The Remains of the Future

Part XIII: Xance

The Death's Souls gather about us, separated so there is one every three prisoners or so.

The people to our immediate left start to move. They are beefier than we are. Tattoos all over their body, muscles like rocks, hair shaven. They are what I would stereotypically consider real criminals. The biggest of the Death's Souls march on either side of them.

From the shouts and maneuvers I was privy to, I have ascertained that their play is about a fictional war between Xance and Dogon. Xance, of course, wins.

We begin to move, and the rope around my neck fluctuates with the person in front of me's movements. The fence disappears behind us, and I am submerged in a bustling way between polychrome tents. Men and women, old and young alike, stand outside their shops or abodes, dressed in their finest raiment, clapping and cheering.

Small, thick, and scrawny hands all construct a symphony that accompanies us, the fatted calves, to their sacrifice at the altar of entertainment.

I feel the same thing I felt for Aytet, the hot one. The one I rarely feel.

Has anyone ever told you how judgemental and irritating you are?

I hate these people, I realize. I hate them. I hate whoever stole Anta, Aytet, The Hesha, The Peptorous Aytet described, and anyone who is evil.

And that is good. I should feel this way. Right?

I am beaten, squished, by the force of this. I glare at every one of their flushed, smiling faces.

Humanity is evil.

No, I think.

Yes. It is Aytet's voice in my mind.

No?

I turn my eyes back to the scarred neck in front of me. My feet squish on the mud of the, to put it generously, road. Every rock and pebble stabs my prone feet. I am glad; it distracts me. My scandals, already polluted with the dust of the tunnels and the straw, sand, and waist of the valley, add yet another layer to their collection of filth.

Finally, the tents, just like the pens, fall away. My arms are tingly and my wrists are chafing. The sand dunes in front of us look to have a long, thick trail of blood straight across their center. And beyond them, perched in their white homes on whiter structures, are the Xancians–the ones that will happily watch me lose my soul tonight. My bound hands try to clench.

My feet burn, sucking the warmth from the sand overflowing my sandals. A wind picks up; the dirt and sand create incense-like swirls in the warm air. Nature's attempt at a dance.

We pass an iron-barred fence that circles the valley. It's small. I didn't realize it was there until I am almost on top of it. "Don't let your foot touch the metal," one of the Death's Souls on my right says as we step over it. His voice is the same as the other one. The one that threatened to steal my tongue. Black and dead.

The smell of spice and honey, tinged with a fetid scent, drifts toward us. Thin cake-colored steps rise, higher and higher, to meet a burrow. It is a stand-alone rock between two dunes. I squint to see the faint outline of an opening. It reminds me of the entrance to the tunnels.

We climb up the stairs and then tread into the hole, painted baby blue around its edges.

I step into the gloom, my previous experience coming back. The darkness of the cave truly envelopes me. Every minute, I believe I will trip over bones.

The smell is overpoweringly sweet, made worse by the underlying repugnant something. It reminds me of when my friend Nancy, my cat, died. It is the smell of despair, something to inhibit visitors.