Nightmare Passage

by James Axler

  The bald turnkeys gave them food at one point—something resembling cold oatmeal—and water, but they steadfastly refused to answer ques­tions or to even respond to the insults J.B. hurled at them. He addressed them as Baldy One and Baldy Two, but they ignored him. Only Doc was able to sleep. He snored so loudly that J.B. and Ryan were unable to hold a conversation, not that Ryan felt much like talking.

  As the hours dragged on, his strength slowly re­turned to him, the pain fading. And with it faded the emotional memory of the red-eyed giant's voice. When he felt a tiny ember of anger glow within him, he happily fanned it to a full flame of fury, but he kept it banked, under control.

  With the anger came a sick fear, stealing over him like a virus. He feared not for himself but for the people he had led into a trap. He feared most for Krysty. More than once, she had fallen into the hands of cdldhearts who wanted to possess her or violate her. This time was different in a way he couldn't quite identify. This time, he was genuinely worried about the strength of her resolve, since his own had cracked in the presence of Pharaoh, even if only for a short time.

  He replayed Danielson's words in his mind: When you're in the presence of Pharaoh, you end up lov­ing him eventually.

  He touched the blood-crusted welt on the side of his head and thought of the man who had inflicted it. "No love lost here," he whispered. "Bastard has to pay."

  A sound floated down the corridor, a woman's faraway voice and a man's gruff response. It was followed a moment later by a burst of bawdy laugh­ter from Baldys One and Two. Doc awoke with a snorting start and pulled himself to his feet by the barred door.

  A young woman came hurrying into the cell blocks, carrying a basket full of dark loaves of bread. As one, Doc, J.B. and Ryan stepped back from the bars, unconsciously covering themselves. She swept her gray gaze over the men, then rested it on Ryan. She stepped forward, thrusting a long loaf between the bars.

  "My name is Kela," she said in a brisk, no-nonsense whisper. "I bring you word of your miss­ing friends."

  They listened quietly as she told them of the whereabouts of Jak, Mildred and Krysty. Anticipat­ing more questions from Ryan, she added, "She is all right. She is a guest in the palace, under the per­sonal protection of Pharaoh."

  Ryan stepped back to the bars, forgetting his nu­dity in his anger. Gripping the bars, he snarled, "What the hell do you mean?"

  The corners of Kela's pink lips twitched. "She is your woman, isn't she? You have no need to worry, yet. Krysty is prepared for his probes."

  "What?" The word exploded from his lips.

  The woman tapped her forehead. "Psychic probes, Ryan Cawdor. Yes, I know your name." She glanced over at J.B. and Doc. "I know all of your names and I and others intend to help you."

  Doc cleared his throat. "Why are you befriending us at such great personal risk?"

  Kela made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "That is a long story. But keep in mind that forces are at work to free you. In the meantime, you are scheduled to be released from your cells shortly. That should give you some comfort. But you must not try to leave the city, and you must cooperate with everyone who deals with you. If you do not, every one of you will be killed."

  With a swirl of her hair, she turned and left the cell block.

  Doc looked after her, commenting wryly, "Now, who in this den of holiness would care about here­tics such as ourselves?"

  J.B. tore off a mouthful of the coarse-grained bread. "Think we should believe her?"

  Ryan sighed and sat on the cot. "Wait and see. That's all we can do. At least we know Jak and Krysty are alive. That's something."

  Within the hour, the turnkeys strode in, tossing folded squares of linen into the cells. "Put these on," one ordered. "You're moving to new accom­modations."

  It took them a couple of minutes to figure out the proper way to wear the kilts. When Doc pointed out they were like oversize diapers, they adjusted them accordingly.

  After they were dressed, the cell doors were un­locked and they walked out under the scrutiny of the turnkeys. They appeared unarmed. J.B. shot Ryan an up-from-under questioning glance, but the one-eyed man shook his head. Starting a fight in such closed quarters wouldn't gain them anything.

  They followed Baldy One down the corridor while Baldy Two dogged their heels. They walked out into the cold sunlight of dawn, marching across a walled-in compound. Interest temporarily dis­placed Ryan's other concerns. In the center of the yard was an array of very large, open-topped, wheeled metal cubes, resting on a double-railed track. Men wearing apronlike garments fed fires be­neath the cubes, and other men stood over them, using long-handled paddles to stir the contents. An odd smell, like lime combined with acid, bit into his nostrils. The men wielding the paddles wore strips of cloth over nose and mouth, and coughed fre­quently.

  A line of men formed a bucket brigade, passing containers full of rock chips to other men, who dumped their contents into the metal cubes. To the accompaniment of a rhythmic chant containing no words Ryan recognized, several other laborers poured the contents of sacks into the gooey, putty-like mix.

  Another group of men used mallets to pulverize cactus lobes laid out on big squares of muslin, pounding them to pulp.

  The entire operation was very organized, very ef­ficient, like an assembly line.

  The three outlanders were herded into a building on the far side of the compound. The room the guards guided them to contained furniture. It was simple, but much appreciated by Doc, who flopped down in a thickly upholstered chair with a sigh. A dark, polished table stood in the middle of the room, and beside the table stood a dark, polished man, though Ryan had to look hard at him to make certain he was a man.

  "You may go, but remain outside," he said to the guards. They obediently left the room. Smiling ner­vously all around, he announced in lilting tones, "My name is Iwat. I am to be your instructor in the customs of Aten. I serve as scribe and scholar in the court of Pharaoh. You will listen to me and you will learn."

  Ryan wasn't sure if the man had a slight speech impediment or had just adopted an affected manner of speaking. As it was, he was almost too precious for words, too precious to stomach.

  Iwat was a plushy man in his midtwenties, soft faced with limpid, liquid brown eyes. He wore a green-and-white ankle-length mantle cinched at the waist by a gold-tasseled cord. The toes poking out from beneath the hem of his mantle were painted a shocking pink. An opal the size of a robin's egg hung from one fleshy earlobe. His short black hair was a mass of tight curls,

  "Let's get on with it, then," J.B. said gruffly.

  "We shall, when the other member of your party arrives."

  As if on cue, a scantily clad black woman stepped through the door. Everyone stared at her in non-plussed silence for a heartbeat, then J.B. rushed to her, exclaiming, "Mildred? Dark night! Mildred!"

  J.B. and Mildred embraced and kissed passion­ately, then the Armorer held her at arm's length and looked her up and down. "Where'd you get that rig?"

  She laughed shortly. "Costume of the day."

  "My, Dr. Wyeth," Doc said in a laconic drawl, "don't you look as professional and as medical as can be. I'd let you freeze me anytime."

  "Look who's talking, Dr. Tanner." Though her voice was sharp, her mouth was smiling. "Past time for your diapers to be changed, isn't it?"

  Iwat waved beringed hands. "Please, people, please. We must begin so you can be assigned to your individual duties."

  "What do you mean by that?" Ryan asked darkly.

  Iwat pursed his lips in disapproval. "Listen and learn."

  He began to speak, telling them that, among other things, Akhnaton had been reborn into the world, to be the pharaoh of the world. "I only tell you what mystics knew ages ago—that the savior of humanity was coming, Akhnaton, to whom all the peoples of the world will one day bow their necks."

  Akhnaton's powers derived from Osiris, Iwat said, and with the god's help, he was building an empire, a dynasty that would last ten
thousand years and all who took part in forging it would share in the benefits.

  Iwat's eyes glowed with a fanatical fervor as he spoke of Akhnaton, and he spoke sincerely of his worship of the god-king. His pride in Aten was evident in his tedious descriptions of all it had to offer and the glories it would offer in the future.

  "It will be once again as it was in the before-times. Our people will spread out from Aten, bring­ing the word of Akhnaton into the wastelands. We will reshape this world and make certain that the evil that sprouted in it never grows again. Pharaoh will unite all the different peoples and tribes. All will join us, and the old divisions of race, nationalism and sexual preference that nearly destroyed the world will be forgotten."

  Mildred, Doc, J.B. and Ryan had restrained them­selves from commenting during the long disserta­tion, but now they had heard enough.

  "Hell Eyes is going to conquer the world with the force of his personality?" Ryan asked sarcasti­cally.

  Iwat blinked at him in shock. "Do not use that term. It is forbidden and carries with it ghastly pen­alties."

  Doc nodded agreeably. "As you wish. However, the question still stands."

  Iwat smiled serenely. "The force of his person­ality, you ask. Yes, you might say that…and the sekhem energy that will be his to command once the pyramid is completed."

  "Those sticks the Incarnates used," J.B. said un­easily. "That's an example of the whatchamacallit energy?"

  Chuckling patronizingly, Iwat replied, "The 'sticks' channel mena energy, which is the opposite of the sekhem. The mena effects are debilitating, not fatal. We seldom use lethal weapons."

  "That's real decent of you," Ryan commented.

  "Pharaoh is benevolent by nature. He wishes only to pass on the blessings of his kingdom to all of his subjects. When new subjects like you and your friends come among us, we show you the many ben­efits to be gained from living as a citizen of Aten."

  "Such as?" Mildred inquired.

  "Security, lack of want, shelter, education and a purpose in life. We remold people like you into the ideal Aten form. You are educated and corrected."

  "Corrected?" Ryan growled. "Brainwashed?"

  Iwat's face registered sincere displeasure. "Of course not! By correcting, I mean that all the un­productive habits and attitudes are tweaked and re-channeled into productivity. In Aten, all people know they are part of something larger, something better than they are. They work toward a common goal. Willingly."

  Ryan thought of the pyramid and the many la­borers needed to construct it, but he didn't raise the issue.

  Iwat continued. "You will come to see how working together for the glory of Aten is superior to wandering across Deathlands. Once you have your audience with Akhnaton and receive your Aten name, and so on—"

  "When do we meet your Pharaoh?" Ryan asked.

  "What's an 'Aten name'?" J.B. demanded.

  "What do you mean by 'so on'?" Mildred in­quired.

  Iwat shook his head and held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "You will meet Akhnaton at a time of his choosing. Your Aten name comes with the makeover, so you will live among us in the ideal form."

  The three men and one woman simply stared at him.

  Iwat touched his hair and rubbed his hands. "The color of your hair and skin must be changed. By dye and by stain."

  Doc laughed. "The very thought of these gray locks of mine dyed black and done up in the Egyp­tian style makes me incontinent."

  "No need to worry, old one," Iwat replied. "Your advanced age excuses you from that part of the makeover." He glanced toward Mildred. "And there is little point in subjecting you to it."

  "Thanks," she said dryly.

  Ryan kept his eye on Iwat, not finding the pros­pect of having their skin and hair altered the least bit amusing. Though Kela had urged patience, al­lowing his fate and that of his friends to rest in the hands of others wasn't something he could lightly accept.

  Iwat gestured to J.B. and Ryan. "You will follow me." He minced his way into an adjacent room.

  Ryan, J.B., Doc and Mildred all exchanged du­bious glances, then J.B. and Ryan walked into a small room holding only two wooden tubs. They brimmed with a dark liquid. Ceramic jugs and big sponges lay on the floor.

  "Climb in," Iwat said.

  Ryan regarded the tub's contents suspiciously. "What is that shit?"

  Iwat sighed in exasperation. "As I thought I ex­plained, it will convey upon you the color of Aten."

  Mildred called out, "Don't worry, guys, it's just some kind of vegetable dye. The stain isn't perma­nent."

  J.B. took off his spectacles, placing them carefully on a wall shelf, stripped off the kilt and stepped into a tub. He sat with the liquid sloshing around him and grimaced.

  After another moment of hesitation, Ryan fol­lowed suit, making sure his back was to Iwat when he removed his loin covering.

  Only J.B.'s hair needed darkening, though both he and Ryan were forced to endure soaking for an hour in the tubs of oily brown liquid, with a tittering Iwat sponging their backs, necks and faces with it.

  After Iwat announced enough time had passed, they stepped out of the tubs and into calf-length apronlike garments, identical to the ones worn by the men in the compound.

  When they returned to the room, Doc and Mildred couldn't help but laugh. J.B. was the most changed and bore the brunt of the hilarity.

  "Speaking strictly as a man who never wore a skirt in his life, John Barrymore, I must say that you strike a very fetching picture."

  Ryan sat down glumly, looking at his deep brown hands. He felt like he was trapped within a jolt ad­dict's delirium, dressed and stained as he was. He couldn't help but wonder if Kela was playing a cruel game with them.

  Iwat beamed at them proudly, as if they were his creations. He clapped his hands sharply, and Baldy One and Baldy Two stepped in immediately. To Mildred, the scholar announced, "You are assigned a food-preparation station in the palace."

  Mildred's eyes flashed. "I'm a doctor, not a hash slinger."

  "You have nothing to say about it," Iwat retorted. He nodded toward Baldy One. "Escort her there."

  The shaved-headed man grasped her by her upper arm, and Mildred jerked angrily away. Baldy One grabbed her again, so roughly she cried out in pain. J.B. instantly stood toe-to-toe with the much larger man, glaring up into his face.

  "Take your bastard hand off her, or I swear I'll feed you your balls." He spoke in a ferocious whis­per, packing every word with a deadly conviction.

  Baldy One glanced quizzically toward Iwat, who stared back with wide, disconcerted eyes.

  "Tell him to do it," Ryan advised. "Or you'll have a hell of a mess to clean up in here." The last was directed toward Baldy Two, who looked as if he were considering the wisdom of pouncing on J.B.

  "It is against the rules," Iwat stammered. "I can­not allow this insolence—"

  "Yeah," Baldy One rumbled. "Don't start a fight you can't win, One-eye."

  Draping a comradely arm over Iwat's shoulders, Ryan said, smiling, "Allow it just this once." He bent his arm sharply, hooking Iwat's soft neck in the crook of his elbow. "This may be a fight we can't win, but you'll die first. Get me?"

  Iwat's respiration became fast and harsh. "Re­lease her!"

  Baldy One slowly removed his hand. J.B. and Mildred embraced, kissed then she turned to the door, the guard falling into step behind her.

  Ryan took his arm from Iwat, who rubbed his throat, coughed delicately and said to Doc, "You are assigned to transportation maintenance."

  Doc nodded brusquely, then shook hands with both J.B. and Ryan. "Gentlemen." He departed with a quiet dignity, despite Baldy One nearly tread­ing on his heels.

  "Now us," Ryan said.

  A jittery smile tugged at the corners of Iwat's mouth, but his eyes were fearful. "You will join a pyramid work detail, shift two. The men's barracks are through there." He gestured toward a short hall­way. "Shall I go with you to make sure you're prop­erly settle
d?"

  "No, thanks," J.B. told him. "You've done enough for us already."

  They walked through a series of small chambers and stopped before a door. A young aproned man with a sheathed dagger at his hip stood beside it. He swung it open upon their approach and gestured grandly for them to enter.

  J.B. and Ryan stepped into a long, low-ceilinged hall, so long that its far end seemed to run away in the distance. A dull clamor of male voices filled the dim interior, and the air was redolent with the stink of old sweat and urine. When their eyes adjusted to the murk, they saw a dormitory, a barracks with pal­lets laid out in facing rows on the stone floor. Many of the pallets were occupied, many more weren't.

  The two men moved down the wide aisle between the pallets. "Do we just grab a rack at random and sack out?" J.B. queried.

  Ryan shook his head. "There's got to be an over­seer or boss around here someplace."

  A fat, repellent figure shambled toward them from the dark end of the aisle. He wasn't very tall, but he was two men wide. A huge paunch swelled out over the top of his breechclout. His head was shaved except for a wispy strand of hair on the left side of his head. His flabby pectorals gleamed with a combination of oil and sweat. His rank, unwashed odor was very nearly overpowering.

  Touching the butt of a wooden truncheon hanging from his broad belt, he brayed, "You newcomers?"

  Ryan nodded. "Yeah."

  The man grinned, revealing black gums from which every other tooth seemed to be missing. "I'm Shukeli, sort of the warden around here. You're on the noon-to-sundown shift, block-moving detail. You've got a couple of hours yet. Follow me."

  Shukeli lumbered back in the direction from which he had come. J.B. and Ryan followed him for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, the man stopped in an area so shrouded in shadow it was only a few gray degrees above pitch-black.

  Pointing to a pair of frayed pallets on the floor, Shukeli said, "There you go. This is as good a place as any."

  Ryan glanced around. "It appears we have this good place all to ourselves."

  Shukeli chuckled. "It's private, all right. Nice and quiet back here."