LITMIR.BIZ

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of office romances. At home his wife and son were waiting for him, and Leah turned out to be a real ice statue. She didn’t like men at all, but she was not a lesbian either. She is asexual, like most scientists, who so much burden the brain that the attraction to carnal pleasures disappears. In addition, Leah did not abuse her connections at embassies and consulates. This means, as from a girlfriend, there will be no benefit from her. She also preferred not to disturb the police, holding a weapon for self-defense near her sleeping bag. She is ready to attack the camp. But Neil did not want to become a victim of robbers or terrorists.

      He thought that by evening he would reach the settlements. It wasn’t like that. The city of the dead did not seem to let him go. All around are dunes and pyramids. Wherever he went, the road either turned back, or stretched forward indefinitely.

      He probably turned the wrong way. When the whole expedition got to the excavation, it took much less time than now. Doesn’t he know how to use a navigator? It was also difficult to navigate the map. It seems that he was driving in the right direction and would have continued driving if the gasoline had not run out.

      It was getting dark. Neil had to get out of the comfortable car and walk. Leah was probably right when she didn’t want to let him go. Cellular communication has been interrupted. Neil was left trapped in the sands alone.

      The time was too late to receive sunstroke. The sun is no longer at its zenith. It’s getting dark too fast in the desert. So why does he have the feeling that his brains are melting from the sun? A figure in red flickers between the dunes. A monstrous face flickers under the red hood.

      It seemed to Neil that real gold jewelry and coins were sparkling in the sand under his feet, but leaning over he found only bones there. He hoped they weren’t human.

      Are jackals or some other predators roaming around here? He hadn’t heard the howl yet, but it got dark instantly. The constellations that poured out in the sky resembled bizarre inscriptions.

      “Go to the session,” someone whispered. “There are many cinemas. They have films about us.”

      If anyone was around, Neil would have punched him. How can you scoff at the unfortunate stray traveler like that?! He, of course, would like to sit in a comfortable chair, eat popcorn and quench his thirst with Coca-Cola. Only all this is impossible. After all, there are definitely no cinemas in the desert. They, for sure, are not present in most of the Egyptian cities. He didn’t check it himself, though. In Luxor he was passing through and did not see a single cinema there. And here lay the desert. It is located somewhere in the Valley of the Kings area, or at least not far from it. It is also called the City of the Dead, because the pharaohs were buried here for centuries. Each pyramid is a tomb, not just an exquisite museum for tourists. This should be remembered. The dead are all around. They must be respected. Well, robbers of royal tombs can also hang around here. Neil remembered them when he noticed something like a party near the opened tomb. A bright electric light poured from the opening that replaced the entrance. Someone inside was laughing. The dancing shadows resembled horned mythical creatures.

      Robbers don’t behave like that. Most likely this is an alien group of archaeologists who made an important discovery. And now they are celebrating. It’s worth joining them.

      He entered the pyramid and seemed to go to hell. A bloody mess was squelching underfoot. Either creatures, or jackals ate the remains of human bodies. Some bastards were crawling on the sand. Someone was drawing hieroglyphs on the floor. But the most terrible were the murders – real murders and tortures that he saw with his own eyes. A camera was working somewhere. Hence the light. Who has not heard of torture studios, where the real torture of the actors-victims is secretly filmed. And this happens not in some nook, but in dilapidated tombs, where tourists can appear during the day. Bloody debris flopped under his feet, clearly thrown from above. Something was crawling and groaning along the ceiling. The other dexterous creatures on the floor only vaguely resembled charred monkeys. They not only tormented the victims, but also devoured them alive. These are some kind of mutants, not otherwise. A whole horde of sand mutants. One beautiful creature among them nevertheless appeared. It bent over a completely opened and still living body, and cut it not with a knife or scalpel, but with its own claws. It sparkled like gold. All of it was completely phosphorescent, including the growth behind the back, like wings. Even the nails, sharp as knives, were gold. And the victim under them either lost his tongue, or could not scream.

      He was dumbfounded. This is a crime, not archeology. Even in the middle of a wild country, which he stubbornly believed today’s civilized Egypt, it is still a crime.

      “What are you doing?”

      The handsome creature chuckled, and the creatures under his feet giggled insolently, as if laughing.

      “Do not you see?” it raised a questioningly golden eyebrow. “We’re making a film.”

      He actually noticed several other portable cameras in the corners. One of them seemed to hang in the dark. Shooting is so shooting, but they are documentary. The bodies writhing in agony are not a fake. They are bleeding. The sand absorbs blood. The cameras work, absorbing the scenes of hell like a sponge.

      He did not have time to accuse anyone out loud of murder and sadism, but the handsome creature answered his unspoken question with the same mockery:

      “Art requires sacrifice, as you can see.”

      How easily it altered the meaning of established earthly expressions.

      Not such victims, he wanted to say. Although it depends on what art to keep in mind. Something hellish was filmed here.

      He didn’t have time to guess, because the golden creature finished with its victim and was there. Long gold nails reached out to his chest.

      Demon’s role

      Russia, center of Moscow

      It was pouring rain. Denis quickly clicked on the automatic button on the iron handle, opening an umbrella of a low-key shade. It is strange that it is during the rain that such freshness emanates from the city asphalt, as if you are in nature. If you close your eyes, it seems that there is a meadow all around, and the concrete walls smell of green grass.

      Today is a non-standard evening. He goes to a press conference to criticize another arrogant celebrity (far from the first on his long list of debunked movie idols). Why, instead of sober thoughts, he is haunted by illusions? He never drinks during work hours, so where do the visions come from? He sees a fantastic meadow of sedge, reeds and ears of rye, and suddenly a flame falls from the heights of heaven, as if a dragon had died on the field. A huge fire burns out both grass and ears, and the entire surrounding nature. And something bursts out of the ground that has fallen asleep under the meadow, as if under a grassy cap. This polyphonic and multi-armed something has claws and wings.

      Denis almost suffered a heartbeat when he noticed that smoke vapors were hovering between the rain streams. How like dragon breathing!

      Stop! He is old enough not to believe in fairy tales, and the critic’s education makes him look at the world extremely realistically. There are no dragons or winged figures. The fairy with wings that he sees in the alley is just a play of shadows.

      And so it turned out upon closer examination. As soon as Denis came closer, all illusions were dispelled, but he was shocked all the same. The movie star herself, whom he was in a hurry to meet, stood under the canopy of a gloomy building and smoked. Athenais was alone. Exactly the same as on the screen. There were no bodyguards or press agents with her. There was no cigarette in her fingers either. She probably managed to put it out and throw it out. But she still exhaled the smoke. This he took for the breath of a dragon.

      The smoke was atypical for cigars with an orange hue and sparks. The smell is also not tobacco at all.

      “It seems that smoking on the streets of Moscow is prohibited,” Denis reminded cautiously. Such a law really existed, but was almost never observed, because lazy law enforcement officers

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