Ch.29Ch.3 – My Miskatonic Comrades (9)

Students were gathered in the first-floor hall. They seemed to have just finished an exam, as they were comparing their answers with open books. A student holding a sign pointed in our direction while speaking to us. We hurriedly went up to the second floor.

“This doesn’t look good.”

Crayfield pointed to a “No Entry” warning sign that had fallen to the floor. The door to the shortwave radio broadcasting room, which had definitely been locked, was slightly ajar.

“Our adorable protagonist has some nimble fingers, doesn’t she?”

Crayfield shuddered, recalling the horrific memory from the hotel room.

“Protagonist?”

Scully asked, but Crayfield didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his revolver to chest level.

“Wait, Crayfield.”

Scully stopped him.

“Stay against the wall. I’ll breach. Cover my angles.”

Crayfield pressed himself tightly against the wall. Agent Scully nodded twice, then kicked the door open.

Bang!

“Federal agent! Don’t move!”

Crayfield covered Scully’s flank. But he soon lowered his gun. A person was lying in the middle of the broadcasting room.

It was the graduate student who had shown us around on the first day, explaining that the left side was the shortwave radio facility and the right room was for campus use. His abdomen was split open, but instead of flowers, writhing stems emerged.

The stems connected to Professor Bravery, who was sitting in front of the radio equipment.

“Mark?”

Professor Gordon let out a sound close to a scream. Bravery’s head slowly turned backward like a chain slipping off a gear. It had rotated about 90 degrees.

Crack.

With that sound, his head turned completely backward. His right eye wept tears, while his left eye bled.

His mouth was filled with flower buds, and thin roots extending from his nose tightly wrapped around the stubborn professor’s limbs.

Like forcibly connected nerves, they writhed constantly without a moment’s stillness.

[This flower has a peculiar property. It first infiltrates the respiratory and vocal organs of living beings. When the sacrifice screams, the vibration travels up the stem and is ’emitted’ from the flower.]

Bravery’s neck began to swell. Scully shouted sharply.

“Cover your ears, now!”

A flower bloomed from Bravery’s neck. It was red like a poison toad’s belly, with black spots like tiny eyes embedded in the petals that swayed.

His eyelids seemed to flip inside out, and then came the sound of his eyeballs collapsing weakly.

And buds emerged through his eye sockets.

“Professor Gordon!”

Crayfield slapped Gordon Waitley’s cheek. He was muttering incomprehensible words. They sounded like prayers, or perhaps curses, somewhat like English but also resembling the native Arkham language.

“Snap out of it! We need to stop that thing. We have to stop it!”

“Crayfield! We need a fire axe! We’ll handle this somehow, so get us an axe!”

Scully shouted. Crayfield immediately ran down the stairs.

The flower that had bloomed from Bravery’s eye socket looked at us. It twisted its body strangely, trying to crawl out into the hallway.

Scully pulled the door shut just in time, but plant stems had already wedged themselves in the gap.

Thud.

“It’s growing.”

That was true. Through the door gap, we could see the graduate student’s body shrinking. Meanwhile, the stems covering Bravery’s body grew thicker.

Bravery, with his neck twisted backward, was raised to his feet. His body staggered as if trying to grab us. Or perhaps as if seeking help.

Only his two hands. Only his hands were folded together, as if begging for mercy. As if offering a final prayer.

“Second floor! They’re on the second floor! Soldiers are occupying the second floor!”

A clear shout came from outside the window. It was Ann Molly. She had figured out our plan and was inciting the students.

“They’re planning to destroy the shortwave radio! Without it, we’ll be trapped here to die! We’ll die buried in poison gas!”

“Break through! Break through!”

The students’ cheers, shouts, curses, and jeers erupted. Stones mercilessly flew in, breaking windows.

The sound of military boots echoed chaotically. Boots clattered on the landing. It was the lieutenant and three soldiers. With rifles slung over their shoulders, they were gasping for breath.

“Agent Scully, I’m sorry but our promise… What the hell is that?!”

With a crash, the door burst open. The plant stems enveloping Bravery’s body had succeeded in breaking through.

Scully pulled Professor Gordon away from the line of fire.

“Shoot! Shoot it!”

The lieutenant and his subordinates fired their Springfield M1903 rifles in unison. For a brief moment, we could see the plant stems bursting from the rifle bullets.

But for every stem, every flower bud, every bit of Bravery’s still-warm blood and flesh that fell to the floor, new roots sprouted.

They settled and bloomed like mold, like scabs, as if making the concrete walls their new flowerpot. Like Venus flytraps hungry for insects.

“Kill the soldiers!”

“They’re shooting!”

“Stones! Molotov cocktails! Forward!”

Students carrying stones and clubs rushed up. The front group stopped. They could clearly see Professor Bravery too.

“Monster! There’s a monster! There’s a monster on the second floor! The government agents released a monster on the second floor!”

Students trying to go down and those trying to come up became entangled. Perhaps because there were more trying to come up, those attempting to flee were forcibly pushed upward.

“Help me! Please help! It hurts, Mom! Mom! Aaaagh!”

The frenzied students paid no attention.

They were consumed only by the desire to see the monster. The desire to kill the monster and become heroes.

The belief that they had to protect the school with their own hands. No one looked back at the trampled fellow students.

“Die, monster!”

One of the leading students aimed a gun. It was clearly a revolver. But the male student was already trembling.

[The head speaks of courage, but the body is gripped by fear. How pitiful! How fleeting!]

“No!”

Professor Gordon Waitley rushed forward to stop the student.

The bullet lodged in his heart.

The hot blood flowing through Waitley’s body splattered onto the building, the soldiers, Agent Scully, the students.

And onto the plants covering Bravery’s body.

Click.

The clock struck 8.

The stems grew explosively, embracing Waitley’s body.

Roots plunged into his heart, injecting sap instead of blood. Professor Waitley’s neck swelled. Strange language flowed from his mouth.

“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

The roots went berserk. The plants rose up. They grew like mold overturning the entire building. They rushed to use living people as nutrients!

Soldiers and students alike ran down, down, continuously out of the building.

The sound of someone being trampled was loud, but no one looked back. The roots chased them quickly like sharks drawn to the scent of blood.

“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

Waitley was still alive. The frog-like man desperately pointed at the radio. Just as Agent Scully was about to fire her gun,

A Molotov cocktail flew in. She pushed Scully away just in time. With a crash, the broken alcohol spread across the floor, burning Waitley alive.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”

Bang!

Scully shot him in the head. The professor’s head exploded. Beyond the burning landing, Ann Molly stood with an obsidian dagger.

Plants were wrapping around her like a queen, like a precious seed. Agent Scully opened the campus broadcasting room door and took cover.

“Federal agent.”

Scully aimed her gun at Ann Molly.

“Bullshit.”

Ann Molly, our protagonist, sneered.

Scully fired her gun. Once. Then again.

The plant stems thrust Waitley’s corpse forward like a shield.

Thud. Thud.

Roots and stems sprouted up, blocking the bullets.

The thick plants shook Waitley’s corpse. As Molly waved her hand, thick roots rushed toward us as if trying to grab our legs. Scully quickly stepped back.

“Stupid bastard, so damn slow. Is it finally ready?”

Molly pushed Bravery aside. The vacuum tubes lit up, and the frequency needle moved steadily. Molly blew into the microphone. The frequency needle jumped.

“Should I blow a little harder here?”

Scully fired her last bullet at the transmitter. The plant, as if anticipating this, as if saying such attempts were futile, threw Waitley’s corpse. Gurgle. Groan. Various parts of Waitley’s body bulged, and then flowers bloomed brilliantly. Molly continued to blow into the microphone and turned up the speaker volume. She seemed to be checking which frequency could draw in the breath. Each time she adjusted the frequency, the flowers bloomed more violently and the stems spread throughout the entire tube.

“Something so simple, why make it difficult.”

Ann Molly smiled. Look at this. I tore apart an insect. I had such power!

Like a child fascinated by the mere fact that they could do such things, without any concept of good and evil.

“It’s done.”

Click.

The clock struck 9.

Molly brought her mouth to the microphone.

And blew her breath into it.

Fizzle.

The vacuum tubes went out. The frequency needle fell over like it had fainted. The lights went out, plunging the room into darkness.

“What?”

As Ann Molly panicked, the plants also became disoriented. Though there wasn’t a breath of wind, the leaves and stems swayed like reeds.

Thud. Thud.

With heavy footsteps, Crayfield appeared on the landing. His clothes were torn and blood flowed from his arm, indicating he’d been injured somewhere.

Ann Molly looked at Crayfield.

“The electricity’s cut? At this point? The electricity cuts out here?”

Crayfield spat out blood-mixed saliva.

“I flipped the circuit breaker, you fucking bitch.”

Crayfield mumbled with unclear pronunciation. Ann Molly laughed hysterically.

“I just needed to broadcast, just needed to broadcast and it would all be over. The electricity’s cut? You crazy bastards. Is this a game? Is this… is this a game?”

There was no flash of light. Ann Molly disappeared just like that. But the plants remained. Having lost control, they became even more frenzied.

“To the third floor!”

Crayfield shouted and nearly collapsed. Scully and I quickly jumped out to support him.

“What on earth happened?”

“The students were clamoring to pluck even a single strand of my chest hair. I should have been less handsome.”

“You can joke even in this situation?”

We barely managed to seat him on the third-floor landing. The plants were now spreading upward and downward. Scully examined Crayfield’s wounds with a doctor’s thoroughness.

“It’s not too serious. It’s torn, but not deep. You weren’t scratched by a rusty nail or anything, were you?”

“Nothing like that. There! Behind you!”

Scully turned around in surprise. Not missing the opportunity, Crayfield struck the back of her head with his uninjured arm.

“Assistant.”

Crayfield’s voice was uncharacteristically gloomy. He barely raised his blood-soaked arm.

“Look there. It’s Mars. Big, isn’t it?”

He was right. Mars had already grown to the size of a ping-pong ball. Its bloodshot, protruding eye seemed to be coming to capture us.

“Ah shit. Those Miskatonic bastards, I’ll get them for this. By the way, that bitch. Ann Molly. She left without canceling the ritual. And the professor is dead too. What do we do?”

I took out the Chekhov.

“That won’t work. Chekhov can’t repel outer gods.”

I removed Chekhov’s drum and placed it on top of the Doomsday Clock.

1/12. 2/12. 3/12.

4/12. 5/12. 6/12.

7/12. 8/12. 9/12.

I took out the notebook Crayfield had given me. I opened the page with the quest written on it.

I loaded the drum back into Chekhov’s body, then fired at the quest page.

With one shot, the quest window was completely erased. Eight shots left.

I waved the empty page at Crayfield.

“Asking if there’s a way would be crazy, I guess. Hey. I trust you.”

Mars, visible through the window, was now the size of a soccer ball.

“Sixth assistant. Are you ready to stop the world? Are you ready to conclude the narrative? If so, continue reading. If not, stop here.”

.

..

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….

…..

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[YOU HAVE CONTROL PRESS ANY KEY]

* You accept your destiny *

* Now you are the protagonist *

* New quest registered *

Crayfield winked with one eye.

“Like last time. You know?”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than you struck the back of Crayfield’s neck. Once again, he passed out immediately.

You go down to the second floor.

The vine plants that have absorbed the bodies of the unnamed graduate student, Gordon Waitley, and Mark Bravery fill the corridor.

You fired the Chekhov. Seven shots left.

Plants that have absorbed the bodies of the graduate student, Waitley, and Bravery fill the corridor.

You fired the Chekhov. Six shots left.

Plants that have absorbed the bodies fill the corridor.

You fired the Chekhov. Five shots left.

Now there is nothing left in the corridor.

You walked up the stairs.

You passed the third floor where Crayfield and Agent Scully lay unconscious. You passed the empty, silent fourth floor. On the fifth floor was the telescope.

The chair where you had spoken with Professor Gordon Waitley was still there. You gazed up at the sky. The dome was open. You spread your arms.

You concentrate and recite the incantation. Even the word “fall” is inappropriate. For “fall” means to drop from above to below.

Among the words you know, there now exists one that means to fall from below to above.

Because you already know that word.

[Therefore, this should rightfully be called “rising-fall”]

You fall high into the sky.

Solely to close the universe.