The moon overhead was mockingly bright, filling the land with strange shadows. In Deke’s left eye, though, the way ahead was as clear as if it had been laid out in a painted line. Every piece of scrub that had been touched by Ol’ Sal’s tainted corpse, every rock knocked out of place stood out like a bleeding wound on the landscape.
Deke followed it deep into the desert, step after relentless step, refusing to be slowed by the exhaustion dragging at him. The book seemed to have grown heavier with the weight of the words added back to it. It pulled at him, attempting to slow his pace. Deke gritted his teeth and pressed on.
Hours passed. The moon rose higher and the stars slowly wheeled overhead. Still Deke followed the gruesome trail. Its wrongness never eased, but at one point Deke caught himself wondering: what if this was how things were supposed to be, and it was everything else that was wrong?
The idea was strangely compelling. Deke couldn’t fix this path, couldn’t change it back to the way it was. But he could bring everything else into alignment with it. The book would let him do that. A few simple words, some inscriptions—
Deke shook himself. “I don’t do your thinking for you,” he told the chill night air. “Don’t try to do mine for me.”
A dark shape loomed ahead, a black silhouette blotting out the stars behind it. Porfirio’s twisted monument drank in the night around it, refusing to reflect the moon’s light even as Deke grew closer. It had grown larger than when Deke had previously visited, and now stretched sixty feet or more into the air, its stones piled up in seemingly precarious towers.
Nothing about it felt haphazard, though. Every rock was exactly where it needed to be. Like the words from the book, the monument sat on reality like a heavy weight, slowly bending things around it.
Deke squinted at the structure, trying to grasp the shape of it. Even with the bloody shape of Reveal overlaying his sight, though, the total aspect eluded him. He paced around the base, considering it from every angle, but the parts did not add up to a coherent whole.
“Shoulda known I wasn’t gonna get this one from the outside,” Deke muttered. He hesitated for a moment, then slapped the book firmly against his thigh to spur himself forward. “Nothin’ for it. Let’s go on in.”
Hidden within the pillars of stone, Deke found the same narrow passage that Porfirio had led him along previously. He stepped inside, one hand trailing along the shadowed wall to keep from walking face-first into a rock.
Two steps in, Deke stopped, considered, and stepped quickly backward to the entrance. He opened the book, its blank page practically glowing in the moonlight, and set the point of his pencil against the page. He did not stop to consider where he should start. Beneath the weight of the monument, he could not have drawn it incorrectly if he had tried.
Forward Deke walked, book in his left hand, pencil in his right. Every step he took advanced the pencil a miniscule amount, tracing the shape of a word that was both map and territory, guide and location. He walked on, shoulder rubbing up against the wall for stability, light from the moon overhead illuminating the page. Deke kept his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead, letting his pencil trace its own slow dance across the page.
Slowly, the path lightened, shadows fading as a muted red glow began to come from the walls themselves. The torso-sized stones of the outside gave way to the large sandstone slabs Deke had seen before, the bone-white pillars rising between them like the arches of a cathedral.
The walls were redder than before, and wetter as well. A thick red liquid oozed slowly down them, causing strange ripples in the light. Channels scored the walls at erratic intervals, deep, wrist-thick gouges as if a monstrous chisel had bitten into the stone. Deke kept pencil pressed to paper and continued walking.
The path forked, then forked again. Deke chose directions at random, retracing his steps when he felt that the pencil was too eager to move with him, anxious for him to make a mistake. The words still did not want to be returned to the book.
Onward Deke walked, step by steady step. Time passed, or possibly stopped. The rooms and hallways Deke walked through grew gargantuan, cyclopean pillars supporting ceilings thirty feet or more above his head. The doorways dwarfed him, the lintels so far above his head that he would have had to jump to touch them. Each one was splashed with purple, a deep wine-colored stain marking his path forward.
A familiar stench hit Deke, the olfactory assault making his eyes water and the hallway ahead blur. It was the smell that had come from Ol’ Sal, the smell of the rot grubs. One of them was coming.
Deke dropped to one knee, balancing the book carefully across his thigh, pencil never leaving its place on the page. He reached awkwardly over the book and drew his gun with his left hand. He pointed it down the hallway and waited.
The smell grew worse, and finally a grub trundled into view. Like its surroundings, it had grown. It stood as tall as a horse, a rippling, doughy mass of pale flesh. It sped up as Deke watched, charging down the hallway as fast as he could run, intent on making him its next meal.
Deke fired, but the bullet simply vanished into its pulpy mass without even slowing the grub down. He shot it again, producing nothing but a slight spatter of pus from the back of the grub. It rushed onward.
The distance between them closed rapidly. Deke held his breath, steadied his aim and focused on remaining calm. When the grub was less than a dozen feet away, Deke fired his remaining four shots directly into the monstrosity’s blank face, each shot tearing the hole wider.
The beast’s momentum still carried it forward, and Deke stumbled backward, dropping his revolver to maintain his grip on the book. The grub slid to a stop, unmoving. A chunky, unhealthy goo drooled from the ruin of its body. Deke prodded it experimentally with his foot, but it gave no response.
He breathed a sigh of relief, then gagged and almost retched. The stench was overpowering. Deke quickly retrieved his revolver and hastened down the hallway, the smell lessening as he went.
A few corners later, Deke judged it safe to breathe again, at least shallowly. He knelt to balance the book again and checked his pockets. Only three bullets remained. Working with just one hand, Deke awkwardly loaded his gun and snapped the cylinder shut.
The stench began to rise again. Deke snapped his head up, searching out the source. It was coming from ahead of him, so at least the grub he had killed was staying dead. With only three shots remaining, though, it seemed like Deke might soon be joining it.
The book rustled slightly. Deke glared at it.
“Don’t think you’re pulling one over on me,” he said. “I know you ain’t on my side.”
Reluctantly, he flipped back through the pages, careful to keep his pencil exactly where it was. As the smell of the grub intensified, Deke reached up and rubbed his left hand against the bloody, oozing wall. It came away with a thick, clotted handful.
Eyes on the book before him, Deke carefully smeared the shape of Overlook across his chest. He finished, wiped his hand on his pants, and stood just as the grub came into view.
Deke pressed himself against the wall as it squirmed by. It was close enough that he could feel the heat from its pustulent body, but it never paused in its motion or registered his presence at all.
The symbol in the book was half-done. Breathing carefully through his mouth, Deke continued on, deeper into the monument.