“The wicked Uttuku, who slays man alive on the plain.
“The wicked Arralu and Allatu, who wander alone in the wil-derness, covering man like a garment,
“The wicked Gallu and Alu, who bind the hands and body.
“The wicked Lammyatu, who causes disease in every portion.
“The wicked Ekimmu, who draws out the bowels.
“The wicked Namtaru, who seizes by the throat...”
By this point even ‘Lij was looking up, visibly worried. Hynde began to shake, eyes stutter-lidded, and fell sidelong even as Goss moved to catch him, only to find himself blocked—Camberwell was there already, folding Hynde into a brisk paramedic’s hold. “A rag, something,” she ordered ‘Lij, who whipped his shirt off so fast his ‘phones went bouncing, rolling it flat enough it’d fit between Hynde’s teeth; Goss didn’t feel like being in the way, so he drew back, kept rolling. As they laid Hynde back, limbs flailing hard enough to make dust-angels, Goss could just make out more words seeping out half through the cloth stopper and half through Hynde’s bleeding nose, quick and dry: rhythmic, nasal, ancient. Another chant he could only assume, this time left entirely untranslated, though words here and there popped as familiar from the preceding bunch of rabid mystic bullshit—
Arralu-Allatu Namtaru Maskim
Assaku Utukku Lammyatu Maskim
Ekimmu Gallu-Alu Maskim
Maskim Maskim Maskim
Voices to his right, his left, while his lens-sight steadily narrowed and dimmed: Go get Doc Journee, man! The fuck’s head office pay her for, exactly? ‘Lij and Camberwell kneeling in the dirt, holding Hynde down, trying their best to make sure he didn’t hurt himself ‘til the only person on-site with an actual medical license got there. And all the while that same babble rising, louder and ever more throb-buzz deformed, like the guy had a swarm of bees stuck in his clogged and swelling throat...
ArralAllatNamtarAssakUtukkLammyatEkimmGalluAluMaskimMaskimMaskim
(Maskim)
—
The dust-storm kicked up while Journee was still attending to Hynde, getting him safely laid down in a corner of the temple’s outer chamber and doing her best to stabilize him even as he resolved down into some shallow-breathing species of coma. “Any one of these fuckers flips, they’ll take out a fuckin’ wall!” Camberwell yelled, as the other two drivers scrambled to get the trucks as stable as possible, digging out ‘round the wheels and anchoring them with rocks, applying locks to axles and steering wheels. Goss, for his own part, was already busy helping hustle the supplies inside, stacking ration-pac
ks around Hynde like sandbags; a crash from the door made his head jerk up, just in time to see that chick Lao and her friend-who-was-a-boy Katz (both from craft services) staring at each other over a mess of broken plastic, floor between them suddenly half-turned to mud.
Katz: “What the shit, man!”
Lao: “I don’t know. Christ! Those bottles aren’t s’posed to break—”
The well, something dry and small “said” at the back of Goss’s head, barely a voice at all—more a touch, in passing, in the dark. And: “There’s a well,” he heard himself say, before he could think better of it. “Down through there, behind the walls.”
Katz looked at Lao, shrugged. “Better check it out, then,” he suggested—started to, anyhow. Until Camberwell somehow turned up between them, half stepping sidelong and half like she’d just materialized, the rotating storm her personal wormhole.
“I’ll do that,” she said, firmly. “Still two gallon cans in the back of Truck Two, for weight; cut a path, make sure we can get to ‘em. I’ll tell you if what’s down there’s viable.”
“Deal,” Lao agreed, visibly grateful—and Camberwell was gone a second later, down into the passage, a shadow into shadow. While at almost the same time, from Goss’s elbow, ‘Lij suddenly asked (of no one in particular, given he was the resident expert): “Sat-phones aren’t supposed to just stop working, right?”
Katz: “Nope.”
“Could be we’re in a dead zone, I guess...or the storm...”
“Yeah, good luck on that, buddy.”
Across the room, the rest of the party were congregating in a clot, huddled ‘round a cracked packet of glow-sticks because nobody wanted to break out the lanterns, not in this weather. Journee had opened Hynde’s shirt to give him CPR, but left off when he stopped seizing. Now she sat crouched above him, peering down at his chest like she was trying to play connect-the-dots with moles, hair, and nipples.
“Got a weird rash forming here,” she told Goss when he squatted down beside her. “Allergy? or photosensitive, maybe, if he’s prone to that, ‘cause...it really does seem to turn darker the closer you move the flashlight.”
“He uses a lot of sunscreen.”
“Don’t we all. Seriously, look for yourself.”