Shotguns v. Cthulhu
Robin D. Laws
Pulse-pounding action meets cosmic horror in this exciting collection from the rising stars of the New Cthulhuiana, as humanity takes up arms against the monsters and gods of H. P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos. The fighting takes place in the past, present, and future, from the birth of the shotgun to the end of the world, and contributors who boast high name recognition among today's Cthulhu Mythos fans, including the cocreators of the Delta Green mythos setting and the cohosts of the H. P. Lovecraft Literary Podcast, relentlessly hurtle readers into the madness and danger. The complete list of authors includes Natania Barron, Steve Dempsey, Dennis Detwiller, Larry DiTillio, Chad Fifer, A. Scott Glancy, Dave Gross, Dan Harms, Rob Heinsoo, Kenneth Hite, Chris Lackey, Robin D. Laws, Nick Mamatas, Ekaterina Sedia, and Kyla Ward.
stone forts, old rings of stones, gullies and gunnels and fences of chipped rock—monolithic structures which thumb their nose at modern science. Some of the rocks are huge, three, four tons. They were standing when Champlain blew through here in 1609, dropping a flag along the way, and they were standing when the state was founded. Strangely, no one really seems to care too much who put them up. It’s amazing what people choose to ignore when it bothers their pre-established sensibilities. It’s
scent of burning wood was a crisp smell drifting from the cabin, across the vegetable garden. Hohman recalled a patient of his, a blacksmith who had dropped a hot iron on his arm. This smell was the same. He moved closer. Outside the door was a small round object—a smashed pumpkin? They were not in season. Then he realized he was viewing the left half of the head of Andreas Schild, John’s father. The remnants of his jaw hung slightly open, and a few flies had landed on it. A trail of gore led
know what it meant but it sounded meaningful. It was the kind of time that might interest those kooks who think the world will end in 2012, the same people who thought their number was up in 2000. Whatever Tag and Sarah were up to, even if they didn’t hurt anyone else, I didn’t want them to do anything stupid. We had a good business going. I didn’t fancy taking a McJob to finish paying off my studies. The escalators weren’t very busy at Liverpool Street. I ran up two at a time and out on the
paved itself in front of me: grab some scratch, get my place back, find a job, and marry my girl. Easy. So I started keeping watch at the window for my mark. And sure enough, every day, the old man walked his dog past the bottom of our street, always at different times, but along the same route. He never did the pissing thing again but he repeated that same slow, deliberate pace, always dressed in some spiffy black suit, no hat on his shiny bald head. Grace joined me by the window on the fifth
trouble selling coffins dug up from cemeteries. That’s not as good as a horse thief or pirate, but it will do. Then another flash: I’m working on the project and drawing in the entry for the founder and the cabinet minister. Ahead six years: my mother dead. I’m lying on my bedroom floor, over the heat register, listening to an argument between my dad and my maternal grandmother. My dad wants an open casket, like his family has always had. Grandmother says under no conditions and in fact Mom will