Cthulhu Attacks!: Book 1: The Fear Read Online Free PDF

eyes, she could see the older children of the outmost circle, the ones who must have pulled her from the water and saved her life, looking down at her with concern.
    They hadn’t fallen down.
    They hadn’t been tormented. If anything, they looked fresher and happier than before.
    No, the group was obviously thrilled she was alive and actually—though Kristen herself could hardly believe it—didn’t seem to have suffered any pain or discomfort at all. Howard gently pushed through the small throng and offered her a hand. “ Tulu protects, even as He takes what is His.”
    Still woozy, Kristen could hear Howard, but she couldn’t understand the meaning of his words. It was English—she knew all the words and recognized that it was a declarative statement, but what it meant was utterly missing.
    The next thing Howard said, though, she understood with perfect clarity as he and two other cultists ( yes, okay, they were cultists ) lifted her from the mire to a standing position.
    “Let’s get you cleaned up. You are the one who will tell our story. You will tell the world what is happening. You will tell them about Tulu .”
    Jackpot! she thought, and then passed out, flopping face-first into the soft muck.
     
    New York City, USA
    40.7°N 74°W, 10400 km from the Event
     
    Just shy of 2 p.m., Martin Storch had been awake for about ten minutes and frankly, staring bleary-eyed at the rococo ceiling of his room at the Algonquin, he didn’t care for it. Technically speaking, he had been awake on and off all morning, roused by his assistant every hour on the hour since calling it a night long after it had technically become morning. Percy (staying in the other half of the suite) opened the connecting door and shook Martin awake, handed him a Bloody Mary (with less alcohol each hour until he awoke for the day) with a bit of celery, and stood by his bedside while he staved off any hangover. It worked, as it always did, keeping alcohol always in his system, making him more intoxicated each day as midnight approached, then slowly tapering off to the lesser—but still significant—amount that he began the day with. Avoid hangovers: Stay drunk was a favorite aphorism for Martin Storch. This was the ritual they observed every time he was to appear on television or talk at an important conference, meaning that Percy never got into solid REM sleep that night. But his loyal assistant sucked it up and was allowed to sleep in on non-television days to catch up. Fair enough, Martin always thought. Bless that Percy .
    Whenever a Vanity Fair or Harper’s Magazine did an interview with him or maybe just a feature on him, his drinking inevitably came up as a topic. He had been slightly annoyed at first, but then accepted it as part of his “brand.” Often three sheets to the wind, he nonetheless was famous for offering utterly sober analysis on everything from the most rarefied of subjects, such as how the Pope’s retirement affected those who pledged their entire lives to serving the Church, to the pulpiest and “lowest,” such as his towering tome defending the philosophy and writing of his favorite fictionist, H.P. Lovecraft.
    Utterly sober analysis from an utterly besotted mien raised hackles while he knocked down those who let his love of wine prejudice themselves against him. It was always a terrible misstep on their part, and it soon ceased to be an issue with all but the most desperate (or naïve) of his debate opponents.
    Martin wanted to look his best for the telly debate on Colbert, which would be taping in just a couple of hours. Thank goodness he had a system; he would be packing a flask—actually, a bottle —to ensure he stayed relaxed and in character as the West’s favorite insouciant high priest of irreverence. Hated or loved, he was listened to .
    “His best” for the debate was an expensive cream blazer, an expensive open-collared shirt splayed over his lapels 1970s-style to show his fish-belly–white skin,