The Labyrinth

A click.

Samuel heard it. He was sure of it, yet deep in the recesses of the labyrinth, surety was a relative term. The haggard archaeologist stopped and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. His long, slender legs ached and he feared the cut on his shoulder was becoming infected. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. The Tzat Tun Tzat was rumored to be a neverending pit leading to the Underworld, but he'd never really believed it. Yet there he stood in complete darkness and despair.

Another click.

Samuel rushed forward ten steps, extended his arms, and felt for the cool, damp limestone. He knew this section well. It was where he first got lost. It seemed so long ago. He paced off another fifteen steps to the right down what he felt was another narrow corridor and again reached out like a blind Frankenstein's monster. His hands brushed against the wall of the labyrinth and he thought something wriggled across his palm. He crouched down and held as still as he could with his ear against the rock. He wanted to hear it again.

Nothing.

"Come on!" he growled.

Samuel had walked around in complete darkness for what seemed an eternity. He felt hopelessly for his watch. It still ticked but he couldn't imagine what time it might be. How long had he been in there? Two days, maybe three? They had to be looking for him. When he didn't show up at the hostel, wouldn't they have started looking for him? He flinched in pain as his stomach again contracted. It had stopped growling hours earlier.

Another click?

He couldn't tell. He began to think it was all in his mind. The clicks. The fetid smell of sulphur that wafted through every so often. The faint almost unheard whispers that never seemed to lead anywhere. Maybe he was imagining them. Maybe the aluxes, those elusive Mayan goblins, were, in fact, real, and not mere phantasmata. They had to be laughing at him somewhere down in Xibalba. Somewhere down in that pit.

Samuel, now beaten, lifted himself up again and felt along the smooth rock, worn by years of ancient use. He opened his eyes for a brief moment hoping that some shape might magically appear in the stifling darkness. Still nothing. They closed again. Somehow it felt more natural to stumble along pretending to be blind. He stumbled only a few steps more before collapsing in the sand. Exhausted and hungry, he felt a lone tear drift down his sweat-stained cheek and into his parched mouth. He couldn't make it much longer. His eyes now firmly closed of their own accord, he felt death creep into the dank corridor.

* * * *

The whisperings came in intervals. At first, he thought he was dreaming. Little shrill voices muttered and shrieked far off behind the thick limestone walls, yet they reached Samuel's ears as whispers, distant and confusing. His eyes refused to open. He tried to shout, to call for help, but only a gurgle of indecipherable grief escaped his lips. He labored to get to his feet, but could only manage to tip himself on to his knees.

A click.

He hated to hear it. He couldn't make out where it came from and he was incapable of following it. He heard it again. This time it was closer and clearer. It was mocking him. The muscles in his stomach convulsed and a thick membrane of mucus filled his mouth. He spat wearily as the slime dribbled down his chin to the ground. The whispers grew louder and the scent of fresh copal mixed with sulphur again swirled in the room or the hallway. He couldn't know for sure.

He crawled for what seemed like an hour, stopping to dry heave every few minutes as the pain of hunger overwhelmed him. He listened again for the whispers. His fingers and knees had begun to bleed as the sand turned into sharp, pockmarked rock. He reached his finger slowly to his mouth and savored the salty taste of his own blood. He hated that it was to be his last meal.

He found the energy to peel one eye open. He thought he could see something. A light perhaps? Energized, if just for a moment, Samuel placed one bloody hand in front of the other and dragged himself forward. The whispers became clearer and louder with each inch he crawled. He was imagining it? A soft breeze caressed his face as he plunged deeper and deeper into the labyrinth. They were chanting. The voices. The whispers. He felt himself twisting and swirling into another state of consciousness. It wouldn't be long. Shadowy figures appeared and beckoned him forward, chanting repeatedly. He felt the warmth of a demonic fire and the cry of mortality. He closed his eye and gave up the ghost.