Chapter 6: The Black Water
675 Words
The excavation site was a nightmare of mud and rain.
We arrived at dawn, under the cover of a heavy drizzle that slicked the riverbanks. The location was a depression in the earth, half-submerged in a swampy inlet. It looked like a wound in the landscape.
"Dig," Han Batou commanded.
We didn't have heavy machinery. We had shovels, picks, and the brute strength of the giant, whose name was 'Iron'.
For six hours, we dug. The mud was thick and sucking, trying to pull the boots off our feet. Every shovel full of earth felt like it weighed a ton. The rain mixed with the sweat on my back, chilling me to the bone.
"Hard clay!" Iron shouted, his voice booming.
Han Batou rushed over. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the mud, and ran his fingers over the exposed layer of earth. It was a distinct, compacted soil, different from the surrounding swamp.
"Rammed earth," he whispered. "We found the seal."
The energy of the crew shifted instantly. The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a manic focus. This was the moment of truth. The transition from labor to larceny.
"Careful now," Han Batou warned. "Don't crack the seal. We need to drill a pilot hole to check the atmosphere."
Rat brought over a long, hollow bamboo tube. They drove it into the center of the rammed earth layer. When they pulled it out, Han Batou held a lighter to the opening.
A small, blue flame flickered.
"Green fire," Han Batou frowned. "It's been sealed tight. The air inside is ancient. Probably toxic."
He looked at me. "Chen, the mask. And the pump."
I scrambled to set up the primitive ventilation system Han Batou had rigged—a bicycle pump attached to a hose. We shoved the hose into the hole and began pumping fresh air into the tomb, pushing the stale, poisonous gas out.
It took two hours. Two hours of pumping, waiting, and listening to the rain hiss against the mud.
Finally, Han Batou gave the nod.
Iron took his pickaxe and swung.
CRACK.
The sound was dull and heavy. The seal broke. A puff of white mist erupted from the hole, smelling of sulfur and rot. It was the breath of the tomb, exhaled after three thousand years.
"Back!" Han Batou yelled.
We retreated to a safe distance, watching the hole. The mist dissipated slowly.
"Alright," Han Batou said, his voice low. "Let's see what we're dealing with."
He shimmied into the hole, disappearing into the darkness. I followed, my heart hammering against my ribs. The hole was tight, barely wide enough for my shoulders. The walls were slick with slime.
I dropped into the chamber below.
My boots hit water. Cold, stagnant water that soaked through my jeans instantly.
I clicked on my flashlight.
The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating a space that took my breath away. It wasn't a grand palace like the stories. It was a claustrophobic, rectangular chamber, maybe twenty feet wide. The walls were lined with rough stones, weeping moisture.
And the water... it was black as ink. It came up to my shins.
"Look at this," Iron grunted, shining his light on the far wall.
There were markings. Faint, red cinnabar characters painted on the stone. They were archaic, twisting shapes that looked like snakes.
"Western Zhou script," Han Batou murmured, wiping the slime off the wall. "Warning signs. 'Do not disturb'. 'Eternal sleep'."
He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "They always write that."
"Boss," Rat called out from the corner. His voice was shaking. "You need to see this."
We waded over. The water made a sickening squelch with every step.
In the corner of the room, half-submerged in the muck, was a pile of bones.
But they weren't ancient bones. They were fresh.
They were wearing the tattered remains of a blue work uniform. And next to the skeleton lay a rusted shovel.
Han Batou froze. The smile vanished from his face.
"Someone beat us here," he whispered. "And they didn't make it out."
- Writer
