Tequila's Sunrise

by Brian Keene

  When he’d stopped trembling, Chalco cleaned his hands and blade with his loincloth. Feeling helpless and unsure of what to do next, he decided to try another door.

  Perhaps he’d find the right one by chance. After all, the previous exit had opened into the ocean. Maybe the next door would lead to the beach.

  He put his ear to another door and listened. This time, there were no birds or waves. Just silence. Knife in hand, Chalco opened it. Inside was a small metal room. A group of people were huddled against the walls—several men, a few women, and a young boy about the same age as Quintox. When he studied the boy, Chalco was overwhelmed with a sense of familiarity—as if he’d known him before. But that was impossible. More likely the child simply reminded him of his little brother.

  Their clothes were strange. One of the people seemed to be injured. He was lying in the corner, covered in blood. His face was pale and waxy. Another man brandished a weapon of some kind. Chalco didn’t know what type, but assumed it was deadly, based on the fearful reactions of the others in the room every time the object was pointed at them. None of them noticed Chalco, so he eavesdropped on their conversation.

  “He’s not breathing, Tommy. He hasn’t been for a while. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Your friend is gone. He’s dead. Look at him, son.”

  “Shut the hell up, you old fart. Just shut the fuck up right now!”

  Their speech was as odd as their garments and surroundings, but Chalco could understand it—another effect of the drink, he assumed. He was fascinated by everything in the odd metal room, but this was obviously not his destination, so he reluctantly shut the door and tried another.

  The third door opened into nothingness. A black void yawned before him, filled with pinpricks of light. After a moment, Chalco realized it was the night sky, as seen from high above the Earth. He’d heard the priests talk of such things. They said that the lights in the sky at night were the eyes of the gods. The door had apparently opened into a place amidst those eyes.

  Stars, he thought. I know now that these are called stars. They are not the eyes of the gods at all. Oh, this drink—this tequila—is wonderful. I’m learning so many things. When I get back to Monte Alban, I must explain this all without being labeled a heretic.

  Awestruck, he tried to find a horizon or an end to the gulf, but its boundaries were limitless. He admired the simple beauty. Knowing now that the stars weren’t eyes, but suns, made them even more impressive. In the center of the darkness was a scarlet moon, slightly bigger than the one he was used to. It was an amazing sight.

  And then the moon blinked.

  It drifted towards him, crossing the unimaginable distance in seconds. A second moon soared into sight. The moons were eyes. They had no body or face. Just two huge orbs floating in the darkness. They stared at him with penetrating glares. It felt like his soul was being examined. Chalco slammed the door and the feeling disappeared.

  Once he’d recovered from his fright, he tried again. The next door opened into a subterranean cavern lit by some sort of phosphorescent lichen. The rough walls were hewn, rather than naturally formed. A pile of bones lay near the door. He couldn’t tell what sort of animal they’d once belonged to. A great, smokeless forge burned in the distance.

  A line of pig-faced creatures lurched past, lumbering into a nearby tunnel. They had tusks and snouts and their language consisted of squeals and grunts (but again he could understand it). Despite the deformities, the pig-things walked upright like men and carried tools and weapons with them. One of them gnawed on a human forearm, stripping the meat from the bone. Their stench was incredible. Their sound was worse.

  One of them stopped suddenly and raised its snout. Thick mucous dripped from the creature’s nostrils. Snuffling, it turned towards him. Chalco quickly closed the door, overcome with revulsion.

  He continued on. Each door was like a window on the worlds,

  each scene more wondrous or terrifying than the previous.

  He saw a great city with tall, silver spires and men made of shiny metal rather than flesh.

  He glimpsed another city built out of pure light. He watched the dead get up and walk again, hunting the living for nourishment, tearing them apart with their hands and teeth.

  He laughed at a silent clown whose face was painted white. The clown tried juggling three yellow balls, but kept dropping them.

  He saw a planet overcome with darkness. Blackness poured over the landscape like a wave. The darkness itself was a living creature that devoured every being it came in contact with.

  He shrank away from a roaring lizard taller than the biggest temple in Monte Alban, its mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth longer than a warrior’s spear. It stood over the bloody, torn corpse another, long-necked lizard.

  He spied on a young, obsidian-skinned couple as they made love in the reeds along a stream bank.

  He faced a tribe of creatures that were more goat than men, gathered next to a roaring campfire. Nearby them were wicker cages stuffed with terrified human women. The goat men danced in a circle around the fire and then rutted with their female captives.

  He shielded his eyes from a great ball of fire that produced a mushroom-shaped cloud.

  He watched people on an island flee from an army of savage beasts.

  He thrilled as an armored fighter battled with a ferocious man-serpent.

  He laughed in amazement at a massive creature the size of his adobe, with long, floppy ears and a trunk for a nose. The beast trampled through a steaming jungle.

  He cowered at the sight of a man-sized being with gray skin, enormous black eyes, and only a slit for a mouth. The creature seemed aware of his presence. Chalco could feel it searching his mind, as if invisible fingers were combing through his brain.

  He saw a coastline overrun by huge creatures that were part-crab, part-lobster, and part-scorpion. They were controlled by a race of intelligent amphibians that walked like men.

  He saw a frightful being composed of pure, crackling energy, another composed entirely of sound, and a third that existed as the physical manifestation of a collective idea.

  He marveled over the eruption of a great volcano that spewed molten rock and clouds of ash into the sky.

  He gasped at chariots that moved without the benefit of livestock to pull them—on the ground, in the sky, and even into that black space above the Earth.

  He saw births and deaths, armies clashing on a dozen battlefields, people laughing and crying. He could not know the names for all that he saw, or understand them entirely, but he knew them all the same. With each new world, he felt his consciousness expand. There would be so much knowledge to share when he made it back home.

  Finally, he found what he assumed was the right door. It opened onto a beach of white sand. The sun was shining. Vegetation waved in the breeze. Rolling waves crashed onto the shore. Far out to sea, Chalco spotted an armada of ships.

  “This must be it! Huitzilopochtli be praised.”

  He leapt through the door and onto the beach. The sun-baked sand was hot beneath his soles. It shifted beneath him as he walked. He tasted salt in the air and heard birds calling out above him. A small crab scuttled away. Washed up seashells glittered in the surf. The heat plastered his bangs to his forehead. He flipped his hair out of the way and searched for a good place to hide, somewhere that would conceal him from the ships yet offer a good vantage point and a clear shot once Cortes came ashore. He spotted a copse of trees surrounded by dunes farther up the beach, and headed for them, walking backwards, using his bow to smooth out his footprints in the sand so that nobody would see them. He looked up once, making sure that the door was still hovering above the beach.

  As he concealed himself, Chalco noticed something etched in one of the tree trunks, high off the ground, certainly out of reach of a full-grown man. They were letters or glyphs of some kind, carved deep into the wood. The edges were splintered and ragged, as if claws had been used rather than a blade. The strange symbols were in another
language, but the tequila gave him understanding of what they said—if not their meaning.

  CROATOAN

  Was it a name? A place? A tribe of people? He didn’t know, despite the drink’s influence. It sounded…unclean. Ominous.

  In the distance, three small boats cast off from the larger ships. Their flags fluttered in the wind. Men sat perched in them, watching the shoreline. Kneeling in the sand, Chalco strung his bow and notched an arrow, waiting. The breeze died down and the birds grew silent. Even the ocean seemed still. And then, something snuffled behind him. Screeching, the birds took flight, fleeing the area. Still crouching, Chalco whirled around, pointing his arrow in the direction of the noise.

  Several yards away, a terrible creature rose from behind a shifting dune. It was almost three times his height, and covered with white, matted fur. The thing was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, and its powerful arms hung down to its knees. Talon-tipped fingers clenched and unclenched. The monster’s face was almost human, except for a wide mouth filled with gleaming fangs, and two black, brooding eyes above a flat nose. Seeing Chalco, it snorted in surprise. Chalco was reminded of a cat. The thing’s ears looked feline, pointed and twitching. A monstrous phallus swung between its legs.

  Chalco’s heart beat. Once. Twice.

  The creature charged.

  Chalco let his arrow fly.

  The thing grunted as the arrow plunged into its chest. The shaft protruded from its breast, the white fur turning crimson around the wound. The monster never slowed. It snapped the shaft with one hand and lunged for him.

  Biting his lip, Chalco notched another arrow and let loose. The beast snatched it from the air and tossed it aside.

  Chalco leapt to his feet and ran. Behind him, he heard trees snapping as the creature gave chase. The sand shook with each loping stride the monster took. Its growls echoed across the beach.

  It can’t see the doorway, Chalco thought as he fled. Only I can. If I make it back into the Labyrinth, it won’t be able to follow.

  The beast closed the gap between them. Chalco heard its harsh breathing. Its stink fouled the air. Flinging his bow aside, he pounded across the sand, forcing his legs to go faster. His lungs burned. The wind howled in his ears—or maybe it was just his pursuer.

  Chalco dived headfirst through the floating doorway. He landed in the corridor, banging his head on the stone that wasn’t stone. The breath rushed from his lungs. He rolled across the floor, coming to rest against the wall. Rubbing his head, Chalco drew his knife.

  Outside, on the beach, the growls changed to laughter.

  Animals don’t laugh. That thing is intelligent.

  As he watched, it headed straight for the doorway.

  It can’t see me. It can’t…

  The monster plunged an enormous, fur-covered hand through the open door, grasping at him. Screaming, Chalco slashed at it with his knife. The hand withdrew, and then reached for him again. The blade bit deeper. Blood spattered the floor. Enraged, the beast pulled away again.

  Chalco held his breath.

  The monster slammed against the doorframe, heaving its bulk through the opening. The door seemed to shimmer and stretch to accommodate the creature’s size. One hand thrust through, then an arm, then another. The entrance grew wider as the beast’s head followed.

  Chalco took advantage of the arduous progress to escape. He slid out of the monster’s reach and sprinted down the hallway, ignoring all of the other doors. His feet pounded in silence. His breath stiffened in his throat.

  Behind him, the monster raged. Then it spoke for the first time. Its cadence was slow and halting. The rough, guttural sound terrified Chalco as much as the beast itself did.

  “You…not…escape…Meeble.”

  Chalco turned left down a side passage and kept running, not looking back. Closed doors flashed by on both sides, each one of them an invitation to more terror. Who knew what lurked behind them? Wisdom was a curse. He wanted to go home, wanted to go back to being a boy.

  Wanted to forget.

  He ran for a very long time, and the beast—Meeble—pursued him. Usually, it was far behind, but several times it nearly caught him. He wondered what the creature was, and what its name meant. He’d never seen anything like it before. He doubted any of his clan had, either.

  Finally, Chalco came to a dead end. A double door, larger than the others, stood before him. He wondered what new horror waited on the other side. Behind him, around the corner, he heard the monster catching up. It snorted like a bull. Its breathing sounded like a geyser.

  Closing his eyes, Chalco opened the door and stepped through. Wind brushed against his face. He opened his eyes, but it was too late.

  He fell into darkness…

  …and did not stop.

  ***

  Back on the mountaintop, the doorway flickered and then vanished. Still perched on the agave plant and still in the form of a worm, Huitzilopochtli hung his head and cried. He had failed. Humanity was not ready for the knowledge tequila provided. Perhaps they never would be. They were too prideful, too worldly—too human.

  He’d deceived his masters. Slipped away and hid inside this form, hoping to tip the scales in humanity’s favor—turn the tide of infinity. But he had failed. Soon, he would be found out. He could not hide forever, not even outside the Labyrinth.

  As the sun began to set, Huitzilopochtli inched his way down the agave and onto the ground. The soil was cooler now. He crawled across it. A shadow fell over him. He had time to look up and then the bird plunged toward him. Wriggling beside the agave to avoid the flashing beak, he fell into Chalco’s discarded water skin, which had a few drops of tequila in the bottom. The worm struggled, and then became still.

  Night descended. The wildlife returned to the mountain, and in Monte Alban, Quintox waited for Chalco to return home.

  He never did.

  But eventually, their father and uncles returned to Monte Alban. Death came with them. The worm’s prophecy came to pass.

  And the doors were closed to humanity.

  And that is why to this day, some people believe in the legend of tequila. They believe that tequila is a gift of the gods. That it will grant knowledge of the universe and open the doors of perception. And they also believe that eating the worm will allow them to visit an unseen world.

  But they never do.

  Instead they fall.

  ***

  ***

  When you write for a living, you usually write every day. And while you (hopefully) never lose that sense of magic and wonder, it is easy to become bogged down in the process. There are deadlines and publisher demands. Editors and readers are eager to suggest what you should really be writing, especially if you want to get paid. And if your mortgage payment relies on that next sale, you tend to at least consider their suggestions. If you’re not careful, crafting stories can become more like work and less like fun.

  So it’s always a treat when you get to try something different and explore new literary horizons. Just like in a relationship, experimentation can reinvigorate a writer’s muse.

  That’s what this story was to me. An experiment—and great fun, as well. After reading Jack Ketchum’s masterful fable, The Transformed Mouse, I fell in love with fables all over again and wondered if there were any new ones to tell. Luckily, I was thinking about this while drinking a bottle of tequila.

  Tequila has no concrete history. There are a number of different theories as to how it came to be. If you don’t believe me, check the internet. Tequila and mezcal experts argue over the drink’s origins, what actually constitutes the drink, where the worm came from, etc. As an enthusiast, this seems like a shame to me. And since nobody can apparently agree on its true origin, I figured I’d make one up.

  Thus, I wrote a fable detailing how the “drink of the gods” came to be, incorporating much of its trappings and mystique. It’s fiction, of course. Historians might point out things I got wrong. I suggest they have a shot and shut the fu
ck up. It’s my mythos and I can do what I want with it.

  Indeed…my mythos—the ongoing Labyrinth saga, about which much was revealed here. The second half of this story is certainly not for the uninitiated. It is decidedly mythos heavy. There are references to various novels and stories, characters and villains. If you are indeed new to my works, then an explanation is probably in order. The Labyrinth is a dimensional shortcut between worlds, universes, and realities, and is only accessible to those who know how to open the doors. Glimpses of this mythos wind through everything I’ve ever written. Every novel, every novella, and every short story contains a hint of it. Yet, I’ve purposely tried to keep those links vague, so that new readers can also enjoy the stories and books. You shouldn’t have to read Terminal to understand Ghoul, or The Rising to enjoy Kill Whitey. And yet, for the hardcore fans, the folks who read everything I write, the mythos is there—and they love it. Indeed, they want more, as evidenced by the preponderance of threads on my message board and Facebook and Twitter in which people ask for more.

  This was my gift to them. It’s a love letter to one of my favorite vices (tequila) and a thank you to some of my favorite people (my readers). I hope that you enjoyed it. This novella was first published as a beautiful limited edition hardcover by Bloodletting Press. It also appeared in my short story collection Unhappy Endings, which is now out-of-print.

  BURYING BETSY

  We buried Betsy on Saturday. We dug her up on Monday and let her come inside, but then on Wednesday, Daddy said we had to put her back in the ground again.

  Before that, we’d only buried her about once a month. Betsy got upset when she found out she had to go back down so soon. She wanted to know why. Daddy said it was more dangerous now. Only way she’d be safe was to hide her down there below the dirt, where no one could get to her without a lot of trouble. Betsy cried a little when she climbed back into the box, but Daddy told her it would be okay. I cried a little, too, but didn’t let no one else see me do it.