Rise Of The Soulless

by Erik Lynd

  He was almost to the center of camp when he saw the body. It was just at the edge of camp, face down in the sand, arms spayed out as though it had tried to crawl away. It was obvious that whoever it was—Max couldn’t recognize the crumpled form at this distance—had been trying to escape. Perhaps he had been the first pulled from his tent and had been the first understand the soldiers’ intent.

  Whatever the reason, he hadn’t made it. Now he served as a warning to the others. Everyone saw it, nobody tried to run. Not even Max.

  When everybody was rounded up and forced into the center of the camp, when everybody was calm enough to listen, the bosses spoke. But no one really needed to listen to know what they were going to say.

  They would go back into the tunnels and they would work as hard and as fast as they could to get the stone to the surface. They would do everything the bosses said as fast as they said to do it. The safety of the rock was the most important, speed was the next. It was made clear their lives were very low on the priority scale. The bosses told them they would still get paid when it was all done, but none of the workers believed them.

  It began to dawn on Max that he would die on this dig, a bullet in his brain. And there was nothing he could do about it, at least not now. Their only chance was to bide time until they saw an opening.

  But there was no opening.

  The bosses became slave drivers. They worked the laborers so hard and so long they were too exhausted to plan an escape, let alone pull one off. The worked sometimes fifteen, twenty hours straight with breaks only for food and water, the guns always at their backs waiting for one of them to break.

  Some did. Some snapped and ran, usually right in the middle of a long pull, dragging the rock on the sled. They would just run, silently as though nobody would notice. But the guards always did.

  Sometimes they were cut down only three steps from the crew, a grim lesson as bullet holes peppered their backs and blood splattered the walls. Sometimes, because there were only a handful of guards that could fit in the tunnels with them, a runner would make it all the way out of the underground complex. But always they would see the body on display as they surfaced. A reminder of who was now in total control.

  The bosses made Max and the others drag the bodies back to the hole behind the rock they had moved. Despite the partial cave ins and damage to the tunnels, the room of the stone was still reachable. He knew this was a bad sign, hiding the bodies. Max and his friends would be the only witnesses.

  They didn’t go very far into the hole the stone had exposed. Just enough to drag the bodies past the entrance and to the side. Max could feel the coldness in the room. So different than the other tunnels. He could not see the walls; the darkness was too thick, and he didn’t really try to look around. It tuned his stomach and made him want to vomit.

  No, more than that, it made him feel something was growing inside his gut, waiting to force its way out.

  Based on the echo of the noise the bodies made, it was a large room. But beyond noticing those few things he had no desire to learn more about this room at the end—and he was sure it was the end; he somehow knew there was no other way out of this place.

  When he and his partner had moved the most recent body into the room, Max took his flashlight and stashed it near the corpse closest to the door. He wasn’t exactly sure why he did it, gut feeling maybe? His fellow pallbearer nodded, they could share his flashlight back to the surface. He, too, suspected where their fate lay. Max just hoped they would be able to put the flashlight to good use—if they weren’t piled up with the other bodies.

  It took them three more days to get the stone to the surface. They were exhausted and beaten, the unending work had been the whip. When they were done, there were only five of them left. The rest had been killed trying to escape or crushed by rocks or other accidents.

  But their work was not done. A helicopter was on the way, and they had to prep the rock in a harness. Weary and aching, they worked the heavy stone onto a steel platform and trussed it up with strong straps. That done, they had to stand there, guns pointed warily at them.

  By now all the remaining workers knew they would probably not be getting out of this. They did what they were told because they were human, delaying the inevitable. Every moment was a potential for escape, for rescue. But none of them took the first step; so many had died in front of them. They were truly broken.

  While they waited Max tried to listen in on the bosses. Once the guns had shown up, they had become a little looser in the lips, talking openly in front of them.

  Max knew this stone was a piece of a significant project run by a very powerful individual. Someone by the name of Golyat. He didn’t hear any details, but the man could obviously afford a highly trained army of killers.

  The helicopter came over the barren sand. They saw it long before they had heard it. It sped across the sand toward them quickly, like the devil was chasing it. It was pitch black like a smear of oil across the sky.

  It landed close to the stone, sending the tents and sheets into the air, scattering part of the camp. Tables and chairs were knocked over, the cups and plates on them littered throughout the camp. Max’s tent tore from the stakes from the wind pressure.

  It didn’t matter, they wouldn’t need the tents any longer.

  The helicopter kicked up a lot of sand, causing a blinding mini-sandstorm. Even the guards were distracted, using their hands to block the sand blasting across their faces. The guards had goggles to protect their eyes, but habits die hard. For a moment visibility was almost zero. One of Max’s friends saw his opportunity and ran.

  They saw him make a break for it and the guns came up firing, but he had disappeared into the sand cloud. At a command from the leader, two guards charged off in the direction the worker had disappeared. The rest leveled their guns at Max and the remaining members of his team.

  This had all happened in the blink of an eye. There was no time for thought. Before Max could even consider running in the opposite direction there was a barrel at his temple.

  “Don’t even think about it,” the guard yelled over the noise of the helicopter.

  Max had thought, but too slowly. He had missed his opportunity. He peered in the direction the worker had run. The sand and debris were settling down, but the man and the guards chasing him were gone, lost somewhere over the dunes. Max didn’t hear any gunshots, he took that as a good sign.

  As the blades slowed, the side door opened and a small crane came out, just big enough to lift the stone and sled it was on. With a wave of the guns Max and his team secured the rock to the crane and helped maneuver it into the back of the aircraft. As soon as it was secure, the helicopter was off, not even waiting for the bosses to step away from it.

  Max felt only a small bit of satisfaction hearing them curse at the pilot.

  As the aircraft disappeared in the distance the bosses turned to Max and his team. They all knew what would happen next. But the how took Max by surprise.

  After a brief phone call, presumably with this Golyat, the bosses spoke briefly and then turned to the workers.

  They told them there were a few more things to bring up from the room beyond the stone. The bodies would stay there, and as long as Max and the last of his team remained quiet they would be paid and released once those items were on the surface.

  None of them believed the bosses. They were going to die.

  The guards surrounded them, and forced the captives back into the tunnels. Max and his team—there were only four left—walked through the stone tunnels of what was to be their tomb. Max thought frantically, his mind desperate to create a plan. A direct attack against the guards would be suicide and perhaps more painful than just letting the bosses execute them. There had to be another way.

  Soon they were at the hole behind the stone and Max had come up with nothing. He found himself crying now. Thoughts of escape had slowly turned to thoughts of his wife and child; he hoped that the last time he had been wi
th them had been enough, enough for them to know how much he loved them.

  The laborer closest to Max leaned towards him.

  “Don’t forget Asif,” he whispered quietly. “He got away, there is always hope.”

  Max wasn’t sure Asif had gotten away, and he also wasn’t sure what help he could bring even if he had managed to escape the guards. It was a long, perhaps impossible, walk across the desert to the nearest town. And any nearby town would not be equipped to mount an armed rescue.

  But Max nodded. Hope was never a bad thing and who was he to take it away?

  Prodded by the guns, Max and his team entered the room. They were given no light other than what came through the stone entryway. The bodies lying on the ground gave them a quiet welcome. They hadn’t covered the corpses, so dead eyes stared up at them, as though to say welcome, make yourself comfortable, you’ll be here a while.

  “The artifacts are at the back of the room,” one of the guards said.

  “Can we get a light?” Max asked. But he knew it was all a charade. It didn’t matter, this game they played.

  “We’ll bring in some light shortly. But you should be able to make out the items as it is now. Just work your way back.

  Max sighed as they all shuffled toward the back. Max waited for the crack of the rifle, wondered if he would feel any pressure on the back of his head just before it all went dark. He could feel the back of his head itching, waiting. He could almost feel the muzzle pointed at him.

  He wanted to scream.

  But there was something. Out of the darkness he saw it, an ancient stone platform like an altar. On it were jars, lightly covered in dust. Relief flooded through him and he almost collapsed onto the floor. It was true, there were more things to bring up. They weren’t going to be left here with a bullet in their heads. The man next to him cried out as realization struck. Max wanted to laugh.

  He did a quick count, twelve jars, arranged in three rows. Four by three that seemed important. They were plain, although with the only light coming from the hole in the far wall, it was impossible to see any detail.

  Canopic jars he guessed. Used to house organs removed from mummified ancient Egyptians. But there was no sarcophagus in the room. And if they were Canopic jars, only four were needed per body—each to house a major organ: stomach, intestines, lungs, and liver. All believed to be needed in the afterlife. That meant they were from three different mummies.

  Max was no expert, never a scholar, but he had been on many digs and this was unusual. Usually the jars of an individual were by themselves, rarely in a group like this and never without a mummy nearby.

  Suddenly a faint hiss came from behind them.

  “Hey!” cried out the man to Max’s right. He was looking back at the hole they had come through.

  Max spun, his blood turned cold. He could see through the hole a bundle of red sticks sat on the floor. Only they weren’t sticks, at least not wooden ones. They were the unmistakable red color of dynamite. And the little spark winding its way through the room was a fuse. Old school. Max could almost imagine the guard who had lit it using a cigar like in the movies.

  Old school or not, it would still work.

  “Behind the altar,” Max cried out and vaulted over the stone. The others did the same, knocking over the jars as they jumped. The clay vessels fell over, their lids spilling open. Some crashed to the ground, cracking and splitting open, but they didn’t shatter; it was as though whatever was inside was thick and held them together. But Max had no time to investigate.

  They just made it over when the blast shook the room. The concussion echoed throughout, sending knives into their ears and knocking them back even as they crouched against the stone table. Max could feel the power of the blast whip through his body, and his head cracked against the stone. Everything went black.

  He woke in what seemed like just seconds later. Around him he could faintly hear muffled moans. The blast had taken his most of his hearing.

  It was pitch black; the blast must have collapsed the other room, blocking the tunnel. They were trapped. Although obvious, the realization came to him slowly as his mind tried to make sense of what he had just experienced. As soon as it hit, fear and panic flooded in. They were trapped! In the dark! Under meters of rock that might collapse at any moment.

  A flailing hand hit against his chest briefly. He caught it and gave it a squeeze and was rewarded when he received a return squeeze. That simple act took a little of the fear away. He was able to calm himself.

  He didn’t know what hope they had, but without light or hearing, they would get nowhere. He squeezed the hand he held with what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze.

  “I need to find a light, lie still,” Max said. He tried to let go of the hand, but it clung to him. The man it belonged to might have said something, it was impossible to tell with his numb ears. Max gently, but firmly pulled the man’s hand away from him. As he crawled away the hand grasped at his clothes, tugging frantically. Max tried to ignore it, there was nothing he could do without light.

  He took a moment to orient himself and then made his best guess on the direction of the collapsed tunnel. Other hands grasped at him as he crawled by. In the silence and darkness Max imagined all his friends, half-buried in rubble, hands flailing about as the life slowly left them. Once he touched a leg and there was no movement. At least one of them hadn’t made it; Max was not sure that was a bad thing. Even with a light, he had no idea how they could get out of this. They were trapped here until they ran out of water or oxygen, whichever came first.

  But there was always hope. Asif had gotten away, he could bring help. It was a straw and Max grasped.

  Just as he was thinking his silent crawl through the injured and dead would last forever, that he had died and was now in his own personal hell, his hand fell on a leg. It was ice cold, long dead. He had found one of the bodies.

  He breathed a sigh of relief; he had been worried the bodies might have been covered by large stones. Trying to ignore his disgust, Max searched the body. His hands ran along the dirty clothes and clammy flesh. Thankfully, the odor of rot was faint; the coldness of the room had preserved the bodies.

  His fingers hit plastic and he knew he had found what he sought. The flashlight was in his hands. Max turned it on and winced as the brightness. He wasn’t sure how long he had blacked out or even how long he crawled around once he came to. But it seemed long enough for his eyes to be sensitive to the light.

  As his eyes adjusted he stared around at the chaos. There were only three of them left. Fresh blood ran from a limp body surrounded by shattered rock. A large stone lay near his head, next to a bloody gash. The two others sat on the floor, hands shading their eyes from the brightness of his flashlight.

  Their lips moved soundlessly. His ears were still numb, but if he concentrated he could almost hear them. The cries and panic were dulled, but there was no doubt they had also realized how dire their circumstances were. They had come around the alter crawling.

  Something looked odd behind that stone table, but he couldn’t see anything besides slowly moving shadows.

  Moving?

  The two men were still seated, faces in hands. Max thought he could hear them wailing, but with his ears it was hard to tell. The only thing he could tell for sure—they were definitely not casting those moving shadows.

  Max quickly learned that they weren’t shadows at all. Glistening black puddles reared up behind the altar. Like thick, flat snakes they arched into the air and shot forward, moving pools of shiny tar, launching themselves at the men sitting on the floor.

  The others didn’t see them of course, their backs were to the altar. Max cried out a warning, but of course they couldn’t hear. Couldn’t they see the fear on Max’s face?

  But it was too late. The first blackness fell, landing on the leg of the closest man. He looked at the liquid black in a confusion that quickly turned into a howl of pain. The liquid creature flowed around his calf and tighte
ned.

  Coming in dark waves, three more shiny puddles rolled over the man, each one causing him to writhe in pain. Max thought he could hear some of the dulled screams, though he could only imagine the wet sounds as the horrors latched onto the man’s exposed flesh.

  The other man had noticed Max’s horror and seen the commotion from his friend. He was staring in shock at the scene unfolding, so engrossed in the horrible tableau in front of him, he did not see the other black blobs slithering to his feet and then leaping at him.

  His mouth opened in a silent scream as the first shapeless leech attached to his exposed arm. A second one struck his face, wrapping itself around his head.

  Both men had been swarmed by four of those things. That’s when it clicked. Max looked back at the canopic jars broken on the altar. His flashlight lit up the stone and broken shards. The thick substance that had been holding them together was gone.

  Max knew where the dark, liquid leeches had come from. Three sets of jars.

  Three!

  Max whipped the light around trying to find the rest of the things. A chill, so cold it felt like ice shards puncturing his skin, wrapped itself around his wrist. The flashlight flew from his hand sending a crazy strobe of light throughout the room.

  In flashes Max saw one of his friends trying desperately to peel away the things. But pulling them away meant ripping off your own flesh once they were attached. Nevertheless, he clawed at them, even as one crested his head and slid across his face. He collapsed.

  The light flashed on his other friend, body completely covered in the black things and levitating above the ground. He was not moving, just floating in the black death shroud.

  All of this came in silent flashes of horror as the light spun. Then all Max could think about was the pain in his wrist. Another searing pain blossomed on his thigh, whatever they were, it tore through his jeans like they weren’t even there, burning cold on his exposed skin. Another of the black things hit his chest. The fourth and final one landed on the side of his neck.

  He could barely see, the flashlight had come to a stop and in the faint light he could only see his two friends lifted off the ground by the black shapes, looking as though they were draped in a thick, inky curtain.