They dropped anchor just after dawn. A molten golden burst of sun made fire of the clouds to the east. 'Anchor', how she loved that word. It made their home sound like a pirate ship, not just a luxury yacht they'd stolen when madness and mutation killed the world. The sharply angled, thirty-eight-meter yacht, a Collezione 38, according to the engine manual, boasted the name The Saucy Nancy. A pirate ship's name, if ever there was one.
       Fifteen men on a dead man's chest, Rhian thought as she descended to the stern. "Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!" she sang, heading to the small jettying port at the stern's rear.
       On the tip of the western horizon, the afterglow of the thing, that gigantic horror that had consumed the moon, turned the sky a fiery, flickering red. An evil, anti-sun, disgorging a licking fire that had destroyed humanity.
       Drink and the devil had done for the rest. This part of the song soured her mood. But only momentarily. She saw Drake had removed the tarp and undone the cables attaching the motorboat to the Nancy. He wore mustard yellow shorts and a faded, tie-dyed Grateful Dead t-shirt. Beneath a head of curly black hair, sunglasses concealed his eyes. He smiled from the boat's front seat when he noticed Rhian.
       "Milady fancy a spin to the marina? I hear the Heppengills are having a soiree!"
       She laughed. He pronounced soiree as 'sour-ee.'
       "Only if that horrid old dowager Ms. Cohen-Smith isn't there with her angry little dog!"
       Drake grinned and scooted over in his seat to hold a hand out for her.
       "Riding shotgun?" he asked as she knelt to step across the gunwale.
       "I'll sit at the rear. You know what his lordship is like."
       The motorboat had a crimson hull and bore the name Eloise in stylish lettering on the starboard side. Perhaps the name of the wife, daughter, or some lost love of the Nancy's former owner. The boat's interior resembled a car, with two seats at the front and one long seat at the rear. All crimson padded leather, as was the steering wheel, fronting the shiny red dashboard.
       She took his hand and stepped across the gunwale to climb into the passenger seat.
       The sea air felt cold on her bare legs. Rhian raised her feet and hugged her knees. No captain here to order her feet off the leather. He'd be long gone, along with the rest of humanity.
       "Speak of the devil," Drake said and nodded towards the Nancy's stern.
       Sergeant Tucker approached. Rhian didn't know his first name; no one did. The nearing man, dressed in worn camouflaged combat fatigues, usually went by 'Sarge,' or more sarcastic names, when out of earshot.
       His lined face never cracked a smile. Not that Rhian ever witnessed. Red hair short and close to the scalp, he never went unshaven. A khaki combat vest atop his shirt held a holstered Glock, a knife, and four grenades that dangled like dark green, deadly fruit. Strapped to his shoulder: a SPAS-12 combat shotgun.
       Had he owned these before the collapse? No one knew if he came from the military or the police. Maybe he'd named himself that just to feel important.
       "Miss. Drake," Tucker nodded to Rhian and climbed aboard the speedboat. It lurched a little from his weight, stabilized as he sat beside Drake.
       "You came armed for bear," Drake said and sent Rhian a sly grin.
       Tucker grunted and said, "We have to be careful on the land, son."
       Drake raised his eyebrows. She suppressed a giggle.
       At the beginning of the fall, weapons were a necessity and, thankfully, in large supply. Gun stores, cop vans ... apart from Tucker, the Nancy's survivors hardly cared now, even when they headed ashore.
       "We've not encountered anything resembling a danger in six months." Drake started the engine. A loud, buzzing roar filled the air, and the hull vibrated.
       "This group's curiosity is a danger," Tucker replied, voice raised over the engine sound.
       The boat sped off, pushing Rhian into her seat as it darted away from the Nancy and the shore.
       She could tell Tucker felt annoyed over their glibness. The nape of his neck had reddened substantially. The tip of a tattoo there, something resembling a barcode, grew obscured as a result. Drake specialized in annoying the man. He never went too far, though.
       The speedboat turned and made a half circle back towards shore.
       Rhian twisted in her seat and placed an arm atop the headrest. She watched the fizzing white semicircle of ocean the speedboat left in its wake. The semicircle became a line as they propelled towards shore. She glanced to the Nancy and saw Chris Cassavetes and Abigail on the deck, watching their progress. The pair had become a couple since the world fell. A natural progression, she guessed. Him being the only eligible male. Drake went for men. And as for Tucker ...
       Drake's voice returned her attention to port.
       "Rhi! Looks like picnic territory, don't you think?" he shouted to be heard above the engine's rattle and hum.
       He waved to the beach before returning his hand to the wheel.
       "You're joking, right?" She laughed. "What a dump!"
       As beaches went, this looked hardly the most scenic. A half-moon shape, it lay surrounded by rocky, uneven cliffs. Spurs reached to the ocean in a horseshoe shape.
       Ancient-looking wood formed the L-shaped jetty. A little distance beyond this stood a small wooden shed.
       They encountered areas like this fairly often. Small beaches with private docks. Some were better than others. Most boasted more than a crappy shed. Still, it could hold fuel. There could even be a house or houses beyond the cliffs. And these, in turn, might contain food, batteries, and fresh clothes. Tucker probably hoped for guns and ammo. Hell, he probably hoped for something or someone to shoot at.
       And her wants? Sanitary items, shower gel and toothpaste were running low. That was it, really. Food being the essential they always needed, canned and dried.
       Drake slowed the motorboat near the jetty and pulled up beside it.
       He switched the engine off and turned to her with a white-toothed grin.
       "We're just in time for the gala!"
       Drake leant down and retrieved the rope he'd use to tie the speedboat to the jetty.
       Rhian stood and climbed across the gunwale. The jetty looked even more decrepit close-up. The planks, crumbling at the edges, had silvered from the elements. They smelled of rot and salt. They proved sturdy enough, however, taking her weight with barely a creak.
       Months earlier, climbing to and from boats had been a frightening ordeal. No problem, now she had her sea legs.
       Drake climbed out, followed by Tucker. Neither needed a hand up, so she started towards the beach.
       Turning his attention to the boat and jetty, Drake knelt and tied the rope to a support pole.
       Tucker appeared at her side. He retrieved the shotgun from his shoulder and retracted the shoulder guard as they approached the shed.
       Looks like an outhouse, she thought and scowled.
       Their footsteps, hers bare and light, Tucker's heavy in combat boots, were joined by Drake's, coming up from behind. He wore threadbare sneakers, hi-tops, some brand famous in the old world that meant nothing now.
       The boards became steps, and the steps descended to the beach; Rhian's feet touched warm, slightly damp sand.
       "Looks like an outhouse," Drake said, speeding past her.
       "Hey, hold on!" Tucker rushed forward, intercepting Drake before he reached the shed. "Procedures," he continued, then stepped cautiously to the shed.
       Drake turned to Rhian and pulled a comical face. She laughed. Tucker always acted like this. And there always proved no need for concern.
       Tucker halted at the door, took his shotgun one-handed and rapped on the wood.
       Rhian reached Drake's side. He patted her on the shoulder.
       This same act. Every time they found a building, boat, or bus. One day they'd be surprised. A pack of deranged people would pile out of some unknown place. But not today.
       With no answer forthcoming to his knock, Tucker gave the door an almighty kick. It came clear off its rusty hinges. He peered inside, shotgun aimed at the darkness, and said, "Clear."
       As per usual, Rhian thought, and shrugged. She approached the shed and looked inside behind Tucker's shoulder. The shadowy interior revealed nothing but shelves, the dust the fallen door had stirred up.
       "It's a bust." Tucker backed off, causing Rhian to do the same.
       "Back to the boat then, Sarge?" she asked.
       Tucker looked at her with steely blue eyes. "Might as--"
       "Hey!" Drake said, interrupting Tucker.
       He pointed towards the cliffs. "See that?"
       Rhian did indeed see it: a path, zig-zagging up the cliffs. A path might mean signs of civilization beyond this mummified dock and desolate beach.
       Tucker raised a hand to his brows and squinted. "Let's go check it out."
       He took the lead. The beach held nothing of interest, just dried clumps of seaweed, the odd shell or rock. The cliffs weren't exactly high, but soon enough, the trio stood in their shadows. This brought a distinct chill to the air, making goosebumps form on Rhian's bare arms and legs. The sand felt damper here, too, turning to sludge between her toes.
       The path sloped right in its ascent, then left. As they climbed, Rhian couldn't tell if it was man-made or natural. Well-traversed at some point in the past, she guessed. It made her wish she'd worn shoes, for small rocks spotted the sand. The path grew steeper as they neared the bend. Drake offered an assist up, but Rhian used a scrubby chunk of yellowed grass for leverage.
       Her knees started to ache as they neared the summit. She didn't look down. Low-lying as the cliffs were, Rhian had a problem with heights. Looking down would only make her dizzy. This urge tugged like a magnet anyway as she trailed her companions to the top.
       Her ankles throbbed a little now. But the path neared its end at a small patch of bare rock. Tucker climbed it like a lizard, Drake less gracefully. As Rhian went to climb, Drake's head and shoulders appeared, silhouetted against the clear blue sky.
       He offered a hand, and she accepted, letting him pull as she scrambled to the top. Rhian went to thank him. Instead, she gasped, surprised at what she saw.
       A gentle slope descended from their position to a plateau, and upon the plateau?
       "What the?"
       "I thought the same," Drake added, putting his hands on his hips.
       Tucker moved towards the plateau carefully, like he walked a minefield.
       Drake began walking. Rhian followed suit.
       The plateau held a large, ramshackle house. A hulking square structure, its white-panelled walls were dirty with age, the grey-tiled roof spotted with gaping holes. Beyond the house, four huge stacks of speakers of the sound system variety surrounded the plateau. Each stack connected to the other with thick, snaking lengths of cable; these, in turn, connected to the house.
       She stared in silent awe at this strange sight. Drake remained quiet, too, until their descent brought them near the house.
       "The ground between the speakers. You see?"
       Rhian did see. The section they walked stood higher than what lay ahead and within the boundary formed by the speakers and cables.
       The ground had been blasted black as if from an ultra-hot conflagration.
       "I've not seen anything like it." She said this more to herself than to her companion.
       "Agreed," he said.
       Tucker, making a detour around the house, headed right towards the plateau.
       Rhian examined the building more closely. The windows of the two floors were boarded with weathered wood.
       Soon enough, she and Drake reached the house's shadow. The grass felt cold beneath her feet.
       They veered as one to find the light again. She suspected unseen watchers were spying from gaps in the window boards. At the house's side, they encountered more boarded windows. Soon enough, they were back in the light.
       Tucker walked across the blasted plateau.
       She and Drake shared a glance before heading towards it.
       The housefront looked as shabby as the rear. The wide porch had white, mock-Greek pillars, atop which stood a balcony. Looking up, Rhian saw two windows, between which a door hung open on its hinges.
       A scent of rot issued from the shadows beneath the balcony.
       She felt glad to put the house behind her. Ahead, Tucker went to his knees. He crouched, scrutinizing something on the ground.
       They left dead, yellowed grass and stepped onto the black.
       Rhian flinched. The ground felt icy cold! Not only that but looking down, she found it smooth and most certainly glass.
       "What the hell?"
       She looked to Drake with a quizzical expression.
       He frowned. "If this had been sand, then I guess extreme heat could've done this. So smooth, though."
       It may as well be ice covering a lake, Rhian considered as they approached Tucker. The blackness below spoke of unplumbed, watery depths. And ... Were there shapes down there? White, fragile-looking things that appeared very familiar.
       As they neared Tucker, her still staring at the solid, smooth lake, Rhian realized what they were. Now she wished she wasn't moving across it or at least wore shoes.
       "Skeletons, wow." Drake's distaste was apparent by his tone.
       It was bizarre, shocking, seeing them embedded like flies in amber.
       The bony forms were posed like dancers performing a macabre skeletal waltz. How many there were, she couldn't guess, for whatever she walked across appeared very deep.
       So this is what Tucker studied so intently.
       "There's dozens of them. Maybe hundreds," he said as they paused before him.
       Rhian knelt down.
       One skeleton floated close to the surface here. Its grinning skull, staring up from empty, sightless sockets, made a ghoulish sight. Rhian's instinctual logic kept telling her the bony remains were underwater.
       "What ..." Rhian composed herself. "What could've done this?"
       Tucker touched the glassy surface with a gloved hand. His fingers poked out of two glove-tips, his nails clean and manicured. He tapped the skull's teeth, mere millimeters from his hand.
       "I just don't know what could generate such heat over so wide an area. And. . . " He tapped his lower lip with the other hand."Why weren't the skeletons destroyed in the process?"
       "And what were they doing here?" Rhian added.
       Drake knelt beside her."Sacrifices," he said.
       Both Rhian and Tucker turned to him.
       "The location of the speakers, the house," Drake continued."They form five points. Like a pentagram."
       This sent Tucker to his feet in a hurry. Rhian followed.
       Tucker turned slowly in an arc, shotgun aimed forward."Damn this place," he said with a snarl.
       Rhian didn't know whether he meant the plateau, or the world in general. Perhaps both.
       A mysterious lake of death was one thing. But cultist activity? They summoned the horror in the sky. Doomed everyone. Murdered the world.
       Scanning the area herself and realizing Drake was correct, she focused on the house.
       Tucker stepped to her side.
       She felt safer in his proximity. "You think... "
       "Probably long gone. Just look at it," Drake replied to her unfinished question, then, "This could be one of the places it all started."
       A coincidence, of course, but at this moment, clouds obscured the sun, turning everything chilly. Rhian hugged herself as Drake continued."News sites and TV said they used sound, right? The cult members, working in unison across the world?"
       Rhian recalled it; yes, the commotion on social media. Video clips depicted gouts of living flame appearing mid-air before zooming into the sky. They ascended towards the moon in their hundreds.
       "What was it called again, the cult?" asked Drake.
       "The Glorious Return," Tucker replied, his tone foul. He headed towards the house.
       "Yeah, that's it," Drake said, and standing, trailed Tucker.
       What could be in there? she thought with not a little fear.
       The house looked abandoned. Still, this being one of the places the cult used ... Tucker increased his gait. Leaving the glassy lake, they reached the house soon after.

       The house proved a boon for supplies. Whatever happened to the previous tenants, they'd stockpiled powdered and canned goods in a downstairs room. Two bathrooms, one on each floor, held toiletries, most of them partially used. Still, a half-empty bottle of shower gel was much better than no shower gel.
       Tucker found a pair of generators in the basement. One they discovered provided power to the house. The other they discovered was connected to the speakers outside. They emitted a loud screech when it came on. Rhian felt suspicious about that generator, the mixing deck its cables connected to. They switched it off and left it alone.
       She wanted to trash it, but Drake said to let it lie.
       A day of searching and moving supplies to the yacht led to a decision to stay overnight.
       A real bed in a strange house. So used was Rhian to the yacht's rocking sensation she kept waking up. The dusty room had a mildewy scent, and each time she awoke, she felt disorientated and needed a short time to realize her location.
       At one point, she awoke to hear Chris and Abigail making love. Another time, someone coughing heavily dragged her from sleep. Drake? Tucker? She pulled the sheets over her head and returned to slumber.
       This time, sounds awoke her. A loud hum accompanied by amplified whispers.
       Rhian sat with a start and found the room spotted in light. The source? A flame-like flicker issued from behind the blind-covered window facing the bed.
       This doesn't feel real. Rhian pulled the sheets off, climbed off the bed and stood.
       Unusually vivid dreams weren't anything new. This certainly seemed like one.
       The noise must be coming from the speakers outside. Then who activated them?
       You're dreaming, right? Her thoughts seemed clear enough, but she felt a distinct fog on the edge of her consciousness.
       She trod across the carpet, eyes locked on the blinds. Her feet touched a wet patch, deposited when she'd entered the room, dripping from the bath. The blinds clattered as she teased two open.
       Rhian leant forward. The blinds rattled upwards, making her gasp in surprise. Surely, the shock would've awoken her if this were a dream.
       The heat outside. So strong. So close. No way. She'd not seen it before, yet recognized it instantly. The otherworldly horror that brought madness to the human race hovered above the glass lake!
       It looked too small, of course. A facet, then? It caused madness to gaze upon it.
       A terrible glory to behold, this horror from beyond.
       A discordant base pumped from the speakers, accompanied by interweaving, screeching whispers.
       Music to summon horror. A horror she stared at, could not look away from.
       Rhian recalled the media warnings about looking at the night sky. Many heard too late and lost their minds. A descent to savagery followed. It ended uncountable lives.
       It didn't appear so bad. Not to a dreamer.
       Myriad eyes, covering the chaotic, glowing mass, stared mindlessly in every direction. Ever-changing, these sometimes burst, empty sockets becoming hungry maws before a new eye bulged from the gaping orifice. The horror swayed in time to the beat. Tentacles lengthened, wavering tips brushing the speakers or the glass lake. These surfaces smoldered but didn't burn.
       "Azathoth," she said, not knowing where the word came from.
       Additional movement caught her attention. Beneath the flickering horror, white shapes appeared.
       The skeletons.
       The bony forms, no longer restricted to their glass prison, moved atop it. They danced and cavorted, waltzed, and performed solo jigs. A macabre dance of the dead.
       Rhian didn't know what to make of it: the dead dancing to this world-ending, zombie beat. She watched, entranced, as the performance continued. It made her feel a little giddy, the emotions of fear and fascination battling one another for dominance. The grinning skulls' shiny white domes reflected Azathoth's nuclear light.
       She could sense a different scene too, not just sense, but see and hear it now as she focused her gaze.
       On the sandy basin that predated the lake, scores of people lay bound and helpless. Men and women of all ages, children too, struggled in vain.
       Superimposed by skeletal dancers, the victims screamed as Azathoth's flaming blight descended upon them.
       Oh, my God. She felt horrified by the sight.
       The screams became abominable, as clothing, then flesh, scorched, blistering and bubbling with escaping body fats. The victims jerked in their death throes. Even through the closed window, Rhian could detect the odor of burning flesh.
       Some escaped their fiery bonds and stumbled away from impending immolation. A tragic sight: men, women, and children, their bodies aflame as they faltered from a tentacle's touch. Soon enough, the screaming ceased. Just a litter of twisted, burning shapes now.
       Rhian felt glad their suffering had ceased.
       And skeletons continued their dance.
       I'm seeing the past, a past of sorts. And if memories of death clung to a place seeped in madness, the memories themselves could hold nothing of sanity.
       The scene froze, cosmic horror and skeletons halting mid-movement. Suddenly, everything began going backwards. As if a sight like this could be more macabre.
       Widdershins, she thought, another word she didn't consciously know.
       The skeletons' dance turned weirder. Blasted human remains began to regain their flesh. It was awful to behold. Melting body fat should not be seen congealing into muscle. Charred tendons should not be witnessed absorbing fetid smoke before turning whole again.
       Smoldering black heaps stood clumsily. Limbs flailed as weird movements returned them to the ground. Twisting where they lay, flame spat muscles and skin back into existence. Festering black matter spread, transforming into clothes.
       The faces were the worst: liquid gore spitting into sockets to become rolling, pleading eyes. Burst lips attached to gaping maws, congealing to wrap around screaming mouths. Smoking, charcoal black teeth transformed to ivory white. Azathoth's tentacles licked bare skulls, depositing skin, knitting hair from surrounding smoke.
       Rhian's shock became wonder. This macabre scene returned the dead to life. If only this were real. If only this weren't a dream contrived by an active imagination.
       Corpses no longer, the victims were struggling human souls again. More changes were afoot, for as the backwards beat slowed, Azathoth's chaotic movements turned sluggish. A transparency came to its monstrous, pulsing form.
       And why not, dream logic informed her. If sound summoned it, and the sacrifices solidified its presence, taking it all back would send it away, banish it.
       The entity dissipated before her eyes. Menacing tentacles drifted away, eyes and mouths faded. Soon enough, nothing remained but empty air surrounded by speakers, a mass of helpless people below squirming in their bonds. These, too, faded away, and the pumping speakers turned silent.
       Only when she felt the chill on her naked body did Rhian realize she stood awake before the window.
       She hugged her chest and took a step away from the glass.
       My God. What have I just witnessed?

       Rhian slept in the next morning; it was after eleven when she finally rose, dressed, and headed downstairs. Before this, she'd returned to the window to examine what remained of last night's dream or vision. Whatever it was, she couldn't decide, but the glass lake and the speakers were as they'd appeared upon their discovery yesterday.
       Chris, Abigail, and Tucker were in the kitchen. A scent of oatmeal pervaded the room. A window stood open, adding fresh air, tinged with salt, to the oatmeal.
       Tucker, a large bowl of cereal before him, scooped cornflakes in his mouth. For a change, his face was unshaven, a ghost of ginger fuzz visible on his chin and cheeks.
       Abigail's long blonde hair, going black at the roots, was tied in a bun. Wearing oversized yellow pajamas that Rhian guessed she'd found in her bedroom, she sat poring through a notebook, a pile of which lay atop the bare wooden table.
       She looked up, smiled at Rhian, and returned her attention to the notebook. Chris, at her side, ate porridge, a pan of which sat at the center of the table. His long brown hair looked shiny and freshly washed. He was looking over Abigail's shoulder. Dressed in frayed jeans and a white shirt, he frowned in concentration.
       He glanced at Rhian briefly."Porridge is still warm; help yourself."
       A pile of bowls with spoons in the top one stood beside the pan. Also, to her delight, Rhian noted four jars of preserves.
       Her stomach growled. Sweet things were somewhat of a luxury. She sat and scooped porridge into a bowl, followed by a dollop of apricot and kiwi jam.
       "Anything?" Chris asked.
       Rhian looked up with a mouthful of porridge. She swallowed it quickly and asked, "What's up, guys?"
       "These books," Abigail replied."We found a pile at the bottom of a wardrobe. They appear to be in German, which I studied before moving on to French. But this ... I think it's in code. So no, hunny." She closed the notebook, shoved it across the table, and turned to Chris."Not anything, no nothing."
       "We ought to burn those things," Tucker said grumpily.
       Burn, destroy, Rhian thought as she dropped her spoon into her almost empty bowl. If you had your way, we'd have torn the house down the moment we saw it. She slid the notebook closer. It had an aged brown leather cover, frayed at the corners. It opened with a creak. A waft of moldy paper followed. Inside, the pages were yellowed, covered in crabbed writing she had no chance of deciphering. Some pages held large, esoteric-looking symbols too.
       Chris and Abigail started talking. Her attention drifted briefly from the book to hear him say, "Could go for a little walk, see what's further away?" After examining the symbols and glyphs the pages held, she encountered a sketch. It covered an entire page. The sight turned her stomach to a lump of lead. The image depicted a mass of flaming tentacles covered in eyes and mouths. Beneath it, a horde of skeletons danced.
       She felt her body drain of blood. Light-headedness making her hands weak, she dropped the notebook.
       "You okay, Miss?" Tucker asked.
       "Yeah, you look like you've seen a ghost," added Chris.
       She looked up and found three faces scrutinizing her. No, not just one ghost, but scores of them, she thought but didn't say.
       "I'm okay," Rhian lied. "I think my time of the month is coming up. Plus, I think I just experienced my first sugar rush in forever."
       Abigail smiled, nodded understanding. Tucker returned to his breakfast. Chris reached across the table and retrieved the notebook. Thankfully, it had fallen closed when she dropped it.
       "I think I might go get some fresh air." She stood and added, "Where's Drake, by the way?"
       Both Chris and Abigail were back to examining the notebooks.
       "Basement," Tucker said between a mouthful of cornflakes."Maintaining the generator, or something."
       She pushed her chair under the table and left the kitchen.
       I absolutely have to tell someone about this. Drake seemed the likely candidate. She felt the closest to him. And she just didn't feel comfortable telling the others.
       From the kitchen, she turned left, stepped across frayed carpet towards the door under the staircase. It stood ajar and led to the stairs to the basement.
       She noted light down there, heard the low hum of an electrical generator.
       Her bare feet trod dusty wooden steps. She'd seen the basement briefly yesterday. It was nothing like she'd expected. No cobwebs or rotting bundles of newspapers. Concrete and rectangular, it looked quite clean and tidy compared to the rest of the house.
       She reexamined it as she descended. The staircase appeared modern, with black metal fittings and yellowish wood boards. The style of fittings extended to the shelves lining the basement walls. Illumination came from a wall-mounted light facing the stairs. Bright, it highlighted uneven patches in the concrete, invoking narrow shadows beneath the shelves. Propane cylinders, some orange-red, others blue, stood tucked beneath the bottom shelf to the right.
       Drake knelt at the far end of the basement, reading a booklet.
       She noted, with a smile, a plate of chocolate chip cookies near him on the concrete.
       As she approached, she felt the generator's vibration beneath her feet. The machine was quite small: green and tubular at the edges, with knobs and switches on the side facing the room. The black plastic top held a couple of dirty rags, a can of oil, and a large, adjustable wrench. Behind the generator, cables led to the ceiling, connecting the generator to the house.
       The other generator stood beneath the shelf to Drake's left. Atop the shelf stood the mixing deck. This was the reason she'd come looking for him.
       He looked up, grinned. No sneaking up on this man, even if she tried. A smudge of oil covered the tip of his nose.
       "Hey, Rhi," he said and stretched his muscular arms."I'm just checking out these generators. I think we should take them with us, the gas bottles, too."
       It seemed a sensible plan. She sat down before him.
       "You see the preserves upstairs?" he continued."Found a whole box of them. And some edible cookies. Seems the cultists had a sweet tooth."
       Not all I know about them, she thought."Drake, you're going to think I'm nuts here. But hear me out."
       "Okaaaaay," he said and raised his eyebrows. "What's up?"
       She began, telling him everything she'd witnessed last night. Not missing a single detail.
       It took less time than she thought it would, her tale accompanied by the generator's gentle hum. He stopped her a few times to clarify some points, but she finished up soon enough.
       "Oh. Wow," Drake said and wiped his brow."That's a lot to process." He hugged his knees."This definitely wasn't some weird dream, then?"
       "Definitely, and completely," she replied."More than a dream."
       He looked behind her, and Rhian realized he was examining the mixing deck.
       She turned, too. The deck was a Yamaha, black and shaped like a wide laptop. Knobs, switches, and dials covered the lower surface. The top section held three blank screens. Four USB ports stood beneath the center screen, memory sticks in two of them.
       "I've worked one of those before." Drake stood and moved a few steps past her to the deck. He went to flick a few switches, but his hand hesitated and returned to his side.
       Rhian stood and stepped beside him. The deck, formerly just a thing gathering dust in the corner, seemed somewhat sinister now. An electronic beast waiting to bite. "Do you think it could work? If we use the decks to mimic my vision?"
       Drake looked at her."Yeah, it could do something. Not turn back time. Damn, I wish we could bring people back. But playing the music backwards? That may do something. We can't let anyone know about this, though. You know what they're like, well, Tucker, anyway."
       Tucker, yes. He would go nuts over the idea.
       He nodded, smiled."The others are thinking of staying another night. I'll talk them into it. Night would work better, right? That thing ... Azathoth, you called it? It'll be up in the sky. If you're right, we could try to drag parts of it back. Perhaps fracture the whole."
       The plan seemed crazy. Still, After Drake had spoken it aloud, she felt hopeful, invigorated. This might just work, she thought. And just who knows what it may lead to? The hope, however, felt dangerous. It was not something Rhian was used to.

       They kept quiet about the plan. For part of the day, the group searched an outlying farm some distance from the house. They found little in the way of supplies there, just some random canned goods. A flooded basement held a bloated, malformed corpse. The farm's animals, the pigs, cows, and chickens, had escaped their pens to run feral on the nearby fields. After Chris ineffectually tried catching a chicken, Tucker shot it. It ended up as dinner, with tinned potatoes and cranberries.
       Rhian felt in good spirits as she headed off to bed. Drake had made everyone cocoa, and when out of the others' earshot, he'd whispered, "Two o'clock."
       She set the alarm clock in her bedroom. As it happened, it wasn't needed. Something else woke her, something familiar and awful.
       Again, she thought she was dreaming. Not a normal dream, but a lucid one, giving her complete control over her actions.
       She left the bed naked, but for a sheet she wrapped around herself. Approaching the window, Rhian heard sounds that shouldn't be.
       A glance at the clock's glowing hands informed her the time had just turned One.
       The blinds, still up from the previous night, left the window bare. She felt thankful no glowing monstrosity hovered out there, no dancing skeletons.
       The speakers emitted pumping beats and whispers. They made the window vibrate.
       What the? Something appeared out of place down there: two figures laid out upon the glassy plateau. It only took a moment to recognize the pair. Chris and Abigail, unmoving, tied up.
       I'm not dreaming.
       Movement drew her attention to a nearer figure, walking with slow, measured steps towards the house. Returning from their deed--murder, possibly?--they were hooded and wore a long brown coat.
       Who is that? Tucker? She backed away. He's coming for me, she thought with terrible certainty.
       This returned her to the bed for her clothes, the sheet fluttering away as she abandoned it.
       A plan of sorts formed in her mind. Get to the basement. Stop the speakers before anything gets summoned. Find Drake? Perhaps he'd headed down there already.
       Rhian dressed quickly. Ignoring her underwear, she pulled on slippers she'd found under the bed. No time now for such luxuries as dressing properly. She rushed from her room, dashed downstairs, and turning, headed towards and down the smaller staircase to the basement.
       She paused at the bottom. The room stood empty. As expected: the hum of two generators filled it.
       She went forward quickly, paused at the mixing deck. The lights on the center screen danced to whatever signal the USB sticks held.
       Got to stop this ... How?
       Her panic after waking diminished, and Rhian realized she had options.
       Unplug the USB sticks.
       Disconnect the generator from the gas cylinder.
       She reached for a USB stick. Rushing footsteps halted her.
       Rhian turned and stepped back in surprise.
       Tucker, having stamped down the stairs, approached red-faced, his shotgun aimed at her.
       He paused a few meters away."What the hell are you doing?" he barked.
       "I. . . "
       "You drugged the cocoa earlier. I knew something felt off, poured mine out when I went to my room."
       Rhian felt speechless in the face of his accusations.
       "Swiped my Glock, too, huh? But you didn't take this." Shaking the shotgun menacingly, he added, "Step away from that computer. Whatever it is."
       How can he not know what the deck is if he activated it?
       Rhian raised her hands, palms facing out towards Tucker. She rose carefully. "Sarge. I didn't do this." She attempted to explain."I want to destroy it."
       "Huh?" Tucker tilted his head like an inquisitive dog.
       Have I gotten through to him?
       An explosive crack terminated any further words.
       The shock made her duck into a corner behind the mixing deck.
       Tucker wobbled where he stood, mouth agape and eyes wide. He issued a groan, then crumpled to his knees before falling face down. The rear of his combat vest had a gaping hole in it.
       And the cause? Drake, at the foot of the stairs, stood in a shooter's stance, like she'd seen in crime shows. Tucker's Glock in his hands, he wore a brown windbreaker. A grey hood hung around his neck.
       It was him she'd witnessed outside.
       "Out of there, Rhi," he ordered and strode forward. When he passed Tucker, he waved the gun, indicating she should leave the corner or else.
       She crept out, hands raised again. Confusion, fear. Just what's going on here?
       From the expression on his face, Drake appeared to have read her thoughts. "I'm one of them. The cult you people are so afraid of."
       Rhian stood slowly.
       "Lower ranks, though," he continued, contempt in his voice."I worked social media. Disinformation for the masses. I never thought I'd encounter a summoning zone."
       "You must be thrilled." A feeling of anger wedged itself into the other emotions. Betrayal.
       Tucker might be a dick, but he didn't deserve to be shot in the back. Chris and Abigail, out there now, probably already food for that horror in the sky. Unless ... She looked to the mixing deck, thought about those USB sticks again.
       "No, you don't!" He stepped closer, menace in his tone as he raised the Glock towards her head.
       "You people summoned Azathoth already. Why kill more?" Her words held a challenge.
       "To be a bigger part of something," Drake pronounced each word carefully, between gritted teeth."Should've dosed your cocoa, too. Instead of this cat-and-mouse bullshit."
       He smiled that familiar white grin."See ya, Rhi," he said, and his finger touched the trigger.
       Rhian expected her life to flash before her eyes, at this moment leading to death. Instead, she experienced a slowing of time.
       Drake, his finger about to bring death.
       So slowly, ever so slowly, Tucker twisted around. His face scrunched in pain; his intention appeared clear as he reached for the shotgun.
       Rhian watched this, thinking: Please, please, please stop him.
       Time sped up.
       Drake pulled the trigger, and the Glock clicked empty.
       He moved the gun in his hand, examined it in surprise.
       Her attention, her full attention went to Tucker.
       "Bastard," Tucker said, and as Drake turned, the man fired the full, close-range power of the shotgun.
       A deafening boom, followed by a wet splatter, left Drake almost split in two.
       Moments later, Rhian found herself on her knees, not knowing how she'd gotten there. Her ears rang. She felt numb.
       Drake's twisted corpse lay centimeters away. Eyes glassy, he stared from a face slack in death.
       Tucker's heavy boots stepped between her and Drake. She looked up from her huddle and saw him staring down sternly but not unkindly.
       "Miss," he said and offered a hand."Let's get the hell out of here."
       The ringing had dissipated, meaning she heard both him and the hum of the generators.
       Chris and Abigail! she remembered, and without knowing if it were too late for them, accepted Tucker's hand and headed straight for the mixing deck.

       They rescued Chris and Abigail just in time, as something horrible started to form above the pentagram of cables, speakers, and house.
       It was all on fire now; liberal amounts of gasoline, which they couldn't really spare, poured inside the structure atop the speakers.
       Rhian watched the aftermath from The Saucy Nancy's prow. She couldn't see the plateau from the Nancy's position, just the roof of the house and the smoke.
       The others were below deck. Chris and Abigail were still in shock after the night's events. Tucker was probably cleaning his guns or doing repair work on the ballistic vest that saved his life.
       Things still hadn't sunk in. Drake's betrayal, who he'd been all this time. Perhaps she'd never come to terms with it. They'd attempted playing the speaker sounds backwards. But without any technical expertise, it came to nothing.
       The sadness she and the others felt, the disappointment. It would remain with them for a long time. The one saving grace? At least no one like him could turn up to add new sacrifices to a horror that boasted already the near-complete eradication of the human race.
       She hugged herself as a chill wind swept up from the ocean.
       The smoke from the plateau rose swiftly, black swirls ascending to the early morning sky. On the western horizon, Azathoth's fading light turned the clouds a fiery, flickering red.