An Innsmouth invesigation, Part 2

The dawn was furious maroon as Crooker left the station. After that the sun vanished behind rolling clouds, as if it didn’t relish contact between its rays and the soil.

He didn’t see a soul as he left the new town – not surprising at five am - which meant a tail would be easy to spot. 

Nothing.

So he slipped off the Newburyport road before he reached his house, into dense thickets. He cut southwest, towards a spot where the elderly barb wire fence surrounding the Old Town ran through a shallow depression.

At the fence Crooker paused. He waited wordlessly, staring up at the clouds and drumming his fingers on his thigh.

A slightly shame faced Sams stepped out from behind a twisted oak tree.

*

“Why are we doing this?” Sams asked, as Crooker worked at the wire fence surrounding the old town. “Saturday is lie–in day, especially when you've spent a week in your own cells being grilled.”

The hissing rain ran over Crookers hands, as he snipped at the rusty wire. "I didn't ask you to follow me,” He said tightly. “If someone’s watching us…. then you're in the shit as much as I am.”

"Nah, they’re done with us. Remember what we heard those NSA guys say: ‘Just a pair of dumb flatfoots’,” she grinned. “And c'mon - you mutter something about seeing a contact, and then disappear towards the old town? What else could I do?"

“My house is between the old town and the police station,” he pointed out. Sams shrugged and kept her irritating grin in place, so he suppressed a sigh and asked. “Are you armed?”

“ ‘Natch.” Then her gaze moved past him, and he watched her grin fade:

Old Innsmouth - once a fishing town, now overgrown ruins that even Deep Ones wouldn't visit - squatted around the river mouth before them.

They climbed through the fence, and silently followed a vague path - barely more than an animal track – down towards the bay.

They’d crossed half a mile before a section of ruined brickwork, jutting out of the ground, confirmed they’d crossed the boundary, into the town proper The army had levelled old Innsmouth: Over a century ago, long before official first contact with the fish people, it had come to the American governments attention that the Deep ones had been experimenting with human crossbreeds there. Nature had taken vacant possession since the towns destruction, reducing the ruins, until there were few clues that a town had ever been here.

“There’re a lot of hiding spots.” Sams muttered doubtfully, as they gingerly crossed the one crumbling bridge over the manuxet river.

 Crooker tried to inject some confidence into his voice, grateful she trusted him enough not to ask the obvious question - who his contact was, out here? “He stays near the main square. Don’t worry, this won’t take long.”

The few, more or less, intact structures were all clustered around the town square, which was oddly free of vegetation.

Crookers ‘contact’ was just inside one of the roofless buildings, which still bore a half readable sign: ‘..ouse Hote..’. They almost missed 'him'; Face down, the creatures grey green skin blended well with the slime and mould on the ancient stone flags.

It stirred as they approached. “What want?” a voice croaked.

Crooker gently turned the creature with his foot, and heard Sams bite back an oath: The thing was all the more horrible for still having some faint trace of humanity in its features - somehow caught halfway between the fish/ frog features of the Deep Ones and mankind.

It was clutching an empty bag of instant coffee in its malformed hands, its eyelids flickering.

Crooker sucked air through his teeth. “You should lay off that stuff Trent.”

‘Trent’ made gargling noise, that might have been a giggle, it’s gills fluttering spasmodically. “What….What want with me.”

Crooker leaned down to peer into it’s face, stomach churning slightly. “Trent, a deep one…”

Trent gurgled something, which went on for several seconds.

Crooker, surprised he remembered enough Deep One tounge to recognise cursewords, shuddered. He waited until Trent had run out of steam and continued. “... It came to the new town. It was hurt.”

 “So?”

“It couldn't have gotten through the Y'ha-nthlei patrols," the undersea city had security second to none, "and our beach fortifications.” The fish man’s eyes slowed their flickering, as he continued: “But there might be passages here in old town we still don’t know about. Maybe going all the way out to Y'ha-nthlei city itself? I'm sure the old town Dagon priests would have had an escape route. And I know you know all the best hiding spots. The Marines still come here sometimes, right?”

 One of the solid black eyes opened fully. “More coffee. Makes forgets”

 Crooker produced a two kilogram bag of coffee from his rucksack.

“Ah - uh.” Sams cautioned as Trents other eye opened, “Then, maybe you know something about this….?” To Crookers surprise she produced the coin dropped by the injured deep one, and dropped it in front of Trent.

Before he could wonder how she’d kept it hidden during their ‘debriefing’, Trents snatched it from he floor, rolling over to examine it minutely. "Ha,” It barked, “Slashed is an abandoned one".

 Crooker felt a tiny spark of triumph. "We never said it had been slashed Trent. Just hurt"

Trent shrugged, and shoved its way upright, its stupor suddenly gone. "Abandoned ones, here, a week ago. Three. Was followed. Priest of Dagon, and Dagons guards. All started fighting in the square. One got away, cut in his face."

"Why were they here?"

Trent sniggered. "Dunno monkey man, didn’t file a report with me. Humans showed up, after. Didn't go well for humans. Dagons people took them back below.…." A huge black eye fixed on Sams, and the horrific head swayed from side to side mockingly.

Crooker held out his hand to Sams, palm out: No."They don't do that anymore."

"Dagon priests do what they want. Unless the girl had something important enough to trade for her freedom - and the strength to hide it"

Something in the creatures tone came through to Crooker. "You think she did?"

To be continued....