Fiction

 

Mood:

Infected Mushroom - Trance Party

 

I spent the entire day aimlessly, as if trying not to rush fate. I drank coffee in a street café, read the local newspaper, wandered through alleyways, and peered into the windows of antique shops where dust and silence bore witness to former luxury. But my gaze kept returning to the clock. The sun stood high, and the green door—somewhere in a dead end behind the meat rows—patiently waited for its hour.

As evening approached, something tightened inside me. Not fear. Not anxiety. Rather—a premonition. Like a surgeon before a complex operation. Or a man who knows he is returning to a place he promised himself he would leave forever.

The sun was dipping toward the horizon. I got up and headed toward the market.

The meat rows were almost empty. The market seemed to be falling asleep. In the depths of one of the passageways, I found the dead end. Walls with peeling plaster, discarded empty crates, piles of some junk, boarded-up doors. And among them—one green one. Worn paint, a brass handle, a strange sign on the jamb: two hieroglyphs 𒂗𒍣, inscribed in a circle.

I ran my fingers over the sign. Suddenly, agitation seized me. Behind this door waited answers to questions I couldn't even formulate.

I knocked three times. A pause. Silence. Then—a creak. The door opened a few centimeters.

"Who are you?" The voice was raspy. Not old, but tired. The voice of a man who had seen too much.

I gave my name. The door opened a little wider. Eyes looked at me from the darkness. Not at my face, but deeper—into my very soul. As if trying to discern not who I was, but what was left of me.

"You were there..." the voice trembled. "Back then. I remember you."

The door swung open. Before me stood a man of about fifty: strong, lean, with a dark beard and the attentive gaze of a doctor examining a patient. Linen trousers, a light shirt with tzitzit tassels hanging from underneath. His movements were calculated, precise—like those of someone used to doing everything with intent. A straight back and a firm gait—like an old soldier.

He gestured to a chair. We sat opposite each other. The room fell silent for a second.

"You have no idea how important it is that you are back in the game," he said. "You were there, Chelago. You saw things you shouldn't have seen. Back then, as a contingency, you left yourself a trail, this letter. Now you are following it."

I didn't answer. But something trembled inside. As if a stone had shifted at the summit of my memory and struck another. And a recollection switched on in my consciousness like an old newsreel.

...I barely remembered how I got out.

I remembered only: the ziggurat was trembling. The stone beneath my palms was hot—as if waves of energy were beating against it from within. The floor slabs pulsed like the skin of a giant beast. Cracks on the walls were like veins with light moving inside them. I tried to breathe, but the air was thick, as if compressed. Every breath was a struggle; my consciousness blurred.

Somewhere deep inside, they were singing. Not singing—whispering. In a multitude of voices. I could distinguish weeping, prayers, someone's laughter ending in a scream. These sounds didn't come from outside but were born in my head.

I ran down the corridor, but my legs wouldn't obey. The floor turned soft. The walls swam. On some step, I stumbled—and fell right onto a pile of... I didn't know what. I only felt: someone had died here. And the ziggurat demanded a new sacrifice.

I didn't know how long it lasted. An instant or an eternity. At one moment I thought: I am dead. At another—that I was still alive. I crawled out through the entrance we had excavated.

...The desert roared. The stones shook. The air rang like a taut string. Above me—a heavy, gray sky. Beneath my feet—the foundation of a temple as ancient as time itself. Somewhere from below came a voice. Or a swarm of voices. Not a sound—a sensation. A merger. A pulse. I realized: this was a creation of a damaged mind. Hallucinations.

A flash. Light—greenish-white, like a phosphorescent sea. Waves beat through the stone, from the inside. People began crawling out of the pit. Someone was choking, rolling on the sand. One caught fire. The earth became soft, alive. And then I heard a terrible voice:

"You opened me."

I ran.

When I woke up, the sun was already rising. But the light wasn't beating from above—it was coming from inside me. My skin crackled. My veins burned. Somewhere inside, at the very bottom, someone was watching. And speaking with my voice:

"You opened me."

I knelt in the sand and whispered in a language I didn't know. Whispered a name that sounded like a sentence: En-zi.

I surfaced from the memory with an echo of the horror I had experienced. It must have shown on my face. Rabbi Zusia was not surprised. He understood everything.

"We didn't know what it was," I whispered. "Didn't know what we were dealing with."

He nodded, without reproach:

"But you survived."

"I'm not sure that's to my credit."

"Definitely not yours," he said. "Someone pulled you out of there. That is why you must return and finish the job."

He leaned forward:

"Listen carefully. You were the leader of the expedition that found what earthly rulers have been seeking for millennia. A source of unlimited power, a mysterious machine that most ancient sources call 'En-zi' or 'The Soul Eater.' Our task is to compile the most complete dossier possible on this device, and you will help me. I have been working on this for seven years and know more than any man on earth, but you were there. Your memory is damaged, but not erased. The work of gathering information on the 'Soul Eater' will help restore part of your memories. After all, you will have to return there, but this time armed with knowledge."

"Why now? Why not earlier?"

Zusia looked toward the window:

"Because before, you weren't ready. Over these years, after contact with the 'Soul Eater,' your psyche has normalized. Back then, you were the only one of the entire expedition to survive, which means only you can stop what is waking up."

He fell silent. Then—almost in a whisper:

"I understand you, Chelago. Once, I too commanded. Only not an expedition—I was a company commander in the armored cavalry. Heavy walking armored combat machines. Crew—four men: driver-mechanic, commander, engineer, and gunner. We called them Chariots. The newest development of the Republic of Israelites' army at the time. There was a war with the Ottomans, who wanted to destroy the Jewish state."

"I was thirty-six then. In the prime of life. An experienced electronics engineer, I was invited to the army as a technical specialist to help form a new branch of service—Armored Cavalry. I became an officer, believed in the army, and loved my new profession. My company was the best in the entire brigade."

He wasn't just telling a story. He was sharing his pain.

"We marched all night to reach the designated point by dawn. We moved in marching order, observing all regulations. Nine machines. 'Aleph' Company. There was a narrow pass into the valley. Reconnaissance reported no enemy detected, but command decided to send us as the advance guard—to check the terrain. Everything was quiet, and we had to reform into a column to negotiate the pass.

As soon as we were drawn into the gorge, the earth roared. Ottoman machines crawled out of the sand. It was a well-organized ambush—the machines had been buried in the ground. That’s why aerial reconnaissance hadn't detected anything. The first ambush of its kind. We were not ready.

The grinding of jacks. Enemy machines rose and immediately engaged. Sergeant Mordechai's Chariot was the first to be hit. I requested support, but the brigade informed me we could count only on artillery. And what good is artillery when the enemy has literally 'grabbed us by the belt'?

It wasn't a battle—it was a slaughter. Chariots were knocked out one after another in this melee of machines. My 'Eitan' lost a propulsion leg and collapsed into one of the pits. The fighting compartment began to fill with smoke. The entire crew, except for me, perished.

I realized it was over and transmitted coordinates for an artillery strike. Our coordinates.

A couple of minutes passed, and hell opened up in the gorge. I was saved only by the fact that the machine had fallen into a pit, and by the thick armor. I heard the hail of shrapnel striking the hull, and then a shell exploded so close that I lost consciousness.

A recon squad from our brigade, sent to help, found me. I was the sole survivor of that meat grinder. Six months in hospitals—and one fine day they told me I was discharged from the army for health reasons. I asked to be kept on as an instructor, but the medical commission was adamant. 'Unfit'—for me, a strong and ambitious man, it sounded like a sentence."

He looked out the window, as if trying to discern the ghost of himself—young and desperate.

"So, I was written off. Written off like a sergeant major writes off old, hole-riddled rain capes. The system needed me while I was healthy and full of strength. But when I was shell-shocked—I became 'unfit.' After the war ended, there was so much grief from the losses that no one paid attention to me—deafened, but alive.

I began to seek answers to my questions in the Torah and completely reevaluated my life. I decided to go study at a yeshiva. After everything I had endured, I was silent, gloomy, and didn't want to communicate with anyone. The yeshiva students looked at me like a curious creature from another world. But I didn't need their understanding. I needed peace. And God."

A heavy silence hung in the air. Then Zusia's face relaxed. Compassion warmed his eyes. He turned to me. His voice was firm, yet warm.

"You are not a savior, Chelago. But you are a link. Between what was, and what might be. You have a chance. One time."

He walked closer and placed his hand on my shoulder.

"You are not alone. Even if it seems so to you."

Night. I didn't sleep. The meeting with Zusia had agitated me greatly.

I stood by the window looking at the street, where nocturnal Odesa breathed in the darkness. A weak wind stirred the curtain. Footsteps sounded below, rare voices, the creak of a cart. But for me, all this was—as if behind a wall of water. The world had receded.

And again in my hand—the folded letter. No return address. No signature. With handwriting I couldn't mistake because it was mine. I was rereading it for the hundredth time.

And it was this letter that became the trigger. Something trembled inside me. As if an old door had opened slightly. And a draft of heat pulled from behind it. Of darkness. And of a memory that had never let go—it had simply waited for its moment.

We didn't expect danger. We went for knowledge. But knowledge turned out to be a trap.

Back then, that evening, we were like children—on the threshold of a mystery. Delight shone in every glance, in every word. We felt: this is it. Something great. Something that would change everything. And no one doubted that we must enter.

We didn't share it, but it could be read in our eyes: thirst. Not scientific interest—precisely thirst.

When we made camp at the foot of the ruins, the night was strangely quiet. Even the sand underfoot seemed asleep. The air stood still, like in a closed room. And yet—it was as if someone were whispering. Right from under the earth.

The guide, an old Berber, refused to sleep near us. He took his rug to a dune and sat there all night, watching the ziggurat like a predator. In the morning, he vanished. We found only bare footprints leading into the desert.

But we... we went inside.

The entrance opened easily. The stone seemed to have been waiting for this.

Beyond the slabs was a corridor. Narrow, sloping, leading down—like the throat of a monster. Every step rang out. Lantern light picked out bas-reliefs: symbols, writings, lines. Sumerian cuneiform. No one was surprised. Everyone seemed to know beforehand.

And then—the main hall. A circular chamber. Perfectly smooth walls. Not a grain of sand. In the center—an altar? A console? A sarcophagus? No one knew. But everyone felt: it was for him.

And then it began.

Professor Becker suddenly laughed. Loudly, insanely. Then, with an air of importance, he began to dictate—as if to a large audience. Into the void.

Docent Lemaître looked at the artifact with a lover's gaze. He whispered:

"I am worthy. I understand. I am the chosen one."

Others wandered about the hall and began saying things—loudly, inspiredly, as if an attentive listener stood before each of them. Arrogance and a sense of superiority were legible on their faces.

I called to them. Shouted. Tried to shake them. But they didn't hear. The artifact showed each of them—his dream. His delusion. His doom.

Lemaître walked up. Reached out his hands. Touched it.

Light flared. Bright. Cold. White-green.

His eyes widened, as if he finally understood something very important. Horror reflected on his face. He wanted to recoil—but it was already too late.

His body crumbled into dust. Burned up. Without a sound. Without pain. Just a flash—and the man was gone. Only a shadow. A black spot on the smooth stone.

And after that—deafening silence.

Becker recoiled, covered his face. Someone moaned. And then I shouted:

"Back! Everyone upstairs!"

Now they heard. And they ran.

But when we got outside, something was wrong. One man's skin was covered in blisters, as if from burns. Another began vomiting blood. A third screamed and rolled on the ground, clutching his chest—as if something were strangling him. I myself felt as if chains were crushing my throat, and my temples—were pounding.

Someone was tearing at his own neck. Another—vomited black slime. We didn't understand what was happening to us. The sand under our feet swam, the sky trembled. I took a step—and fell into darkness.

I woke up in a cart. I was shaking. A damp cloth covered my face. Someone sat nearby, holding my head, humming something.

It was him. Rabbi Zusia.

He gave me water, hummed nigunim—Hasidic melodies with senseless words, and kept saying:

"Why did you go there? But it is written... it is written: 'Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.'"

He wasn't angry, didn't reproach. He regretted. He saved me.

And I haven't forgotten that.

Since then, I often wake up in a sweat. And now I know: knowledge can be a door. But behind it—there isn't necessarily light.

And now... I am standing before the door again.

And again I hear the call.

And I am no longer sure—if I will return.