Chapter 1: The Disturbance

Orange strands of fiery delight painted the horizon. This golden bleeding over the jagged horizon of the Four Corners gave the desert a violent infernal glow.

Eerily illuminating a landscape that was both anciently beautiful and glaringly scarred. Red rock formations jutted up to rise majestically, their faces carved by wind and eons, and the erosion of crude chain-link fences topped with barbed wire, slicing across what were once sacred, open pathways.

The air hummed with the metallic tang of old uranium mines, and it was permeated with a ghastly scent that seemed to cling to the dry earth. Dust hung heavy, stirred by unseen forces, and some more visible too.

So many boots, so many persons, and the desert was the silent witness to more secrets than its barren landscape could ever reveal.

In the distance, a tiny construction office sat on temporary blocks. Inside, a single fluorescent light flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow over a crumpled map and the gnarled hands of a working man, Foreman Riggs.

Now fifty and perpetually grumpy, he barked into a crackling walkie-talkie, his face already red from the heat and stress, eyes lined in red from sleep deprivation, and annoyance.

"Uh, yeah, I hear you, Sanchez, god damn it. Another setback?” he groaned, shaking his head, “What is it this time, a damn gopher? I got a timeline from corporate, not some archaeology dig. This eco-tourism retreat isn’t gonna build itself. Why can’t you just fill it in and keep things moving?"

Riggs slammed the walkie-talkie onto a stack of blueprints, muttering under his breath. Empty coffee cups and crushed cigarette butts littered the desk like forgotten ambitions and evidence of his high-strung lifestyle.

He snorted, and glancing outside, the roar of heavy machinery cut through the morning quiet, lending a sudden smirk to appear on his lips.

A massive bulldozer ground forward, its steel blade biting deep into the sun-baked earth, pushing a mound of red dirt. Behind it, a smaller excavator maneuvered into position. Sanchez, thirty and lean, squinted through the dust and glare. He looked more contemplative than the other workers, a subtle worry etched into his features.

His machine lurched, the arm plunging down. Instead of the usual crunch of rock, there was a sickening, hollow THUD. The excavator shuddered violently. Then, with a gasp of air, the engine died abruptly.

The sudden silence was jarring, broken only by the distant, fading hum of the bulldozer. Sanchez took off his hard hat, wiping sweat from his brow. He hopped down from the cab.

Mitchell, a burly forty-something who looked like he’d seen a lot of hard labor, sauntered over, nudging the quieter, more weathered Bradley, also in his forties, with an elbow.

"What’d you hit, Sanchez? Another one of Bradley’s grandma’s ghosts?" Mitchell snickered, his voice coarse.

Bradley just grumbled, shaking his head. He’d seen enough of this land, heard enough of the old stories, to be wary.

Sanchez ignored them, his gaze fixed on the newly formed crater. It was roughly circular, about ten feet wide, too perfectly carved to be natural. The exposed dirt inside was a strange, almost charcoal-like black.

At the bottom, something shimmered. It wasn’t metal, but an iridescent, unsettling glow partially covered by crumbling, sun-bleached adobe. Sanchez knelt, peering closer. He could make out faint, geometric carvings on the exposed adobe—lines that were ancient, organic, unlike anything modern or colonial.

He reached a hand down, brushing away more dirt. Beneath the adobe, he saw fragments of fossilized bone embedded in the black earth. And just below them, glinting through a newly created fissure, was something impossibly smooth and dark, reflecting the sky like obsidian.

A faint, almost imperceptible WHISPER seemed to rise from the pit. It wasn’t in English. It was a mix of Navajo (Diné Bizaad) and Mexican Spanish, layered and ancient, barely audible above the wind.

Sanchez recoiled, a shiver running down his spine despite the heat. He pulled out his walkie-talkie, his hand trembling slightly.

"Riggs," he said, his voice tight. "You need to get down here. Now. It’s not a gopher. It’s… something else. It’s sealed."

A beat of static. Riggs’s voice crackled back, impatient. "I got no time for your superstitions, Sanchez. Fill it in. We’re already behind schedule."

Sanchez’s eyes were fixed on the shimmering darkness in the pit, the whispers growing louder, more insistent.

"No," he breathed, almost to himself. "We can’t. I think... I think we buried the wrong thing."

A subtle, almost imperceptible pulse emanated from the depths of the pit, vibrating through the very ground. The desert itself seemed to hold its breath.