In Deep - 21: Winston Gilman

Beyond the trellis lay a twisting trail of artfully arranged stone paving that meandered down a cliff-face to a trim little boathouse built amongst the rocks at the lower end of Innsmouth’s mile-long beachfront. At one time, the pretty little walkway was dotted with landscaped gardens nestled in the turns and switchbacks; now it was just choked with salt-crusted greenery. Some long-departed Gilman had built the boathouse for his private yacht, but over time it had been expanded to accept various pleasure craft for hire to hotel guests and it had been accessorised with a walled-off swimming area and poolside bar, for those inclined to bathe. I hadn’t been there in an age but I remembered that it had become a dumping-ground for old furniture and other refuse which the Hotel generated on an annual basis. However, the main feature of the locale – and one I figured would be of pertinent interest to Winston right about now – was the fact that it had a mooring berth for a seaplane.

I jogged off down the path, trying to avoid the broken pavers and sections that had turned to bog. At the second bend I stopped: below me, the lights of the boathouse blinked on and I could hear the distant throbbing of a generator as the wind turned my way. I lifted my gaze to stare out to sea: the waves dashing against Devil Reef were iron-grey and cold as judgement. The sky above started to blur about the edges as the rain began to pour down once more. I turned up my collar and picked up the pace.

As I reached the boathouse a boom rang out from above. I looked behind me to see flames rising upwards from the Gilman House Hotel’s north wing. Orange light flickered off the boathouse windows and the steadily lapping waves around me. Here, the sound of the generator was almost deafening and it could mean only one thing – Winston was fuelling the ‘plane for take-off. I hefted the Desert Eagle in my paw and tried the doorknob: it turned and I gently pushed the door open.

Inside the place smelled of damp rope and dust. The sound of the generator drowned out the roar of the rain on the roof, but not by much. About me stood piles of broken furniture stretching their broken legs and vomiting horsehair through splits and tears. Glittering darkly in the corner was a massive mirror-ball left over from the 70s. Oars and lobster pots created obstacles on the floor, while the ceiling swung with canoes and dinghies. Through the floorboards I could feel the throb and punch of slapping waves below.

I tiptoed forward to the doorway opposite. Through it I could see the long pier which constituted this side of the boathouse, stretching perpendicular to the horizon. The seaplane sat at berth against this, the gasoline tubes gurgling fuel into her side. I began to turn to survey the entrance to the building opposite when something hard smashed against my hand knocking the Desert Eagle from my grip and sending it off the edge of the pier into the water below.

‘I think I like you better unarmed,’ said Winston, dropping the boathook and stepping out of the shadows.

I rubbed my hand. ‘Well, there’s a big difference between “unarmed” and “not dangerous”,’ I said.

He hefted a loaded speargun for me to see. ‘That’s why I’m carrying this,’ he sneered. ‘Why don’t we stroll over to the ‘plane, hmm?’

I raised my hands and did as I was told. As we drew up alongside the aircraft, Winston stepped up to the gas pump and switched it off. The generator racket subsided to be replaced by the hush of the rain as he drew the pipe hose back from the ‘plane, keeping a wary eye on me all the while. Through the open door of the cockpit, I could see the bluish-grey shape of the stone, locked clumsily in place on the passenger’s side with the seat belt. On the planking below was a confused jumble of gear, hurriedly assembled for loading: a creel full of candy-bars, a six-pack of beer, two bang-sticks, a wetsuit and a pair of flippers. I rolled an aerosol can to one side with my toe: whipped cream.

‘Everything a growing boy needs, huh?’ I observed.

‘Along with a very valuable stone’ said Winston, switching the pump handle off, ‘and when I get to where I’m headed, I’ll start the bidding once more.’

‘Where are you headed, Winston?’ I fished.

He snorted derisively. ‘As if I’d tell you that,’ he sneered. ‘What do you take me for?’

I let that pass: some targets are too easy. ‘Why, Winston?’ I asked instead, ‘you’ve cut yourself off completely from your people, burnt all your bridges - is that rock worth it? Really?’

‘My People?’ He threw the words back at me venomously. ‘What has this place ever done for me? Ever since I was hatched, I’ve been locked into one role, my destiny all mapped out for me. When did I ever get the chance to do what I wanted? No, it was always “when Winston takes over the Hotel”. All my brothers and sisters got to leave; they got to see the world and try other things. Me? No, Winston has to stay home and look after the family interests...’

‘That’s not that bad a life,’ I said, ‘it’s got a lotta perks...’

‘So? It still means I’m locked into this rotten town, going nowhere...’

I changed tack. ‘All your brothers and sisters came back though, right? Ephraim and Carter? Prudence?’

‘Yeah, when they were through living their lives, they came back!’

‘It’s not like Ephraim and Carter had a choice, Winston,’ I cut in, ‘they were lucky to be up-coast when the Feds attacked. They had no choice but to get to Canada and lay low.’

‘Sure,’ Winston agreed, ‘but then they went to Europe, Ephraim got into theatre and then suddenly he’s back in California and in the movies with a stage name. He even got Carter a few on-screen roles right before he Changed. They had their choices and they took them; lived large and only came back when they had to.’

‘Prudence didn’t come back for the Change; she returned to look after your mother.’

‘Yes, but until then she was living it up in New York - high society and Manhattan skylines. She could’ve stayed if she’d wanted...’

‘...but she knew where her duty lay. Isn’t it true that, if Jezebel hadn’t sneaked you and Prudence off to Arkham, you’d have all gone through the camps too...?’

‘Yes, grateful, devoted little Prudence: what a saint she was!’ Winston snorted.

I put my hand in my pocket. Instantly, Winston trained the speargun on me.

‘Careful now,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to have to perforate you.’

I rattled my cigarette packet at him, and he relaxed a bit. Pulling a smoke out with my lips I said:

‘If your siblings were going to be such a hard act to follow, why didn’t you just eat them all in the womb?’

He sneered again. ‘Not all of us are öophagous,’ he spat.

I smiled my razor smile. Reaching once more into my pocket, I pulled out the metallic orb and showed it to him.

‘What’s that?’ Winston asked warily.

‘It’s a funky lighter I got off Rodney,’ I lied, ‘You don’t mind?’

He waved his free had at me indicating that I could continue. I brought the orb up to my face and rapidly scanned it: as before, it was irregular and constructed of many interlocking plates, in the grooves between which, an intermittent blue pulse occasionally flared. On one side was a deep blue bubble of some hard, glassy material. Alphonse had said it was a weapon and to point it carefully; the only feature about it which seemed at all worthy of pointing was this glassy eye bit, so I quickly extended my arm and pointed it at Winston.

Nothing happened. I gritted my teeth and jerked my hand again. Still nothing happened.

There was a twanging sound, followed by a meaty thunk. I groaned and sank to my knees, before slumping over sideways. The spear had gone in under my collar-bone and protruded out through the fabric of my coat in back. Oozing ichor, I let go of the metal ball: it rolled awkwardly on the planking, before emitting a blast of humming, blue-white light that blew a hole in the roofing overhead.

‘Excellent,’ I muttered.

Through a brief rain of flaming splinters and molten drops of metal roof-sheeting, Winston stepped forward, picking up one of the bang-sticks as he did so. His face was pale and expressionless, rigid with determination: I imagined that this is how he must’ve looked as he plugged Abner. With a savage kick, he consigned the alien device to the waters.

‘I could use a hand here, Winston,’ I said thickly.

‘Have you seen what one of these can do?’ he asked, I assumed rhetorically, ‘it’s loaded with a 20-gauge shell. All I have to do is touch you with the business end and – boom! You’re seven types of mincemeat on the decking. How about that Benson?’

‘Terrific,’ I grunted, trying to sit upright, ‘you do realise that most of the sharks around here are family, so we don’t really need these kinds of deterrents?’

‘Oh we don’t use them on the sharks,’ he purred closing in, ‘they have a far more recreational use on the land...’

I heaved and kicked him across the face, sending him wheeling backwards. There was a loud bang, then I threw myself back, with both hands on the spear shaft, digging the barbed point deep into the boards beneath me. Then, I snapped the shaft off short near the entry wound and stood up, drawing the spear head through me, breathing raggedly through bloodied lips. The broken spear shaft clattered to the floor.

‘Unarmed,’ I reminded Winston, ‘but definitely far from toothless.’

However, Winston was otherwise occupied.

‘No! No! No!’ he wailed. He was fumbling with something in the front of the seaplane. The seatbelt straps flopped loosely about and several jagged, fist-sized grey lumps fell out from the cockpit, plopping into the water below. Winston spun to face me, his rain-soaked face contorted in rage.

‘You made me break it!’ he screamed. ‘I hit it with the bang-stick! It’s useless now!’

I was only half-listening. From the cockpit a shining radiance shimmered forth and grew in flickering intensity. There seemed to be something small and jewel-like lying amid the remains of the stone. My interest in it must have drawn Winston’s attention, because he turned sharply, snatched at it, and lifted it up. It illuminated his face intensely echoed by the insane gleam in his eyes. He darted a look at me then fumbled on the floor beneath the ‘plane’s passenger seat. When his hand re-appeared, it held a flare gun. Which, of course, he aimed at me.

‘Obvious, now that I think of it,’ he said, half to me, mostly to himself, ‘it’s not the stone, but what’s inside it that’s so valuable! This – this shining thing! Well, this will be much easier to slip past Customs.’

‘Winston...’ I started, but he’d had enough. He raised the flare gun and shot me point-blank with it. I was immediately blinded, choked by smoke and wracked by searing pain in my chest.

‘Good-bye, chum,’ I heard Winston say and the door to the seaplane slammed shut. The engines roared into life.

Agonised, I fell to the planking and tried to roll, but my dead arm wasn’t playing. I groaned and patted the wooden boards: knowing that they ran outwards from the building to the edge of the jetty, I orientated myself and heaved myself forward on my belly. The fading sound of the ‘plane droned away as I reached the edge of the dock and rolled myself over.

Once submerged in the cool, quiet, dimness, I made short work of wrenching the flare out of my flesh; it still burned but smoke and light were mostly cancelled out by the immersion. I let go of it to one side and then kicked my legs strongly. I landed adeptly back on the jetty, standing up to see the seaplane’s taillights lifting up over the water.

I wasted no time. I kicked my way into the boathouse and made my way to the main office. There was a radio there and it represented my last chance to try and turn Winston around. I grabbed the earphones and flicked switches: through the window I could see Devil Reef and the pinpoints of light that were Winston’s farewell to Innsmouth. There was something else too: behind the seaplane and closing fast was a fiery blackness, something like smoke and something like a tear in space. It roiled and flared and inky tendrils of dark bluish-blackness stretched out towards the aircraft.

The radio blared into life in my hands. ‘I see it!’ it was Winston’s voice. panicked, terrified. ‘Coming here – hell-wind – titan blue-black wings...’ some static cut through, then, ‘...save me – the three-lobed burning eye...!’

‘Winston! Winston!’ I pressed up to the window, one hand braced against it, the other holding the earphones, and watched as the inky cloud enveloped the aeroplane completely.

Suddenly, a mountainous object breached up out of the surf beyond Devil Reef. It reared skywards, monstrous, dark and shining, writhing in the moonlight which it rapidly eclipsed. A titanic maw, impossibly huge, opened along its leading edge and engulfed both the ‘plane and its black shroud. I saw writhing tentacles; glittering teeth; then the cyclopean bulk plummeted back into the ocean sending forth a wave which tore the boathouse apart and knocked me senseless...

To Be Concluded...