Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. A story, about the cost of underestimating Humanity, begins after the photo.
Admiral Willhaven paused long enough to read the headline in The Guardian which read, “Royal Navy denies alien sub-sea presence!” Willhaven stopped to scupper the offending paper in a nearby rubbish bin. Unfortunately, his sources of annoyances were legion, and he was intercepted by a man carrying a sign that read, “The Elder Gods have returned. The end is nigh!” The man clearly hadn’t showered nor shaved in weeks. He blocked Willhaven’s way to the Admiralty at 26 Whitehall. “Admiral!” he begged. “You must stop the Elder Gods! Stop them from killing us all!”
Willhaven brushed him aside, shouting, “Must you frighten everyone with your manic fantasies? There are no Gods and the Tooth Fairy isn’t real either!”
He bounded up the old steps to avoid any further interruptions. After multiple elevator trips and security screenings, he entered the command bunker. The Foreign Secretary was already present. He whirled on Willhaven. “What news of the Elder Gods?”
Willhaven scowled. “We have them on sonar, sir. They’ll be emerging shortly.”
It’s rather difficult to pronounce “Ghihlynash’azurylnox,” but nonetheless that was the Elder God’s name. For the sake of simplicity, we’ll call him, Stan. His 160 feet of height was imposing enough, but then his three sets arms, octopus-like head, and shark’s maw definitely provided a horrifying visage. His companion, we’ll call him Cecil, was more slender, but his six finned legs, mass of toothed tentacles, and Hag Fish head was equally terrifying.
“Ah! It’s good to be back,” sighed Stan. “I haven’t tasted Human flesh for an entire year*!”
*For clarity, it should be noted that a year for the Elder Gods is 3,467.862 years in the Human calendar.
“I’ve missed it too,” said Cecil. “But I sense something has changed. That Human superweapon called ‘technology’ might have advanced a tad.”
“Bah! Do you remember what Human technology consisted of the first time we flayed their flesh?”
“Stones, I believe.”
“Right! Nothing to us.”
“Then there were the arrows. I itched for a week from those things!”
“And what could they possibly have now?” scoffed Stan. “Bigger arrows at best. Humans are rather dull-witted, you remember.” As they emerged from the sea, He paused to shove aside a 200,000 tonne vessel with cranes atop it. Unfortunately, it was so large he could barely move it. “I must admit, they’re making much larger boats now. I miss those wooden triremes we saw last time.”
Inside the Admiralty, Admiral Willhaven picked up the red phone and said, “Proceed with Operation Ambush.”
At once, the Daring-class warships, HMS Dauntless and HMS Defender, began firing steadily with Mk 8 4.5inch guns and Harpoon surface-to-surface missiles streaked away in clouds of smoke. Two squadrons of Eurofighter Typhoon aircraft all launched 48 TAURUS KEPD 350 air-to-surface missiles.
Five minutes later, as the many pieces of Stan sank beneath the waves, Cecil lost his last tentacle. His remaining two legs were giving way. “Sod it,” he cursed. “Bigger Arrows, my arse!”
Admiralty House: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Admiralty_House,_London
Type 45 destroyer (Dauntless,Defender): http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Type_45_destroyer
Eurofighter Typhoon: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eurofighter_Typhoon
Taurus KEPD 350: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/KEPD_350
Each week, Sunday Photo Fiction is host to a wide variety of authors writing from a photo prompt provided by the talented Alastair Forbes. This week’s prompt may be found here: http://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2014/05/18/sunday-photo-fiction-may-18th-2014/