I'm suffering from a seriously annoying back injury right now, but I REFUSE to spend all day laying in bed. So I figured, what the hell, I'll write about the Americans some more.

Three-part fic (because I refuse to post all this in one chapter) centering on Burns's incapacitation as seen from the points of view of all three Americans. My excuse for exploring their feelings on their situation a little more. :P

Title is taken from a quote by Edgar Allan Poe

Daniels, Burns, Henderson/The Mummy: (c) Stephen Sommers

Exquisite Horrors of Reality

Part 1 - Henderson

"There ain't no helpin' him, at least not here. I don't trust any of these damn doctors, not a one. Hardly speak a lick a' English, probably can't tell a scapula from a scalpel. No, he needs to see an American doctor."

He pinched the bridge of his nose exasperatedly, felt the start of a headache. "I agree with you, Daniels, but I don't see how waitin' 'til we get back home is gonna heal him any faster."

Daniels huffed, spun around on his heel and began to pace. "Well what else can we do? This God-fersaken place ain't got shit in the way a' proper medical care! Good thing it ain't a damn snake bite ailin' Burns. I'd hate to think which spot they'd choose to suck the venom outta."

Henderson cringed, didn't appreciate the graphic visual flashing in his mind. Not to mention he was sick of Daniels's neurotic resistance when it came to trusting physicians of any kind. "You're real lucky that Goddamn arm of yours is still intact. At least he ain't complainin' about his misery. Not that he can, since his damn tongue is gone." Then he narrowed a resentful scowl on his dark-haired friend. "Boy, I can only imagine if you were the tongueless one. You'd still find a way to cause a Goddamn racket!"

Daniels whipped his head around, matching Henderson's glare with his own. "This ain't about me, alright?" he snarled, rubbing absentmindedly at his wounded appendage.

"You're damn right it ain't," Henderson snorted, crossing his arms. "All arguin' aside, we really gotta get 'im home, right quick we do." His voice suddenly dropped, his eyes staring blankly ahead. "That's all we can do for him anyway."

He heard Daniels mumble something in agreement, his erratic pacing ceasing for the moment. Henderson was thoroughly shaken by what had happened to Burns, still very much wired with overwhelming anxiety and gnawing fear. The horrific state of being Burns was in came courtesy of a living, walking corpse, something that rose up from the very depths of Hell itself, taking the man's tongue and eyes as some kind of gruesome prize. All that talk of a curse, the stupid superstitions that ran rampant about Hamunaptra and its bloody history: they were all true.

Like his friend Daniels, Henderson had never been much of a believer in anything unless there was tangible proof of it. He thought about this as he sat inside the stuffy hotel room, trying to make sense of the events that were transpiring before his eyes. What could they do? Although they managed to get booked on a ship bound for the coast, it would not be departing until the next day.

Henderson knew that their incapacitated friend might not have one more day.

It frustrated him, knowing there was absolutely nothing he or Daniels could do to make the pain Burns was feeling any easier to bear. He knew basic first aid and quite a few outdoor survival techniques, but that was the extent of his medical knowledge. Nothing could prepare him for the raw horror he felt when he laid eyes (for lack of a better expression) on his injured partner.

He wouldn't say it to Burns of course, but he was genuinely frightened by the man's condition, and not just its physical consequences. Burns was a marked man. He was all the proof they needed in knowing that the hex on the chest was far from a bunch of fancy words strung together to get a scare out of some poor fools who believed in such nonsense. Henderson shuddered to think that he very soon could end up like Burns, the next victim of this dreaded curse.

He ran his hand through his hair, tangled and soaked in sweat, and tried clearing his head. The last thing he wanted to do was make himself crazy, much like what Daniels was doing at the moment. He stood up, hands in his pockets and his vision concentrated on the floor. Well, what do we do in the meantime? Is that...that Goddamn thing waitin' fer us out there? Are we as good as dead once we set one damn boot outside this compound? He shook his head hopelessly. Lord Jesus, what do we do?

He fought the urge to pace, knew that imitating Daniels's maddening habits would only speed up the mental breakdown he feared having. Instead, he coolly reached into his pocket, extricated the tin of tobacco chews he never went anywhere without, took out a sizable piece of the stuff and shoved it into his mouth. He let the smoky taste of it soothe him, felt his scattered wits collecting once more. He brought his head up, saw that his restless friend had started pacing again. There ain't no way in Hell I'm dealin' with this hysterical shit.

"Jesus, Daniels, give it a Goddamn rest, will ya?"