The Little Men Who Lived in the Mountain

     When I think back on my childhood now I don't hardly remember being in school. I never think of my friends or my lessons, of trudging through snow in the winter or splashing through puddles in the spring, or stomping on piles of leaves in the fall. My childhood happened in the summer, on my grandfather's farm and the mountains that butted up to the property.

     And the older I get the more I wonder about what was real and what was my imagination - the difference was rarely so stark back then, and never of much importance. I was always an imaginative kid and maybe that explains why I saw what I saw in those woods. Or maybe I was an imaginative kid because of what I saw. I don't actually know how old I was the night the little men came to visit.

     I remember every year as the school year was drawing to an end I would always pester Dad to read me stories of magic and escape. Every night he would fill my head with stories where  magical realms of unbounded imagination were hidden in cupboards and wardrobes and rabbit holes. By the time school let up and I was shipped off to Grampa's Farm I was ready to believe that all a kid had to do was wander a short way into the woods behind the farmhouse to find a fawn or a talking horse or magical beings of even stranger kinds.

     Grampa would take me out into the woods to teach me to hunt and fish. I never caught many fish because I would ride around using the fishing pole like a witch's broom. Who wants to kill a fish anyways? In my imagination they were happy there, spending all those hot summer days swimming in the most magical stream in the world. I felt the same way when Grampa taught me to shoot a pellet gun. He wanted to set me loose shooting gophers in the fields, like my cousins did when they were there. I found that I was far too busy fending off the attacking swarms of goblins who had their mines in those mountains and only came down to steal children and force them to work in the mines.

     And yet I can't remember ever actually believing in the goblins. I never feared them, despite the apparent danger of being enslaved to work the mines. I remember what they looked like, or what I thought they looked like, with their eye patches and glistening daggers in their mouths and dripping drool. But I never thought to imagine what they smelled like. I do remember what the little men smelled like, and I'll never forget it. It was a musky scent, a bit like Grampa after a long day in the fields, before his shower. And a strong scent of tobacco smoke that clung to their beards. And of course I remember especially the iron smell of blood.

     I remember right before they came I was seated at the kitchen table eating muffins or cookies or something while my grandparents looked on. Gramma always said she loved having me around so she could bake for someone who wasn't diabetic. I remember Grampa promised once I was finished he would take me out onto the porch and show me the constellations. There came an urgent knocking on the door, which Grampa didn't like because nobody ever knocked on that door. I couldn't see who it was when he opened the door, nor could I hear their quiet conversation. They seemed to talk for a long time and then my father stepped aside.

     I saw the little man then, and heard him say with a thick accent "Our deepest thanks," which sounded like such a strange way to say that.

     The man turned out into the night and called out to his friends. "Leave them, leave them, we are guests. In the bushes. We enter with open palms."

     Then the held his hands up to show my Grampa, palms up, before stepping into the home. Behind him came man after man, each of them showing Grampa their palms and bowing their heads, saying "deepest thanks" and entering. Once inside they each became busy, rushing around so that I couldn't keep track of them. I saw them clear the kitchen table in an instant, carrying the dishes to the sink. Two of the strangers gestured at the sink bickering. They bickered for only a moment before one approached Granma and said, "Dearest Madame, gracious hostess..."

     I don't know what he said after that because another man approached me. With the gentlest touch on my elbow, he led me away a few steps away, turning me away from the door. That was when I realized that the man was no taller than me, and neither were the others. I suppose it made perfect sense to me that a man might be shorter than Grampa and even Gramma, so I hadn't even noticed that these men were only half their size. This one looked like the others, with a long black beard and long black hair braided beautifully - I remember thinking that I wanted them to braid my hair the same way, and for years afterwards I would only wear my hair in braids. He had a large nose and eyes as black as coal. His face was smudged with ash and dirt, with lines where beads of sweat had run down. His clothing was made of thick layers of leather and furs - patchworks of different furs, with at least four different skunk pelts in his outfit. The other men were dressed in deer and wolves and squirrels and bears and probably elk and everything else that lived in those mountains. Sometimes even the antlers and teeth were incorporated into their clothing. The layers of leather were covered with pockets, pockets everywhere, with maps and compasses and trinkets and square bottles of colored liquids. When the man's outermost cloak was swept aside I saw an empty scabbard and no fewer than three canteens swishing with the last of their water. I noticed too that they all wore jewelry, more than any woman I knew. Each of them wore a crystal pendant around his neck, each one a different color. They all had rings, and some had earings and bracelets and brooches on their cloaks. Above all they seemed to prize intricate details, especially finely wrought runes and sygils. Nowadays I have to think how hard that kind of work must be with thick, stubby fingers.

     When the man spoke to me his accent reminded me of when my cousins had watched an eighties action movie and spent a week speaking exclusively in bad Russian accents. In my childish head, it made sense that these men must be Russian and that's why they seemed so strange. He said to me, "Purest Princess, deadly marksman, deepest thanks for hospitality." I remember spending the rest of my childhood thinking that the way these men spoke was the best possible way to speak, and trying to imitate them as best I could, even the way they stopped to think before coming up with English words. I don't remember it exactly, but everything they said had a rhythm to it, like everything they said was a poem even when they were struggling with the language.

     "For show our thanks, may I kiss her hand?" He held up my hand in his own. I think their hands were their strangest features. Their fingers were stubby and thick. Sometimes remembering them I think they must have been missing a knuckle, they were so short. And they were callused like no hands I've ever seen. I don't think those men would have needed to wear gloves for any kind of work. They were filthy too, and as a child I assumed that must have been what they were showing Grandpa when they came inside, although it never made sense why they would want to show how filthy they were to someone they just met.

     In answer to his question, I nodded my head, and he placed a quick dry kiss on my hand. Nobody had ever called me a princess and kissed my hand before. Or called me a deadly marksman, for that matter. I suppose a show of gallantry was all it took to win my trust back then.

     He spoke again saying, "Purest Princess, our friend is..." He looked over my shoulder and growled musically deep in his throat, speaking a language that might have evolved from men clearing their throats. His friends answered in English. One called out, "Sick," and another said, "No no no, wounded."

     The one dressed in skunks continued speaking: "Our dearest friend is sick and wounded. He is, let me think... pierced of tooth. Yes, our dearest brother is wounded, pierced of the tooth. May we... borrow... may we borrow the table of the house?"

     "Of course," I said, not understanding a word of what he said. And because it seemed to be the appropriate thing to, I curtseyed, holding my imaginary skirts in my hands. As silly a thing to do as it was, it clearly pleased the man, and he answered by saying, "Graceful manners, purest princess." And the others all seemed to approve, as though I had done a worthy thing.

     "You saw me shooting?" I said. He nodded.

     "What shot you? No... what did you shot?"

     "Goblins," I said.

     He cried out, barking in his throat, although it seemed like a happy sound. Two others came over to kiss my hand. "Work worth the doing," one of them said. "Filthy pirates, wretched slavers," said the other. I wanted to tell them it was just a game, but I was too shy. I don't think that mattered to them. They each had a watery twinkle in their black eyes.

     When I turned around, the room was different. Most of the men were gathered around the kitchen table. A hide had been laid out on the table and a man lay on top of that. The men around him fussed with him, and I saw tears in their eyes and blood on their hands. Others were washing dishes in the sink. Another couple were sweeping and mopping with my Grandma's broom and mop. Soon all traces of the mud the dwarves had tracked in would be gone, as would the trail of blood leading from the door to the table.

     At the time I didn't understand what the man in skunk fur had done for me. I assumed he had turned me away just so he could kiss the hand of a beautiful princess. Now I recognize that he didn't want me to see a bloody man carried through the door. He wanted to prepare me before I saw it. Throughout that night they proved themselves to be such noble beings. I can't help but admire the presence of mind of a man who, while his friend lays dying, thinks first to ensure his brother's suffering does not offend the innocence of a child.

     I remember being so afraid of the blood and not wanting to go near the injured man. The man with skunks in his cloak took me gently by the elbow and led me closer. I saw so much blood coming out of his hip. More blood than a child of that age should see, although everyone present seemed to think it was important that I see.

     "What happened to him?" I whispered.

     "Grimi Hardhand, mountain wander, tunnel digging, treasure seeker treasure finder, serpent slayer serpent bitten."

     "Mountain climber, tunnel digger."

     "Mmmmghghgh, yes."

     "Serpent slayer serpent bitten. Fury frozen, pain and blood, pain and blood, retreat attack, dwarven valor vict'ry won."

     Their funny, rhythmic, repetitive way of speaking was confusing at first, but as the night went on it began to make more sense. Even as they explained to me what had happened they were composing together a kind of poem about their wounded friend. Sometimes they spoke over each other, revising each other's lines. Perhaps they were composing his eulogy.

     Some of the little men washed the wounded one's face and hands, so that he was the only clean one among them. I noticed another tuning an instrument that I thought might be a kind of violin.  Another had something like a flute. All the men who weren't otherwise busy had a hand laid on the wounded man.

     "Is the serpent dead?" I asked.

     One among them drew himself up taller, and the others looked proudly at him, nodding.

     The wounded man turned his head towards me and said, weakly, "Who?"

     Then the man with skunks in his cloak placed a hand on my shoulder. "Purest princess, goblin hunter, graceful manners."

     I curtseyed once more, again holding my imaginary skirts in each hand. They laughed  from deep in their chests.

     Gramma offered cinnamon rolls to our guests, embarassed that there weren't enough for everybody. The strange men divided them up between themselves, insisting that I have an entire one for myself. I tried to refuse because I'd already had a couple and really didn't want anymore but they were so insistent. I took a bite of my cinnamon roll and it was like a starting gun went off. The men devoured their portions to the last crumb. They ate as though they hadn't eaten in days.

     The wounded man, the only other who was given a full portion, nursed his, eating only a few bites. He raised his head and said, weakly, "Mistress baker, pastry maker..."

     "Dearest madame, gracious hostess," someone else said.

     The wounded man tried to speak, struggled to find the words, and continued on in the gutteral language the men all spoke. The leader leaned over him, listening to the soft words, then straightened to address Gramma.

     "Dearest madame, mistress baker, gracious hostess, pastry maker - Grimi Hardhands, serpent slayer wishes me to speak on his behalf. He... is sorry --"

     "Regrets."

     "Yes. He regrets he cannot make his own speech to you. He offers deepest thanks for your hospitality. He praises your pastry, and compares it to his own Chali's... not cake but..."

     "Buns."

     "I think cake is right."

     "No no no. Scones."

     "Yes, I think so. Scones."

     "He said that he would as soon have your pastries for a..." The leader choked up for a moment. Tears welled up in many eyes, and rolled unchecked down his cheeks. "He would as soon, for his final meal, enjoy these your lovely pastries as his own Chali's scones."

     For an uncomfortable stretch of time, all was quiet, and many of the men wiped tears from their filthy faces. Then the leader said, "Oh, my manners, my manners."

     A canteen appeared on the table, and many more in the hands of the strangers. One of the men placed two of Grandma's mugs on the table, into which the leader of this strange band poured a shot of dark liquor from a canteen. He gave one cup to Grandpa and took the other for himself. Raising it high, he said, "Deepest thanks for hospitality given." He drank, and all the others passed their canteens around to each other. Grandpa drank his shot, practically choking on it, gasping for air. Our guests laughed and all shook his hand one by one. While the handshaking was going on, one of the men helped the wounded man to drink long and deep from a canteen.

     The man with skunk furs put a hand on my shoulder and turned me around facing away from the table. "Purest princess," he said, "like you jewelry?"

     I didn't at that age, but I didn't want to seem like a little kid so I pretended to like jewelry. He showed me several of the rings that adorned his fingers, all of them so big they would have slipped off Grandpa's thumb. I've never in my life seen another ring like the ones he wore. They were thick bands of yellow gold, with layers of latticework carved into them, so that each layer lay behind another depicting scenes and figures that must have been rich in mythological significance. They displayed a level of craftsmanship I have never seen since.

     And yet, as marvelous as the rings were, I found I was more fascinated by the man's hands. The fingers were no longer than mine were, yet thicker than I thought fingers could be, and all the same thickness so that the same ring would fit both the thumb and the littlest finger. The palms were the most incredible though, to my little eyes, a hard mass of callous. I remember at that age comparing my own hands to Grampa's, and thinking that no man in the world worked harder than Grampa, and he could prove it by the callouses on his palms. Compared to these men, my Grampa's hands might as well have been as soft as my own. And filthy, sweaty, grimy, greasy - many of them were sticky with dried blood as well. The ring which the man dressed in skunk skins showed me became filthy the moment he handled it, and he dug through his pockets to find a clean cloth to polish it in spit, bringing it to fine shine before replacing it on his finger.

     Afterwards he turned me back to the others. The wounded man was covered in fresh blood, more than ever before. I wondered that he could still be alive. A man was pressing a deep red cloth into his hip. Another man was wiping sweat from the wounded man's face, and as soon as the sweat was wiped away it appeared again on his brow. He still had the leather bound hilt of a sheathed knife between his teeth. He hissed around it, eyes clenched tightly shut. Yet another man held a red fang, larger than both his hands together, dripping crimson onto the floor. He wrapped the gigantic tooth in a cloth that absorbed the deep red color as quickly as it was wrapped. I noticed one man wielding Gramma's mop, snaking it around people's feet, trying to clean the bloody mess as quickly as it was made. Every man that wasn't otherwise occupied had a hand on the wounded man's body, a tender touch on every leg and arm.

     The man's breathing calmed, the tooth was hidden away under a cloak, and the music began. There was a flute and a violin and some other instruments, but the predominating sound was of drumming. Many of our guests had gotten their hands on Gramma's pots to hammer a rhythm into them. I was worried that they would break them. The singing was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. It was only then that I really recognized what deep voices those men all had. It was the kind of singing that comes rumbling from deep in the chest. And meanwhile some of them were -- I don't know how to explain it -- almost barking, punctuating the pounding rhythm with quick throaty growls.

     Once I heard their music I understood the reason for the funny rhythms of their speech. Every word of English they had spoken that night, talking over and correcting each other, they were composing a poem, a poem suited to the rhythms of their alien sounding music. Most of their songs were in their own language, but while the words were meaningless to me, the music itself, as foreign as it was, could not be misunderstood. They sang of sadness, of hardship, and then of strength and even more of pride. When they sang of glory, they all drew near and placed a hand on their bleeding friend. I don't think you could understand the music just by hearing it; to really get it you have to see the men who sing it. It's like how there's gospel music and then there's gospel music in an enthusiastic black church. It was the same with them. They were the shortest men I've ever seen, but when they sang their songs of dwarvish pride, they gave such an impression of tallness  that I don't think I've seen in any ordinary man. And when they sang of pain and loss, one by one their powerful rumbling low voices broke with emotion, and one by one they stood on a chair to lean over their friend and kiss his forehead, each of them with their tears dripping onto him. When Gramma broke down in tears, one of the men placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her his handkerchief. Even Grampa dabbed at his eyes, which I've never seen from him before or since.

     Three times they returned to the song they composed in English, and each time it was a little improved. They told the story of Grimi's bravery and of their mission on the mountain, and they mentioned Grampa, Gramma, and me according to the nicknames they had given us. They sang of Gramma's cooking and hospitality, of my perfect manners and training to shoot goblins, and they sang about Grampa's work ethic and courage, praising him for farming in the shadow of such a mountain (hardy farmer, brave soil tiller). I believe they repeated some of their songs in their own language too, and I think they did so for the same reason, that they were refining them. Their dirty, sometimes bloodied faces showed such incredible weariness, both physical and emotional exhaustion, and yet I got the sense that they would not rest until they had crafted the perfect musical testament to their fallen friend. They were nothing if not perfectionists.

     At some point that night, poor Grimi squeezed the leader's hand, held in his own all night. The leader looked at him questioningly, and the man nodded. The leader then turned to a pair of men who looked so tired they might have been sleeping with their eyes open. Even so, at a nod from the leader the two jumped up from their chairs and hurried out the front door. Where they went I didn't know until later.

     By the time the singing stopped, Gramma and Grampa were asleep in their chairs, wrapped in blankets by our guests. I was so sleepy myself that it took me a while to understand why the music was done. Each of them took their turn to kiss their friend one last time. His forehead was wet with their tears. I turned to the man with the skunk cape to ask if Grimi was dead. I saw the answer in his eyes before I asked. They wrapped him in the fur on which he laid and carried him outside, all but one who followed along with Gramma's mop to clean up the blood and mud. My friend escorted me outside with them. We went out to Gramma's garden, to the grave dug by the two who'd gone out earlier.

     The men laid the body down and said their last prayers. I don't think normal men can make tears as large and heavy as the tears these men cried. They passed the shovel around, taking their turns in burying him.

     I have a vague recollection of drifting off as I was carried up to bed. The next day I jumped out of bed and ran out to find my new friends. Grampa was so tired he wasn't working that day, just drinking coffee. He explained that our guests had left before first light. I asked when they were coming back, and he said that he didn't think they were ever coming back. He said that their leader had asked him not to speak of this night to anyone, and Grampa told me that we were all three of us going to honor that.

     The only other time he mentioned that night was when he said that he knew they borrowed his shovel because it was the only clean tool in his shed. Likewise Gramma was so embarassed that not only had all the dishes been washed and dried and put away, but she could tell even the mugs at the back of the cupboard that never got used had all been dusted.

     Aside from that, we never really spoke of them again. Any time I mentioned them, Grampa just said we made a promise to them and that was all. Gramma planted lilacs on Grimi's grave because she'd been told they were his favorite. And every year at about the same time gold coins would appear under the lilacs, coins stamped with runes like none that exist in any books.

     Every summer after that I practiced shooting goblins with Grampa's pellet gun, and then his rifle as I got older, and every time I hoped that a tiny little man would emerge from the forest to commend my shooting and call me "perfect princess, goblin killer." It never happened. Then again maybe none of it ever happened.

     By the time I went to college I had convinced myself that none of it ever happened. At that age I was trying my hardest to rid myself of the image of the nerdy girl with shelves of books about dragons. I convinced myself that it was all just the product of an overactive imagination. Anymore I don't care if people think I'm crazy or not. Anymore I don't know if I believe it or don't.

     I still visit my cousins on the farm from time to time. They're okay. I just like being on the farm. I walk in the woods and remember my childhood. Sometimes I find snakes in the woods. Grampa taught me they were garter snakes, completely harmless. I kill them them just in case and leave the bodies under the lilacs. For Grimi.

Blood Eaters

A LETTER FROM PROFESSOR VICTOR PAULESCU TO THE DEAN OF

HUMANITIES AT VOLGOTH UNIVERSITY

DATED MONDAY 9/14/20--

Dear Professor Hartwell,

I must write to inform you that I must be excused from my teaching duties for a length of time which I do not anticipate will last beyond two weeks, beginning immediately. Call it a research expedition if you will.

I know you are aware of my hotly contended scholarship on the subject of the classic work Dracula. Whether it ought, in the final analysis, be classified as a novel or, as I contend, as a work of non-fiction assembled exactly as described within the text, is not a question I expect will be settled soon.

What you may not be familiar with is that I have for a number of years been collecting data on a phenomenon which I believe has great bearing on the veracity of my claims and, ultimately therefor, on my credibility as a scholar of literature. I have long been in the habit of scouring newspapers around the world for evidence of this phenomenon, and have come up with quite a collection of data. However, it is something of a Fortean phenomenon, and every individual instance of it is rejected as being too outlandish to be true, and so each datum is believed to be an unreliable outlier and discarded to rest in the trash beside a thousand other such data points which together paint a fuller picture to anyone willing to examine it. The phenomenon to which I refer is that of total human exsanguination, the entire removal of the full volume of blood from an otherwise unmarked human specimen.

Such cases being often slow to make their way to my attention, my response is often so delayed as to be pointless, and so I have found it expedient in the wake of such cases to establish contact with agents who are so positioned as to be able to provide me with more immediate information on any recurrences. If cases of total human exsanguination are, as I believe, evidences of vampiric activity, and if as well such vampiric activity is likely to recur in an area, then I believe that having such agents in place will allow me to respond more quickly to such incidences. I am confident that my tactics will eventually yield more positive proofs of the existence of such sanguivorous beings.

I have been, in effect, over many years constructing a worldwide net within which I intend to snatch up my prey. If you are receiving this letter, then I have caught something in my net, and I can allow no delay in racing to close it.

If I need anything more from you, or if I will be away longer than two weeks, I will be in touch.

FROM THE DIARY OF VICTOR PAULESCU

DATED WEDNESDAY 9/16/20--

Arrived in the airport at KK stiff as an old man waking up in an unreclined chair, or as a young man waking up anywhere. No checked baggage as I travel light. Taxi to the docks where the riverboats pick up tourists for jungle tours. I struggled to arrange transportation to the Emsley Biological Research Station upriver. The locals speak good English, so communication wasn't the issue. They seemed to have concerns about the wind, contrary winds or something, which I didn't think would matter in the low wide-bodied canoes they use. Perhaps they expect a storm. I for one would welcome it. Whole country is a sauna. Still, wave enough cash around and you find a willing man. Departing soon, just waiting on my agent to arrive with the latest information, some essential supplies, and a revolver. He won't be late, there's a great sack of cash waiting for him.

Picking up from the Research Station. Hell of a day. Spent most of it travelling upriver. My guide was knowledgable about the local wildlife, which was a welcome diversion on a long river journey. Kingfishers zipping past, hornbills soaring overhead, troops of macacques gamboling through the uncountable variety of trees which hang out over the banks of the river. My guide pointed out where elephants nest, although we saw none. He saw several crocodiles, I may perhaps have seen some ripples. We stopped at one point so that he could point out a distant orangutan topping a tree. It took me some minutes to follow his finger to the creature, and in that time we were devoured by the mosquitos which attacked anytime we stopped for more than a moment. It would have been a wonderful trip, if I were here for the wildlife and not to hunt down a paranormal menace.

Once reaching the Emsley Biological Research Station, I hurried out of the boat with my bag. Before I had even made my way up to the cabin, for that was all the station really was, my driver was away down the river, always wanting to keep the boat moving. Introductions were awkward, especially as my boat was gone and as I was not expected whatsoever. The occupants of the cabin looked at me as though they'd gone deep into the remotest jungles on earth specifically to avoid mysterious drop-ins from unknown professors of literature.

In the main room of the cabin I introduced myself to three research assisstants, graduate students there on a grant to study pygmy elephants in the wild. There was also a medical doctor who had come down from KK to inspect the body of the man I understood to be exsanguinated. They were wholly unimpressed with my credentials, but that was where the similarities to my parents ended.

I noted that the research assistants were all young, as might be expected, and were not bearing the strain of the moment with the greatest of grace. I soon understood why. The man lying dead - in the adjoining closet, as it happened - was the lead researcher in charge of their project. They were now facing the present crisis of the man's sickness and death deprived of his leadership. They looked tired, stressed, and irritable. A fourth researcher had not even bothered to come out of his room to meet me. The doctor, the only one there besides myself above the age of twenty-five, bore a mask of imperturbability.

They related in turn the following story: A few days ago, the lead researcher began exhibiting signs of sickness. At first they ascribed his symptoms to heat stroke, an affliction which threatened each of them every day in that equatorial climate. He was weak, lethargic, moody, dizzy, short of breath. He rested all day, and under his specific guidance they gave him no more care than large quantities of cool water and moderate meals.This went on for a few days until, over a single night, he weakened and died, leaving a shrivelled corpse to be discovered in the morning. The students radioed back to KK for help, and they were instructed to keep the body cool until a doctor could arrive to inspect it. They were told that, legally, they could get into some trouble if they buried the body before it was inspected, and that they had to hold on to it. Whether that was true or not, they believed it, and speculating wildly about the possible repurcussions of a manslaughter charge in a nation under sharia law, they moved the body into a storage closet where they also moved the cabin's lone air conditioner. These precautions were all the more necessary as the doctor who was to do the inspection and pronounce the patient dead was a practicing doctor who, feeling a lesser obligation to the dead than to living, took several days to wrap up some important work with his patients before undertaking the journey. So it was that, to my astonishment, he had arrived only this day and had yet to conduct his examination of the body.

As the students continued with their story, I gained a greater appreciation for their tetchiness. The day after the death they waited impatiently, their air conditioning repurposed, the future of their research uncertain, and their capacity to forestall the rotting of their friend and leader's body in the equatorial heat unclear. Then that evening, some locals from the nearby kampung came to visit. They brought with them their bobollion, which is a kind of witch doctor. That this mysterious individual had made a definite impression on each of them was unquestionable. The bobollion wore nothing unusual, flip-flops, denim shorts, and a faded pink t-shirt. This individual was androgynous to the point that none of the students were able to apprehend the sex of the witch. This characteristic was notably enhanced by a peculiarity of the local language, by which I mean that they use a single word for either he or she, and so while the typical level of English spoken is of a very high quality, they have a tendency to use 'he' and 'she' interchangeably when speaking quickly or casually. Thus when the several men who accompanied the bobollion explained that person's actions they might say “He's doing this. Now she's doing that.” It seems to have created quite an effect on the already perturbed students. Even more distressing was the behavior of the witch. That person was literally sniffing around the cabin, occassionally creating an ethereal rattling in their throat which none of the students would venture to reproduce for me. Then, at random intervals, the bobollion would briefly give the appearance of channeling the dead man, with chilling effect on the students. They described it as though the bobollion were scanning the dial on a radio and every so often picking up on snatches of conversation that, to the students who had for some time been intimates of the dead man, were an uncanny match to the rhythms and mannerisms of the deceased. Stranger still, the bobollion did not speak a word of English except when perfectly replicating the South African accent which the lead researcher apparently possessed.

Remarkable stuff, but nothing to what came next. The bobollion bounded to the door of the closet, broke in, and slashed the arm of the dead man in front of one and all. The next detail I pressed the students to be very clear on: that not a drop of blood came from the opened vein of a man dead less than a day.

The bobollion spoke rapidly, his speech punctuated by belches and groans, and the others there translated. They said that the man had been attacked by something called, 'pem accan dah rah', although I don't have a clue on the spelling. Apparently this is some kind of spirit called up with the shifting of the wind to the east. I surmise this must have been what the boat people had feared when they spoke of the winds being bad. These events raised any number of questions for which I still have no answer because the students, stricken by the outlandishness of all that they had witnessed, asked none on that night, and the villagers left promptly, the bobollion still burping and coughing.

Since then the students have passed two more harrowing days of heat and anxiety. No wonder they look so terrible.

By the time all of this information was exchanged, it was evening, and the students prepared fried rice for us all to eat. I was famished by this point, not having eaten since immediately after deboarding the plane. I noticed that nobody paid any mind to the bonus proteins that wandered in and out of the food, so I did my best to ignore it.

The students had been doing their best to husband the cool air from the AC unit, and so they had been opening the closet door only after the heat abates at night. This we respected, and the doctor waited until well after dark to conduct his examination. It was only by referencing the very long way I had come that I convinced Doctor Alexius (that being his name) to allow me to accompany him. The students gave us a bucket of ice which they had been making all day. They had filled their small freezer with makeshift ice trays made from lids and pill bottles and anything that fit the bill, generating as much ice as they could to then add to their morgue at night.

The doctor and I opened the door to the closet, stepping through with as little exchange of air as possible between the two chambers. Once inside, we were so cramped that the two of us were sweating on each other looking down at the long bundle wrapped in a tarp and resting on a cot. When Dr Alexius unravelled the tarp we were faced with what I will describe as a slurry pouring out at us. The ice of previous nights had melted over the body, leaving a boggy residual that, unfortunately splashed over both of us as we jumped in alarm. I do not wish to speak of the smell.

Our task was not a pleasant one. Dr Alexius needed to examine the entirety of the body, which was still dressed in damp clothes. Using scissors, we cut him out of his clothes. The good doctor then minutely examined the corpse, yielding not at all to any temptation to hurry in light of the less than ideal circumstances. Not wishing to interfere in any way with the doctor's efforts, I could only stand over the body. I would have enjoyed the cool air emanating from the AC unit were it not wafting over the sticky mess of the corpse.

Dr Alexius gestured to indicate the cut made by the bobollion, but otherwise did not communicate whatsoever. The cut was a remarkable thing. The razor had followed a vein up the forearm, spilling not a drop of blood.

When the doctor signalled that he had concluded his examination, I dumped the bucket of ice over the body and we wrapped the tarp around it again.

Ah, to breathe clean air again!

Our reemergence from the closet breathed some life into the otherwise morose research assisstants. I could understand their eagerness to know the doctor's conclusions about why the lead researcher had died, and about whether they could get on with burying him. The doctor did not rush his analysis, but took some time to ponder the matter.

For my part, I felt that my suspicions were all but confirmed. Here lay the body of a man, bare of all premortem marks, totally drained of all blood in his system. The relevant facts were all confirmed by witnesses with scientific or medical qualifications. I already considered this adventure to be a success, and was making plans to make contact with the bobollion. I felt that he or she or it must certainly have some knowledge of these 'spirits' that had caused this man's death, and that the bobollion must surely be in a position to make a substantial contribution to our knowledge of the vampiric phenomenon.

Such were my thoughts when Dr Alexius at last announced his conclusion: that the researcher had died of a congenital clotting disorder. To say I was astounded would be too mild a characterization of my reaction. I protested that surely a clotting disorder would more commonly be indicated by the presence of clotted blood than by the absence of blood. Surely, I expressed to the doctor, the salient point is not whether the blood, wherever it might be, were clotted, but rather how that blood whatever its viscosity might have vanished from a human body.

The calmness which had otherwise governed the visage of the doctor even in the pungent presence of the recently pronounced, then gave way a little to a controlled, haughty anger. He explained in stern tones that he had in fact seen residue of clotted blood, that the body having been kept in icemelt for days naturally washed away the bulk of the residue, and that more to the point, I was by no stretch medically qualified and my presence at his examination had been as a courtesy only. We exchanged some words on the matter, but I knew the point was forlorn. He was the expert, and besides, the research assisstants all felt a natural relief to hear that it had been a congenital disorder rather than some tropical ailment to which any of them might succumb. I believe also that they were relieved to hear no mention of any suspicion of foul play. They did not appreciate in the slightest my aspersions on the doctor's theory and I detected that I was trying my hosts' patience. So I let the matter fall.

I must admit that I do take some vindication in the hastiness of Dr Alexius' response to my counterarguments. An expert on solid ground takes confidence in his knowledge of the facts, whereas a man insecure in his conclusions resorts more quickly to anger and falling back on his authority. Such a reaction from a man I judge to be ordinarily of a placid temperament, I feel indicates that he harbors his own doubts about his mysterious blood-vanishing clotting disorder.

Such was my day. The students with their minds much eased by the doctor's pronouncements scrounged a pair of cots for the doctor and myself to spend the night. As exhausted as I am, I felt it of paramount importance to record my observations before turning in.

FROM THE DIARY OF VICTOR PAULESCU

DATED THURSDAY 9/17/20--

Woke up early this morning. In this part of the world it is important to get up early so as to get as much done before the midday heat as possible. And today, there was much to do. Now having authority from the doctor to do so, the students were eager to bury their lead researcher. It turns out that this is also a part of the world in which it is important to dig six feet down, where the body won't be unburied by scavengers. I volunteered my efforts in the digging, despite the heat and despite the unbelievable quantity of creepy crawlies that came up with each scoop of the shovel - one in five species of land animals on earth lives in this rainforest which is almost unbelievable until you start digging into the earth. It's a good thing I did, too, because the students, in their sorrows, did not seem much capable of physical work. They were lethargic, inactive, and quiet. The one young man who had chosen not to meet me the day before stayed in his hammock again, and the doctor spent the morning with him. Once the hole was dug, the researchers and I hauled his cot out into the grave, the students each said some words over him, and the body was quickly sealed away in the earth.

May he rest.

To have such a thing done and over relieves a mind of a heavy burden, and the students won back some of the liveliness that must once have characterized this remote outpost. They warmed to me as they had not before, a not unexpected consequence of my having buried their dead fellow. Once we got the A/C unit moved back to it's proper place in the lab, we spent the rest of the day resting from our labors and hiding from the heat, splayed out before fans, occassionally dumping ice-water down our shirts, doing our best to stay hydrated.

Doctor Alexius announced that he would be staying on another day so as to watch over the researcher who remained in his hammock. His pulse was weak, his blood pressure low. He was dizzy, lightheaded, fatigued, and pallid. I also requested my hosts' forebearance in allowing me to stay one more night, although I had no real excuse. I believe the doctor was not happy about my plans to stay, although he did not express himself on the matter. However, it was up to the researchers who after my having served as both gravedigger and pallbearer, genuinely seem to welcome my presence.

We've moved quarters. The doctor wanted to be closer to the patient and I wanted to watch over him through the night. I strongly suspect that this man is under vampiric attack, and although nobody else here gives any credence to my hypothesis, it would be a grave moral failure on my part not to give the man all the protection I can give. So, now Dr Alexius and I are sharing a room with the patient. We haven't spoken much, by mutual agreement. I wouldn't say there is bad blood, but there is definitely a clear divergence of strongly held professional opinions, which can approach the same thing.

At this moment, the doctor sleeps, the patient rests, and I write to stay awake, aware that if I drop off even for a moment that would sufficient space for the evil I fear and intend to ward off, to strike. The man's life may depend on it, and despite the doctor's silent reproaches, I will do my duty to him, as I trust the doctor will do his duty to his patient as he understands it.My revolver is clean and ready, and I am, so to speak, girded for battle against the vampire.

FROM THE DIARY OF VICTOR PAULESCU

DATED FRIDAY 9/18/20--

The events of this day have brought this affair to a critical stage, a fact on which both Dr Alexius and I agree. I will summarize, sticking to what I find to be most relevant.

Dr Alexius awakened this morning evidently surprised to find that I was still at my post, having maintained my vigil through the night. I got the sense that he was reassessing my character. There is sometimes a satisfaction in being underestimated. He immediately checked the patients' vitals, finding them unchanged. Neither of us passed comment on that fact, each supposing that our efforts had been responsible in some way for halting the decline of the patient's condition.

I was at that time eager for bed, however, my situation was at that time still unclear. I did not know if I was headed back upriver or if they might indulge me to stay another night as I wished. Not wanting to fall asleep in my cot without a firm answer, I decided to join the others for breakfast in the lab, as I was beginning to understand was the morning tradition. Dr Alexius and I were disconcerted to find that each of the others had overslept. I passed a remark acknowledging the physical and emotional toll associated with burying a man. Between us, however, there passed a silent recognition of our common anxiety.

When at last one of the researchers emerged into the lab Dr Alexius asked how she was feeling. Tired, she said. Just tired. As a matter of thoroughness, the doctor had taken vitals on all the researchers to form a baseline for comparison. His recheck of that student confirmed our fears. Her blood pressure was low, pulse notably weaker. Having seen this, the doctore intruded on the other two students to check them as well, with identical results.

I reproach myself. I should have checked on the others in the night. It was foolish of me to direct all my resources to guarding one already ailing victim when it meant leaving the others exposed to predation by whatever foulness lurks in the jungle.

Afterwards, Dr Alexius checked my vitals as well. I felt fine, for a man who hadn't slept all night, but it was important to establish a baseline. During this examination, the doctor and I spoke for the first time, as it were, man-to-man. He laid out in plain language, his professional view of the situation.

Firstly, the patient over whom we'd watched last night was not in good condition, and assuming his condition was of the same kind as the lead researcher's had been, there was every chance of his dying. In fact, in his medical opinion the man would not survive a boat trip back to KK. The sun alone would kill him. As such, he, the doctor, would be staying here with that patient at the Biological Research Station to care for him.

He said that he might be able to arrange transportation back to KK for myself and for the other researchers, but that it would have to be arrange through the Ministry of Health. An unidentified blood disorder emerging from the remote depths of the rainforest had killed one and sickened four more. That was the situation as the MOH would see it, and they would take whatever precautions they saw fit to take.

Once apprised of the doctor's perspective on the situation, I couldn't help but to feel relieved that we had moved past this nonsense of a congenital clotting disorder. The mysterious-jungle-disease hypothesis, though equally incorrect in my view, at least had the proper sense of urgency about it.

I informed the doctor that I intended to stay with the patients and that in view of the seriousness of the medical situation and in deferrence to his medical expertise, I would place myself at his disposal. Vampires or no, these were sick people.

Dr Alexius cautioned me that whatever had sickened these researchers was likely something to which we had been exposed as well, although having more recently arrived on station our exposure was likely to be significantly less. I acknowledged the risks in the position.

Then he said something that caught me off-guard. He said it was ironic that the bobollion and I were both looking for blood eaters. I asked him to explain that remark. He said that that's what the bobollion was blaming - pemakan darah, blood eaters. I need to find this bobollion and find out what he knows. There's so much I could learn from this person. Dr Alexius then explained that it was ironic because most tropical diseases are transmitted by mosquitos, which are a kind of blood eater. I appreciate that it would be ironic if I came all this way hunting blood-suckers just to be killed by mosquitos. I am uncomfortably aware that I was never vaccinated against the Japanese Encephalitis.

I slept through the heat of the day, waking shortly before dark. I volunteered to cook dinner tonight, and in so doing have dosed everyone with an appalling amount of garlic, which I had collected from my agent and brought up the river. I find I am well armed myself for the possible combat before me. I informed the doctor that I intended to maintain my vigil until the dawn as I had the night before, but that this night I would be moving between the four patients throughout the night. He gave me some instructions of things to watch for, signs that I would need to summon him. He told me not to hesitate to wake him at any time for any reason. The man may be an embarassment in the matter of congenital clotting disorders, but I do credit him for his commitment to his patients.

I believe I've recorded all that needed to be said, and before the fading of the light. I feel that I am prepared to meet my foe tonight, if that should be my fate.

FROM THE DIARY OF VICTOR PAULESCU

ENTRY UNDATED

Now that I have a moment to catch my breath, I feel a special obligation to record what has transpired. Later on, if time allows, I will try to record my memories in greater detail.

For several hours this night, I patroled the Emsley Biological Research Station, keeping watch over the weakened research assistants. This was a daunting task at night, especially as the bedrooms can only be entered from the exterior of the building. The Research Station is a big cabin with additions built onto it. The main structure contains the lab with a kitchen and a bathroom and is a proper building with windows that can be sealed off and the structure air conditioned. Abutting the main building are several additions each with their own exterior entrance. These are the bedrooms, and as they are not well sealed, they each need to have their own mosquito netting which hangs from hooks installed in the walls and ceiling. So in order to keep tabs on each of the research assisstants I had to go outside and circle the building, entering each bedroom by opening the door and then fumbling through either a zipper or velcro opening in the mosquito netting.

It was perhaps on the fourth or fifth round of my patrol that I became aware that something was not right. I approached the next bedroom with a largely unconscious hesitancy. I felt an apprehension about the energy of that room, as though it were humming with a malignant energy.

I heard the sound the moment I opened the door. It was something like a hive of bees. I knew I had to get into that bedroom without the least delay, and yet my hands fumbled idiotically. In that moment of clumsy ineffectuallity, I felt certain that a man's life was slipping away second by second. At last my composure returned somewhat, so that I realized that while I was trying to pull the netting apart as if it were sealed with velcro, it was in fact zippered. More precious seconds were lost in navigating that innocuous seeming obstacle. By the time I made my way inside, half tearing down the netting in my haste, I feared the worst.

I feared the worst - but I never thought to fear that. Thousands of mosquitos, clouds of them, heavy with plundered blood, swirled through the beam of my flashlight. So many lined the wretched man's flesh, that it gave the appearance of a thick coat of body hair. The man would have looked furry were they not alive and moving. I must have stood there dumbly for several seconds, absorbing the particular details of that chamber of horrors. The man's skin looked shrivelled, deflated. Upon his arm I swear I could trace the branching of the man's veins in the settling of the mosquitos. Across his body, I perceived the corpses of countless mosquitos killed by the vain struggles of a man too weakened by bloodloss to protect himself.

I am sure that some hoarse cry of fright and repugnance escaped my lips then. I recall stepping forward to swat at the swarm carpeting the man's glistening chest. From the moment my hand thudded onto the man's torso I understood him to be dead.

As one habitually does after swatting an insect with an open palm, I turned my hand to inspect it in the beam of my light. A number of the creatures lay dead or dying in the sweat of my palm, some writhing in their death agonies. They were of a size which I can't recall ever seeing in a mosquito, and all the larger for having bloated themselves on the man's blood. Such a number of these bloated creature had burst upon my hand that drops of my comrade's red blood flowed down the creases of my palm.

Never have I known such a moment of wretchedness as when, having taken upon myself the duty of defending this man against all nocturnal foes, I discovered him lying dead and his blood running down my hand.

Then I felt my skin crawl. So often I have felt that sensation of having something alive and moving attached to my flesh and found it to be no more than a hallucination. This time I could be sure that I was covered in the monsters. They were on my face, my neck, moving up my sleeves and into my shorts. With a scream that must surely have woken the kampungs, I ran away. I fled back to the bedroom I was still sharing with the doctor and the sickest patient.

My screams had awoken him and he met me at the door, undoing the netting. I recall seeing a flash of fear in his eyes as he beheld me, then his ordinary calm settled over him. For my part I gibbered insensibly until his own demeanor settled the panic in me somewhat.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” he said. And somehow those words, spoken so matter of factly, restored my equilibrium. I took a few deep breaths, searching for the words.

“Come see,” I said. And in that moment I also thought to grab our Sunhouse. It's a device I've never seen in the States, where presumably it's considered a fire hazard, but it's essentially an electrified badminton racquet for killing flying bugs. It's wonderful fun under ordinary circumstances - the bugs spark and explode on contact, leaving no remains - and in these climates it's an essential tool.

At a run I led him back to the dead man's bedroom. The scene no less terrible than when I had fled moments before. If my descriptions have left any space to doubt the frightfulness of what we witnessed then let it be confirmed by knowing that the eminent skeptic by my side, that devotee of medicine and science, upon seeing the numbers, size, and activity of those insects thought first upon regaining his nerves to check whether the man lying still under such assualt were yet living or dead.

For my part, in the brief span of our charge around the building back to the infested bedroom, I had resolved that I would not allow my courage to falter as it had before, that I would combat this menace with equal resolution as the enemy which I had expected to face that night. Hefting my Sunhouse in my hand, feeling that I had armed myself appropriately for the struggle, I charged headlong into that space, using activity and aggression to overcome any hesitation I felt.

Each swing of the racquet caught up a large number of the insects, each of them flashing blue as they exploded. Every stroke created a rolling peal of overlapping pops. I must have killed hundreds in a matter of seconds, for what good that might have done. A certain amount of blood did not disintegrate with the bugs, which meant that myself and the room began to be spattered with fine droplets. The room itself took on a mixed smell of carbon from incinerated insects and the iron of misted blood.

The doctor leapt to the side of the man, felt for a pulse, and in that moment I much admired his focus as he checked the patient while the murderous insects crawled all over his flesh. After the briefest inspection, Dr Alexius called out to me that the man was dead and we fled with all possible speed.

We retreated at a sprint back to our own bedroom. Once inside the doctor sealed the netting against intrusion and we spent some time zapping and slapping at the creatures which had come through on our bodies. Dr Alexius had a roll of duct tape in his medical bag, and with this we conducted an exhaustive search of the room, sealing up the netting with tape wherever we had the least impression of a possible breach.

As soon as we had made secure our own refuge, we mutually agreed that our duty to the others impelled us to sally out once again into the night. With one research assisstant confirmed dead and one safe in our room, there were two more we had to check on. We moved as quickly as we could, entering the rooms and sealing the net behind us. Once inside, the doctor checked on the patient while I destroyed any insects inside the room and sealed with tape any imaginable entrance through the netting.

Having acheived all this, we are now settled back in our own room. Once the adrenaline crashed I felt more than normally tired. Dr Alexius's examination indicates that we are both of us hypovolemic, though perhaps we aren't in so bad a condition yet as our patients.

We are resolved now to wait for the dawn, resting as best we can. Perhaps then we'll be able to safely move everyone into the lab and radio for help. We can hold out there, make our stand against these flying devils until help arrives.

New mischief has arisen. The generator has died, leaving us without any power. The night is cool enough that we will survive without the fans, however we'll have to get it back on tomorrow. Weakened as we are, providing ourselves with A/C, ice, and fans may be critical to surviving the heat of the day tomorrow, and we'll need the radio to call for help. For now, it has detracted materially from the atmosphere of hope. As if losing fans and light isn't enough, without the chug of the generator we can hear the buzzing outside all the clearer as the swarms move past the windows. So we sit in the dark and imagine our fates. The dead man's name is Mario. How long was he conscious and helpless as the monsters devoured him drop by drop?

FROM THE DIARY OF VICTOR PAULESCU

ENTRY UNDATED

There must be a record of what transpired here, for the sakes of a scientific understanding of these creatures, for a definite knowledge of the threats that reside in this jungle, and for the memory of those who battled so courageously against this evil.

Dr Alexius and I were awakened from a numb stupor by the banging of a door followed by footsteps. We ascertained that one of the students had risen from his cot and was making his way to the generator shed. We called out through our windows, trying to get this person to go back to bed. The student called back that nobody had fueled the generator that day, and that it needed to be done.

The doctor fell back on his medical authority, instructing the patient as his doctor that it was necessary to return to bed immediately. The patient responded that without fans, the others might suffer through the night. We heard the generator shed door slam shut, and for a moment perhaps we dared to hope that the student might get the power back on and make it safely back to bed. Foolish hope.

We heard the screams and without a word exchanged between us, the doctor and I rose to meet the moment. We found the student writhing on the floor of the generator shed swatting helplessly at his attackers in their legions. I started in with my Sunhouse, slaughtering the creatures in their multitudes. Focused though I was on this task, another part of my mind detected the smell of gasoline in the air. I suppose I saw the fuel can on the ground and understood that the student, in collapsing to the ground had spilled a quantity of fuel.

A spark from my racquet flashed brighter than the rest, and in an instant the fire was begun. As the student's fuel-soaked clothes ignited, a number of mosquitos were caught in the flames, the moisture in their bodies superheated and they popped with a sound identical to the sound they made when killed by my Sunhouse, though without the accompanying blue flash.

While the doctor made every effort to extinguish the flames on his patient, I noticed that one entire wall of the now burning shed was covered by shelving on which cans of fuel were arrayed in rows.

What happened in the moments immediately before and after the explosion I truthfully cannot say. I have a memory of the doctor dragging his patient's burning body by the ankles away from the flaming structure. I suppose I was stricken dumb by the blast, only recovering my senses when I discovered that the fire had spread to the main building. Seeing this, I called out to Dr Alexius.

I saw the hesitation in him, I saw how hard it was to abandon this patient who was almost certainly already dead. Yet his duty to his two remaining patients impelled him to abandon this one already beyond help.

By the time we had gotten our efforts organized, it was too late to attempt any firefighting. It was time to rescue who and what we could from the building. Once more we charged into the bedrooms. This time the doctor carried out the patients while I tore down a mosquito canopy which I estimated would contribute more than anything else to our chances of survival.

I set up the netting in the jungle, suspending it from tree branches while the doctor carried his patients under it's protection. Recognizing that we wouldn't all fit under just one netting, I raced back into the part of the building least touched by flames to rescue another. This I set up just a short distance from the other one, under which the doctor was seeing to his two remaining patients. Whether they had any chance of life by then, I had no notion. It was, I will admit, both humbling and unmanning to see the devotion with which the good doctor cared for his patients, having run twice into a burning building to rescue them.

It must be said that while these events were going on, the heat and smoke which nearly killed us must themselves have been what kept the monstrous insects at bay. In fear of the fire, I had put up the two canopies as far as reasonable from that fire and found that while this perhaps preserved us from burning, it exposed us once again to the predations of the blood eaters.

For hours now, we have withstood their assault, I under my canopy, the doctor and two immobile patients under theirs. Several factors work against us. One is that in bundling up the netting and rushing it out into the jungle, I necessarily introduced deficiencies into the material. In my own canopy, I have been able to make repairs, because as it happened, I was the one who had the duct tape on my person. The other inadequacy in our defenses is that it is not enough to merely drape onesself in the netting, as while it is impervious to the mosquitos themselves, in any place where there is contact between the netting and one's skin, the mosquito's hypodermic proboscis can penetrate both the net and the skin. As I have only myself under my netting, I have been able to arrange the material such that I can sit in the center of it without any direct contact with it.

The doctor, to the contrary, has been attempting for hours now to suspend the netting in such a way that it does not contact either himself or his patients. He's tried rehanging it from the trees in a better way, but in doing so he so he has torn more holes in the netting. These holes he has in most cases been able to seal by tearing strips of clothing with which to tie off bunches of netting. Regrettably, any such activity within the canopy seems to work open the various breaches and admit more mosquitoes, and then in killing these intruders he inevitably pulls at the netting, undoing work he's already done in sealing off the space and creating more chances for the attacking insects.

Sometimes I wish that Alexius would tear down the netting and allow the beasts to devour him and be done with it. Let anyone hold that unworthy thought against me, who has seen a man consumed entirely, one drop of blood at a time. I see him now, his body sticky with sweat and blood, and stuck to him are a hundred corpses or more, many still twitching, and each surrounded by the droplets of blood it managed to steal. He's sitting on a large tear, holding another closed, and where his hand grips the netting it is black with the monsters jostling for their drop of the red.

His body is failing him. His resistance is weakening. He won't last long.

I believe it will be the heat for me. My own strength is fading. I'm certain I've lost a liter of blood. The dawn has come, and the heat will follow soon enough. There's not enough shade to preserve me, no water within reach.

I keep fantasizing that I have only so little a thing as a full roll of tape so that I could wrap my exposed flesh like a mummy and make it to the river, give myself a fighting chance of making it downriver to civilization. What I have instead is my diary, and if by creating a record of these events I can help others to avoid sharing in our cruel fates, then that is what I must do.

I hate the heat. I hate it. But do I hate it more than I fear the buzzing swarms? The doctor lies still, and I confess that I am glad I no longer must witness his pitiful struggles. I should have shot him dead hours ago. It is only a matter of cowardice that I did not. I hate the heat.

The 5-D Maze at Exit 251

Some road trips give the feel of moving fast and going far, of regularly glancing out the window and being in an entirely new place. Other road trips feel like sitting in one place for hours at a time. Joshua and Meghan were having the second kind of road trip. The environment outside their crammed sedan never changed all that much, one empty desert vista replacing another imperceptibly with only the occassional slight bend in the highway or roadsign to indicate they were making any progress at all.

Inside the car, the air was cool and conditioned, they had a bountiful supply of snacks and drinks, and they were listening to every album from Over Duress and discussing which songs they hoped would be played at the concert tonight.

“What's that billboard up ahead?” Meghan asked. “If it's someplace to pee, we should stop.”

“We're in the middle of nowhere, anywhere is a place to pee,” Joshua said.

“If you and I were the only two people left on earth, I would still pee in a toilet,” Meghan said.

“Knowing you, you'd probably close the door too,” Joshua said.

“I absolutely would. What's that sign say... 'The 5-D Maze at Exit 251'. What do you suppose a 5-D maze is?”

“I'm not even sure how a 3-D maze would work,” Joshua said.

“Sure you do. Like a corn maze or a haybale maze,” Meghan said.

“Those are still 2-D mazes though. You're not able to go up or down in the maze,” Joshua said.

“It's made of 3-D objects, it's a 3-D maze. A 2-D maze would just be on paper,” Meghan said.

“Not true. You could take a maze from a piece of paper, a 2-D maze, and build the exact same maze with walls or corn or whatever. The maze, in the abstract, is still 2-D even if it's rendered in three dimensional materials,” Joshua said.

“That's the dorkiest thing you've said today, and you're the guy who just told me 'Pineapple Waltz' is a better song than 'Parakeet,'” Meghan said.

“Hey, 'Peachfuzz' is an underrated classic that will one day be regarded as one of Over Duress's greatest works,” Joshua said.

“Either you're being completely serious right now or you're have a psychotic break while driving, and I don't know which frightens me more,” Meghan said.

“Look, there it is, coming up on the right. The 5-D Maze at... an empty stretch of road. Want to stop and pee?” Joshua said.

“Keep driving. A roadside maze is not the sort of place that will have clean toilets.”

Fifteen minutes down the road they found a gas station which Meghan decided was the sort of place that would have clean toilets, or else by that point the cleanliness didn't matter so much. While he waited for her Joshua asked the cashier where Exit 251 was.

“Exit 251? I'm not sure about that. Where you kids headed?”

“Oh, nowhere,” Joshua said. “I just didn't see it is all.”

Back on the highway, by the time the final notes of “Peachfuzz Waltz” were dying down, a familiar billboard came into view.

“We're going the wrong way,” Meghan said.

“No way.”

“We are, look at the sign,” Meghan said.

“It must have been the sign that says we missed the maze and should turn around,” Joshua said.

“It wasn't, I swear,” Meghan said.

Joshua slowed the car as the maze appeared on the right. It was a large, square structure with high wooden walls and in each corner a tower with a plastic cone-shaped roof, one each in red, blue, green, and yellow.

“What are you doing?” Meghan asked.

“It's a sign,” Joshua said.

“No, we just passed the sign,” Meghan said.

“I mean it's a sign we should stop,” Joshua said.

“Absolutely not. We have to get to the concert,” Meghan said.

“We have plenty of time to get to the concert,” Joshua said. “We're on a road trip, it's a time to be spontaneous and fun.”

“Cause nothing say's 'I'm spontaneous and fun' like announcing that you are spontaneous and fun. Come on, I don't want to miss the concert because we got lost in a maze.”

“I just want to check it out. Real quick, I promise,” Joshua said.

They pulled off the highway and parked in the sand in front of the maze. In the center of the front wall of the maze was an opening, and just in front of that was a ticket booth. Beside the maze was a used car lot with a big sign saying “Used Cars at Exit 251”. There were no other buildings to be seen in any direction. Joshua went up to the ticket booth and saw that there was nobody there.

“Come on, Joshua, nobody's here,” Meghan said.

“You don't know that,” Joshua said.

“There's no cars here,” Meghan said.

“Maybe they're in the used car lot, with all the other cars. So they don't get lonely,” Joshua said.

“Come on, I miss the air conditioning already, it's deadly out here,” Meghan said.

“Let's just peek our heads in. If somebody wants money we can pay for tickets on our way out,” Joshua said.

“Hey, somebody's coming over from the car lot,” Meghan said.

A man dressed in a shirt and tie had left the car lot office and was headed in their direction. He looked like he missed his air conditioning more than Meghan. It was an awkward distance to walk, too far to call out a greeting, and so they had to stand there waiting, watching him walk towards them.

“This is awkward now. Let's just go,” Meghan said.

“We can't leave, we already made him leave his office,” Joshua said.

The man in the tie didn't say anything to them until he stepped into the ticket booth. His bald head was glistening with sweat in the sunlight.

“Welcome to the 5-D Maze at Exit 251. How many tickets today?”

“Um. Two. There's two of us,” Joshua said.

“Two tickets to the maze. Twenty dollars,” the man said.

“Do people ever get lost in there?” Meghan asked.

“It's a maze,” the man said. He pocketed Joshua's twenty and handed over two tickets.

“Right, it's just we have to get to this concert... you know what, never mind, you don't care,” Meghan said.

“Yeah,” the salesman said.

“Hey, where exactly is Exit 251?” Joshua asked.

“It's just a thing,” the man said.

“Sure. And is there, like, something to find in the maze or something like that?” Joshua asked.

“It's just a maze,” the salesman said.

“Sure,” Joshua said.

“Okay?” the salesman asked.

“Okay.” And the salesman walked back in the direction of the car lot office. Joshua and Meghan stepped into the maze. Immediately inside they had the option of turning left or right. On the wall directly in front of them was a sign reading “Fun Fact #6: Did you know? The word 'Maize' means corn. So a cornmaze is also a maize maze!”

“Amazing,” said Joshua, like every man who entered the maze.

“Fun fact? More like thrilling fact,” Meghan said.

“What do you think, left or right?” Joshua asked.

“Up to you babe, this is your adventure.”

They wandered deeper into the maze, Joshua trying to navigate them towards the center.

“So is there another exit?” Meghan asked. “Or do we just wander around for a bit and then leave the way we came in?”

“I wish the guy had given us more information,” Joshua said.

“I know. He did not give two shits. But here's the thing, if there is nothing to do here but wander around and read the Fun Facts, then have we done the maze yet? Should we just head back to the exit?” Meghan said.

“Well I'm working on a theory,” Joshua said.

“Oh no.”

“So you know you can go left or right at the entrance? I think if you follow it through one way you'll come back the other way, like it's just a big convoluted loop. Think about it, if you were designing a maze, you wouldn't make it so that if people took the wrong turn right at the start they'd have to backtrack past the entrance, would you? Half the people would just leave.”

“Fine, I just don't want to miss the openers,” Meghan said.

The deeper they went into the maze, the less Meghan wanted to be there. Their 'fun and spontaneous' diversion had become a significant time commitment. As irritated as she was, Meghan bit her tongue and refused to hector Joshua until they came to Fun Fact #23 “Did you know? According to Greek legend, Jason, of Argonaut fame, used a ball of string to find his way through the maze at Minos to fight the minotaur!”

“We're in double digit fun facts now,” Meghan said. “I don't think we're getting any closer to the end, can we just leave now?”

“What do you think we're trying to do? I've been trying to find the way back for an hour,” Joshua said.

“You don't know how to get back?” Meghan said.

“No. Look, for a while we were trying to get to the center of the maze, and that was easy. But now we're here, every time we try to leave the center it sort of seems like all paths lead back to the center,” Joshua said.

“How can you tell if we're in the center?” Meghan asked.

“Look up. You can see the four towers at the four corners of the maze,” Joshua said.

“That's funny. I didn't think we could see those from inside before,” Meghan said.

“Probably depends on the angle. We might have been too close before. But right now, you can see they're all about the same distance away, that's how we know we're in the center. But it seems like any way we go we just end up back in the center,” Joshua said.

“So we're lost? We really are lost in a maze?” Meghan asked.

“Yeah. I'm sorry, Meghan.”

“Do you have your phone?”

“In the car. But who would we even call?” Joshua said.

“I swear to God, if I have to tell everyone we missed the concert because you got us trapped in a literal tourist trap, I will die of embarassment,” Meghan said.

“Me too,” Joshua said.

“No, I will die of embarassment, and you will die of being murdered and no one will ever find your body because I'm going to leave it in this stupid maze.”

“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.”

They kept going. They walked until their feet hurt, until they were thirsty, and hungry. They walked until they stopped caring that they were missing the concert because all they wanted to do was go home. And then at another intersection that looked like a thousand other turns they had seen that day, Joshua stopped.

“Meghan, look. The Fun Fact.”

“I do not care about the Fun Facts,” Meghan said.

“Just look at it,” Joshua said.

It was the same colorful sign with the same jolly font as all the others. “Fun Fact #433: Did you know? It takes weeks to die of starvation, but only days to die of dehydration!”

“What the fuck? What the fuck is that?” Meghan said.

“Something's not right. With this maze,” Joshua said.

“You got that right,” Meghan said.

“No, I mean, none of this is possible. Think about it. How big is this maze actually? We saw the whole thing from the outside, it's a big square that's maybe, what, forty or fifty yards a side? If that?”

“Yeah.”

“So a typical walking pace is three or four miles an hour, right? How many hours have we been in here? How many miles have we gone in this little space?” Joshua said.

“We've been walking in circles,” Meghan said.

“We haven't. Have you been paying attention to the Fun Facts?”

“Oh God, who gives a shit about the Fun Facts?”

“I do. Because they're one of the few markers we have to help us navigate. Do you know how many times we've seen the same one?” Joshua said.

“I don't know,” Meghan said.

“Not once. Not a single time have I seen the same number repeated or the same fact,” Joshua said.

“That's impossible. Maybe somebody's changing the signs, maybe the maze is changing, or...”

“Let's look. These signs are screwed into the wood. There'd be no way to change the signs out without leaving marks, you'd be tearing up the screw hole if you kept scewing and unscrewing,” Joshua said.

“Then what is it? What is happening to us?” Meghan asked.

“I think it's something that can't really be explained. And there's something else too. I've been trying, I think for hours now, to get us out of the center of the maze, right? And I can't do that. No matter where we go, we're always in the center of the maze. We're always equidistant from the four towers, look.”

Meghan looked up at the towers and let out a small cry.

“What is it? What's wrong?” Joshua asked.

“The towers, look at them, they're so high,” Meghan said.

“What do you mean?' Joshua asked.

“The last time I looked at them I could barely see them over the walls of the maze. Now look, they're so much higher,” Meghan said.

“You're right. I guess I didn't even notice because I've been watching them all day,” Joshua said.

“Joshua, look. Look at the sun,” Meghan said.

“You're right. It looks...”

“Bigger. Joshua, why does the sun look bigger?”

The two of them looked into each other's eyes, as if to communicate the things they were too ashamed or afraid to speak out loud. They each saw in the other a confirmation that the fears which had been growing in each of them, fears too strange to name and too absurd to contemplate, were shared fears. They had each of them spent hours resisting the thought that they had gotten lost in the maze, too embarassed to admit it to themselves or to each other, and then each of them had spent hours unwilling to let go of the illusion that that was all that had happened, that nothing worse or more bizarre than being lost in a maze was going on. And as long as the other was pretending that nothing too out of the ordinary was happening, then each of them could go on pretending to themselves. But now they saw that each of them knew, and neither of them could continue to pretend.

“We're going to be all right,” Joshua said. “We're going to make it out of here.”

“How?”

“We'll find a way. We just have to keep our heads,” Joseph said. He stuck a hand up in the sky and closed one eye to squint at it.

“What are you doing?” Meghan asked.

“The sun is fully blocked by these three fingers,” Joseph said.

“So?”

“So, if the sun really is bigger than usual, or if there's some sort of optical illusion that makes it seem that way, we'll want to be able to keep an eye on that. We need to measure it.”

So they kept walking, walking on sore feet and hungry bellies

“Fun Fact #1,489: Did you know? The event horizon of a black hole is a theoretical surface beyond which even light cannot escape from a black hole!”

“How long do you think we've been in here?” Joshua asked.

“Long enough that I don't even care about the concert – and I've never not cared about an Over Duress concert – I just want to get out of here and go home,” Meghan said.

“But how long has it been? Are you starving? I feel like I haven't eaten in a day,” Joshua said.

“My feet are killing me,” Meghan said.

“Mine too. Better or worse than when we hiked Mt. Pallas?”

“Worse,” Meghan said. “Much worse.”

“And that was all day uphill,” Joshua said.

“We were doing that for fun, though. This just sucks,” Meghan said.

“This more than just sucks. Something unnatural is happening,” Joshua said.

“Fun Fact #28,707: Did you know? M.C. Escher was an artist whose works played with perspective and distortion!”

At every Fun Fact, Joshua stopped to check on the size of the sun and the moon. They now appeared to be larger than his hand splayed with his arm outstretched. The towers in the four corners of the maze were so high they almost met in the middle of the sky. Even the outermost walls of the maze could be seen, running in a long curve between the towers, dipping in the middle, then rising up at either end to meet the towers.

“Fun Fact #89,664: Did you know? String theorists believe that the universe is made up of eleven dimensions, but some of them are very, very small and curled up inside the main four!”

An 'X' had been carved into the wall above the fun fact. It was done crudely, perhaps with a pocketknife.

“Do you know what this means?” Meghan said. “There's somebody else in this maze. Someone else is in here with us. Hello? Hellooo?” She screamed it out as loudly as she could. They waited in vain for an answer.

“Even if they're miles away by now, there was someone here,” Joshua said. “And maybe they found something, maybe they figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” Meghan asked.

“A maze is a puzzle, it's meant to be solved. There has to be a way out of here, we just have to figure it out. Come on,” Joshua said.

His energy returned and he began to walk faster. This was something to go on, a clue of sorts, or at least some kind of information that wasn't a Fun Fact. At each turning from that point they found an X marking the way that the markmaker had gone.

“I just wish whoever it was had left arrows instead of exes. That way we would know which direction they had gone,” Joshua said.

“Which way would we go? The same way or the opposite way?” Meghan asked.

“That's a good question.”

They followed the marks to Fun Fact #128,945, then Fun Fact #439,261. “Did you know? Albert Einstein proved that space and time are actually something called spacetime; he also proved spacetime can bend!”

Above the Fun Fact were words carved into the wooden wall. “NUMBERS GO UP”.

“Yes, numbers go up. That's how numbers work,” Meghan said.

“Yeah. He's right though. The numbers keep going up,” Joshua said. “And not linearly, either.We were in single digits, then tens, hundreds, thousands, and on up. I don't think we've seen a single sign that hasn't fit that pattern, and this whole time we've just been going deeper into the maze. So that means in order to find our way out of the maze we just need to find smaller numbers. Meghan, this is it, this is how we get out of the maze.”

“So we need to be following the marks the other way.”

“Exactly. Follow me.”

He took off, full of energy again, so excited by his discovery that for a time he was able to ignore hunger and exhaustion.

“Joshua, wait a minute.”

“Don't you see? It's a strategy. We just need to find a way to make our own marks. We pick a Fun Fact, and systematically try out every possible path outwards from that point. If we find a higher number, we go back to our starting point and try again until we find a lower numbered Fun Fact. Then we start again from there.”

“Wait.”

“It's a system, a strategy. Better than that, it's an algorithm, and if we apply it rigorously we'll be able to always find a lower numbered sign and --”

“Godammit, Joshua, wait.”

He turned around and saw that she was standing still at a T-intersection

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“Wait here a minute. I'll be right back,” she said.

“What do you mean? Don't go anywhere without me, you could get lost,” he said.

“I'll just be right around the corner. For just a minute,” she said.

“Are you taking a dump?”

“Yes. Just wait for me, please,” she said.

He began hurrying towards her.

“Just go right here. This is no time to be shy, there's nothing to be ashamed of,” he said.

“There is. Because shitting on the ground in a maze like an animal is something I would never, ever do unless I was scared and freaked out and didn't think we could ever get out of here alive. I just can't hold it anymore. I can't keep pretending to myself that we're just going to find the exit.”

She stepped around the corner. Joshua ran up to the corner and stopped.

“Meghan?”

“I'm right here, just give me some privacy, for God's sake.”

So he stood there, just around the corner, waiting, for what felt like five minutes.

“You doing okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine. Just give me a minute, okay?”

His heart was beating fast. Something about not being able to see her in this maze, in this place that didn't seem to be any real place, was terrifying. But at least he could hear her voice. She was right around the corner, right there, he could reach around and touch her if he needed.

He counted to sixty, then poked his head around the corner and saw an empty stretch of maze, just like every other corridor they'd walked down in the countless and uncountable hours they'd been in that maze.

“Babe where'd you go?”

“I'm right here, just give me a minute.” Her voice sounded close by. He hurried down the corridor until he came to an intersection, and he looked down both ways. There was nothing to be seen.

“Babe?” he called out. His voice was shaky.

“Joshua, where did you go? I thought you were waiting for me.” Her voice sounded far away.

“Stay where you are, I'm going to come find you,” he called out.

“Why did you leave me?”

He turned around and headed back to the corner, the corner he'd seen her step around, the T-intersection where she'd decided she couldn't hold it any longer. He looked both ways, but it didn't look familiar anymore.

“Where did you go?” he called out.

“I didn't go anywhere,” she shouted. She sounded far away. She sounded like she was about to cry.

“You stay right where you're at,” he called. “I'm going to follow your voice okay? Marco.”

He followed the sound of her “Polo” down one branch of the T-intersection. But the further he went, the further away she sounded, until he decided that he must be going the wrong way. He turned around and began running and Marco-Poloing in the other direction. Her voice growing ever more distant with every repetition of the call.

And he stopped at a Fun Fact. There shouldn't be one here. They'd just come down that way and hadn't seen it. He couldn't have gotten that turned around. There was no way.

“Meghan, can you hear me?” he called out.

“What did you say?”

“I said 'can you hear me?'”

“You're so far away? Baby, where did you go?”

“Meghan listen. We're diverging. It doesn't matter which way we go, we can only get further apart.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” she shouted.

“None of this does.”

There was quiet then. He thought that if he strained he could hear the sound of sobbing, but it was so distant that he couldn't tell if that was real or imagination.

He slumped down in the shade of the wall. The sun had, after many, many hours, sunk down enough that he was now in the shade. Looking up, the four towers in the corners of the maze, with their colorful pointed roofs. The points seemed stretched and elongated, to the point that they were almost touching in the middle of the sky. He studied those tower roofs, until he couldn't quite tell if he was seeing them from below or from the side or from above.

“We should get some rest,” he called out. “Try to sleep.”

He was afraid to sleep. He didn't want Meghan to wake up in the night and call out to him and not hear him answer. It was bad enough that he couldn't hold her, he didn't want her to be so alone that she couldn't hear his voice. But they needed to sleep. They'd been walking for an uncountable amount of time that felt like more than a day. If they slept for twelve hours, he wondered if it would be night when they awoke. He wondered how many sleeps it would be until dawn.

“Are we going to die here?” Meghan called out.

Joshua looked up at the Fun Fact on the wall before him. He wanted to move away from it, but he couldn't stand to move a single step further from Meghan.

“Fun Fact # 1,328,460: Did you know? In a dry enough environment, natural mummification can preserve bodies for thousands of years!”

“Yes. Yes, my love. We're going to die here.”

Above the Fun Fact were the words, carved with a knife, THE NUMBERS ALWAYS GO UP.

He wanted to say something more to Meghan but his throat was dry, and he didn't know what to say. So he fell silent. And then he heard her voice, so distant that he wouldn't have been able to make out the words if they hadn't been from his favorite song.

“Whenever we go out you always make me smile

Drinking your juices and eating your flesh”

“Is that Pinapple Waltz?” Joshua called out.

“You hate that song,” he called out, and she sang a little louder.