Whiteout ReWrite II-1 (Empty Slopes) [Part 2 of 2]

Snow began to fall, and Nick knew that the storm was getting closer. Rather than worry, he busied himself by trying to figure out more about the masked men. Silver masks probably means they’re in some kind of cult or secret society. This would not have been all that out of the ordinary for Nick, as he had tangled with cults before. Once, on a trip to the Hawaiian Islands he had lost an assistant to a volcano sacrifice. He still feared their reprisal when they inevitably found out that his assistant hadn’t been a virgin after all, but those were problems for another time.

     Watching the masks of his captors shine in the moonlight, Nick could not help feel that they looked familiar. Where have I seen that before? None of it fit together. Their accents sounded Russian, but the masks looked like they were from somewhere further east. They contained both elements of Samurai and Mongol war masks. Nick’s head began to ache the more he thought about it, and he decided to focus his thoughts elsewhere.

     Snow continued to fall around them, growing heavier as the storm moved down the mountain. Hopefully they can get us to their hideout before we all freeze to death. Secretly Nick hoped that they would be the type of kidnappers who shared drink with their hostages. They had all bundled up tightly with the gear that James had stolen, but being caught in a blizzard wouldn’t bode well for any of them. It would be disorienting, and he didn’t want to contend with hypothermia for a second time in the same week.

     They walked for about an hour, winding their way up the mountain path, and eventually leveling off at a rocky ravine. The moonlight threw long shadows off the rocks, adding to the already impenetrable darkness. Nick had the feeling that he was being watched by thousands of eyes. Every so often, chittering sounds echoed off the rock walls, but their captors did not seem bothered by them. After a few minutes of walking through the ravine, small fires began to illuminate deep pits in the rocks, casting long lines of orange light across the path ahead of them.

     Ahead of them, path ended abruptly in a towering cliff face. Carved into the massive slab of rock was a tall, stone door. Symbols from cultures around the world had been etched onto its surface. Nick could make out Hieroglyphics, Kanji, Sanskrit, and several other languages that he did not recognize. The door was open just a crack, and bright, red light shone from within.

     As they approached, fires shot up the sides of the cliff wall, illuminating large holes that seemed to run its entire length. From within these holes, more men with silver masks stared down at them. Out of nowhere, drums started up, and Nick began to question his assessment of their danger. It was a combination of the onlookers, and the fact that from the crack in the open door, he could feel an uncomfortable warmth spreading out. It felt unnatural in the cold mountain air.

     “We’re definitely in trouble,” he said quietly to Lopsang and James, as if they had not come to the same conclusion already. Their weapons were carried by the man on the right, who also happened to be the bulkiest of the three. Nick fancied himself a fighter when he needed to be, but did not engage in fruitless excercises. With everyone in the line packing an assault rifle, and the men on the cliffs also potentially being armed, trying to make a break for it was suicide.

     Meanwhile, James was shaking beneath his parka despite the warmth coming from the door before them. Chills wracked his body, and he had the sense that he was about to face his own death. This would have been unnerving, had he not experienced this feeling several times daily. All the same, the men on either side of him might as well have been pale riders carrying scythes in his eyes. Hoping that Nick wouldn’t see, he let out a mumbled prayer for safety.

Lopsang, in contrast, looked perfectly at ease with the situation they were in. If his arms had ever moved from his head, Nick would have sworn they would be swinging. The Sherpa looked more like a man taking an evening stroll than a captive. The calmness Lopsang showed did nothing but infuriate Nick, as he could only assume that there was some sort of double cross involved.

     Thoughts of treachery were wiped from Nick’s mind as the door in front of them swung slowly open with the creaking of impossibly large iron hinges. The red light spilled out from the twenty-foot doorway and where it hit, the fresh snow melted. Heat rocketed towards them, and Nick smelled the stench of sulfur. He began to sweat instantly. Who would have thought the hot breath of hell had been hiding in the Himalayas this whole time? he thought, wishing he could take off his outer layers without being shot.

     Beyond the door was a hallway, flanked on both sides by deep troughs filled with crackling flame. One misstep and they would become nothing but a crispy reminder of what used to be a human being. Nick had no desire to share the same fate as a piece of bacon, and watched his step. The drums grew louder as they moved farther away from the door.

     At the end of the hallway was a series of much shorter passages. Their captors took them down the middle one, and before long, Nick was hopelessly lost. What had been a vaulted ceiling quickly lowered to where Nick felt like he might scrape the top. Each offshoot looked exactly the same as the last, except for the few that Nick swore had been filled with flames.

     Eventually the passage they were in began to widen once more, they found themselves outside of a large iron gate. On the other side was more nondescript passage. The line of men stopped. One of them walked up to the gate nervously, knelt, and prayed. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of distant drums, echoing faintly from behind them. A set of dark pools below the gate’s twisted structure rippled with each beat.

     Suddenly, the kneeling man finished his prayer, pulled out a large knife, and ran it methodically across his wrist. He did not flinch, and Nick thought he saw the faintest grin on the man’s face. The cut was deep, and blood spilled fast into the pools below. The man waited, allowing blood to drain from his arm until he was satisfied with the sacrifice. He then wrapped his bleeding arm and stood up. Only then did the other men move forward to push the gates open.

     Definitely a cult then, thought Nick, trying to avoid how queasy the blood sacrifice had made him. Half of it came from the sight of a man slitting his own wrist, and the other came from the implications it had for Nick and his companions. Maybe we can convince him that we have tainted blood, he thought, hopelessly as they were led through the gate.

     They were led down another series of winding passageways and then after what felt like an hour, they emerged into a cavernous chamber lit with dim, red light. In the center of the room was a large stone dais, propped up by several statues that Nick could not make out. They all depicted the hulking form of a beast, but the darkness obscured their features. Similar statues were set around the room, ranging in size from knee height, to towering toward the high ceiling above them.

     The drums returned suddenly, and flames began to shoot up from recesses in the side of the room. In the sudden, harsh light, Nick could make out the statues in details. They were all slightly different, but depicted the same creature: A yeti. At the base of each was a small pile of bones. Nick thought some of the skulls littered across the floor were far too small to be adults.

     “Good day Dr Ventner,” said a booming voice from atop the dais. “We’ve been expecting you.”