The flames of Hades flickered off the roughhewn walls of the cavern as I stumbled my way deeper into the earthen maw. Acrid, black smoke invaded my eyes, blurring my vision and clouding my lungs. Dark voices shouted in a rhythmic chant somewhere beyond the hall of fire through which I now walked. My body was cut and bruised; my clothes turned to rags barely clinging to my sweat glistened flesh.

What maligned road led me to my current state of depravity? My mind flickered back to that fateful day in the warrens of Singapore, to one of the myriad of seedy opium dens lining the alleys. It was there that I found the remnants of the infamous Anglo explorer Sir Percival Covington.

I pushed back the shoddy veil of the curtain to find Sir Percival upon his back, clad in sweat-stained khaki and a weeks' worth of grime. So much for the hero of the British Empire. His glazed eyes alighted upon me, and a flicker of recognition danced across his ruddy face.

"By jove!" He rasped through the haze of the poppy. "Quinn Chapman, I'll wager."

I nodded and pulled a wayward crate to me and sat, gazing expectantly at my addled host.

"Right, let's get on with it. Now here is what you need to know about the maratakam, one of the nine gems of Navaratna."

I sucked in a breath and leaned in close as Sir Percival divulged his mythical tale to me. A tale in which he related to me the finding of a manuscript within a hidden chamber of the cave library of Dunhuang, written by a queen, and describing the riches of the court within the Kyunglung Ngulkar Karpo. This was the Silver Palace of Tibetan legend, the crown jewel of the Shang Shung kingdom and the apparent resting place of the maratakam emerald. A palace of a thousand rooms with walls lined in gold and agate.

By its end, Sir Percival Covington looked drawn and haggard, his bronzed skin was stretched tight like paper over of his skull. Yet he smiled, having told me where I could seek the great emerald of Hindu legend.

Sir Percival grasped my arm in a grip of iron, the last of his fleeting strength. "Find it. Find it but beware the Gongpos. The black priests of the Bon cult." He said to me ominously before taking one last deep, shuddering breath. It was his last.

From his other hand I pulled a crumpled piece of paper, upon which was drawn a crude map. I followed the smudged lines of charcoal from Lhasa down to the Garuda valley and westward to a hidden canyon where the ruins of the Shan Shung kingdom were hidden.

I leaned back from the lifeless form before me and contemplated my good fortune and his lack thereof. In my grasp was the route to a treasure worth far more than I could conceive. A glimmering emerald the size of my fist. There seemed only a few obstacles in my way. The shadowy Bon cult, if it still existed, was known in the distant past to engage in bloody rituals by which they sought to expand their consciousness. The Gongpo monks would have themselves locked into chambers with corpses sand would tear out their tongues. These they then used as talismans to battle demons of their religion.

A shuddered passed over my body with the thoughts of these black priests and their human sacrifices. I had encountered many primitive tribes in my adventures and bore witness to hideous rituals and depredations, but what would a man not risk to achieve such fortune and glory.

It was with that revelation that my question was answered as the glowering jowls of a behemoth of a man broke through the stilted curtains of my retreat. In a blink, his ham sized fist grasped me by my shirt and lifted me from my stool.

My assailant's arms were corded with muscled, his grip unbreakable as he slammed me into the rickety wall. Behind him came another less formidable personage, yet no less menacing. He carried himself with a superior bearing, poised like a cobra ready to strike with dark, bloodthirsty eyes. His sallow skin was that of worm, long bereft of the healing light of the sun.

I cursed myself for letting my guard down. My trusty Colt was stowed at the small of my back, unreachable with my arms pinned by the weight of the brute's vice. I could do nothing as the cold-eyed stranger brought his pale, rat like face up to mine.

"My name is Hauptsturmführer Wolfgang Braune and in the name of the Führer, where is the emerald?" He asked in a slithering Germanic accent.

I met his withering gaze with steely eyed determination and kept my trap clapped shut.

"Klaus," the man snapped his fingers and the behemoth that was Klaus brought his right hammer home into my gut. I gasped in agony, the air blasted out of my lungs like a hurricane. Another and another blow fell upon me, I could do nothing but gasp and wheeze out obscenities of vengeance. My hard-boiled exterior gave way against the onslaught as a rock is slowly eroded by the unending tide of wind and water.

"Speak! Or ve shall start removing body parts."

I valued my body parts enough to know that my options were spent against these Huns, so I made a plan to negotiate, or they would bleed me dry. "Fine, I'll lead you to the emerald. Let me live and I'll take you there, otherwise the way is lost."

I watched the beady, snake eyes of the German Captain contemplating my offer. The burning gleam of greed ran like a fire across his face and the captain snapped his fingers again. Klaus dropped me to the ground and with a flick of his mighty wrist, drew a Luger from within the confines of his coat. I put my hands up as the monster reached around my back and took my prized fighting iron.

"Vell, you shall live as long as you prove useful. Take us to the treasure."

As we marched out of the reeking confines of the opium den, I smiled in spite of my predicament. For the map drawn by Sir Percival was laying upon the floor, crumpled and forgot. No use to the Germans. They only had me and my memory to guide them now.

Blood. Mayhem. Ash. Absolute chaos. My hands were those of the betrayer, the destroyer of mankind. I laid waste to the exquisite and delicate works of humanity, built desert wastelands on the foundations of paradise. My sacrifice was absolute as I transcended, rising above the bondage of my mortality. Now I was alone, the last sentient being in all creation, ruling over a wild expanse of nothingness. A proverbial Eden. My choice? Whether re-create Adam and Eve, knowing their betrayal and the inevitability of the original sin.

Flags and pennants flapped in the cold, fell wind that drove down from the North, into the borderlands of Galdornia. The wind carried the breath of change, of life and death for men and nations, proceeding the black hordes pouring out of their mountain fastnesses in Gheldeth and Narasul.

King Palanthir, who would be named the "Victorious", sat atop his bay charger, his golden armor glinting in the failing light of the sun, watching as dark clouds descended over the field ahead. Clouds that covered the advance of untold thousands of barbarians and thrallachs, armored in black leather and charcoal suits of iron ringed mail. Their crooked spears and jagged swords waved above them like a sea of dying grass.

The mighty King shook his head and spat on the ground in disgust and shame. Shame for not seeing the mustering of the North until it was too late. Now he faced the storm alone, even as his allies to the south mustered their own forces. They would come too late, and only in time to bury the dead.

Arrayed behind him, was the indomitable host of Galdornia. Ten thousand stalwart warriors clad in glimmering steel. Long spears rested against mighty shields, ready to form a unmoving wall of death. Yet higher on the hill stood the Galdornian archers, the finest shots in the Northern realms, armed with their Elven heritage and ironthorn longbows. On the flanks, and hidden behind the rolling foothills of the Embrin mountains, were the unwavering Galdornian Knights, cavalry waiting for the right moment to charge into the enemy's flanks.

The King turned his charger and rode along the front, saluting his men and giving them courage. Courage alone would not be enough. King Palanthir had been born for this moment, so the prophets said, and he would not fail. Iron will and the determination to survive as a people would propel the Galdornians to victory.

Moisture cascaded through the subterranean air of the tunnel, heaving with humidity like the amazon in the rainy season. The rock walls were draped in curtains of moss and lichen, all thriving on the artificial lights installed by humans. Lights that now flickered with the randomness of the power surges. The flickering made phantoms out of shadows, heightening the sense of danger and the excessive need for vigilance.

The Facility Alpha Security Team, or FAST, unit took a measured pace down the long corridor, its eight members maintaining a safe distance between one another in case of ambush. Captain Rick Hunter led from the front, the way he was taught during his military days, when his mission was simple. Not that his mission was different now, because it was essentially the same. Provide security and contain or eliminate the threat. The only difference was the threat.

In Iraq and Afghanistan he earned the nickname "Hellfire" Hunter for his rambunctious operations against insurgent forces. Hunter cracked a grin as he thought back to those days. Who would have thought that taking on extremist insurgents was a walk in the park? That was in comparison to what he now faced.

Corporal Garrison, the teams forward scout, brought him back to the present in a blast of radio static. "Cheetah One, this is Hawkeye."

Several of the team snickered at the call signs and Hunter waved them down for silence. "This is Cheetah One, report."

"I've take up position on the lookout above the Coliseum cargo landing, looks like all subjects have broken containment. It's a free for all down here."

"Do you see anyone alive?"

"Negative. The rest of the path is clear to my position."

"Roger that. Hold tight, we're oscar-mike. Out."

The mic clicked off and Hunter gave the hand signal to move out. He picked up his speed, but not entirely. Just because Garrison said the coast was clear before, didn't mean it was now. The Facility had more than one horror show going on at a time and Hunter had no idea which ones were still contained.

A stale, sickly odor began to infiltrate his nostrils as the team neared the Coliseum. The massive cavern was a natural formation cut into the rock by geologic processes unknown to him, but it sure as hell impressed him. They were in the main service corridor which lead from the freight elevators to the rear of the Coliseum, which was actually known as Research Area 12-C. RA 12-C was only halfway down into the bowels of Facility 57. Even after working here for a year. Hunter could not fathom the vastness of the operation. If the public had any idea what was going on here...Hunter shook his head, they would never know. It was his job to keep it that way.

The odor thickened in something almost tangible as he signaled a halt at the Coliseum's door. The massive wall of steel was partially open, stuck without enough power for it to completely retract into the recess cut into the granite.

As Hunter investigated the door, Sergeant Mendez spit on the ground in a curse. "Captain, what the fuck did that?"

Hunter looked to his NCO and followed her gaze through the opening. He resisted the urge to react, needing to stay calm and collected for his team or any civilians they encountered. The metal grating lining the floor on the other side was slashed with giant gaping tears, as if clawed apart my massive talons. Shattered fragments of rock and debris littered the area. All of which was coasted in the iron red sheen of blood.

"Garrison didn't mention this shit," Mendez barked.

"Easy, Sergeant. If there wasn't an immediate threat, Garrison wasn't going to waste words." Hunter beckoned his two junior members forward. "Davis, Rice. Go check it out, see if you can spot Garrison."

"Yes sir," Rice answered for them as the took off through the gap between steel and stone.

Hunter watched them move off, covering their sectors with their rifles. These men were well trained, former military all. He was confident in their abilities, but none of them really understood what they were up against. Not yet.

"Jones, try to contact HQ again."

"On it, sir."

Hunter kept his eyes on the gateway ahead as Jones fiddled with the coms. After a minute of supernatural silence, he tore his gaze away and back to Jones.

"Sir, I don't have shit. We're in too deep and without power to the repeaters, I can't see how we can make contact."

Mendez grumbled something under her breath and Hunter snapped around to her, feeling the building tension. "Something you want to say, sergeant?"

Mendez stood her ground. "Sir this is fucked. The maintenance teams should have had power restored by now, or at least backup power. And now we got blood everywhere and something with claws like a dragon."

"Technical shit takes time and that ain't our job. Our job is to secure civilians and get them back to the depot. Do you get me?"

Mendez narrowed her eyes but kept her retort in check. "I get you, sir."

Hunter nodded and tapped his mic. "Rice, what's your status?" He waited a minute without response. "God damnit. Davis, Garrison, come in."

Only static answered.

"Fuck this cave," Hunter mumbled. "Ok, team let's move. Scott take point with the SAW, Mendez with me, Brown and Jones take the rear."

The team pushed forward, eyes darting every which way, snapping to at any sign of movement. Even the barest whisper of a water droplet turned their attention. Ahead of them was a wide shelf of rock, like a balcony of the Emperors of Rome, overlooking the Coliseum. Pieces of equipment and storage containers lay haphazardly across the surface of the cargo landing, as if they were rapidly abandoned in transit.

Scott moved up toward the ledge, taking a defensive position. Mendez went to the right as the other took up rearguard positions. Hunter scanned the area for any sign of threat.

Finding none, he moved toward the edge of the shelf, feeling his heart beat faster. He signaled the team to be silent as he dropped down into a crawl and push forward until he could peer into the Coliseum.

Hunter, despite his discipline, could not maintain his silence with the sight that greeted him. "Holy shit." To be briefed on it was one thing, but actually seeing what the Facility scientists created was a fucking shift. And those nerds talked about it like it was no big deal.

Stretching away into the distance was an underground world straight out of Jules Verne. A cavern so large that the other side was invisible, even with the ceiling blooming with artificial light. Light derived from some form of bioluminescent microorganism that Hunter didn't understand. If that alone was not awe-inspiring enough, the verdant greenery of a complete forest ecosystem several miles underground took the cake.

Instinct and training took the reins from amazement, forcing Hunter to analyze the new environment for threats. His hawk like gaze shifted around the periphery, searching for his missing team members. Garrison had said that he was in the lookout tower on the landing. It was easy enough to find, even it was not actually on the landing.

Hunter pulled out his compact binoculars, the latest issue from HQ, and aimed them at the tower. It took him a second to get them adjusted and when he did, the high density glass flashed crimson. The top of the tower appear intact except the side rails, which were torn outward in the same slashing pattern as the metal grating on the cargo landing. The stainless steel was painted red with blood and it had to be Garrison's.

"Fuck me." Hunter whispered and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge. The hunter had become the hunted.

Scott must have heard him and he turned to face the tower. Hunter pulled back from the ledge and was about to signal them to fall back when his ears filled with the sickening sound of leathery wings and the pervasive musky odor of a carnivore.

Before he could react a gust of wind pressed down on him as something large swooped down overhead. Scott bellowed in pain as the monstrosity speared into him with sickle claws. The reptilian flying death tried to get airborne with it's prey, but found Scott's linebacker frame too much to hand. It retracted it's hideous swords and made to fly off for another pass.

Hunter came to his senses first and brought his rifle to bear. He opened fire, allowing his muscle memory to take over as he emptied the magazine into the demon. Mendez and the other followed suit and lit up the cavern with suppressing fire, giving him time to get to his feet and make a run for the injured Scott.

Before Hunter could reach him, the monster let out a siren shriek and spasmed in the air. Its limbs went slack and the monster crashed into the rock below with a wet thud.

"What the holy fuck was that thing?" Mendez did not take her eyes off of its corpse and she kept he rifle aimed and ready.

Scott groaned, blood bubbling from the corners of his lips. Hunter knelt down and investigated the wounds. He instinctively knew that Scott was not going to make it.

Anger surged up in him. No one could have prepared them for this. He was not even allowed to describe the horrors they would face until they faced them. It had cost him four good soldiers.

Hunter looked at Mendez, Brown, and Jones. They were frightened, but resolute. They had a mission and they wanted to finish it.

"There is something I need to tell you," Hunter pointed to the corpse of the saurian demon which had effortlessly picked off three highly skilled soldiers without a sound. "That thing there, well it's the least of our worries."

I just came up with this off the top when I was sitting at work. There has been no revisions or editing, so it might not be the best prose. It is fun though!

One Year Ago, Somewhere in the Sahara Desert

Sunset was making its inevitable approach as the caravan worked its way into the opening of the wadi. Days of travel across bleak wind-blasted terrain sweltering beneath the harsh Saharan sun had left the entire expedition exhausted. Everyone was looking forward to a night sheltered from the biting sands and ruthless heat.

Tristan Beaumont stood on a rise at the rear of the column, peering into the developing gloom of the canyon ahead. Beyond the limits of his vision awaited the discovery of a lifetime. One that had the potential to rewrite the history of human civilization in the Sahara. Those implications were why Tristan had to claim it first.

The area of geological upheaval stretched over fifty-two thousand square miles, roughly three times the size of Switzerland.

Never mind the myths of ancient curses, giant guardians, and lost treasures.

Every lost city or tomb seemed to come with a requisite list of ominous names and terrifying curses that would befall those who entered and touched anything. Giant spiked filled chasms and crocodile filled moats just did not exist like they did in the movies, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any real dangers. There was a better than average chance that they could be waylaid by marauders and the entire expedition would be swallowed up by the sands, never to be heard from again.

Tristan was willing to risk the dangers, both real or fantastical, but not for a mythical treasure or world fame. He had enough money and celebrity because of his heritage. It was hard to stay out of the public eye when you were the son of a billionaire. He hated it. Acute awareness of his fortune—he had witnessed so much greed in the corporate world of his Father—was why Tristan had decided to devote himself to philanthropic pursuits. Not for personal vindication or validation, but because it seemed like the right thing to do. It was his calling, his true purpose in life. That was why he was here in the middle of the desert, thousands of miles from home, about to enter the so called ‘Canyon of Death’.

He laughed at the cliché.

Tristan saw the caravan creep to a halt before the open mouth of the waiting ravine. Progress was slow by modern standards, the remote and unyielding landscape—and the lack of service stations—did not allow for the modern convenience of vehicles. The expedition was forced to rely on the biological Land Rovers of the Sahara, dromedary camels. The temperamental beasts, with their long slender necks and regal air, helped get them this far without incident. To the people of the desert, camels were part of their lifeblood.

Shouts echoed out of the canyon as the caravan ground to a halt. Camel and man alike were bunching up against the towering rock walls ahead. Something was wrong, they were stopping too soon. Sunset was still several hours off, more than enough time to make progress into the canyon before they set camp.

Tristan watched the stocky form of Kevin Sawyer—his business partner and photographer on this expedition—charging towards their Toubou guide, Hassan. Kevin had a short fuse and was not the best person for a rational negotiation, even when things were going well. Kevin’s voluminous voice boomed back to Tristan on his overlook. Better get down there before he starts swinging.

“We can't stop here man! There's still at least two hours of good light left,” Kevin said, waving his meaty hand in the direction of the canyon.

“We stop here. Men go no further in the dark. Bad place to be at night, much worse up there,” Hassan said in broken English. He crossed his arms, standing firm, though his eyes sought the ground.

“Why? What could make it worse? No one lives here and if anything, we'll be less exposed in that canyon.”

“What's the problem gentleman? Why have we stopped so soon?” Tristan asked, unwrapping his tagelmust, a Tuareg headscarf. Life in the field was much more bearable when you followed the practices of the people native to the regions in which you found yourself. He had learned that from Tahoe, among many things. Besides, thousands of years of living in the desert had to count for something.

Kevin turned, his patience worn thin, and inclined his head at Hassan. “Ask him.”

“Sir, we go no further this night. Bad place. Very bad place. Cursed.” Hassan shook his head and stared back at the ground, apparently finding it harder to stand up to the man writing his paycheck. Tristan had paid the tribesman half upfront to take them into the mountains and withheld the other half until they were brought back.

“Explain yourself.” Tristan said. “Wouldn’t we be better off sheltered inside the canyon?”

“That's what I told him,” Kevin said. “He’s probably trying to squeeze more money out of us.” Both of them knew that superstitions and other tricks were often invoked to incur a greater salary from ignorant travelers. Tristan was not as direct as his friend in asking. If this was a negotiation then it would be better to work the truth out without a direct accusation. It was a fine line to walk between being an effective leader and keeping the porters happy enough to prevent a mutiny.

“Well then Hassan?” Tristan said, keeping his voice patient, yet firm.

Hassan looked up and met Tristan's gaze, fear flashed across his face when he replied. “This is the place of the Noso. We do not come here. Especially at night. It is cursed.”

“Bull shi--" Kevin’s outburst was cut short as Tristan held up his hand to silence him. His curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar term. “What is Noso?”

“Noso are the guardians of the old ones, they who lived here long ago and brought waters from the ground.” Hassan said, as if that sounded perfectly normal. Terrifying, but normal.

Guardians again, just like in the legends about the city. Just like the journal…

“What a load of shit.” Kevin Sawyer shook his head and muttered.

“Kev, most superstitions are seeded with a grain of truth. Even the Canyon of Death got its name somewhere.” A twinge of guilt gnawed at Tristan for not having told Kevin everything that was written about the Canyon in the journal, though he didn’t really believe it himself. In fact, there was a lot he hadn’t told Kevin. It wasn’t entirely his fault, he did have to make a rather hasty escape from his previous business partner and there was no time to note anything except for the map. “These old ones might be some ancestor to the Toubou or maybe the Garamantes. We’re getting close.”

“I know the Garamantes were known for cultivating the desert using water they brought up from aquifers, but they weren’t this far south and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have any legendary lost cities,” Kevin said, not attempting to keep the skepticism from his voice.

“Not that we know of, but who can say for sure how large of an area their civilization extended over or who preceded them. How much history has been buried beneath the sands?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Tristan was seized by the thrill of discovery and he took Hassan by the shoulders, eliciting a yelp from the desert man. “We are going into that canyon with or without you and there’s only one way you get paid. Just think of what your wife will say if you come home empty handed. Which curse is worse, huh?”

Hassan flashed a grin at the comment and nodded his head in solemn compliance. “Very well, we go. Either way I lose my head.”

“That's the spirit! Let’s push on then.” Tristan returned the grin and slapped Hassan on the back.

Hassan began shouting in Tedaga, the language of the Toubou people in the north, informing the other porters that they would proceed. They did not look pleased. They looked frightened. Tristan began to feel a hint of unease in how serious Hassan was regarding the Noso. After all, this region of the Tibesti was almost entirely uninhabited. Maybe there was a real reason behind the ominous myth.

Tristan turned to Kevin, who was staring off to the north as the wind picked up around them. “See, that wasn't so hard, was it?”

“Your father certainly would be proud,” Kevin said, enunciating each word sarcastically.

“Yeah right! His only son and heir abandoned the Beaumont family empire to pursue philanthropy with his trust fund, falling in with mercenaries, thievery, and international intrigue. What’s not to be proud of?” Tristan eyed the sandy ground and shook his head, his enthusiasm wavering at the mention of his father. “Besides, I'm practically disowned. Cassandra took my place in the family hierarchy. She can keep it.”

“Well, he should be proud. Not every man can claim his son is going to save an entire ecological region from evil industrial machinations.”

“Industrial machinations are his specialty. And don’t you think you’re over selling it, just a little? We haven’t done anything yet.”

“Not yet, but we’re not the only ones fighting for international protection of this place. That one German geologist was lobbying for the Tibesti to be recognized as a natural and cultural UNESCO World Heritage site.”

“We don’t know how long that is going to take. Plus, Chad is under a lot of international pressure to exploit their natural resources.” Tristan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to stay positive. “If we open the gates to Zerzura then they’ll have to protect it. Right?”

Kevin did not respond, his gaze remained fixed to the west on a developing cloud bank.

“Kev?”

“I think we need to get moving into that canyon,” Kevin said as he whipped around. “I mean now!”

“What? Why?” Tristan found himself slow to uptake the implications of Kevin’s panic even as his eyes laid bare the truth.

“Sandstorm!” Kevin barked as he ran forward with surprising speed for his squat frame. He gathered up his camera while donning a pair of sand goggles and began taking photos.

With alarming rapidity, the wind jumped from a gentle whisper to a roaring howl, whipping up grains of dust and sand. Tristan re-wrapped his tagelmust and risked another glance towards the west, where the sand clouds had turned into a roiling mass which began to mask the failing light.

The porters were becoming frantic, reloading the little equipment they had removed from their camels, shouting and urging one another to move faster. Toubou men understood what it meant to be caught in a sandstorm without shelter. Disorientation, blindness, suffocation, and death.

Kevin ran back with his camera in hand, snapping more photographs of the oncoming maelstrom. “Bloody good shots here! Never expected to see one so deep in the mountains.” He was forced to shout as the wind's intensity picked up.

“Thought you said we had to go,” Tristan yelled back.

“Can't miss this opportunity, I'll catch up, don't worry.” He continued to blaze away with his camera. “A sandstorm in the mountains! Spectacular!”

It was unnatural for such a large storm to strike so far from the sand seas outside of the Tibesti mountains. Tristan’s sense of unease deepened; something was off about this.

The grains began biting at their exposed skin with increasing intensity, like thousands of unrelenting flies. The porters were jogging with their mounts into the relative safety of the ravine. Their apprehensive looks made Tristan think they should do likewise. The wall of sand was bearing down on them as if the desert had risen up to overthrow the invasion of modern man and hide its secrets forever.

“Kevin!” Tristan took his heavy friend by the arm and started pulling him away. “We’ve got to move!”

A sudden furnace hot gust of wind punched into them, forcing the pair back a step beneath the assault. Kevin’s eyes widened behind his sand goggles as the precariousness of their situation dawned on him. With one more snap of his camera, he began to retreat towards the last of the porters. Tristan made to follow his friend when he caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He paused his flight and scanned the rock outcrops high above the ravine's mouth. In the face of the deteriorating visibility he could make out the vague shape of an animal slinking between the boulders and pinncacles. Probably just a Barbary sheep, one of the few creatures to call the desolate Tibesti home, but it did not help to ease his suspicion.

Tristan again shrugged off the strange feeling and ran ahead, reaching the protective embrace of the rough sandstone walls. The enraged howl of the wind and rumble of thunder echoed between the rocks as cool darkness closed in around him. Buttresses of sheer rock stretched hundreds of feet into the darkness on either side bufferning the interior from the sandstorm’s full strength. The storm shattered the retreating sunlight and natural dusk added its weight to the supernatural gloom of the canyon.

When his eyes adjusted to low light Tristan realized he was alone.

“Kevin?” He called out, seeking a sign of his friend or their party. “Hassan!” Nothing. No response. Maybe they could not hear him over the echoing tumult, but how could they have gotten so far ahead? He had only been a few seconds behind. They should have all been waiting just within the opening as there was plenty of protection from the wind and sand. Hasan may have just been overly cautious and moved them in deeper, but Tristan thought he should have heard someone or seen some signs of their passing.

Tristan delved deeper into the canyon to seek some answers. He kept his right hand along the southern wall as a guide, pausing now and then to listen for his companions. It took several minutes before he heard a muffled yell in the void along with the panicked bleating of camels. The others must have been separated in their haste to escape the storm and were now trying to regroup. With the limited visibility they had probably just lost sight of one another and wandered up side canyons to wait for better conditions. There was some solace to be found in that simple explanation, even when his mind tried to suggest the worst. Hassan and Kevin would have attempted to keep the expedition together, unless they too had gotten lost. In which case he had better try and catch up and get them organized before more people wandered off.

When he went to step forward his foot tangled on something solid, yet yielding, sending him sprawling face first onto the sand. He spit sand out of his mouth as he rolled over onto his back to catch his breath. Massive stone walls on either side of him stretched hundreds of feet into shadow. The near stygian darkness was almost like being in a cave, so it was no wonder he did not even see what had tripped him.

In his haste to find the others, Tristan had forgotten that he had a flashlight in his bag. He laughed at his own foolishness and fished the flashlight out and clicked it on, illuminating the darkness with the crisp white LED light. He swung the beam back to where he tripped and the laughter died in his throat. Through the motes of sand and dust he saw it. A body.

The grisly ruin of a human body, the sand around churned up and soaked with blood.

“Jesus Christ!” Fear and panic rose in his gut as Tristan crawled over to see who the poor bloke was. He turned the body over revealing a series of massive lacerations extending from the tattered remnants of Hassan's throat to the grotesquery of his chest. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He looked away and closed his eyes, driving down the fear, knowing he couldn’t stop now.

Tristan jumped to his feet and scanned the surrounding darkness with his light. The search yielded two more bodies, both having met the same horrible fate of Hassan. His heart was beating as if he had just run a marathon; cold sweat trickled down his back. He was on the verge of taking his chances with the sandstorm when the sharp crack of gunshots reverberated down the canyon.

Someone was alive out there.

Tristan hardened his resolve and stole forward to the other bodies. He needed a weapon if he wanted a chance in hell of saving someone, including himself. He didn’t even know what he was saving them from. Rooting through their satchels produced an old revolver with a handful of cartridges. Tristan stuffed them into his pocket and checked the revolver cylinders for ammunition. Six eyes of loaded brass stared back at him from the chambers. It was loaded.

The reassuring weight of the revolver in his hand was the final dose of courage he needed to propel him towards the gunfire. Tristan jogged ahead, holding his flashlight in his offhand and the revolver in his right. The steep rock walls of the narrow ravine slanted imperceptibly upwards and a small dry river channel ran along the northern wall. The defile stretched for a few hundred meters before giving way to a more open amphitheater of stone. The open ceiling allowed the raging winds of the sandstorm to claw their way back down below the cliffs.

Tristan entered the tempest, hunching low against the powerful wind and stinging sand. The air was alive with static electricity and jagged bolts of orange-hued lightning lit up the night. Tristan could feel the energy tingling against his skin. He only made it a couple yards when he saw a flash of movement to his right. It was quick, a deeper shadow moving within the storm, but the profile looked human. A very large one. Had anyone in their party been so large? Tristan could not be sure so he grasped the wooden handle of the revolver tighter and pushed on, head held low.

A few more yards produced the prostrated form of another porter, his throat a ragged bloody mess. Tristan stopped dead when he heard a low menacing growl from beyond the veil of flying sand. He swung his flashlight back and forth, revealing several pairs of luminous eyes. The sudden bright light made the creatures vanish back into the veil, as fast as they had appeared. Their silent retreat denied him any evidence as to their identity, but Tristan knew their purpose. They were hunting him.

Tristan broke out in another cold sweat knowing that these creatures were stalking and killing off the expedition members one by one. The camels, the porters, Hassan, and Kevin. His friend. They were probably all dead and he was next. It was all too much, the panic that had been threatening now overwhelmed him and Tristan Beaumont ran for his life.

He fled headlong into the rock amphitheater, heedless of the storm and oblivious to the secrets it held. Shadows rushed along at his left and right, trying to flank him and finish him off. Or were they herding him? Fear overwhelmed instinct and the pistol clasped in his hand remained silent.

Tristan reached the other side of the amphitheater and slowed, struggling to catch his breath through the cloth of his head scarf. He leaned against the rock wall panting, his sweat soaked clothes clinging to his skin. His eyes burned and watered from the dust, but through the obscurity of sand and dusk he saw the haunting figures of man and beast, dark giants emerging from the diminishing storm.

Tristan stood terrified, like a cornered animal ready to make a last stand knowing that escape was now impossible. Maybe he should have listened to his Father, if he had he wouldn’t be in this mess. He wasn’t ready to die, alone and lost in the desert. He had to fight.

Tristan remembered the revolver and raised it in his trembling hand, aiming from the hip for the nearest man. The figures stopped, as if responding to his threat, waiting for Tristan to make the next move.

Or so he thought.

Warm liquid droplets spattered on the back of his neck from above. Tristan reached back with his freehand, tentatively touching the spot. When he pulled it back, his fingers were smeared in crimson. As he took in the realization, something dropped to the ground with a sickening wet thud. It bounced twice and rolled through the sand before coming to rest at his feet.

Tristan looked down at the object.

Kevin Sawyer's lifeless eyes stared up from his severed head. His face was frozen in a final scream of fear.

Before Tristan could comprehend the savagery, something massive collided with him. Massive claws sank into the flesh of his back, like meat hooks into a side of beef. Tristan screamed as he was driven to the ground and fiery pain ripped across his back. A deep, feral roar resonated through the air and was answered with a primordial intensity from every direction.

Tristan was pressed to the sand beneath the enormous weight of his attacker, his pistol was beyond reach. Not that it would do him any good now. The shock and pain made his head swim and his vision waver, but he could discern the shadowed figures of men stepping into the circle of light made by his flashlight.

His last sight was of man and beast standing together. Of massive fangs and slavering jaws coming towards his head. Then pain erupted in his skull and the world went black.

Quinn Chapman is an adventurer and treasure hunter, seeking a new adventure in the dusky streets of New Orleans.

When Quinn seeks out his old partner in crime, Jean Pierre, he finds him murdered on the floor of his apartment clutching a note scrawled with Egyptian hieroglyphics and surrounded by black scorpions.

Now, with the help of a mysterious woman and a scientist, Quinn must solve the mystery of his friend's death in a race against a ferocious enemy to find an oasis lost to the sands of time.

Sunlight glared off the silvery metal skin of the fuselage, casting it's blinding light into the interior of the DC-3 as it descended into the sea of sand below. Whipping winds of the Saharan blast furnace fired an unceasing burst of quartz shot against the glass portholes. Quinn Chapman rested with his fedora over his green eyes, ignoring the scorching heat that baked the passengers like loaves of white bread. He was no stranger to the deadly beautiful sand seas of Egypt.

A veteran of half a hundred desert campaigns, fighting for the foreign legion and the lords of the deserts. He was a hard boiled man of adventure, seeking his fortune in the most dangerous parts of the earth. He was smooth when he had to be, but he preferred to live on the rough, wearing iron, drinking hooch, and dallying with a ripe tomato from the clip joint.

Quinn snuck a peak out from under his hat at his travelling companion. Miss Eva LaRue, was no ordinary club canary. Sure she had the silky blonde hair and voluptuous looks, but there was an inner fire and determination to her that proved unequivocally that the fairer sex was equal to any task set before them. Quinn liked that about her, maybe more than he should have.

Eva glanced his way with almond eyes of lapis, catching him in the act. "Good, you're awake. As soon as we land I suggest we make tracks before Mueller's goons find us."

"You think those thugs are already here?"

"Possibly. Mueller's organization seems to have agents everywhere these days. Especially in their enemies territories."

Quinn nodded. He had heard the rumors of a new power rising in Germany and some of them were downright insidious. Their supposed obsession with the occult was being validated with him right now. Mueller and his cronies sought the power of the Was scepter of Anubis. Power for power's sake.

Quinn wanted revenge and the gold, not power. He never used to believe in the curses or fairytales of ancient Egypt, told around the campfires to while away the evening hours. That was until he saw his friend, Jean Pierre, dead and surrounded by the ebony carapaces of scorpions. Scorpions which could only be found in the Oases of the Egyptian desert. A shiver travelled down his spine as the temperature dropped in the plane with the mere thought of the shimmering ruins of Arnak.

Quinn tipped back his hat and reached an arm, corded with sinewy muscle, across his chest to pat the cold iron resting in it's shoulder holster. "Don't worry about the Germans, I can handle them."

Eva raised a delicate eyebrow. 'I'm not sure it's the Germans I have to worry about."

This dream happened years ago and I will never forget how vivid and engrossing it was. I may not remember all of the details, but I know it was right up my alley and played out like an old pulp fiction lost world story.

A party of modern day explorers are cutting their way through the thick tangles of foliage in the western side of the Amazon basin. They are following the directions of their native guide as he leads them to a lost world hidden beneath the earth.

After an arduous ascent into the foothills, of what I must assume were the Andes Mountains, the party finds a vertical cavern shaft boring away into the rock, illuminated by some inner light. Their native guide is scared to death and will go no further. The party, lead by a stereotypical macho adventurer (i.e. me as I see myself hahaha), chocks their guide's fear up to superstition and begin to deploy climbing ropes and gear.

When the ropes are secured, the Adventurer demands to go first to establish the "beachhead" in this lost world. He descends the rope, rappelling into the shadowy unknown.

The descent quickly passes out of the rocky tube into a massive open cavern, stretching far out of the reaches of his vision. Heat and humidity reflect off the shimmering sea of prehistoric foliage spreading below. In the hazy distance he can discern massive pillars of rock hold the roof of the dome, the floor of the continent aloft. Water cascaded down from cracks in the cathedral, bathing the shimmering landscape is mist. Through the wall of mist he sees the great remnants of some lost civilizations, massive squared step stone pyramids rise up from the emerald tangle below.

The adventurer lowers himself hundreds of feet until he lands on terra firma. He scans the area for danger, before relaying to the others. The hairs on the back of his neck are raised and tickling, there are no predators near. Some unseen danger. But what lives here?

On the surface the rest of the party begin to lower equipment and supplies, followed quickly by the lead scientist. She is naturally intelligent, capable, independent, and beautiful. She is a stand in, and amalgamation of some girl or another that I was crushing on at the time.

The group is awestruck by the world below. The scientists cannot contain their enthusiasm for the myriad of prehistoric plant life that should not be possible. The Adventurers worries more about the animal life as well as sentient life and he tell the science team just that. They dismiss him, too caught up in their discovery.

When they are able to contain themselves, the party gears up and moves out, following the line set for them by the Adventurer. Cutting their way through the massive ferns and dangling vines the team makes their way in the direction of the massive ruins. Their first obstacle, a dark tannin-stained river, cuts its way across their path.

The adventurer deems the flow isn't strong enough to require a rope, but the murky water looks deep and there is something moving within its confines. The team watches and wait. When all seems quiet they prepare to cross. As the Adventurers steps to the shore the water froths with movement as some massive beast rises forth from the primordial waters.

The Adventures darts away from the water's edge, seeing the knurled scaled back of a massive crocodile push through the surface. Forty feet of reptilian fury pushes towards shore, but when it reaches the shallows the back keeps rising. It rises higher and higher, until the beast stands twelve bipedal feet above the ground. Water sluices off its massive scaled hide and the monster bellows its challenge to the outsiders.

The party is overcome with curiosity and fear, not knowing whether to observe the beast or run. No crocodile ever stood on two legs. Was this some unknown species from the past or an evolution of the species to the present? Did the crocodiles that survived the Cretaceous extinction migrated to this hidden world and continue down and evolutionary path that filled in for the dinosaurs?

The Adventurer, having been in more than a few hairy situations, uses his quick thinking to protect the others. If they cannot run, he will. Throwing up his hands and yelling draws the attention of the mighty beast. Now there is no choice, the Adventurer runs and the predator chase. He yells for the scientists the keep going and he will find them again, before he disappears into the green hell of the subterranean jungle.

The science crew is at a loss. Confusion, shock, fear, and undying curiosity mingle together. The Lead scientist rallies the group, telling them to trust the Adventurer because they hired him for a good reason, even if she is not herself sure he will be alive.

Here my memory becomes spotty on the details, but the expedition marches on into the wilderness until they encounter the ruins of a lost civilization. The builders constructed great, elevated walk ways and roads of stone between their massive pyramids, perched above the swamps like Roman aqueducts. The elevated walkways protected the people from the monsters they shared their world with. The gates to one of the pyramids, which served as a temple or coliseum, are flanked by massive Egyptian like statues of men with the heads of crocodiles. These lost people worshipped the crocodilian saurians as deities.

Finally, the Adventurer survives and reunites with the party. There is more, but I have forgotten it. It is a shame I did not write it all down immediately after dreaming it because this would be a great story for me to write.

I eased myself down into the cool worn leather of my writing chair, comforted by the familiar creek of cow hide. Before me was my Smith Corona, my real master in this life. My best friend and worst enemy wrapped up in a bundle of springs, plastic, and steel. Everyday she calls to me, beckoning anytime I am within sight of her. My guilt grows into anxiety when I don't spend enough time with her.

My anxiety keeps me away. I am a coward for my own judgement.

As I stare at my ineptitude of mortality, I snatch up the familiar crystal whiskey glass and drizzle into it some of Kentucky's finest. The amber warmth bolsters me, cuts my inhibitions, and allows me to be brave. Some chaps let the demon drink drive them to mad acts of bravado so that they might prove themselves to be men. Not me. My liquid courage is the pathway to confronting my own fears. Fears of failure and judgement.

I take a swig and let the strength percolate through my earthly body. Another. And another. I fill it again.

My head is swimming ever so slightly and ideas are pushing through the fog of inhibition and breaking through the distraction of everyday mundanity. I stop thinking and start writing. Fingers to keys. Clack, clack, clack, Ka-ching! The typewriter fires away, each stroke flawless as the keys slam stygian ink to ivory page.

Finally I confront my demons and banish them to the darkness from whence they came. I feel strong. I feel creative. Motivated. I can do this.

Another glass down. Another page written.

Fog coalesces again at the edges of my mental periphery. The drink, the damn demon drink! So strong and eye opening at first before it comes to claim the soul you promised it so that you can be free of earthly restraints.

There is always a caveat. Alcohol in moderation. Writing in moderation of alcohol.

Words no longer spring to mind at the blink of an eye. The keys stop their rhythmic clacking as more and more time is devoted to thinking of a word. Where the hell am I going with this?

All good things must end. I must quit while I am ahead and before I have a date with the porcelain lady. Already I know my headache is inevitable, that my day at work will be miserable. I find solace in the fact that I wrote a couple pages, made true progress.

I will be ready to do it all again tomorrow.

I eased myself down into the cool worn leather of my writing chair, comforted by the familiar creek of cow hide. Before me was my Smith Corona, my real master in this life. My best friend and worst enemy wrapped up in a bundle of springs, plastic, and steel. Everyday she calls to me, beckoning anytime I am within sight of her. My guilt grows into anxiety when I don't spend enough time with her.

My anxiety keeps me away. I am a coward for my own judgement.

As I stare at my ineptitude of mortality, I snatch up the familiar crystal whiskey glass and drizzle into it some of Kentucky's finest. The amber warmth bolsters me, cuts my inhibitions, and allows me to be brave. Some chaps let the demon drink drive them to mad acts of bravado so that they might prove themselves to be men. Not me. My liquid courage is the pathway to confronting my own fears. Fears of failure and judgement.

I take a swig and let the strength percolate through my earthly body. Another. And another. I fill it again.

My head is swimming ever so slightly and ideas are pushing through the fog of inhibition and breaking through the distraction of everyday mundanity. I stop thinking and start writing. Fingers to keys. Clack, clack, clack, Ka-ching! The typewriter fires away, each stroke flawless as the keys slam stygian ink to ivory page.

Finally I confront my demons and banish them to the darkness from whence they came. I feel strong. I feel creative. Motivated. I can do this.

Another glass down. Another page written.

Fog coalesces again at the edges of my mental periphery. The drink, the damn demon drink! So strong and eye opening at first before it comes to claim the soul you promised it so that you can be free of earthly restraints.

There is always a caveat. Alcohol in moderation. Writing in moderation of alcohol.

Words no longer spring to mind at the blink of an eye. The keys stop their rhythmic clacking as more and more time is devoted to thinking of a word. Where the hell am I going with this?

All good things must end. I must quit while I am ahead and before I have a date with the porcelain lady. Already I know my headache is inevitable, that my day at work will be miserable. I find solace in the fact that I wrote a couple pages, made true progress.

I will be ready to do it all again tomorrow.