Crypt Quest: Rising Darkness
The Trojan Horse
Screeching tires against the concrete landing strip brought Reese Hunter out of his window-seat, sky-bound reverie. The slim, mid-20s traveller had been daydreaming for a good while and, after snapping out of it, he came to realize his plane was landing.
The arm of his middle shade leather jacket creaked, slightly, as he reached for and felt the day of growth of stubble around his jaw. After an eternity of airborne trekking, topped with connecting flights in Istanbul and Ankara, the traveller was ready to return to Earth. His passage through the heavens meant time spent not working— at least not in the practical, mow-the-lawn sense and facilitated an equal measure of anticipation and strive.
"Ah, Turkey, your elusive harbour of beauty and culture is finally here," Reese narrated to himself, using more words than necessary.
The elderly man, next to him, turned in shared appreciation. "She's a looker, alright. The Ottomans sure did know how to pick 'em."
"Huh?" Reese snapped out of his second-level reverie, forgetting he was sitting with strangers. "Oh, right. In fact, humans have been living off these areas for centuries— dating all the way back to the Stone Ages; to Troy, to the Hattians to the Akkadian Empire, these lands have been occupied over and over again throughout time immemorial."
Blinking and lost, and now standing with bags hanging from his arms, the old man pointed contentiously. "I don't know what crazy nonsense, mumbo-jumbo you're talking about, but this land, here, is my land. You new-age troublemakers are nothing but trouble!"
"I'm not— I'm not taking over your country. I was just saying that civilizations come and go—"
The wrinkle-infested gentlemen was now walking down the main aisle, in line with the already-flow of exiting passengers, gaining distance, as he would have anyway. "You stay away from me! I'm telling my son about you!"
Reese now was blinking in much the same way the old man had been seconds ago: Lost and confused.
- - -
Stepping out of customs and into a sea of omni-directional welcomers, Reese began a visual scan for a sign of what to do next— a literal sign— specifically, one with his name on it. He had pre-arranged a meeting for his post-landing grind, and he recalled the pleasantly sounding woman over the phone as being quite helpful. In the meantime, he had no idea what she looked like and an unconscious part of him was curious about her.
"Reese?" her voice burst out from two hairy, multi-layer-dressed, overweight men.
When he looked at the two unshaven, burly gentlemen, he wondered if one of them was, in fact, Claire. No, of course not; but then again, maybe? ...Maybe?
"Can I help you?" one of the sweatshops interrupted, in a thick and deep Turkish accent. "We are not, how you say, 'interested' if that is what you look for. Though, we can help you in finding the right... person."
Confused and unsure how to respond, Reese began talking anyway, "I'm not—? Why would anyone—??"
"He's with me." Claire broke through, from behind and then between the two men and took Reese's arm. She led him out to behind the crowd, toward the front doors of Çanakkale Airport, where there was less of a flight-end horde.
Surprised, he found her abrasiveness quite interesting. Though, that wasn't the reason for this trip, and his drifting thoughts were clearly evidence of a long flight. "Claire Farhi? Nice to finally meet you."
"Likewise." She shook his hand. "The Touring Agency has prepared an extensive, informative and exciting itinerary for you. Your papers have gone through, your cheque has cleared, and I'm pleased that we could do business with—"
Reese cut her off, quick. "There's only one place I want to go: Hisarlik. I've been looking forward to seeing it the whole way here."
"It's just that, even for the small base fee you've paid, you're actually entitled to much more. While that spot is certainly on the trip, you must require a stop at your hotel first?"
Reese stretched his arms and lower-back, shaking off the last of his fatigue. "Nah. Maybe after. That run-in with those Turkish goons has gotten me all riled up." And then, noticing her shock, he attempted to explain: "Oh, 'rile' is a version of the Old French word 'roil', meaning to muddy-up, muck, rust—"
"That's not why I'm looking at you in disbelief, Mr. Hunter," she clarified.
- - -
Later, an old, hazy, near-death van; a blocky, third generation, beige Ford Transit, hitched down a dusty, barren road, bordered by trees, just east of a small town. The unimpressive transport was more than enough to top off Reese's travel needs, which acquiesced with his excitement and ambition.
Standing at the already-open side door— which Reese opened— getting his first glimpses at the area, the van slowed to a stop. Its driver, a burly Turkish man, watched as Reese stepped out and was followed by Claire.
"Fascinating. I never actually thought I'd see this place," Reese admitted, betraying his chances as he looked around.
Claire and Reese made their way up the stone-littered hill and Claire began narrating: "Welcome to the ancient city of Troy, Mr. Hunter. What you're seeing here are the remnants of what is believed to be the last pieces of a long, forgotten war."
"I love it," Reese replied in continued awe. He began examining the ancient stone walls along the circling path and as he made a turn, Claire was forced to follow. "Though I heard the actual location of Homer's Troy, if there really was one, has been in dispute for years."
The Tourism Director flipped through her handbook, for facts to counter with. "Indeed! But, in all veracity, most scholars agree this is the most likely place."
"Agreed," he continued, with his eyes trained to the brick layout. "But then again, truth is temporary." By now Reese had stopped their stroll and was feeling around the stone walls, in search of something.
Claire furrowed her brow, suddenly trying to figure out what he was doing. "Lose something, Mr. Hunter?"
"Actually, a fairly unknown, small, ancient bronze box, that I discovered a Russian museum was in possession of recently, contained a description of this very spot. It was telling of an odd and specific-shaped brick that stands out from the rest."
The Director dropped her arms, which were holding the tourism book she was reading from. "You're not making any sense?"
"Huh? Oh, sorry. I tend to ramble," Reese confessed, turning to her. "To be honest, now that we've arrived, I should be okay on my own."
She squinted as he went back to his sleuthing. "But I haven't even gotten through the first page yet?"
"Oh, I'll be fine, Ms. Farhi. Thank you for the ride and the company," Reese asserted.
Claire hesitated, having been caught off guard by the compliment. "Well— Wait. What are you doing? I can't allow you to alter the site in any way?" Her threats came off more unconvincing than she intended.
"I just," Reese more or less mumbled, distractedly feeling around, "Need to..." And that was it. The oddly shaped brick he read about: "Need to know..."
Then: Applying significant pressure through moving the stone down, slightly, caused a resulting multi-brick-grinding sound to emanate from beneath the walls. A section of the wall, near to them, opened up, revealing small steps leading to a dark and unseeable compartment, underground.
Both, now in shock and awe, stared nearly speechless at the new discovery before them. "Well, that's a relief," Reese breathed, whole-heartedly reflecting his claim. "For a second, I thought I'd spent all this money and time getting here for nothing. I literally emptied my bank account at that kuru fasulye stand, two hours ago."
"What... What did we just do...?" Now it was Claire's turn to mumble, unfocused. "This isn't allowed at all? Who just does what you just did—?"
But Reese was already beginning to examine the opening.
"You're no better than those men from earlier," Claire continued. "Robbing society of its natural order. They don't represent the whole of the Turkish people in any way at all."
Finding the opening, Reese began to realize he could fit himself through it. "I'm not that impressionable, Ms. Farhi," he replied, forwardly. "And I'd like to think of my efforts as practical, based on observation, in order to cater to a greater curiosity."
"Curiosity? Curious about what?" she questioned, clearly unconvinced.
Reese began squeezing himself down the steps. "About what I don't know, Ms. Farhi— About what the world doesn't know."
- - -
Making his way down the tiny steps, Reese pulled out a pocket-sized, weak, battery-powered lamp and held it before him. The small room lit up, faintly, revealing cobwebs, dirt, and insect life all over the walls.
Claire made her way down and found the two of them forced to bend slightly at the close ceiling. At the end of the tiny room was a rectangular green box lying on the floor before them.
"It's got to be a coffin," Reese surmised.
But before he could continue, the voice of another man, the driver of the Transit, carved its way in from outside. "It'll be your coffin if you're not careful, Mr. Hunter."
"Emir?" Claire turned to see him stepping down into the room with them. "I thought you were staying in the car?"
But Emir took out a revolver and aimed it at Reese. "Like the camels of Turkey, my existence has become a lie. Bu bir yalandır." He then addressed his intentions. "Oh, there's nothing to be afraid of, Claire. I've been working undercover at your business for some time. My orders were to monitor tourists for anything out of the ordinary."
"Dude. We shared bean soup together?" Reese interjected in mostly shock.
Emir moved Claire behind him. "I'm not going to say that wasn't good fasulye, but these were my orders— and I've been literally doing nothing for, like, ever. A Turk gets antsy, you know."
"Look, I'm not a threat here. I firmly believe these findings belong to the world. I've got the Instabul Archeological Museum on speed dial." Reese pulled out his cell phone, which indicated a dead battery.
The driver shook his head. "Whatever!" and then continued: "I've been given orders to investigate what people find through their sacrilege, so, we're going to open that casket."
"What??" Claire dropped her book and grabbed the gun-toting arm. "None of us should be touching anything!"
Reese relaxed and gave the man an odd look. "Talk about sacrilege. Also, that seems an irregular request for a man of authority, Emir. You sure about this?"
"Just do as I say!" He pushed his gun forward in the air, aggressively. "What are those markings on the top?"
With arms up, the young adventurer turned and approached the coffin to look at what Emir was referring to. As promised, the dim light revealed what was already poorly lit from a small distance to begin with: Etchings that appeared to be a message. At the edges of the entire lid, were depress-able squares with engravings on their faces; almost like labelled buttons.
"This appears to be cuneiform script," Reese observed, bringing down his arms. "Unfortunately, I can't read it; at least, not confidently." But that wasn't going to stop him: He attempted calculating what he could perceive, his head grasping to the several late-night study sessions he put himself through before leaving the safe haven that was home.
The task was a clear struggle.
"Something... Uggh. Something about the King regretting his son's heart?" Reese squeezed out in a sort of mental constipation. "The symbols around the lid might be names; relatives, maybe?"
Emir walked over, still aiming the gun at Reese. "Forget it. You're taking too long. Let's just open it." He attempted to lift the lid, but a hidden spike popped out, piercing his hand. "AUGH!"
"Booby-trapped," Reese observed as Emir pulled away, who instantly tried shaking the pain off his injured hand.
His other hand pushed the gun into Reese's shoulder. "Then you do it!"
"Hmm." Reese turned to the problem and his previous train of thought, though, this time, with less of a gross parallel. "Could this be King Priam's death bed? The last King of Troy?" And then, "Wait. No. The large etching near the center is saying something along the lines of... 'servant' or 'sacrifice'." He examined the smaller names, edging the lid. "Atus? Evander?"
Then Claire interrupted. "This is ridiculous. Troy is a myth. There's no actual evidence it was a city?"
"Tell that to Emir's blood-spilt extremity," Reese countered. "—Ah, of course!" He snapped his finger in excitement. "These are Priam's children. This coffin must be an expression of his regret for the coming war. He must've predicted it?"
Claire watched in confusion as he quickly began scanning all the etchings. "What? What are you going on about??"
"The King of Troy," Reese replied, thinking too fast to be totally clear. "This entire section was secretly made as a tribute to him by his own devotees. They wanted to express how they felt the King felt. His connection to his sons— one son, in particular, is a reflection of that." He then stopped his finger over the Hittite script he barely recognized. "—It's who kidnapped Helen, causing the Trojan War."
She shook her head in disbelief of the whole situation. Then she put it together. "Paris of Troy?"
"Exactly," Reese replied. "This looks to be the closest symbol to that: Pari-Zitis."
Emir was busy wrapping his bleeding hand with a torn-off piece of his shirt but seemed to agree with the general consensus, "Yes. The King's son caused the Trojan War by sleeping with the enemy."
Pressing the piece down, Reese caused a locking mechanism to disengage. Spikes popped out throughout the entire coffin, except the area he pressed, thus his own hand was saved from a similar fate.
"Alright. You've been quite helpful, thank you." Emir re-trained his Beretta with his newly wrapped hand, prompting Reese to move out of the way. Emir took Reese's place and began low-lifting the spikey-lid off with the other limb. "Who would build something like this?"
The heavy platform more or less dragged over, slowly, with the painful, metallic-pitch sounds of bronze screeching against itself.
"Someone who doesn't want the likes of you accessing what Priam's followers hid. And, speaking of yourself, why don't you help us out?" Reese re-targeted his attention. "Tell us who you're working for."
Shifting the lid over began to reveal what looked like treasure inside: Chains, rings, goblets, bracelets...
"Why should I? You're just a tourist. You think you can just come into our country and take whatever you want? You have no validity here." And then, "Your ego disqualifies you!" Emir struggled the remainder of the lid off and one end of it fell to the ground.
Inside, drenched in a pool of Trojan treasure, was a decaying skeleton— The next thing Emir saw was a mechanism-induced puff of lethal dust, blasted out of the coffin and into his face.
"UGGHH!"
The driver grabbed his face and fought, desperately, to see. Reese took the opportunity to aggressively force-palm Emir into the bug-infested wall. The Beretta revolver dropped to the floor and when Emir's eyes hazed half-open, he saw what appeared to be giant centipedes, spiders and ants crawling onto his shoulders.
"Aahh!"
He struggled as Claire took over in push-reintroducing him to the creepy bug-bath.
"You bastard! I'm trying to run a business here! I took out a loan, last month, just to pay you!" The tour guide continued to keep the struggling, hand-pierced, dust-infused, insect-drenched thug in his place— thus elongating the shock— unknowingly allowing Reese a closer look at the carcass, pooled-artifacts.
This is amazing. The Russians were right about all of it. Who knew hoarding treasure had its benefits? And, speaking of gains, the world needs to see this. Reese's thoughts were interrupted when suddenly a bronze amulet, around the neck of the skeleton, caught his eye. On one side: cuneiform Luwian etchings which appeared to translate 'undefeatable' and 'weapon'. Flipping it over, the other side showed a horse glyph.
"How dare you? I'll kill you!" Emir, regaining his cognition, with blood-shot, maddening eyes, pushed her to the floor. He then pulled out a knife from his belt and instinctively moved for her— But Claire picked up the dormant firearm and shot Emir in the shoulder.
BANG!
The thug grasped his immediate wound in pain, losing balance from the sheer momentum of the shot. He slammed back against the wall and then sideways to hit the floor with his ammunition-filled extremity cushioning the impact.
"Uarrghh!!"
Reese quickly examined Emir's remaining threat-level— none— and then turned his attention to Claire. "I'd ask if you were alright, but it looks like you can handle yourself." They both shared a moment of relief. "Are you okay?"
"Is this what you do, Mr. Hunter?" she replied, quite adept at the paradigm now, as Reese helped her to her feet. "You break into catacombs and take out the bad guys?"
The traveller smirked as they moved to exit the chamber. "I'm not the sharpshooter here. Not to mention, we learned quite a bit: Confirmation on King Priam, himself, and Paris from Troy. —That being said, interested in another quest?"
"It certainly does seem glamorous, if not, incredibly illegal, egotistical and defiant of scientific procedure— But I'm afraid my business has to come first; clearly, as I've just lost my driver," Claire finished as they squeezed through the exit, one by one.
- - -
Reese nodded, whilst they both got to their feet and dusted themselves off. "I understand. It's not exactly what you write home about. And, if you'll understand, I have to get going now. Something I wasn't expecting has come up."
"Uh, yeah. Emir being an antiquities looter," she exclaimed quite obviously as she followed him out to the parking area. "As soon as he started pulling that lid off himself, I realized he wasn't with any authorities."
He half-smiled, fearful of the revelations he decrypted in that coffin just minutes before. "He certainly wasn't. But don't worry, like you said, a few thugs don't represent the whole of Turkey." They approached the rusted Ford where Reese mounted the driver's seat.
"So, you're taking his truck? Seriously?" Claire looked at him in disbelief. "Fine. Whatever," she conceded with more important things to worry about. She took out her cell phone. "I'm still calling the police on our gun nut. Not that that's unusual for this place."
The traveller nodded, starting the junker up. "Thanks, and sorry; I'll leave the truck at the airport for you." He gazed at her lost expression and smiled. A near miss was more than she expected today. "Next time I'm in Turkey, I'll call you."
"Tell me, Mr. Hunter," Claire cut in as he was backing out of the spot. "Did you satisfy that curiosity of yours?"
Reese paused himself and the truck for a moment. In that temporary, half-second of time, Reese fell deep within his own consciousness: a part of him unsure at what he'd actually gotten himself in to. He glanced at the Trojan amulet in his other hand, which remained beyond her sight.
"No," he replied. "I only made it worse."
At that, he and the square van took off in a cloud of tossed up dust, venturing away toward the unknown.