Read Cthulhu Attacks!: Book 1: The Fear for Free Online Page A

analysis.
    Or it could have been a terrorist attack.
    Either way, he could hardly wait to talk about it.
     
    Ipswich, England
    52°N 1°E, 14770 km from the Event
     
    George Gilman raised a fresh evening pint to his lips at the Cult Café Bar (called for years “the Kai” before the Lovecraft festival nonsense). He almost dropped the heavy glass, however, when a dull but persistent ache suddenly asserted itself in his eyes like someone had poked him with their fingers in a crappy slapstick pantomime.
    He pinched the upper bridge of his nose, trying to rob the pain of blood (an old trick his da had taught him at the beginning of George’s drinking career). His eyes got a little watery, but he could see everyone in the pub doing it as well. Or a variant—some put a cold glass against the offending area, some just lay their heads down on the bar (which happened a lot anyway), some just shouted “Holy shit!” or “Christ on His cross!” depending on upbringing and natural tendencies. Nigel the Barkeep actually screamed like a banshee and held his head like it was going to explode, not quite collapsing but damned close.
    Almost as soon as it had started—under a minute at the longest, George saw by the creepy clock draped in tentacles that Nigel had put up to commemorate the pub’s new name—the pain stopped and everyone in the pub regarded one another with a look of confusion mixed with tension that it would happen again. Nigel, who was by far the worst affected, now seemed fine except for some trembling in his usually rock-solid hands.
    “It’s the sonar experiments, I’ll tell you,” Nigel said shakily to George, and then again, louder and more firmly, to the whole tavern full of people gradually realizing the nasty bit of headache had vanished as quickly and mysteriously as it had appeared. “They strap sonars onto the big fish in the North Sea and force ’em up the River Orwell. A nasty business, that.”
    Bailey, by the snooker table, seeing that Nigel and everyone else were in fact all right, found it incumbent upon himself to take the piss. “To what end? You think the Martians are comin’ every time the power station sheds a load.”
    Nigel smiled, but his words were serious: “They’re keeping an eye on us, mark my words. The sonar fish fit right into their master plan.”
    “To the master plan!” some relieved wit called out as he raised a glass, and everyone laughed and drank. If not for the sirens in the distance, they all could’ve sworn it was all just a gas leak downstairs or some stout gone off in the barrels.
     
     
     
    Talshik, Kazakhstan
    53.6°N 71.8°E, 19320 km from the Event
    (antipodal location)
     
    Almost exactly on the other side of the globe from the Event, Tselmeg Ibragimov dreamed of prodding a laggard sheep to join its brothers and sisters in the middle of the field, where he could keep a good eye on them. He loved being out with the animals, even the feisty ones, where he could—
    A slight discomfort asserted itself in his head, which must have been caused by the ground shaking under that approaching Yeti. The white beast stomped into the snow-patched field and scooped up three sheep, dropping them into its mouth like they were pine nuts.
    After a minute or so, the pain stopped and the Yeti left his dream. Tselmeg hadn’t even been awakened by the touch of headache. He slept well until sunrise and awoke refreshed, with only a vague uneasiness in his mind, one that soon passed.
     
    Manhattan Psychiatric Center, USA
    40.7°N 74°W, 10403 km from the Event
     
    The meds nurse hadn’t yet made it to his cell— no don’t call it a cell jesse james don’t let them monopoly know you know they know you know they know it is a room— so Inpatient 02-05-9691-B watched the sunbeam coming through his little grated window, watched it move infinitesimally— I know words grape jelly I can use words it’s just in the bag what I say they can’t listen to philco television set