Image courtesy of Dave Allsop
At forty plus Sergeant Joseph Crooker (NIPD) had arms that tired faster than he liked. "Sams!" He shouted to his partner, struggling to keep his arrestee pinned to the floor – the quick cuffs were on, the suspect restrained, and the stocky policeman had his knee jammed hard in to the hollow of the boys shoulder. Still, he kept thrashing: This was another one with a frightening determination to make a bad situation for themselves worse.
Sams stepped into Crooker's view, badge extended, her voice raised over the kid's incomprehensible snarls: “Hey! You’re under arrest, on suspicion of assaulting an officer! Calm down, it’s all over…” She stopped. The boy had abruptly gone limp, like the battery had run out. ‘The student officer’ – mandatory reading at the academy - did say a male was more likely to respond peaceably to a female, but this was the first time Crooker had seen a male stunned totally senseless by one look at Lieutenant Sams.
When the stocky policeman looked into the face of the cuffed twenty-something it was as expressionless as a dolls.
Sams read the silent arrestee his rights, he was handled through the wagon doors… Crooker shook his head to himself. Same the others, same as usual, he grumbled in the privacy of his own head.
Fifth time that night. Tenth or twelfth night like it this month.
Night life of New Innsmouth.
Crooker looked over the boy for injuries, glancing at the other occupants: An even blend of ages and genders - that would be odd anywhere else. In Innsmouth a total absence of pattern was the norm for violent incidents. All were blank faced. None of them would remember much, he predicted. And all would test negative for anything recreational.
He swung the doors shut, and frowned. He should have heard Sams climb into the cab. "Sams?”
Something wrong. “Sams!"
He stepped around the wagon, and stopped in confusion: Sams was staring, slack jawed, at a hooded figure on the curb. Hand shaking in the air, halfway to her holster.
”Lieutenant what’s going on?” He snapped.
Then he caught it: The stench of stagnant water and rotten fish.
Saw the figures hands: Webbed, green grey, and covered scales.
One of them.
Crookers arm seemed to drag through treacle towards his gun grip. “Fuuuck!” He hissed, as he sighted on the creatures chest. The sound seemed to shock Sams out of it, and she snatched to get her own weapon clear.
The figure collapsed.
The hood flopped away, and now Crooker's jaw dropped.
Not at the hideous parody of life - somewhere between a frog and a wrinkled fish - it revealed. The Deep Ones, the alien amphibians who's discovery had stunned the world, came and went to the nearby navy base openly enough. Dignitaries would sometimes get guided tours of their undersea cities, setting off from the base in military submersibles. On rare occasions they’d visit the new town, guarded by grim faced marines. And every school kid on the coast knew the horror story of Old Innsmouth.
But he’d never seen one injured: The face was a mass of cuts, some deep enough to reveal white bone. Blue green blood ran on to the pavement. A disc of the Deep Ones analysis-defying metal rolled out of the robe, and stopped by Sams feet.
Crooker lowered his gun.
He half raised it again, reflexively, as the dying amphibian struggled to sit up. It's voice was like mud falling onto gravel, but there were words amongst the gargles:
"Purghlee. Plearghaeee. Pleaghse.”
Crooker lowered the gun again, as it sagged back onto the pavement. One last gurgle escaped its lipless mouth.
“Hgurelp”
To Be Continued.....
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