The Hudsonville Saga

Begrudgingly trudging along, the sounds of the valley grew clearer—the babble of a river, the distant chatter of the locals, and the occasional blood-curdling screech just beyond the treeline. Reaching the riverbank, Andy spotted an enormous, worm-like beast resting idle in the water. Its mouth, large enough to swallow a small sailboat, remained passively open. Its beady, black eyes were lifeless, motionless, yet hungry.

Atop the creature was a large saddle or carriage, which boasted some rather comfortable looking leather seats—cup holders, too, should one be inclined to have a drink. Once aboard himself, Hudson offered Andy a hand up.

"I…ain't never seen one of those before. What is it?" the boy asked before attempting to board.

"This is Merryweather, swiftest bolter in the valley," Hudson said. "She's a gentle giant, now, don't you worry. She'll get us downtown in no time at all."

A bolter? He'd have to write that one down later.

With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, Andy accepted the man's hand and clambered onto Merryweather's back. The creature's skin was uncomfortably smooth to the touch, despite its rugged, earthy appearance.

The bolter shifted slightly in response to the boy's scrambling, a deep, rumbling purr resonating from its massive body. Andy quaked about as much in response, be it out of fear, wonder, or a volatile mixture of both.

The two settled in their soft leather seats as Hudson cracked the great reins of the saddle. Merryweather groaned with annoyance, and began to coast itself along the shore, eventually pushing off into the deeper waters.

The stream sharply dipped, the bolter plummeting down the tongue of the crashing white rapids. Andy, between his flinching and iron grip on the seats, could see dozens of fish being swept from their upstream journeys and into Merryweather's gullet. What a scary thought, getting swept up in that thing's mouth. The boy figured it best to look on ahead, for now, at the rapidly encroaching take-out.

Sploouusssh!

The waters crashed all around them, the wide river bed giving way to Merryweather's girth. Hudson happily slapped his sides with an entertained hoot, whereas Andy found himself hurling over the edge of the carriage—hopefully not into some poor sod's hair.

Sirens who were stationed at the riverbanks leapt into the waters around the worm, sporting bright orange vests and singing their sweet lullabies. Merryweather's hook-like tail fins eagerly smashed into the waters as she redirected herself toward the sounds.

The bolter and its passengers were ushered along, down a now brick-laden stream, the surroundings growing more urban by the second. Andy glanced at the metallic street lamps, which dazzled brilliantly with the glow of many tiny, bored looking Fae. He wondered if they were there by choice.

Harpies dressed in wooly vests would swoop overhead, paper bags of groceries held in their beaks. Winged folk were not the only ones with the privilege of the skies—many who found themselves without the natural advantage would be seen riding atop mighty chimera, boasting massive wings as muscular as their bear-like limbs.

It seemed the river would come to a halt here. The bank transitioned into a sidewalk, and with the sidewalk came storefronts. A tall, unfenestrated complex stood immediately to the right, another building stirring up a smokey smell to the left.

Nothing but granola bars for three days—Andy was hungry for some real food.

Another powerful quake shook the earth. Screams erupted from the crowd as people scrambled to evacuate. Tents collapsed, rides groaned and creaked dangerously.

"Everyone stay calm!" Hudson's voice boomed from over the loudspeakers. "Please exit the festival grounds in an orderly fashion!"

But his words were drowned out by panicked shrieks.

Tanya went to scoop Elena up in her arms, Andy close behind. Vick and Cici pushed through the crowd, trying to clear a path.

As they neared the exit, a deafening crack split the air. The ground beneath their feet splintered and fractured. Fissures snaked across the cobblestones, widening into gaping chasms.

And from those chasms, a sea of red noses and painted faces emerged from the depths. Thousands upon thousands of kloons poured forth, their fluffy, multi-colored bodies bouncing up and down, their grins wide. The tiny creatures swarmed over everything in their path, a living tide of vicious piñatas.

Andy watched on as the horde engulfed people left and right. Cici shrieked as a mass of the things latched onto her costume, dragging her down into the writhing sea of fur.

"Cici!" Vick cried out, reaching for her, though another surge of kloons knocked him off balance, sweeping him away in the same direction. Before he could mouth a single spell, his voice was muffled by the sea of fluff.

Tanya fought valiantly to clear the path, but there were simply too many. The kloons swarmed up her legs, weighing her down. With a growl of frustration, she and Elena toppled backwards into the surging mass.

Andy shouted as he reached for Elena's hand, watching as she was about to be consumed by the tide of creatures. Tightly, he latched on, determined not to lose her too. The girl trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Help me!" she whimpered, a few of the things crawling across her face.

"I've got you!" Andy said. He pulled her with all his might, Elena just about breaking free from their grip. Just then, a particularly large surge of kloons slammed into them from behind. Andy stumbled, his grip on Elena's hand loosening. Their fingers slipped apart.

Elena screamed as the kloon tide swallowed her whole.

Andy lunged for her, but he was already being dragged away. He caught one last glimpse of her terrified face before she vanished into the nearby fissure, Tanya's arm wrapped protectively around her as they both vanished into the darkness below.

All his friends, gone in an instant, swallowed whole along with the stage. And Elena—he'd promised to keep her safe.

He failed her.

The kloons surged around Andy's ankles, threatening to drag him under as well. But a fire ignited in his chest. Something had snapped. A primal roar tore from Andy's throat as adrenaline surged through his veins. His pupils flashed. Coarse fur sprouted sparingly across his face and arms as his meek form now strained against the fabric of his costume. Sharp claws extended from his fingertips.

Andy swung his arms wildly, swatting away small swarms of kloons. His superhuman strength sent the creatures flying through the air, their squeaky honks cut short as they slammed into nearby tents and booths. Fading fast, Andy could catch a whiff of Elena's scent. He charged forward, plowing through the writhing mass of fur and painted faces. Kloons crunched and popped beneath his feet as he sprinted toward the chasm. His claws tore through any creatures that dared cling to him.

Andy skidded to a halt at the edge of the yawning fissure, peering down into the darkness below. The stench of something rotten assaulted his senses. Without hesitation, he crouched down, calves coiling like springs.

"I'm comin', fellas!"

Andy launched himself into the chasm, plummeting into the dark.

The energy indoors was intense. Drew and Meat-Man found themselves standing shoulder to shoulder with several men and women who appeared straight out of a military catalogue. Buzz cuts, rigid postures, expressions that screamed they ate nails for breakfast.

Everyone was cast in an unpleasant, buzzing light, making their flesh appear sickly and yellow. The basement felt more like a morgue than a recruitment center.

"Welcome," boomed a low voice. The duo's head turned upward.

Standing on a soundstage, drawing the recruits' attention, a barrel-chested man in ornate armor paced back and forth. His scarred eyes scanned the room, his tongue caressing his dry, stubbled lips.

"By now, a number of you have become well acquainted. You harbor friendships. You know each other's names. Your stories. Your motivations. I am here to tell you that such things do not matter in our Order. What matters is your fealty, your loyalty, and above all else, your unyielding spirit."

The man placed a hand to his bejeweled chest.

"I am The General. My orders are simple. I am to cull the weak from this gathered herd. Compassion. Blind empathy. These are not virtues to be celebrated, they are frailties that will only serve to complicate our mission. You might call it cynicism. Ruthlessness. Cruelty. But a calculated heart is necessary to defend our sanctity. We are on the verge of war with these creatures, and every single day, they encroach more and more into our world. They threaten to wipe us off the face of the planet should our vigilance waver. I cannot, and will not, allow for this to happen."

Each word struck the recruits like hammers against anvils. Drew glanced about, noting how the others had straightened their postures, hungry for approval.

"Other leaders may grant you a false hope. I will do such trivial things. Most of you will not make it through our trials. Many will give up. Some may perish. Only a few will come out on top. Our trials will push you beyond your limits, test your resolve and reveal your true character. Those who succeed will earn the right to wear our armor—a privilege that comes with a divine responsibility. We are to protect the Human race, no matter the cost. Know this; you can choose to be heroes. You can choose to be better men. Alternatively, you can choose to be the ones who survive."

The palace shook with the murmurs of hundreds, Hastur's loyal subjects all gathering around his throne. Ornate tapestries sewn with gold reflected their wide-eyed expressions.

Hastur sat still, draped in yellow robes, leaning one hand against his staff. He watched the faces of his people, once brimming with devotion, now dark and desperate. Just yesterday, they had hailed him as the God of the new world.

Today, they accused him of tampering with the fates of mankind.

"What have you done?" one man asked. "What have you done to our child?"

"I have perfected her," Hastur said. "She will know no sickness, no aging, no death for some time."

"And now she feasts on blood, your highness!"

His words lingered, an unsettling refrain of echoes behind them. The court exchanged glances, a silent calculus of their own hidden fears. One finally spoke, the bravest of the assembled lot…or perhaps the most afraid of them all.

"You do this without sanction. Mortals wielding such power—"

"Is the future," Hastur said. "I have blessed the child. It is part of my plan. An evolution of mankind beyond its current limitations."

Hastur could feel an undertow, a current of doubt threatening to sweep him off his chair. It was more potent than he had anticipated, this fear. But there was pride swelling within him, too, a vision yet to unfold. He reached into his tangled ether of ambition, preparing to lay it bare. Hastur rose from his throne, stepping down the golden stairs, placing a hand on the shoulder of the bold one.

"Do not be afraid. My vision for humanity has merely…expanded. We must ascend. We must be the arbiters of change. For a better future, for all of our children. Trust in me, and you shall all live as I do; as Gods."

The atmosphere had changed. There was a nip in the air, one that sliced through the court's facade. Hastur paused, sensing a shift, a gathering storm of intention.

Then pain—visceral pain. Something had been thrust into his stomach by the bold man, drawing thick black ichor from the wound. It was a dagger, struck with a brilliance meant to rival his own. Hastur staggered forward into the man's arms.

The craftsmanship of R'lyeh bit deep, its cruel magic beginning to splinter his very essence. He looked at his hand, as cracks began to form, magenta splinters that grew wider and wider.

Hastur's mouth opened in a soundless cry as his body exploded, a shockwave of essence, consciousness and being kaleidoscoping into infinite fragments. The fragments were then pulled, one after another, into three separate stones, held by three surrounding figures. Through the shattering, he could glimpse his brother's hand in the treachery, whispered instructions, the gleaming dagger, the Human's will to remain so pitifully "pure."

In his final, flickering moment, Hastur watched as his court formed a new order. All his visions for ascension, his grand plan for humanity, it all died there on the stained floors of Carcosa.

He reached for meaning, for coherence, but it slipped through his being like water through gravel. He was less than God, more than man, scattered and diminished, casting a thousand-year shadow that screamed silently toward the future.

There, in the periphery of oblivion, his many voices awaited, their seductive whispers ready to ensnare the next unsuspecting soul.