation, she said, “It was a nice try, Charlie, but your time is up. Either accept the seed of the mud god, or meet him yourself. Which will it be?”

As she said this, a whistling sound could be heard under their feet, causing a great deal of hysterical murmuring from the crowd. Charlie simply said, “You might want to have that old boiler looked at. The pressure relief valve must be fifty years old.”

“Drop him.” She ordered, but it was too late.

The men in charge of pulling the trap door lever were distracted by the noise at their feet, and both reached for the handle simultaneously, fumbling the attempt. Charlie had delayed the mob long enough, and the pressure in the boiler reached a critical mass. A moment after Mildred gave the command, an explosion tore the building in half.

Charlie had never completely trusted anyone in this town, including Liz, his old detective instincts being numb but alive. After nearly burning his hand on the pipe outside, he came up with a spectacular and idiotic contingency plan, should he somehow need a distraction. He vandalized the boiler, removing the safeguards, increasing temperature, and disabling the pressure relief valve. In only a few minutes, he’d built himself a time bomb. As the hot water turned to steam, the pressure inside the boiler increased beyond normal operating levels, especially for the ancient system that heated the cannery, and a weakness in the boiler’s steel panel created a catastrophic failure. A steam explosion tore through the back wall of the building, sending brick and insulation and masonite into the room to rain down on the crowd. In other places, steam blasted from the wall and followed pipes through the building. The whole cannery shuddered, and the fluorescent lights flickered before half of them lost power for good. Clouds of steam and dust obscured vision. In the commotion Charlie had his back against the cage wall, fingers in his ears and his mouth open to minimize the effects of a rapid increase in air pressure. The explosion split the ground underneath his cage, and destroyed the mechanism holding one of the trap doors closed. It swung open, and Charlie barely managed to grab the edge of the other door in time. The darkness in the pit was unsearchable, and Charlie guessed it went down hundreds of feet. It looked like the curved ridges of a throat.

By the time he had pulled himself up, many among the stunned crowd were recovering. Many were groaning. And miraculously, despite being right in the path of the explosion, Mildred was moving also. Her hand reached out to grip the railing of the catwalk. Charlie knew his time was short. At the edge of the cage, where the split in the floor ran from the wall, where night air blew into the building, was a gap in the chain link where a metal post had been knocked upwards. It was just large enough to fit through, and like a dog escaping a junkyard, he flattened himself and crawled. Halfway through, he heard a vicious cackling over his head.

“Detective Morgan.” Mildred’s hoarse laugh spilled into the smoky air, and Charlie crawled faster. “Oh Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie…” He looked up to see Mildred combing her hair back with her hands, like she did in the rain, the gray strands now thick with blood. It hardly bothered her. One of the guards in charge of the trapdoor lever was buried under cinder blocks, and the other was completely gone. A few moments more and Charlie would be free, and then all he had to do was outrun an entire town.

Baby steps.

Eventually, he pulled himself free and stood up, ready to sprint out the back, but Mildred stood in front of him. He glanced above at the catwalk, and back at her, confusion on his face. How had she gotten down so quickly? She was all that stood between him and freedom.

“Excuse me ma’am.” He gently shoved her small frame aside, but was shoved in return, Mildred’s bony palm forcing him flat on his back. Charlie wasn’t hurt, but he was caught off guard. Such strength for a tiny woman.

“And where do ya suppose you’re goin’, Charlie Morgan. The mud god is waiting.”

Charlie attempted to lift himself, but Mildred lunged at him, landing with her knees over his chest, and pinned him to the ground. She bent over to smile while Charlie attempted to free his good arm, but was distracted by the physical changes to her face. Her eye sockets were sunken, her lips wider and pulled back so that he could see her gray teeth, now sharp and crooked. As she brought a hand up to stare at it, he noticed that her fingers tapered to points like the foot of a crow, and were twice as wide as his own.

“Look. You’ve brought it out. Ain’t seen the deep one in centuries.” Spittle flowed freely as she said this, like she couldn’t control her salivary glands. She raised a hand, five slate gray claws, and prepared to bury them into Charlie, who just watched in fascination, wondering if all this was real. Was he really about to be stabbed to death by fingernails?

Then a woman in the crowd screamed. “Millie! The circle! The seal is broken!”

Another one yelled, “Gulgoa is free!”

Soon everyone was yelling, pointing, panicking.

Annoyed, Mildred paused, tracing the line of cuneiform written around the cage. A crack, only two fingers in width, split the circle in half. Charlie could hear Mildred’s heavy breathing, could feel the ferocity of her heartbeat while she paused and studied her people. She had lost control.

Gulgoa is free. Charlie noticed a change in the men’s demeanor, their blank expressions breaking. Munch in particular turned his eyes toward Mildred, focusing on the claws of her upraised hand, followed her gray, scaly skin. He licked his lips, cocked his head, and opened his mouth. The tongue whipped out, unfurling like a viper, sharp ridges of deep red hooks embedding themselves in her arm, the same hooks that had wounded Charlie. Mildred screamed. Not about to go quietly, she slashed desperately at Munch’s tongue with her free hand, blood spilling everywhere, some landing on Charlie’s coat, still stunned and on his back.

Mildred’s shrill voice reverberated off the metal in the cannery. The entire crowd as stunned as Charlie with the bizarre shift of events. “Kill the offspring! Kill them all!”

Immediate chaos. People, the children of Gulgoa and the followers of Dagon, turned on each other in bloody pandemonium. The men’s heads melted into the flat jaws of toads, and their tongues whipped around the room, the sound like a bullwhip before it cracks. Some of the women ran, while others bared claws and fangs and gills. It was a civil war between monsters, and Charlie found himself paralyzed. The transition from cult sacrifice to a bloody feud between aquatic half-humans left him disoriented, afraid to move. He was motionless on the floor while blood and viscera literally rained on him, covering the ground in a slippery mess. Mildred fought Munch, dodged his slow hands and spilled the contents of his stomach. He returned by hooking the inside of her leg with his tongue, cutting an artery. There were a few screams, some deep guttural croaking, and high pitched hissing. Charlie realized he’d never heard fish noises before.

It wasn’t until Liz grabbed him by the collar, in his face, that he finally snapped out of it. He focused on what she was saying.

“You tryin’ to die here old man?”

“Old man?” He grumbled, but let her pull him up and race out the back door of the cannery. Outside, Arthur waited, hiding under a tarp. He poked his head out when Liz whistled.

“Time to go,” was all she said.

He nodded, ran to her, and the three of them raced around the back side, where Charlie saw the hole he’d made. It was the size of a car, and dark bricks were scattered in all directions. Dust drifted out into the night, visible where the fluorescent light scattered over the vapor. Screams like frightened pigs mixed with the belching shriek of stuck toads from inside, and Liz told Arthur to cover his ears. He tried, one hand holding tightly to Liz’ hand, and the other bouncing next to his ear as he ran.

At the front of the building Liz stopped, grabbed one of four containers full of a liquid that smelled like Kerosene, and dumped it on the outside of the building. “Help me!” She told Charlie, and he did. Emptying the last one, she pulled a lighter from her pocket and threw it on the ground, flames immediately licking at the fish oil that dripped out the cracks in the windows. Charlie realized that, sacrifice or not, Liz had planned on burning the building down from the beginning.

Then they ran.

Approaching the perimeter fence, only half a football field away, they slowed. It was raining again. Puddles were collecting in low spots along the gravel road that led away from the cannery and back to the main road. Their shadows were long from the great fire that raged behind them.

“Where are we going?” Charlie asked.

Breathing heavily, Liz replied, “Far from here. There is a highway two miles away where we might be able to flag someone down. I was hoping the fire would bring the police.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Don’t have one.”

They hadn’t made it three steps beyond the fence, when a woman called to them from the cannery. They turned around, but saw nothing. Then Charlie heard a whooshing noise, and felt several knives impact his stomach, one being stopped by this sternum. He groaned, slid to his knees, and stared down at the gray hand buried in his abdomen. Tilting his head to look up at his attacker, he saw the smoky irises of Mildred’s eyes, wide with rage. Her breath was a mix of fish and blood.

Mildred withdrew her monstrous hand, her wide mouth stretching into a grin. She pushed her hair back against her head again, difficult with such grotesque fingers, and sniffed her fingertips. She tasted a bit of Charlie’s blood, lips peeling back in disgust. Her eyes, dull gray quarters reflecting the low light, snapped to Liz. “I hope you weren’t going anywhere, sister. Dagon will not allow it.”

“I’m leaving, Mildred.” She gently pushed Arthur behind her. “You said we could leave.”

“No one leaves. That was the agreement you made with the deep one.” Mildred rolled her neck, the bones along her spine cracking. “Gulgoa might be free, but Dagon still rules.” She stepped lightly towards Liz and Arthur, the boy showing a surprising lack of fear. “Do you forget how I protected you? How I watched over you and your sister?” She asked in a raspy voice.

Liz stepped between the matron and her nephew, standing tall before her old leader while the rain poured around them. “You protected us from one monster and enslaved us to another. You never cared about us! When Audrey told you that Dagon visited her, you screamed at her and called her a liar. She never wanted what happened to her, and you hated her for it.”

Mildred ground her teeth. “The boy cannot leave. I’ll make you a deal.” The next part she muttered to herself, “yes, a deal.” Lifting her head to Liz, “Gimme the boy. The boy is Dagon’s. You give me him, and you can go, and we’ll let the Deep One deal with you as he sees fit.” She smiled, her mouth crooked like she forgot how, and when Liz took too long to reply, she growled, “Or maybe I deal with you here?”

Nothing was said for awhile, the only noises were from puddles lapping up rain drops. Then, from behind Mildred’s back, a hoarse voice got their attention. “Beat it, you old hag.” Charlie blew snot out his nose, and spat blood on the ground between raised fists. He was swaying, staying upright requiring all his attention, and his face was pale. The wounds were deep, and Charlie knew the end wasn’t far. He said through a swollen lip, “Jesus. When did you get so ugly? Getting no awards in the beauty department, are you?”

Mildred shrieked, mouth open, revealing snaggy teeth and a tongue covered in sores, her jowls shivering with the effort. With muscles tensed and head forward, the gurgling sounds bubbling from her throat barely resembled a human’s anymore. “You die here, mud man.”

Charlie spread his arms. “Death would be better than looking at your ugly mug all night, fish breath.”

Shrieking again, Mildred lunged with claws as long as nails, aiming for Charlie’s abdomen and face. He dove to his left like a soccer goalie as she leapt over him, and narrowly avoided her. She landed on all fours with claws sinking into the mud up to her wrist. Instead of raising up again to her full height, Mildred moved low, spine bent so that she’d use her long fingers for balance. Her body arched crookedly between Charlie and the blazing cannery fire behind, her eyes an angler fish in the deep, bones jutting like a broken picket fence along her spine, her humanity nearly gone. The Deep had taken over, and she scuttled about, muttering in breathy intervals, “All must serve. No one leaves. All must serve.”

Charlie watched her, waddling back and forth in the rain, waiting for another attack, and held the wounds in his chest. He said over his shoulder, “Run, Liz.” Then fell to his knee.

Mildred cackled like before, smelling the man’s blood. She mocked him. “Big strong man. Strong mud man. Can’t stand up.”

He rose to his feet for what he knew would be the final time, and faced the centuries old monster. “Just taking a break between rounds,” he said, and hoped Liz was already running.

He braced himself for the end, but instead heard the croak of frogs, and tensed in confusion as the ground around him moved like a living ocean of mud. It pulsed with frogs and toads roiling to the surface, and the four people found themselves in a level of bizarre hell. Mildred, seeing the small creatures, hacked and hissed at them, spearing a few that leapt too close. Charlie backed himself into Liz, still there, and the two of them formed a protective circle around Arthur, still and quiet. The waves of amphibians avoided the trio, instead moving in mounting swells to surround a horrified Mildred.

“Back! Gulgoa! I serve Dagon, and you serve me!”

She lunged, tearing one apart as it screamed, then another, but their numbers may as well have been infinite. The boiling waves of toads overwhelmed her, engulfing her as she shook her body violently to rid herself of the tiny attackers. They bit and tore at her skin until she screamed and ran, when one jumped directly into her mouth, halting her escape. Mildred fell to her back, pushing herself through the mud head first while clawing at her throat and mouth. It longer than Charlie expected for her to suffocate, but she did. When her body no longer moved, the mass of frogs collected into the shape of a giant amphibian, and swallowed her.

When it was over, the three remaining people huddled quietly as the mud pulled Mildred’s body under, followed by all the other frogs and toads. Just as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone, the animals sinking into the mud like beans into chili after it was stirred. Only moments later, the rain stopped, and Charlie could see the blue glow of sunrise over the ocean.

“Finally.” Charlie said, then collapsed. Liz bent over and held his hand, felt a weak pulse.

She said, “Thanks for your help, Charlie.”

Liz and Arthur shivered until the clouds cleared, just as the sun cracked the horizon and scattered orange rays of light into the gray blue sky. They took a moment in the cold morning air to stare at the smoking ruin of the cannery. The calm ocean. Then, offshore, they thought they heard the scream of some tortured monster, though it also could have been the wind.

“Can we leave now?” Asked Arthur, his breath visible.

Liz nodded. “Yes.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Arthur asked, pointing to Charlie’s body, motionless on the gravel road.

“I don’t know." She thought she saw his chest rise, but could do nothing to help him.

Sirens wailed in the distance, and Liz pulled the boy towards the highway. They picked their way around unending puddles until they arrived at an asphalt road, shoes squeaking. Liz and Arthur sat a moment, allowing the sun to warm their backs, and then removed their shoes.

“My socks are soaked.” Arthur said, and walked the rest of the way barefoot. As the fire engines approached, he squeezed his aunt's hand and she smiled at him. When he looked back at her, he blinked, and a membrane slid across his eye.

The End