Denor could clearly hear someone underneath the graveyard, and the terminal continued to beep at him in a most irritating fashion. He approached the machine and as he got closer the noises became even more apparent—loud blows, the rustle of crumbling stones, and human voices. Though the words and language were unclear, they were undeniably the voices of real people.

He stared at the terminal, and read the flashing red text that had appeared on the screen.

Error: seal not closed! Please press ‘ok’ to open! Out of cheese error.

Denor shrugged and pressed the button on the second attempt, missing the console entirely with his first uncoordinated jab. He decided that anything was more interesting than chasing malevolent goats across the snowy wastes.

A grinding sound in the earth presented an entrance that was wide enough for him to squeeze through, though it didn’t appear to be fully open. Perhaps this was what the error was talking about. Hesitating only briefly, he began to crawl into the hole that smelled of darkness and mystery, whatever they smelled like. When his entire body, right up to the top of his head, slid underground, he hung by his hands, kicking his legs in search of support. But beneath his heels was only emptiness.

Small stones dislodged by his elbows and knees fell with a rustling sound. Judging by the noise, the bottom wasn't too deep, so Denor decided to jump. Or at least that’s what his brain intended. His body decided to lose its grip, and expecting the crunch of breaking bones, he instead found himself landing on a metallic surface.

He looked around at the thin stream of light, which now helpfully illuminated the ladder he had completely missed.

Oh, right.

Then he lost his balance again as the floor started to move.

At first, Denor thought it was an earthquake, but he quickly dismissed the idea. It wasn't the ground that was moving; it was the surface he had landed on, a single glossy, slightly metallic surface.

“Hey there, what’s up?” the surface asked him, not just moving, but crawling through the impenetrable darkness. Denor could make out little at first. But gradually, the faint light from the hole above and the orange reflections from the stone walls ahead revealed the truth. To his horror, what he had taken for a round stone was the back of a giant metallic ant.

“You’re not one of those strong and silent types, are you? The old man never talks to me either. Just because I’m an ant doesn’t mean I don’t have things to say! I could provide you with a very intriguing conversation you know, if you’d bother to engage me.”

He had never seen such a marvel before! Goosebumps ran down his spine, and his palms grew cold. However, he realized immediately that the ant couldn’t harm him in this position. Every boy knows that an insect can't reach its own back with its jaws or legs. Feeling for his weapon, Denor began considering where shoot his blaster bolt—into one of the huge, ebony bowl-like eyes or into the small back of its head. The rest of the ant’s body was covered with a durable shell, possibly impenetrable by blaster.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t do that. I can feel you shifting up there. I’ll just shake you off and eat you. Why not stop and have a chat first? You never know, you might even like me.”

Fortunately Denor also knew that insects didn’t talk, so he didn’t have to engage the creature in conversation. With a shrug of its carapace, the creature crawled forward slowly and with great calm, seemingly oblivious to its stunned rider’s lack of elocution. Its back shone with a metallic blue-green sheen in the dim light, resembling well-hardened armor. A pair of antennae, like branches strewn with tiny needles, moved on either side of its head, catching sounds or smells.

Denor’s knowledge of ants extended roughly as far as his ability to tie his own shoelaces without swearing (and even then, it was a touch-and-go affair, Denor was more of a velcro man). He did know however that they weren’t supposed to grow to this size.

Sitting atop the ant, Denor couldn't see its jaws and teeth, which was perhaps for the best. As he weighed using his battered blaster in his mind and contemplated his next move, the voices grew louder and clearer. There were people nearby! They spoke the Andronian dialect, so they were his kin, possibly even villagers. Judging by the abrupt phrases muffled by the blows of metal on stone, they were chiselling and tearing something off—most likely, mining the precious ores used to forge more of these mechanical marvels. The only oddity was the location; Denor had never heard of anyone mining ore near the cemetery, it seemed distinctly disrespectful.

"Mind yourself!", "Clear the way!", and a chorus of increasingly frantic shouts were promptly drowned out by the symphony of industrial disharmony. Sledgehammers clanged a discordant counterpoint to the tortured groans of ungreased motors, as a procession of subterranean vehicles lumbered past, their bellies groaning with the day's excavations.

A wave of relief washed over Denor. The braying of the foreman and the rhythmic clang of pickaxes were a symphony compared to the unnerving silence of the subterranean caverns. He glanced down again at his, unconventional steed. A colossal, multi-legged monstrosity that looked like it had been cobbled together from spare parts left over from better robots. Blasting the beast with his pea-shooter of a pistol did cross his mind, of course. But wouldn't it be a genuine knee-slapper for the ages, to call out to these bewildered miners and announce his arrival on the back of a subterranean nightmare? ‘Hello there, men! Witness the majesty of Denor, the boy who rides… uh… whatever this thing is called!’ After that, of course, there was the whole slaying business. A good, clean kill, just to prove his dominance over the invertebrate undercarriage. But hey, slaying was a last resort, about as appealing as Ledo’s rendition of beans and onions. Chances were, Denor, with his impressive collection of nerves and slightly rusty pistol, could handle this oversized ant himself. Though, the thought of a cheering audience – even one composed of sweaty, pickaxe-wielding miners – held a certain undeniable charm.

It was improbable that Denor would ever been very good with probability, or grasping reality.

In his delusional mind, the men clearly wouldn't refuse to lend him a cart to transport it. Old Hevath, and everyone else, would be speechless with amazement when Denor dumped the shiny carcass near the big fire. It would be grander than a snow leopard! He would have armour fashioned from its metallic carapace and parade about in it like a cyborg!

Denor was having one of those dreams, the kind where everything is sweet and perfect, just before his old nemesis reality rudely barged in yet again. The ant, his peculiar steed, turned a corner, revealing a wider passageway cloaked in greenish gloom. Dimly glowing lights lined the walls every ten to fifteen steps, their flickering on the rough stone indicating a dubious and intermittent power source. Shirtless men were indeed toiling away, hefting heavy picks and shovels, their muscles straining with the effort of crushing and raking the rock. So absorbed were they in their labor that they didn't notice Denor or his strange mount.

Denor squinted through the gloom, his eyes adjusting to the rhythmic flicker of a nearby lamp that seemed to be having a particularly enthusiastic argument with its own on/off switch. In the wavering light, a figure straightened from its back-breaking toil, momentarily bathed in the dubious glow. A name, long buried in the dusty attic of Denor's limited memory, suddenly tumbled down the rickety stairs and clattered into his mind. "Charan?" he spluttered, his voice a strangled whisper of disbelief.

There, unmistakable in the flickering gloom, was the face of his old friend. The same face that once held a mischievous glint that could melt even his father's steely resolve. A grin, as wide as a trader’s road and twice as ugly, stretched across Denor's face. "I don’t believe it," he muttered, mostly to himself. Slaying his subterranean monstrosity of a steed suddenly seemed a lot less appealing than a good old-fashioned reunion, even if the venue was a bit on the, well, ominous side. Ignoring the disgruntled rumble emanating from his eight-legged steed (who, it seemed, wasn't a huge fan of sudden acrobatics), Denor jumped up and down in excitement on the back of the monstrous ant with all the grace of a dislodged boulder. "Charan, is it really you?" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the damp tunnels. "You were supposed to be dead!"

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Charan’s name had barely left Denor’s lips when the smile on his face turned to a gape of shock as his brain finally caught up with his own words. Yes, it was Charan, his good friend, the same Charan who had died six months ago in a skirmish with the Temrit invaders. Denor had dug Charan’s grave himself, along with the other young survivors. The Temrit’s attack had been swift and brutal, leaving little time for proper farewells.

Charan, shirtless and slick with sweat, turned at the sound of his name and began to approach Denor with the slow, shuffling gait of an exhausted old man.

"No, no, Charan!" Denor yelled, panic rising in his chest as he realised what had befallen his friend. "I didn't call you! You must have misheard! I’m not actually here! Go back to what you were doing!"

Ignoring Denor's frantic and ineffectual protests, Charan kept coming, and the ant stopped, its legs scraping nervously on the wet stone. “Yeah, I’d stay away from that one. The old man reanimated him a few months back and the programming takes a while to settle. Bad news.”

Denor's mind raced, desperately trying to recall any old wisdom about dealing with the restless dead. "Charan!" he howled, palms outstretched as if to ward off evil. "I didn’t do anything bad to you! Remember, we always played together! I even buried you myself. Do you want my blaster? I’m almost certain it’s activated! Please, don’t come any closer!"

While it was true that Denor considered Charan a friend, it was only due to a favour that his father Sulas had owed Ledo at the time. The boy couldn’t have known about the obligatory nature of the friendship even if he had two brain cells to rub together.

In his panic, Denor hadn’t quite decided whether he was threatening the boy or offering the weapon in order to parley a truce. Could he really shoot the boy staggering towards him?

Charan stopped, standing just a few paces from the overly-talkative ant. He hadn’t changed much since his death. A faint darkening on his chest and throat marked where the fatal blasts had struck him.

“I’m not a ghost, Denor,” he said calmly, if somewhat robotically, as if their reunion were the most natural thing in the world. “I’m not a spirit. You can touch me if you want.”

“I don’t want to touch you!” Denor cried, repeating the words of every girl in the settlement when he went anywhere near them. “Go away, please!” He remembered the old stories, where spirits often tried to deceive the living, to drag them away and drink their warm blood.

Charan, unperturbed by Denor's pleas, reached out and touched his shoulder. Denor staggered back, almost toppling from the ant, which remained as still as a sentinel. But in that brief contact, he felt warmth—living warmth.

“This is impossible. Are you alive? Or are you some kind of machine?” Denor's voice trembled with confusion.

“I am not a ghost or a machine, Denor,” Charan said softly. “But I’m not sure you’d call this being alive either.”

“I understand!” Denor blurted out, despite all evidence to the contrary. “I must have fallen and died! Now we’re both in the afterlife. But do we really have to work like slaves here?”

Before Charan could splutter out a reply to this baffling assertion that would constitute something the likes of Denor Kara could understand, the other deceased warriors shuffled over, their curiosity piqued by the lively (well, lively-ish) debate. Harg, a mountain of a man who'd fought with the tenacity of a badger backed into a corner, until a particularly enthusiastic Temrit blaster made closer acquaintance with his internal organs, lumbered at the front. Tull, his face covered in burns that no doubt induced his trip to the afterlife, followed, his voice still possessing enough charm to make a queen blush. Bringing up the rear was Simon, whose draw was quicker than a greased weasel – a talent that, unfortunately, hadn't helped him much when faced with a hail of blaster bolts. Denor remembered how Simon’s young wife had thrown herself into his grave, begging to be left with her husband. They had fished her out and introduced her to his brother and in short order she seemed to forget the performative grief. Apparently Simon’s draw had been very quick, but Denor didn’t understand why the elders found that so funny.

As the miners surrounded him, his mind raced, trying to piece together this impossible puzzle. They could stand there for the rest of the day and the boy wouldn’t have figured it out.

"This is Denor, Ledo’s son... Denor... Hello, Denor..." whispered the voices of those approaching, sounding dispassionate and not at all friendly.

"See? They’re perfectly fine." Charan assured the boy with all the sincerity of a used spaceship salesman. "Don't be afraid of us, Denor. You can touch them too. Absolutely nothing catastrophic will happen."

The men, not waiting for Denor to make the first move, touched him with their rough, calloused hands. They seemed almost the same as they had in life. Almost. There was something unsettling about them—not in their features or figures, but in the lifeless tone of their voices. They spoke monotonously, without a hint of joy, surprise, or anger. They sounded like the voice of a desolate snowy plain or a weathered stone, if such things could speak. Was this really Charan, the lively, boisterous Charan who greeted Denor with a hearty and entirely feigned slap on the back whenever they met after a day or two apart?

“We are not spirits, Denor... Don’t be afraid of us...” they collectively murmured in a distinctly unsettling fashion, completely ignoring the giant ant as if it were a familiar piece of furniture that their guest had settled on.

Then, as if hearing a silent command, they all fell silent and turned to look at a newcomer. This was no ghost—Denor could tell because this stooped, puny figure belonged to someone he had seen around the village earlier in the week. Old man Litarn, adorned with shimmering stones on his chest and fingers, peered sharply at Denor.

"A familiar face! I’m glad you’re here!" Denor exclaimed with relief, for it was a comfort to see a living soul among these strange men, even if they were technically familiar faces themselves (or in Tull’s case, half a familiar face). "Maybe you can explain what’s going on? Am I alive? Or did I die in the fall? If I was killed, why didn’t I notice?"

Litarn ignored the boy’s questions and complete inability to understand the situation. Instead, he commanded the men, "Grab the boy! Alive!"

Well that was a relief then, he was alive after all! The downside of this was the realisation spelled out for him that the shambling hordes of creatures under the old man’s control were coming to get him.

Charan, closest to Denor, seized his forearm before he could react.

"Charan! What are you doing?!" Denor shouted, utterly bewildered at his friend’s inevitable betrayal and scrambling onto the back of the ant, leaving the boy dangling from his forearm like a pitbull from a particularly tasty steak.

“Yeah, I’m not sticking around for this,” the ant informed him, and started to slowly back out of the corridor, but that didn’t shake Denor loose from the grip of Charan.

The others closed in, but the narrow passages and the ant’s bulk prevented them from surrounding him. "Are you mad, Charan? It’s me, Denor!" Denor continued to implore at his friend, still failing to understand despite having it spelled out for him in large letters.

Charan’s grip tightened painfully. Realizing words were futile, Denor kicked at his friend’s head, and the uncoordinated strike caught him in the knee instead, Tamet be praised! Charan howled, bending over in pain—just like he did when Denor kicked him all those months ago! Proving once again the reason that Denor had no friends.

The boy took advantage of the loosened grip and dashed away, rolling off the ant's back. Charan straightened and limped after him, but the ant, like an indifferent sentinel, blocked the passage and continued backing away with the familiar beeping noise of all articulated vehicles.

“Steady as she goes, just need to slowly reverse. Mind you don’t get crushed there. I’ll just be on my way,” the ant informed his captive audience, who completely ignored him in their frantic attempts to claw at Denor. The large and oddly-apologetic creature decided to take a side passage and extricate himself from the awkward scene, dumping the boy on the floor in the process.

His insectoid shield departed, Denor retreated quickly, stumbling over debris and landing on his back. The entrance ladder wasn’t far away—his way out.

"Grab him! Idiots! Quicker!" Litarn screeched, fearing Denor might escape and tell the world that his decidedly evil machinations had been bested by a teenage boy whose coordination made his shambling zombies look like a trapeze group.

Climbing the ladder was the hardest part. Pressing his palms and heels into the slick rungs and trying not to fall in the panic, Denor clawed his way toward the light. Charan caught up, grabbing his ankles just as his fingers gripped the top.

"Oh come on, Charan! That’s not fair! I’m almost at the top!" Denor said, before cursing him vehemently with words that shouldn’t surprise any educators of young boys.

Charan's grip was relentless, but he kept repeating monotonously, "Get out of here, Denor. Run quickly. Never come back. Run. Run, Denor..."

"Seriously, Charan? How can I escape if you're clinging to me like a hungry boar? Idiot!" Denor yelled in annoyance.

Then he lost his grip, and the shambling hordes closed around him.