Free Delta Green: Denied to the Enemy by Dennis Detwiller

knew to connect to the alienness of the creature which stood before him. His thoughts struggled to push together remnants of familiar things in a rough approximation of the beast, to explain it away as a conglomeration of well-worn ideas. Even as it lumbered towards him, Bruning thought of how he and his boyhood friends would skulk behind the stalls on the Elbe and poke at the jelly eyes of the enormous fish snatched from the murky depths of the river. The catfish he had seen there once—a huge, 360 kilogram fish with a mouth the size of his torso and the flat, unforgiving eyes of something terrible even in death—looked much, but not quite, like the creature which crouched before him.
     
    The Deep One squatted comfortably on huge greenish-blue haunches, its bulbous head floating above its glistening torso like some obscene balloon. It had hands like a human, except for the bone ridges evident on each knuckle, the skin flap used for swimming between each finger and the blue-grey tinge of the skin. The mouth flopped open like a busted trap, hanging wide, revealing dozens of sets of small, pearl-white, razor-sharp teeth which hung at random angles, as if they were glued in place by inattentive children. Ridges of bone, spines, and other inhuman features distorted the face further, pushing the edges of what could be considered human proportions to their limit. But it was when you looked at the eyes that the feeling of fear changed to pure, alien terror.
     
    The eyes were awful.
     
    Completely inhuman, those black globes glistened with intelligence. Occasionally flashes of light revealed gold-tinted irises buried deep within their gelatinous lenses. Reflected in them, Weber and Bruning and the stark white lamps of the camp were reversed and distorted to carnival mirror proportions. The eyes seemed to draw everything into themselves, consuming the entire world with a glance. Bruning thought it would be easy to just stare into the glaring alien eyes forever. To lose yourself in them and never, never—
     
    “Hermannweber.” The thing croaked, its voice liquid and rumbling. The glistening red feathers of its gills flashed madly as it inhaled to speak again. It took two ponderous steps forward on its awkward legs, crossing the distance to Weber with its claw outstretched as if to shake hands. As Bruning watched in horror, that is exactly what Weber and the Deep One did. When their palms touched, a sick, squelching noise rose up and it took all Bruning’s self-control not to cry out, to laugh, or to scream at the improbability of the scene which had unfolded before him.
     
    “Claude, this is Hauptscharführer Bruning.” Weber spoke in accented French, indicating Bruning with his free hand. The Deep One, Claude, held fast on Weber’s hand even after they had finished shaking, as if its years in the sea had stripped away all but the most basic memories of human custom. Weber, finally, slowly slid his fingers free from the beast’s grasp, and wiped them on his heavy overcoat, but Claude did not seem to notice. All the while Weber kept his grin, as if it had been surgically implanted on his face. When Claude opened his mouth again a wave of the most foul air Bruning had ever smelt overtook him, and he choked back a wave of nausea as Claude spoke.
     
    “Bruning. Yes. We have much to do, Hermannweber. Dagon has come far to make true our agreement. I am come to work out the ritual. Where is Schwelm and Soldin?” Its French was oddly stilted, but was clear enough despite a severe lisp. Its inhuman eyes searched Weber’s face for the answer, ignoring Bruning completely.
     
    “Called away, I’m afraid. They are off to find more women for the ritual.” Weber’s voice sounded strained as he tried in vain to match Claude’s limitless gaze.
     
    “Good. This is good. We must honor the lord. Bring many others as well, for tribute. Those you have no need for. Enemies of your...race. And females as well.” Claude’s gills