The Ruins of the Lost World

by C K Burch

  Behind him, the men took a step back and away from the gate.

  Comforting.

  Once the torch had bloomed to full flame, producing a heady, musky scent not unlike that of cinnamon and cats, Dust took a deep breath, crossed his fingers, and opened the gate.

  Anxiety gripped his heart and leadened his feet. After closing the gate behind him, he heard, distantly, the sound of it being latched shut – it was now just him, the bees above, and fifteen feet of floor space to stumble across. Forcing himself to take a step forward, he nearly fell over from a combination of blood loss and terrific fear. Perhaps he might not actually be physically able to do this.

  On cue, the drones began to fly down and around his position, sensing an intruder, but staying well clear of the smoke produced by the torch. It was thicker than he had believed it would be, pluming upwards into the shaft of the spire, not quite enough to fill the hive with its calming effects, but as it rose it seemed to linger, like a heavy morning fog. Whatever the torch was comprised of, it was certainly unlike anything Dust had ever seen burnt before, and while he was grateful, he still fought a desperate want to turn tail and run back to the gate.

  He stepped forward again.

  Buzzing, humming, a drone dropped down and hovered momentarily in place before him, then shot upwards.

  Dust stopped; he flinched. He nearly dropped the torch.

  “Oh, come on, then!” Thomas bellowed indignantly. “It's just a bloody insect!”

  “Shut up!” Dust roared back, surprised at the forcefulness of his voice. He hadn't meant to shout, but his entire body was a hair trigger of nerves. One small straw, and crack. He didn't care to see what would happen if that occurred.

  Surprisingly, Thomas complied.

  Dust took another step forward.

  This time, two drones came down to investigate, but rather than hover before him, they landed upon the floor of the chamber. Spindle-legs flicked and twitched in time as they danced back and forth, perhaps communicating about what they might do about this strange person in their midst. Surely the smoke was preventing them from being hostile – he hoped – but he'd no desire to take chances with a possibly docile state. He took another cautious step forward, nearly dropping the torch from the weight of it. God damn his wounds. If only he could step lightly and in time with his thoughts, then perhaps this wouldn't be so –

  Both drones lifted away rapidly, causing him to shudder.

  Christ. He shut his eyes and clenched his teeth. Sweat poured down his temples. He felt cold.

  Halfway to the dais.

  The room swam before him, his vision blurred. He wondered about Jack. What was she thinking? Did she have the wherewithal to have some sort of backup plan to ensure that Cairn would be alright? He hoped so; the day hadn't exactly gone as he'd imagined and now he felt a deep sense of regret. He hadn't been able to protect the boy, he hadn't been able to protect Jack, and now here he was, practically a walking corpse, hobbling towards a prize that none of them were worthy of lifting. He blinked against his dripping sweat, unable to wipe his eyes free. Distantly, he realized he did not care. One final walk towards a goal, he supposed. And so he would find himself finished.

  Something brushed against his leg.

  He looked down to see a bee casually walking away from him, either startled by his form, or merely testing the waters. So far, so good. Still, the size of the damn thing distracted his attention from moving. Monsters. They were all deadly, vicious, horrifying monsters. He couldn't take his eyes off of it.

  One landed on his back and he froze in absolute, utter terror.

  “Sweet Christ!” Cairn yelled out.

  “Don't move!” Jack shouted.

  He couldn't. His whole body refused him.

  An electric current wired his spinal column into a tight rod; the small of his back attempted to pull further inwards away from the monster on his back. The torch nearly fell from his grasp but he tightened it at the last moment, fearing the loss of his only possible salvation, and he moaned softly, delicately, a child of three again. As it crawled upwards, fitfully slow, he remembered something he hadn't thought of in decades: once, in the fields of Lichtringhausen, there had been a day where he and his parents had gone flower picking. There had been bees – he'd been fascinated. So had they. The stings, the welts, the fever lasting for days. Before this moment, he wouldn't have been able to recall that childhood moment in Germany; he'd blocked it so well. Here, in the now, everything of that experience in time came flooding back with a rapidity he wanted to wish away, to forget again, as the drone on his back shivered with bridled momentum. It continued to climb, until the tip of its foreleg reached the nape of his neck. A quake – a deadly flinch – that was all he allowed himself. He bit his lip and tried not to scream.

  Jack cried out: “Use the torch! Smoke it back!”

  Dust's lip quivered between his teeth so quickly he imagined that nothing else on his body could possibly move. He felt everything: the blood running down his thigh, the sweat pooling under his arms, the popping of his knuckles as he gripped the torch. Somehow, he managed to move his arm upwards, the heat of the flame whispering against his skin, the scent of the smoke heady and dizzying. But it worked: the drone on his back seemed to slip, renewing its grip momentarily, but then fell with an audible thud.

  Relief. He wanted to collapse.

  Just a few more feet.

  More drones were hovering downwards, the effects of the smoke more palpable now. It wasn't simply making them docile, it was causing them to lose motor control. Dust turned, briefly, his neck so tight that he had to use the whole of his upper body to look around, and he counted at least a dozen barely mobile honey bees littering the chamber floor. At this rate, he'd be kicking them out of his way on his return to the gate. This, in its own way, spurred him forward into moving, and before he knew it he was standing before the dais, gazing into the amber colored honey, its cloying scent rising to greet him. The nectar of the gods was at his fingertips.

  Unable to hold up the torch with his wounded arm, he decided to lean over as best as he could – which was very little – and he dropped it on the floor, where it continued to burn and produced the precious smoke. At last, he was able to wipe the cold sweat from his forehead, heart still racing like thunder, and he picked up one of the cups from the dais and dipped it into the bowl. The honey was thicker than most he'd experienced, difficult to withdraw, cool and soft at first contact yet impossibly sticky the moment it separated from the pool. He watched as he righted the cup and the few ounces he'd come up with left a thin trail along the inside, heavy with weight. How anyone could possibly swallow this was beyond his reasoning; it seemed as though it would take a mixture to make it consumable enough to flow down one's gullet, and even then the dilution might reduce the medicinal properties of the nectar. Biting his lip, he weighed the factors of this drink, wondering, unsure if what he was about to do would have any positive effects.

  “Well?” Thomas shouted across the room. “Are we to have some of it, or not?”

  Dust turned and looked back at the group. Cairn was staring at him, hope deep in his eyes, and he knew what he had to attempt.

  “Let's find out,” he called back. “You know, for science.”

  He upended the cup over his mouth.

  A kind of magic happened: as the honey dripped across his tongue, he felt the heavy body of the nectar alleviate, almost evaporating into a soft, smooth lacing that coated but did not stick. Anyone describing this to him would have sounded impossible to believe, but as the honey swirled into something less gelatinous, he gulped the few ounces he'd taken with ease. Strange. Heady lightness swam up and into his equilibrium for a moment, then passed. He wasn't sure if that small amount would accomplish anything, and he wasn't sure how long the torch would continue to burn and keep the bees at bay. He dipped again and took another hit. This time, he forced himself to drink more, and a brief warmth not unlike whiskey took over his belly, pleasantly s
o. He smiled; he actually felt quite good for someone who'd tangoed with a prehistoric snake being.

  A moment passed. Then another.

  “Well?” Thomas asked impatiently.

  Dust shook his head. “Well, it drinks easily, and I feel pretty good, bu – ”

  Advanced pain lanced through his wounds and shot fire throughout his limbs. He collapsed, unable to keep himself upright, convulsions wracking him over, and over, and over in quick, violent bursts. Voices were shouting at him as he endured the seizure, words he could not focus on nor recognize, except for Cairn's voice, higher pitched and youthful, the sounds of which he held on to even as he curled up into a fetal position, legs kicking, back spasming, every single layer of his body pulsing with agony. Pins and needles laced him, inches deep, and with each moment they felt like they sunk ever deeper to discover new avenues in him, harsh and merciless. Dust attempted to hold as still as possible, and eventually the seizures died down, slowly, like a heartbeat coming to a standstill, until at last he was able to relax and control his breathing once again.

  He waited.

  “Guv,” Cairn warned. “Guv, get up! You best get up before the torch is out!”

  Torch. Yes. One word at a time he realigned his brain. Torch. Lift. Bees. Pushing himself into a sitting position he reached for it, noticing the smoke had dissipated considerably. Weakened knees nearly refused him, but he forced his legs to respond to command to rise, and as he returned to a standing position he acknowledged his wobbly knees and gave thanks that that seemed to be the worst effect from his episode. With this, he reached down to grasp at the dying torch.

  He paused. There was no pain.

  Understanding began to dawn in his system as he looked at his right arm: wiping away the last remnants of blood that had seeped out, he discovered that the torn skin had sealed itself shut, with the last remaining impression of a prior injury being the fresh, pinkish skin that formed as one healed. Eyebrows raised, he turned to his left shoulder and saw that a claw had somehow been left behind in his skin, which was slowly being rejected by his healing body. With his teeth grit tight, he helped the process along and plucked the nail from his flesh. The hole puckered up like a pair of lips prepared for a delightful kiss, then closed, and became whole. He dropped the talon on the floor and examined his motions. Every single bruise, injury, and strain he had acquired whilst on this adventure felt clean and renewed, his mobility fluid, his muscles fresh and healthy. He chuckled at this marvel, and glanced down at the bowl. Perhaps the bees weren't so bad after all.

  Dust turned to the onlooking crowd beyond the gate and was met with stares of astonishment.

  He gestured at himself with a grin.

  Thomas, staring glassy eyed through the bars, slowly released Cairn from his grasp and reached out to the gate. He held onto the metal as though propping himself up, and his slack-jawed expression betrayed naked wonder. “She was right all along,” he whispered, tears welling at the corners of his eyes. What a curious man this was, with his multiple faces, seemingly of one mind and then another in the next minute. If Dust had ever met someone more confusing than Thomas Blythe-Wight, he could not recall.

  Cairn quickly moved over to be held by Jack, clutching at his wounded side. But his eyes remained with Dust, now ever more hopeful for his injuries to be quelled.

  Ryder turned and caught the lad by the collar. He snarled and threw the youth roughly against the metal bars, causing Cairn's head to bounce sharply off the gate. The boy sunk to his knees in pain, stunned, and was then forced upright by Ryder, who still held onto the lad's neck. Jack stepped forward to intervene, but the barrel of a Tommy gun was quickly pressed against the back of her neck by one of the mercenaries.

  “Leave the child alone,” Thomas said, voice still full of awestruck quiet.

  Ryder grit his teeth and refused. “You'd be playing into McAlan's hands.”

  “I daresay our nemesis is at a disadvantage.” Thomas smiled and became more himself. “Here stands Dust McAlan, treasure hunter, general arsehole and annoyance, caught within a room of malicious honeybees, with a choice to either to continue to assist his captors or to perish within the gates. Quite the predicament, eh?”

  Dust frowned. “When you put it that way, it sounds pretty contrived.”

  “Quite fitting, then, that you're the one to place yourself in such a position.” Thomas waved Dust forward. “On with you then, we've no time for discourse what with these beastly things about. Give us the nectar and we'll call it a day.”

  “Let them go,” Dust replied.

  Ryder retorted by placing his gun against Cairn's temple.

  Dust clicked his tongue.

  Thomas was not amused.

  “We've reached an impasse,” he stated. “McAlan, you don't have the only torch. We can take the second one in there after you've perished by stinger, and then use the honey as we see fit. Perhaps I'll even give some to the boy in order for him to live. So why don't we end this on a note that meets the needs of all, hmm? Every one of us can escape with their lives.”

  Dust looked down and noticed that the bees surrounding him were reviving themselves slowly. Not a good sign at all. He reached into his belt for his Zippo, then turned it to the torch which, to his dismay, had gone out whilst Jack had performed her magic trick. He touched flame to material expecting a renewed light, but nothing happened. He frowned; he made a second attempt. Nothing occurred. Curiously, he investigated the torch to see that, in his seizure, he had somehow spilled honey all over one side of the damn thing at just the right angle. He looked down to see the cup he'd been holding was now on one side, a small pool of nectar puddled around it. How he had not noticed this before was beyond him, but that did not matter in the moment. What mattered was he needed to retreat as quickly as possible before something else went wrong.

  As he stepped forward, a few of the drones shook their torsos and fluttered their wings.

  Instant panic ripped through him, and he dared not move.

  “Oops,” Thomas chided.

  “Dust,” Jack urged, but all he could do in reply was shake his head.

  Ryder chuckled. “We got us the other torch over here, mate. Perhaps a bit of that nectar in exchange for the torch, eh?”

  Dust, however, was prepared to consider all options. “Torch first, nectar second.”

  “You're in no place to negotiate, McAlan!” Ryder laughed.

  “How am I supposed to get it to you without the torch first?” Dust shouted, his eyes on the bees. They were moving about, scuttling, still attempting to remember how to use their wings. Above, there was no doubt that the rest of the hive was having similar effects, and any bees that had been avoiding the smoke were likely to come down and investigate why their brethren weren't part of the pack again. Sweat pooled in his armpits.

  Turning, he quickly grabbed a second cup and forced it into the bowl, retrieving more of the Amrita. His back began to itch with tension as he withdrew the cup, thinking about the bees and their stingers and how they flew, and he told himself, No, no, no, no, I can do this, I can do this, I can go back and I can do this.

  He turned back to Ryder, and held out the cup, miming an underhand throw.

  Ryder nodded, then snapped his fingers. Understanding this, one of the mercenaries lifted the torch off of the wall and placed it in Ryder's free hand.

  “Alright mates, we're going to do the one-two shuffle, alright?” Ryder made miming gestures to indicate how to proceed. “McAlan tosses us the cup, we toss the torch, and once we've the honey in hand, everyone scatters to the wind. Are we clear on that?”

  As Ryder prepared to open the gate, Dust retrieved his Zippo and held it in his opposite hand. All he had to do was toss the cup, catch the torch, light it, and then sink down close to the floor while the smoke built up and returned the drones to a docile state. If he could maintain his sanity whilst that happened, then all could be well at last.

  Delicately, Ryder opened the gate just enough for hi
m to slip around and tiptoe into the chamber. He gestured for Dust to toss over the cup. With a quick, nervous exhale, Dust did as he was commanded, and the cup landed home in Ryder's outstretched hand, a perfect toss. Now it was Dust's turn to gesture for his reward, even as the bees were beginning to circle around the room, building up momentum, relearning their space. A miniature vortex began to form, whirling about the gate's circumference, perhaps some sort of ritual for them, which was fascinating to watch and horrifying to understand that, at any moment, any one of them could come dive bombing for his body, stinging, crawling, whirring, shuddering. He blinked away the madness of panic and focused on the torch about to be thrown at him.

  One of the drones came close to the gate; too close. It came at Thomas and then hovered in place.

  Breaking the intense silence, Thomas shouted in fear and reached to one side: he grabbed Jack roughly by the shoulders and pulled her before him as a human shield. She struggled against this, wrestling him for control of her position. Everyone else froze in place, including Ryder, who stood at the precipice of the gate, open just enough that should the drone become curious it would fly through.

  Cairn was the only one who made protest, as he ran forward to defend his lady. Jack attempted to warn Cairn off; as this happened, Thomas took advantage of the distraction, and pushed her hard in Ryder's direction. She stumbled into the trapper, and both of them fell into the chamber, the gate swinging open wide with a terrific clang. As the two of them attempted to regain their footing, two bees bounced off of Jack's torso, and become agitated. Ryder dropped the cup of nectar as he frantically waved the unlit torch back and forth, defending himself, seeming to forget that it needed fire. Thomas then grabbed Cairn by the collar and threw him inside the chamber as well. Once he had done this, Thomas knelt down, scooped up the Amrita, then fled.

  No one moved to stop him as the rest of the room were focused on the events transpiring before them. Cairn scuttled across the floor to one side, his back against the bars, his knees pulled up to his chest under his chin. Jack, still dazed, found the sense to kneel down and avoid the whirring bees, making her way across the floor of the chamber towards Cairn. Meanwhile, Ryder immediately became frantic, pinwheeling his arms, trying to club them with the torch, and at last he managed to crack one of the drones as though it were a cricket ball. The fat bee flew through the air and was bashed against the metal bars, then tumbled to the ground and was still.