Cavern of the Blood Zombies (2011) (13 page)

I switched to a different train of thought. We had no idea what that monster was—how could it have let us escape so easily? It must have been because Poker-face had helped us by blocking its pursuit. Had he survived?

As I continued with my thoughts, my heart sank further and I felt worse. If this kept on, we would sooner or later be dead! Fats stared around the room as he put Panzi down in a corner. He sat, rubbed his butt, and said, “Oh yes, I have to ask you this: Did you also come here to look for the royal seal of the commander of the dead?”

“Is there really such a thing?” I asked in bewilderment.

Fats listened carefully for a minute to be sure that nothing was approaching us before he whispered, “What? None of you know about this, and you dared to come down to this grave? Don’t you know about the Ghost General and what he did?”

As soon as I heard this, I knew Fats had some valuable information and asked, “Wasn’t he just a marquis or one of the minor princes? I heard that his only power was his ability to gather troops from the netherworld to fight with him in battle.”

“My ass,” Fats looked at me contemptuously. “Listen to me. This so-called Ruler of Dead Soldiers and the so-called troops he borrowed from the world of the dead were all part of a blatant lie. If I didn’t tell you the hidden secrets of this ancient grave, you would never be able to guess them no matter how hard you tried.”

In my job, I had gained some experience in watching and judging people over the years. I had learned how to assess the quality of the people I dealt with as well as the objects I bought and sold, and I knew that Fats wasn’t for real the minute I first saw him. If I wanted to get information out of him, I knew I couldn’t be too nice so I reacted as if I did not believe a word that he said. “Like you know what you’re talking about. If you really knew, then why would you be in here buzzing around like a confused fly?”

Sure enough, Fats took the bait. He pointed his flashlight at my face and said, “You still don’t believe me, kid? Before I came, I put more than a month of preparation into this expedition. Do you guys know what this Ruler of Dead Soldiers did? Or what the whole story was about borrowing troops from the netherworld? And what the royal seal was used for?” My speechlessness put a proud smile on his face. “Let me tell you. This Ruler could be referred to as a general if you wanted to put it nicely. But the truth is he was just like us—a grave robber.”

I suddenly remembered that Uncle Three had mentioned the same thing but had no idea how he and this guy knew this. Fats explained, “But his skills were much better than ours—as you can tell by the honor he received when he was given a title from a king for his grave-robbing accomplishments. Records indicate that his troops worked all night and rested during the day. They would often disappear completely and then suddenly materialize in a different place. The places they had been were often filled with “abandoned graves,” and when asked about this, the explanation was that the Ruler had used both living soldiers and troops from the world of the dead to fight these battles. They definitely robbed graves everywhere they went, and if the graves that they had worked on were discovered later by other people, they would say the Ruler of Dead Soldiers had “borrowed the spirits” of those who had occupied these graves. This story spread everywhere since people at that time were very superstitious. They believed it was a miracle that spirits of the dead would fight their battles for them.”

This story wasn’t too credible in my opinion so I asked, “How can you and my uncle form a theory about the importance of this tomb based on this information alone? Haven’t you both jumped to a hasty conclusion?”

Fats gave me a sharp look as if he were upset that I interrupted him. He said, “Of course there is more evidence. The most direct evidence is that, according to historical records, the Seven Deceptive Coffins were first invented by some grave robbers. This was because they knew for a fact that many other grave robbers did the same thing they did. They were afraid their own graves would be plundered after their deaths so they created the set of decoy coffins. As far as they were concerned, it wasn’t important how elaborate the traps were because mere danger wasn’t enough to deter the grave robbers. They had to make the robbers so apprehensive about what deadly tricks they might discover that finally they would be unable to begin robbing in the first place. There is only one real coffin out of the seven. If any of the remaining six were opened by mistake, death was almost certain, because all of them had been installed with either concealed crossbows or black magic. It was not until after the Sung dynasty that some capable masterminds gradually discovered the secret of the Seven Deceptive Coffins. Once the hazards were explained, many people thought it would be an ill-starred venture to attempt to find the one coffin that was safe to open, and the expenses involved in doing this were far too high for most.”

Fats was such a sloppy, careless-looking guy that I never guessed he would be so knowledgeable, and I couldn’t help but be impressed by what he’d told me. It did not sound like he had finished, so I asked, “Is there any way to tell which coffin is occupied by its owner?”

Fats patted me on the back, pleased by my change of attitude, and proudly continued. “I see you are a studious fellow, young comrade. Well, then I’ll follow the steps of Brother Confucius—’Have patience in teaching one’s students and don’t care about the exhaustion.’ Okay, listen closely. There is a way to distinguish the real coffin from the other six. But our line of work has its rules. When they came upon the Seven Deceptive Coffins, most grave robbers would kowtow a few times and respectfully make their way out, so they wouldn’t anger our ancestors. But during times of war and chaos, a number of our colleagues had no food and no place to live. Shivering and starving, they had to break their own rules. At that time, there was an expert who found a way to get around the dangers of the six false coffins by using two crowbars to tilt a coffin up from one corner, chiseling a small hole in its bottom, and then fishing inside it with a pothook to see what might become impaled on the point of the hook. That way it was possible to discover what the coffin contained.”

I sighed with relief at the information, thinking I should really write a book about the battle of wits between the grave robbers and the trap designers. Fats drew closer and said in mysterious tones, “But I’m afraid the seven stone coffins here are all fake. In fact, I don’t even think this grave of the Ruler of Dead Soldiers is real.”

He pointed his flashlight toward the spot we had just plunged through to make sure nothing was crawling downward. Then he went on, “Originally I could not entirely understand this stone-tunneled maze, but once we fell into this chamber, I suddenly realized this actually is a tomb of the Western Zhou dynasty.”

Surprised, I asked, “So these aren’t escape routes dug by the workmen who built the tomb?”

Unexpectedly, Panzi cursed from the corner. “I told you already. How could this be an escape tunnel? Have you ever seen anyone digging escape tunnels into a maze? Who would have the time or the inclination?” I was greatly confused, as if some argument was forming in my mind but was still elusive. “How could it be possible that someone would put his own grave on top of someone else’s grave? According to Feng Shui principles, wouldn’t that make that person the last of his clan?”

Fats smiled and said, “You’re a grave robber, so naturally you’re aware of the teachings of Feng Shui, although those of us who rob graves usually pay little attention to them. Except for some basic guidance to be found in Feng Shui, I really don’t see any other use in it. It’s a branch of knowledge bequeathed to us by our ancestors which is now irrelevant to the good young people of our socialist society.” He made a special effort to pat himself on the chest. “Moreover, this whole thing about burying oneself on top of someone else’s tomb also has a name in Feng Shui. It’s something called… hm…it’s called something like Hidden Dragon Point, or something like that—let’s not worry about these superficial names. As long as the numerology is in harmony and the layout is proper, burying oneself on top of another person’s grave is not inauspicious. Therefore, the Ruler’s coffin is without a doubt to be found in this tomb of the Western Zhou dynasty. I absolutely cannot be wrong!”

Panzi burst out laughing, “What? So you—you moron—you think you actually understand Feng Shui?”

Fats became furious. “What do you mean, ‘I think I understand’? If I didn’t understand…how would I know so much?”

Panzi laughed loudly, but his laughter tore at his wounds and he clutched his stomach protectively. He said, “I have no idea where you heard all this nonsense. If you really understand Feng Shui, why can’t you take us out of this maze? I made at least seven or eight turns and still couldn’t find the way.”

My short-term memory was coming back as Panzi spoke. I asked, “By the way, when you guys left me behind and ran away, did you know you nearly scared me to death? Where are Uncle Three and Big Kui?”

Panzi straightened up his body with difficulty and said, “I’m not sure myself. When Poker-face began chasing after Fats here and Uncle Three wouldn’t let me follow them, I knew something bad was up because Poker-face was so upset. You know, I really don’t trust Poker-face. I feel there’s something weird about his motive for accompanying us on this expedition and I wanted to try and find out what that might be, so I followed him.” He frowned and continued in lowered tones, “I ran for a few minutes and suddenly saw something ahead in the tunnel. I took out my lamp, and then whatever it was vanished, gone like a gust of wind. I got a bit nervous, and walked further along—and then I saw tucked in between the cracks of the stone wall something that looked like a human hand, with its four fingers and thumb all the same length.” Fats looked shocked. His mouth moved a little as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t make a sound.

Panzi continued, “So I went over to check it out. You know my weakness—I can’t control my curiosity, I would even eat shit if I really wanted to know what it tasted like. Now when I think about this, I’m still a bit spooked. I didn’t expect that handlike thing would attack me. It clasped itself around my neck with enormous strength, so much that I almost choked to death. Luckily I still had my army knife with me. On one hand I was kicking my legs around like crazy; on the other I was doing my best to cut that hand off. Then I discovered the wrist of this hand was frighteningly slender—it was only a bit thicker than one of my fingers and I couldn’t understand how the hand could be so strong with only this slight support. I struck at its wrist with my knife and cut open a very long wound. The hand released its grip immediately, and retreated back toward the cracks in the wall.” Panzi rubbed his neck and said, “I thought, Holy fuck, there must be something odd behind this wall. So I checked it by knocking it on the left and kicking it on the right. I had no idea what the hell I pressed, but my whole fucking body just fell!” He tapped the wall. “Then you guys know what happened after that. I fell into a stone chamber like this one, and found a tunnel. Lucky I’m still in good shape. I jumped for a long time and finally got up into it—otherwise I really have no idea how or when I would have run into you.”

“So you’re saying that you don’t know the whereabouts of Uncle Three and the other guys?” I sighed. I turned to Fats and asked him, “Hey you fat fuck, how did you fall into that chamber where the corpse-eaters almost ate Panzi alive? You better tell me the truth. Were you the one who provoked that goddamn rattle monster and had it come running after us?”

Fats responded, “Hell, if you really mean what you’re saying, then you do me a terrible injustice! When I ran from the guy you call Poker-face, an old guy came out of nowhere and released the monster. Then the man chasing me saw it, said ‘oh shit,’ turned, and ran. I assessed the situation. If I had to fight that monster, I guessed my chances of winning were nonexistent. But I had to keep going; I hadn’t yet finished the task given to me by my team, so I turned and ran too. After I ran for a while, I saw that guy in front of me yelling to stop where I was. I still hadn’t figured out what was going on, but he kicked the wall, and I fell before I knew what was happening to me. And I thought following him was going to save me! Shit, there were so many insects down in that place.” As he spoke, he looked around as if the corpse-eaters were crawling out to bite him again.

Panzi glanced at me and said, “You see, Poker-face seems to know a lot about this tomb. There are plenty of reasons to be suspicious of him.”

I had begun to think that Poker-face was not a bad guy, because whenever he was around, I felt safe, but when Panzi put it this way, I began to realize that all along this quiet bastard seemed to know way too much.

It was as if he could anticipate everything before it happened, and that made me uneasy.

We were silent for some time, and then changed the subject. Fats argued that we couldn’t solve anything by just sitting around, and suggested that we go back into the tunnels to test our luck. Panzi agreed with him, so we decided to rest for a little longer and then go on.

I began to doze off and was half-asleep, when I noticed Fats raising his eyebrows and rolling his eyeballs at me. Damn, I thought sleepily, is this guy some kind of schizophrenic? How else could you explain his putting a crock on his head to scare people in an ancient tomb? He was either extremely daring or extremely nuts. Now that one of us is badly hurt and none of us has a clue of where we are, he’s still crazy enough to make faces at me. If I had enough energy, I’d get up and beat the hell out of him.

But then I saw Panzi was making the same weird expressions as he stared in my direction. What the hell? I thought, Is psychosis contagious?

Both of them were patting their left shoulders, their mouths moving as if they were saying, “Hand, hand!” and sweat was beginning to run down their foreheads. It was so demented that I took a look at my own hand, but there was nothing wrong with it. Did they mean my shoulder? I slowly peered down and there hanging onto my shoulder was a small green hand.