Tombquest: Book of the Dead

Awakening

Alex wasn't the only one waking up.

At a handful of spots around the globe, an unfortunate few would also bear witness.

Of these, a boy named Hamadi Chaltoum was merely the most tragic. His family was making him go out and get water in the middle of the night. It was an annoyance but not a surprise. Still, couldn't they at least wait till dawn? It would be there in a few hours, and then he could see where he was going.

"The moon is up," said his mother. "And you should know the way by now."

"Fine," he said. He knew it wasn't up for discussion. His baby sister was sick, and they needed to heat up more water. He would have to go to the well at the edge of the village. He took the bucket and headed out into the hot night. The moon was still bright overhead, not full but close to it. He took the main path. All around him the village slept.

His footsteps were the only sound.

This was a part of Egypt that outsiders seldom saw, in the far south near the border with Sudan. It was close to the famous tombs at Abu Simbel, true, but off the edge of the brightly colored tourist maps. Hamadi knew well that the tourists didn't venture beyond those boundaries, beyond the little cartoon drawings of tombs and treasure. They wanted to dream of ancient rich people, not modern poor ones. When he was younger, his mother had taken him there. Not to see the sights but to beg. He was too old now, no longer cute enough. She'd take his sister soon, if she recovered.

A sound reached Hamadi's ears, and he whipped his head around. It was a dry sound, like the rustling of old wheat.

It's just the wind, he told himself.

But when he turned back, his skin told him the truth. There was no wind tonight.

Some little animal, then. Keep walking.

He quickened his pace. As he did, he passed the edge of the village. There were no more houses now, just this dirt path, worn smooth by the feet of a hundred generations. He watched it carefully. The dangers out here were the old ones: cobras, scorpions. He swung the bucket. It felt heavy and reassuring in his hand.

Friissshhhh. It was the rustling sound again, louder this time. And closer, thought Hamadi. He peered out into the open country to his left.

It's nothing, he told himself. Keep moving.

He hadn't made it two steps before he heard it again.

Frrissshh-friissshhh!

He shook his bucket and it rattled and plunked in his hand. He knew that small animals were skittish. It was quiet for a few moments, and he walked on. The well was just up ahead now.

Frrrisssshhhh-friiisssshhhh-frrish!

The well was just up ahead, but so was the sound.

Whatever it was, it had passed him.

Hamadi looked into the night, and the night looked back at him. He wanted to run. Desperately. But what would he tell his mother, that there was a sound? She would laugh and send him right back out, tell him that one little baby was enough in the family.

But there was a sound. And it was getting closer.

"Get back!" he said, swinging his bucket in front of him. "Leave me —" But the words caught in his throat, because now he did see something. By the weak light of the falling moon, he caught a glimpse of unspeakable horror.

It was moving fast, impossibly fast.

A withered hand flashed across his vision like a cobra striking.

Now there was another sound in the night, but this was no dry rustling. This one was wet —

Desperate —

Choking —

Still.

Silence finally fell over the southern desert, and dawn rose. The village began to stir, not from the outside in or the inside out, but here and there, everybody waking at his or her own pace.

This was true of even the longest sleeps.

In the heart of the village, one family hadn't slept at all. At first, a sick baby had kept them up.

Now they waited for a boy who would never return.