WITH THE LIGHTS OUT
CHAPTER 2
June
The moment June comes-to she rolls onto her side and vomits, as if that might expel whatever just entered her body. It feels as if a serpent forced its way down her throat and is lying coiled in her belly. She gags violently again, but her body has nothing left to give.
She's shaking badly and freezing, despite the heat. She just wants to curl up into a ball – as if that might contain what's inside of her – but she knows she has to get out of the cave.
She struggles to her feet, the metal clips on her harness scraping along the dusty ground. Her helmet lies cracked at her feet, the bulb intact. June picks it up with a shaking hand. She tries not to look at the cracked figurine – the head lying meters from the body – and rubs a hand at her throat reflexively.
She cannot pretend this hasn't happened. There had been something in there. Something in there that had entered her.
She feels sickened. Violated.
She wanted her body to be surgically opened and this thing to be removed; she can feel it now, nestled like a hard lump of coal beneath her heart.
She shivers and turns, the lamp-light illuminating the walls. Eyeless skulls stare back at her along with images she has not noticed before. Hieroglyphs? She has the presence of mind to quickly snap pictures of them before scrambling out of the abyss.
Out of the hole, June disengages herself from the rope. The sun has moved and she finds her part of the chamber bathed in light, dust eddies swirling in the air. She's dehydrated and the inside of her mouth tastes like stale vomit – she swills water round and spits. She should have been happy with her finding, but all she can feel is a primal fear. Her heart is beating much faster than she would have liked and she's broken out in a cold sweat. She doesn't want to make the seven day trek back through the jungle, but she knows that that is the only way out of this place.
With fumbling hands, June checks the pictures on her camera. The cave markings are tiny images – much like that of the Aztecs. She flicks through ten of them, but can barely think straight to start formulating any theories on what the etches mean. They never had figured out who this temple belonged to.
June stows her climbing equipment and camera back into her bag and leaves without a backward glance.
She stumbles across the plain, still feeling dizzy and sick. She tries to radio Marco but there's no reply. The sun tells her she has enough three hours at least until evening and scheduled contact.
Inside the jungle, her legs move her forward without any thought on her part. Camping becomes a living nightmare. The darkness seems to call to her unnervingly; deadly-looking insects and critters somehow find their way through the tent fabric. She wakes up one morning covered in centipedes.
She hardly sleeps, hardly eats.
On the fifth day of the trek back, June runs her sandpaper tongue over her gritty teeth. She knows she must look terrible; her hair unwashed, her face pale underneath the dirt and sweat. The stale air unnerves her, as does the fact that she now feels as if she can sense the forest. It thrums with energy, buzzes like it has a living, beating heart. Everything had somehow become more enhanced; the jewel tones of the jungle becoming brighter. She feels as if she can see the oxygen she breathes. Sense when the sky threatens rain.
Ever since she's detected a foreign entity in her body, she's become hyper-aware of her own. She can feel the push of her blood in her veins, the beating of her heart against her rib-cage. June develops a reflex for uneasily rubbing at her throat. Three times a day she attempts to heave up whatever is inside of her, but all that she ends up doing is losing her breakfast – making her progressively more exhausted as the days go on.
She's headed east from the temple – making for the nearest village. On the sixth day she stumbles out of the jungle, and that evening she staggers feebly down the dirt track towards the cluster of sandy, brightly coloured houses. It's incredible how quickly the terrain changes from humid jungle to scorched, rocky desert. June craves shade and sleep.
The sunset is flaring bright red as June enters the village, elongating shadows. There is a low periphery of noise: a motor in the distance, an old women breathing in a doorway as she watches June pass.
"Agua," June says hoarsely, to no-one in particular. "Please."
The villagers have stopped their evening activities and turn to watch the young American girl that has just stumbled out of the wilderness – who looks like death walking; who has the wild, desperate eyes of someone touched by the devil.
"Please," June begs, feeling dizzy.
A wide-eyed young mother clutches her toddlers to her and touches the sign of the cross on her chest.
June feels her legs collapse from underneath her, and she blacks out before she even hits the ground. It's like she's tumbling forward back into the pit. She feels a rush around her and her stomach drop. The thing inside her begins to move. The skulls surround her, spinning as she falls. The paintings on the walls emit human screams. She feels so dizzy, so scared.
And then a hand reaches out of the blackness for her. A small, black hand with fingers as strong as a shackle.
June jerks upright with a gasp, abruptly conscious.
Someone had been attempting to pour water into her mouth and it's in her eyes, running into her hair and down her neck. June coughs and splutters. Wiping her eyes, she looks round. Her contact lenses are gone – probably fallen out – and she can barely make out a thing. She's inside - in a room - she can tell that much. Something is pressed against her lips – the water – and June takes the bottle gratefully taking long pulls of the cool liquid.
Whoever is in the room with her merely watches without speaking.
"Thank you," she says once she has finished all the water, her voice scratchy.
A woman's voice says something in Spanish. They sound old. June can hear them moving around. She jumps when the pillows behind her head are repositioned, allowing her to sit more comfortably. So she's in a bed.
"My bag," she attempts to communicate, squinting as if that might cause her to see around her better.
She feels the strap placed into her groping hand and breathes a sigh of relief that the pack hasn't been stolen. She feels bad for even thinking that it might have been. Moving with familiarity June unzips the flap at the top of the bag and withdraws her glasses, pushing them onto her face.
A sparse room comes into focus. A tiny, wizened old lady staring warily but not unkindly at her. She has a long, salt and pepper braid thrown over one shoulder and leather, tanned skin.
"Agua," the woman says, pointing to the bottle in June's hand.
She smiles, nodding. "Thank you."
The woman is brusque; bossy. "You –" she points at one of the doors out of the bedroom, miming washing. Then thrusts another finger at another door. "You –" she gestures in a way that tells June they are making dinner. Through the door she can smell rich spices and the scent of cooking meat – her mouth begins to water. There's the sound of several voices talking, alerting her to the fact that there must be more people in this house besides her and this woman.
June nods and heads for the wash room which holds a step-in shower paved with grimy white tiles and a chipped sink. After washing she changes into some, if not fresh pair of clothes, at least her cleanest - a hiking top and leggings. She ties her wet hair back into a French braid and puts her glasses back on, looking at herself in the mirror curiously.
There's a brief and sudden slice of memory. A dusty wind cramming down her throat; the feeling of darkness expanding and filling every extremity until she's sure her skin will split.
June gasps, stepping away from the sink as the naked bulb above her suddenly head flickers. The light goes off for a split second, then comes back on again. She checks over her shoulder wildly, sure there's something watching her. As always there's no one there.
June steps into a tiny, cramped kitchen with a roof so low her head almost brushes the ceiling. Crammed into the room is a long, wooden table and a kitchen. Hanging from the wall is a large spice rack and tapestries and mosaics. Adding to the impression of a general lack of space is an older man June assumes is the woman's husband and a young family: father, mother and two daughters.
The young woman speaks with heavily accented English. Her voice is wry, but welcoming as she lays the table for the family meal. No one in the room is still. "You must be the American my mother has been telling us about. You feeling better? Do you need the hospital?"
June allows her lips to quirk at the irony; her problem isn't really one a hospital can fix. "Thank you so much for your help," she says – not an answer at all.
The woman shrugs, as if to say that it wasn't a problem, and then snaps at her oldest daughter in Spanish. "Gabriele," she points at a pot of stew on the stove, and the small girl stops gawping at June and rushes to stir it.
The old lady in the corner of the room says something loudly to the woman, not bothering to keep her voice down. She rolls her eyes. "My mother wants to know where you came from," she explains, translating. "Why were you so dehydrated?"
"I was hiking and…I ran out of water."
"By yourself?" The young woman asks shrewdly. She glances at June out of the corner of her eye, taking in her glasses and mousy brown hair.
June lets the question slide rhetorically, knowing that her physical appearance doesn't exactly scream adventuring thrill seeker. She holds her camera to her chest, hoping that this family might be able to explain the pictures she saw in the cave and tell her something that might give her a clue as to what happened to her.
She thinks better of it, however, and the family sit down to eat. The mother is called Josefina, though she does not introduce herown mother by any name except Mama. Josefina's husband, Jose, is quiet yet watchful. The cooking is delicious, and as a bowl of stew is passed to her, June has to remind herself to go slow and not simply devour the food like she wants to.
"I was exploring a temple in the jungle," she tests out, trying to gauge what the family know. "That way. About a hundred miles west of your village."
"I didn't know there were any ruins over there," Josefina shrugs, apparently truthful.
"We've just excavated it," she explains, toying with a piece of stringy meat on the end of her fork. "But we think it could be thousands of years old. Older than anything we've previously found in this country." The old lady mutters something under her breath and June shoots a look at her, intrigued. "What did she say?"
"That those hills are cursed," Josefina replies, unconcerned, through a mouthful of bread. "I wouldn't pay her any attention."
"Really? Can you ask her what makes her think that?"
Josefina clearly looks as if she thinks encouraging her mother is a terrible idea, but does as requested. The two woman share a rapid conversation in Spanish. Finally, the younger woman shakes her head. "She says she gets a 'bad feeling'. She doesn't know why."
"Are there any stories or legends about the area?"
But this time, to June's surprise, it is Josefina's oldest daughter who speaks. She's eager, chattering at her mother quickly, who looks even more exasperated than when the old lady spoke. "Gabriele says the girls in the village tell stories about a beautiful goddess who lived in the hills."
"Oh yeah?" asks June, looking at the little girl. "What happened to her?"
"She married a handsome Prince," says Gabriele, simply, as if it were obvious.
"Huh."
June returns to her food. She doubts whatever was in that husk of that figurine had quite such a happy ending.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Gabriele asks her.
"Gabriele –" her mother snaps, as June chokes on her stew – not expecting the blunt question.
"What? I was just asking her –"
She replies in the negative. Her flighty, inconsistent lifestyle didn't exactly lend itself to solid, long-term relationships. She was rarely in the country longer than three months before she flew off to some archaeological dig on the other side of the world, or went travelling. And seeing as June was a people-pleaser, she often tried to curb these instincts to make her partner happy when she was in a relationship; normally resulting in her feeling trapped, resentful and bored. She was better off being single. She enjoyed being single. She could hook up with whoever she wanted. Go where ever she wanted.
But who cared about you -a snake-like voice in her head whispers - when you were climbing into that pit? Who wondered if you were safe? Who would have let you do that by yourself? She pretends not to listen.
That night, June lies in the bed offered to her by the family. The heat in the village is dryer than it had been in the jungle and she finds it easier to relax. Cradling her camera, she sucks in a deep breath and flicks through the pictures in the darkness, a small candle flickering on her bedside table. Many of the images show a large group of people facing a single one or two. Always, over the crowd is the same symbol: an imperfectly round shape. A sun? A stone? The most June can guess for certain is the symbol for a famine, or a disaster. It appears frequently. Apart from that, the pictures seem dis-jointed and un-chronological. It's hard to pick up a connecting theme or story.
She stashes the camera back in her bag and flips onto her back, heaving a deep sigh. She needs to get back to the Archaeological Institute – maybe they can help her piece this all together. Until then, no-one needs to know she's convinced some kind of ancient being possessed her in that pit. She'd be put into Arkham Asylum for sure.
June stares at the candle for a long moment, debating whether to blow it out or not. She decides that the risk of burning the kind family's house down is not worth her own problems and blows the flame out quickly and abruptly.
The room plunges into darkness.
The young girl runs through the gardens, shrieking with laughter. The sun is bright and high and her raven black hair glistens behind her. She is elfin-like, tiny and as fast as quicksilver as she darts among the bushes.
She is dressed in rich blue cloth, her feet bare. She'd left her shoes somewhere and her toes dig into the sun-warmed ground. The flowers are rich and tropical around her, burning with colour. A river glitters. An eagle soars overhead.
Behind her a huge pyramid temple thrusts up into the sky. Men with white tunics and spears subtly guard the perimeter. Around the girl's neck is a medallion in the shape of a golden sun. It glints against her chest as she runs.
"Papa!" The girl yells, turning as she catches sight of someone. She can barely be older than eight, a look of mischief in her eyes and a giggle in her voice. There's a light dusting of freckles across her nose.
Papa look!
June wakes with a start.
The room is completely silent save for her own, thundering heartbeat. Outside the window the stars are clear in the night sky.
She presses a fingernail into the palm of her hand and draws blood, just to make sure she's really awake. Really her. Because that dream hadn't been a dream; it had been a memory - a memory that was thousands of years old. June feels the sting of her nail cutting her skin. You're you, she tells herself. You're here.
Everything had felt so real and so vivid – as if it were happening in present day. The temple. The sounds. The smells. The jealousy she'd felt upon waking, that hadn't been hers, either. Her heart still beats fast with adrenaline fuelled rage and she takes deep breathes to calm herself. She shuts her eyes, but against her eyelids she sees a shadowshow: her, stumbling through the jungle in the rain; her, falling into the pit; the pin-prick eyes of the doll.
June opens her eyes. She hasn't got her glasses on, but she can distinctly see that the candle has somehow re-lit itself. On the floor, is an expanding, writhing black mass. Her stomach lurches and she scrambles to sit upright in bed, forcing her glasses on. Abruptly, June can make out spiders swarming from a crack in the floorboards. Hundreds and hundreds of small, tiny spiders.
She forces herself to breath past the knot in her chest as she watches the spiders fan out across the room and stream up the posts of her bed.
"What's happening to me?" she whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut, convinced she's having a nightmare. But when she opens her eyes, the spiders are still there and the candle is still lit. The spiders start to crawl up her ankle.
A/N I don't feel like the film went enough into Enchantress's motivations or history, so I'm padding it out here (and also tweaking it slightly) - so there'll be a bit of mystery in later chapters.
I'm having a blast writing about June's haunting. It's going to be slow-burn. The scared and frightened June we see at the government meeting is going to be a person she descends into, and not who she is at the beginning.
I promise we'll see Rick fairly soon, I'm just trying to lay some foundations for the story here.
Finally: thank you to everyone who reviewed this story. I'm glad you all love Rick and June as much as I do. (Also, Joel Kinnaman was insanely good in Suicide Squad - I nearly teared up at the end.)
Please remember to review!
Last Of The Lilac Wine
