Byron Craft [Craft - Cthulhu’s Minions

Cthulhus Minions
Book One in The Arkham Detective Series

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

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2015, Cthulhus Minions

www.ByronCraftBooks.com

Artwork by Fredrik King

ISBN-13: 978-1974267125
ISBN-10: 1974267121

DEDICATION

To my lovely wife Marcia who daily says
those three little words to me,

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

Origin

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

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

Cthulhus Minions

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

There were many stories, but I didnt believe any of them until Jefferson Buck had his face chewed off.

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

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

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

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

Also, there was plenty of blood at the scene, mostly Jeffs, but there was some that didnt appear to be his, next to an open storm drain. It was pale, very nearly pink, like veal, giving the impression of whoever this second party was; he must have been very anemic.

***

I went home that night looking forward to cold fried chicken and several belts of Scotch. The cozy thought didnt last long. The phone rang. I almost let it ring off the hook before I answered it. What? I challenged.

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

I didnt argue. I knew the old fart had no choice. I should have seen it coming. We had two detectives on extended leave pending investigations, and now with Jeff gone, we were really short-handed. Ill be there in a half an hour, I said and slammed down the receiver.

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

Alimony and a disastrous economy left me broke for the most part. When my dad died, he didnt have much either. He left me his roll top desk and his 1911 Colt. Dad was a cop, and so was his old man. It runs in the family I guess. I could have sold his desk to an antique dealer and his semi-automatic pistol to a gun collector for a good piece of change, but I liked keeping them around. They reminded me of him. He was a great guy. Once a month Id get out the furniture polish and give the old roll top a rub down. Then Id field strip the Colt .45, oil it and replace the loaded clip. It was my way of saying, Hi Dad, how are you doing up there?

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

***