Nightmare Passage

by James Axler

  With fingers that felt like cucumbers, he unbut­toned his shirt. Outlined in blue and red against the bone whiteness of his skin, a spiderweb pattern of broken blood vessels and ruptured capillaries ex­tended from his left shoulder across his chest.

  The door suddenly opened behind him, pulled from the inside, and he lost what remained of his balance, very nearly falling flat on his back. The hands clutching his arm and holding him more or less upright were small, brown and strong.

  A gray-eyed, pink-lipped, black-haired girl held him tightly, and it took him a dazed moment to rec­ognize her. She was the girl with the water jug and the sweet song. She had reminded him of somebody, but he couldn't recall who.

  His hands made an automatic slap for his knives or his blaster. The girl restrained him easily. Though she was about his height, she was astonishingly strong—or he was exceptionally weak.

  "No," she said tersely. "I will not harm you. I want to be your friend."

  She tugged him away from the door so she could shut and latch it. He stood swaying in the gloom. "Who you?" he managed to mumble.

  "My name is Kela. What is your name?"

  Everything seemed to stop inside him. It was as if he had been operating on a giant mainspring, and it had suddenly gone slack. Darkness, cold and ex­cruciating pain swarmed over him at once.

  He thought he croaked "Jak" before diving head­long into a deep, black well.

  "ARE YOU SURE he still sleeps?"

  Jak felt like he was floating.

  "Yes. I gave him the right dosage."

  Jak could feel the jostling vibration of a moving vehicle, hear the creak and squeak of wheels. He also heard the voices of two women, speaking in hushed tones. They whispered over him in silky blackness.

  He felt a warm breath caress his right ear. "Jak," a melodic voice rustled, "can you hear me?"

  He tried to answer, but he couldn't find or feel his tongue. He couldn't seem to feel his eyes, either. He could move neither his arms nor legs, nor did he care to do so. He was very warm, he was very com­fortable, he felt no pain and he was in a good place. He was satisfied with it. He had no inclination to leave.

  "Very good," the voice said. "Very good. Sleep, then."

  And a woman laughed softly.

  BARON TOURMENT and the General had turned the West Lowellton Holiday Inn into a casino, and they asked Jak to be the croupier at the craps table. He agreed before he realized all the dice were carved from the bones of his father, Christina and his dar­ling Jenny. He was ashamed that he had forgotten the baron had murdered his father and the General was responsible for chilling his wife and child.

  So Jak turned and ran through the old hotel, seek­ing out the humid comfort of his beloved bayou. He couldn't find the door. He wandered through dark tunnels toward a dim, distant light, only to find him­self walking deeper and deeper into the black. At last he emerged into a tomb. Cobwebs hung in the corners and they fluttered toward his face. He tasted the dust of centuries on his tongue and he entered another door, scared and sweating.

  He found himself sitting in a little amphitheater, looking down at a small central stage. Two naked girls danced to music only they could hear, their beautiful bodies twirling and pirouetting, tossing their heavy black hair and laughing in delight. They touched each other as they danced and laughed, fin­gers playfully darting here and there, and they kept stealing shy glances toward him, as if seeking his approval.

  Jak applauded, feeling an admiration, a lust and almost a love for the girls who danced with such wild abandon for his pleasure. He watched, slowly aware of trickles of sweat flowing down his face from his hairline. He lifted his hand to mop away the moisture, and one of the girls stopped dancing and pointed at him with a long finger. She an­nounced, "You are awake."

  A DAMP CLOTH LAY across Jak's forehead. The pun­gent smell of herbs entered his nostrils and seemed to push back the nausea boiling in his stomach, and with each whiff, strength seemed to return to his limbs.

  A hand cradled the back of his head, the rim of a cup pressed against his lips and a soft woman's voice said, "Drink this."

  Unhesitatingly, Jak swallowed the liquid. It was warm and tasted strongly of copper, like mustard greens mixed with honey. He coughed, and the cup was removed. Carefully, he opened his eyes and saw a girl's face leaning over him. She was the same gray-eyed young woman who had pulled him into the house. He tried to rise.

  She pressed a hand gently against his shoulder, pushing him back against the soft cushions beneath his body. She was as pretty as he remembered, and her full, pink lips smiled at him. Memory slowly seeped back to him.

  "Kela?" he croaked, noticing that she kept her hand on his shoulder.

  The smile widened. "Yes, my name is Kela. Your name is Jak. You are among friends."

  Jak stared at her lovely face as she spoke. The bare-walled room was lit by tapers, and the play of light and shadow did interesting things to her fea­tures.

  "My friends. Where?"

  A different voice answered, "They are in the cus­tody of Pharaoh."

  Kela glanced up and to her left, and another woman stepped into Jak's field of vision. She was very tall and slim, with a touch of arrogance stamped on her stirringly beautiful face. Her mouth was agreeably, coquettishly shaped, and her almost imperceptibly slanted eyes contained a dark, mock­ing curiosity.

  Whereas Kela was lovely in an innocent, almost childlike way, this woman's beauty was regal, sculpted perfection. With a faint, drowsy shock of recognition, he realized he had seen the woman be­fore. He couldn't immediately recall, but he had an impression that she had danced for him.

  "I am Nefron," the woman continued. "I will help you and all of your people if you will but trust me."

  Kela stood to allow Nefron to move to Jak's bed­side. His eyes ran over their forms. Both women wore thin, loosely woven tunics that seemed like cobwebs, barely a concession to clothing. He felt himself responding to the proximity of the two near naked females. He hoped they didn't notice. He glanced down at himself, making sure he still wore his pants. He did, but he felt a distinct pressure building in his groin.

  "You have been brought to a safe house," Kela said. "No one will find you here. You have been unconscious all day and for the better part of the night."

  Jak started to speak, then thought better of it. He felt awkward, even a little foolish. It wasn't like him to start having erotic reactions in unsecured circum­stances. He wondered briefly what had been in the drink.

  "You must stay here and regain your strength," Kela said.

  "Feel fine now," he grunted.

  As he pushed himself up to his elbows, his head swam and his surroundings spun. Still, he forced himself to sit up on the edge of the pallet. "My things. Where?"

  Nefron pointed to his camouflage vest draped over a footstool. "There. Your weapons, even your knives, are safe."

  Jak started to stand, but a wave of dizziness crashed over him. He felt himself falling, but Nefron and Kela caught him by the arms and steadied him. As they lowered him back onto the pallet, Nefron said, "Do not be an idiot. You are still very weak."

  Jak swiped shaking hands over his eyes. "Know that now. Thanks."

  "What is your full name?" Kela asked.

  "Jak Lauren."

  "Listen to me, Jak Lauren." Nefron knelt beside the cot, one hand on his leg. "Life is very complex here in the kingdom. It will soon become even more complex. You must stay here, out of sight, until cer­tain plans are laid and come to fruition. I or Kela will keep you advised as to the progression."

  "Progression?" Jak looked into her eyes and once again felt a physical stirring, despite his weakness. Nefron's eyes were like dark flames, burning in his imagination, stimulating it with an almost erotic energy.

  "I have a plan to get you and your friends safely out of here. But you must trust me. It all has to come together perfectly. All of you must go, or none of you will go. Do you understand?"

  As she spoke, her fingers
slowly crept up his thigh, and the exquisite tension strained against his crotch. He stared hard at her, then glanced away, toward Kela. She stood with her hands clasped primly behind her back and avoided his gaze.

  "Do you understand?" Nefron asked in a husky whisper.

  Jak nodded. "Yeah."

  Nefron got to her feet, gesturing toward Kela. "I will not be able to visit you very often. Kela will attend to your needs and carry messages—to me and from me."

  "Want to see friends," Jak declared stubbornly.

  "That is not possible, Jak Lauren," Nefron snapped. "However, it is possible to get messages to them. That will have to suffice."

  Then she turned and strode away, into a darkened foyer. A door clicked open, then shut. Jak leaned back on the pallet, realizing his breathing was slightly labored, but not simply because of his de­bilitated physical condition. Nefron had exerted a strange influence over him, and he didn't know how or why.

  He looked over at Kela. "Who Nefron?"

  She shrugged. "She is my princess. I do her bid­ding. She holds the key."

  Jak remembered Danielson's story of Pharaoh and how he had disowned his daughter, stripping her of the right to assume the throne. He wanted to ask what Kela had meant about Nefron holding the key. Instead, he found himself more concerned with his erection. It hadn't abated with the departure of Nef­ron. Grunting, he shifted position, to ease the pres­sure.

  "Are you in pain?" Kela asked.

  He shot her a quick, abashed glance and said dryly, "Not exactly."

  Stone-faced, she inquired, "In discomfort, then?"

  "Little, yes."

  She moved toward him. "Nefron charged me with attending to your comfort."

  Kela's hands went to his belt, unbuckling it so swiftly and deftly he had no opportunity to say any­thing. When her fingers undid the snap-catch on his pants, Jak decided there was no point in saying any­thing. Instead, he reached for her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Krysty opened her eyes and stared in wonder at the chamber around her. Silk tapestries adorned the walls, rich rugs were on the floors and the ivory chairs, benches and divans were littered with satin cushions.

  The canopy over the bed in which she lay was hung with gauzy draperies, softly stirred by an intoxicatingly sweet breeze, scented like orange blos­soms.

  The delicate aroma made her feel languorous and lethargic, as if she had just awakened from a deep, soul-restoring sleep. Stretching, she turned over on her side, wondering why Ryan wasn't beside her. She longed to feel his hard body pressing against hers, his hands fondling and caressing her. Krysty bolted upright in the bed, pushing herself into a sit­ting position. Memories returned to her in a flooding rush—the redoubt, the trek, the fight and finally the capture. She looked around wildly. The chamber was identical to the one in her jump dream, and for a split second her careening thoughts turned to the possibility that she was still hallucinating. She looked toward the great bronze double doors at the far end of the room. As in her dream, she saw no knobs or handles.

  Climbing out of the bed, she saw she was naked.

  Snatching up the brightly colored bedspread and draping it around her, she saw that the chamber walls were made of huge, white-faced stone blocks, perhaps limestone. The ceiling was exceptionally high. Light shafted it through slotlike skylights, fil­tered by the colored panes of glass. The air was heavy with the familiar scent of orange blossoms. The stone floor was covered by large woven mats. There were wall hangings with designs that comple­mented those of the bedspread. The furniture was of varnished wood, of an extremely advanced level of craftsmanship.

  She walked cautiously to the massive double doors, a feeling of primitive fear and an unreasoning panic in the pit of her stomach. She fought to control it, employing a breathing exercise taught to her by her mother.

  Krysty closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply and regularly. The terror ebbed a bit, but when she opened her eyes again, the double doors were still there. She heard nothing on the other side of them and started to turn away. Then the locking mechanism clicked and slid aside.

  Krysty dropped into a combat stance, clenching her right fist, stiffening her left wrist, locking the fingers in a half-curled position against the palm so as to deliver a leopard's-paw strike.

  One of the doors opened just enough to admit a young woman. She wore a short linen tunic, and her shining black hair framed a startlingly beautiful face. Her eyes were lined with dark pencil. She carried a covered tray of food in her hands.

  Appearing not to notice Krysty's fighting posture, she smiled wanly and walked past her to place the tray on a low table. "How are you feeling?"

  Krysty answered the question with two of her own. "Who are you? Where am I?"

  "One question at a time," the woman responded. "To answer your second question first, you are in Aten, in the guest chamber of Pharaoh's palace. As for your first, I have been sent to see to your wants. My name is Nefron."

  Krysty tried to keep the surprise she felt from registering on her face. She remembered what Danielson had said about the girl, but it didn't seem the appropriate time to bring the matter up. "Where are my friends?" she demanded.

  "They are here, separated from you but safe. If you wish them to remain so, you must listen care­fully and trust that I will tell you the truth."

  She gestured to the tray. "Sit and eat. I'm sure you're very hungry. You have been resting for nearly six hours. I will tell you what I can."

  Krysty realized she was famished, so she selected an assortment of fruit and sweetmeats from the plates.

  "How are you called?" Nefron asked.

  "Krysty Wroth," she mumbled around a mouth­ful of fig.

  "Krysty Wroth, you are the guest of Akhnaton. He foresaw your arrival here."

  The red-haired woman stopped chewing for a mo­ment. "How?"

  "He has the ability to sense thoughts, especially thoughts charged with emotions. He can direct the thoughts he senses to run in channels of his own choosing. When you and your friends came into the range of his influence, he sensed your ka, your soul, immediately."

  Krysty felt her hair stir and shift. "Can he read minds, then?"

  "He can sense, in a general fashion, the substance of your mind, so you must be very careful what you think and what you allow yourself to feel when you come before him. Do you understand?"

  Krysty shrugged. "To an extent. What I don't un­derstand is why I've been isolated from the rest of my party."

  Nefron smiled a wry, mocking smile. "Pharaoh has singled you out, as I'm sure you guessed."

  "Singled me out why? To add to his harem?"

  Nefron shook her head. "Pharaoh does not have a harem. He leaves such indulgences to his coun­selors, like Mimses. No, I imagine Pharaoh has a greater destiny for you in mind."

  Krysty didn't reply. She was thinking of her own psionic abilities, the power to sense and semi-inter­act with strong emotional states—or conversely, be influenced by them if they were too strong. Images of the inhuman Other and the crazed Kaa flitted un­bidden into her mind.

  Nefron's words only confirmed what Mildred had postulated, and confirmed Krysty's own fears. She was familiar enough with telepathy to know that hu­man brains and the energy they exuded could—un­der the right kind of sympathetic stimuli—act like mirrors and respond in unconscious ways.

  If Hell Eyes or Akhnaton or whatever he chose to call himself wielded this stimuli, she was partic­ularly vulnerable.

  "Nefron, I've got to get out of here now. I don't know if I can screen him out, if he's as powerful as he seems to be."

  "I know, Krysty Wroth. However, take solace in the knowledge that I am trying to help you and your friends. You must have patience and trust in me."

  Krysty gazed into Nefron's dark eyes, seeking out indications of deceit, trying to sense treachery. She saw and sensed nothing at all. She had no choice but to take the young woman at her word. "All right," she declared resignedly. "I don't have man
y options."

  Nefron's black eyes flashed at her tone. "We are all in this together, Krysty. Bound to each other. You must use all your strength to resist Pharaoh's desires. He will bend your body and mind to his purposes and leave you an empty husk, as he left my mother."

  Krysty's bare arms tingled with gooseflesh, as though she stood in the path of a wintry wind. Nefron didn't try to blunt the anger, the bitterness, the hatred in her voice. Rather than react to it, she asked, "Where is Ryan?"

  "The one-eyed man?"

  "Yes. I must talk to him."

  Nefron shook her head sorrowfully. "That is not possible. I can perhaps relay a message from you to him."

  "When? How?"

  "When the opportunity arises. How is my own affair. Now it is time to get ready for your meeting with Pharaoh."

  Nefron showed Krysty a door, hidden behind a decorative wall panel. Behind it was a lavishly ap­pointed dressing room with a bathing area. The tub was more like a small pool, sunken into the floor, about six feet in diameter. It was rimmed with ce­ramic tiles a gorgeous shade of turquoise, and the fixtures appeared to be solid silver.

  Nefron showed Krysty how to control the flow of water and where all the soaps, perfumes and lotions were stored. She withdrew into the bedchamber while Krysty dropped her covering and walked down the three steps into the foaming bath. She set­tled down in a cradlelike seat at the far corner of the tub and washed herself, even shampooing her long hair. Despite herself, she felt tension ebb from her limbs and mind. A part of her marveled that she was able to relax under the circumstances.

  In her wanderings with her friends across the length and breadth of Deathlands, she had learned to snatch every moment of happiness and comfort that came her way. She tried to live as if every day was her last. On many occasions, it had very nearly been. She had lived a hard life, filled with danger and death, but she fought to keep her heart and her soul untouched and uncorrupted by it.

  She thought of Ti-Ra'-Wa and how happy she and Ryan had been there. Floating on those thoughts, buoyed by the scented water, Krysty almost drifted off to sleep. Her hair straightened languidly as she remembered the few short days she had spent in the valley with Ryan.