The Book of the Dead

by Richard Preston

  She clutched her throbbing head with one hand, urging the woman along, plodding slowly forward toward the God’s Second Passage and the tomb exit that lay beyond. But once again, a seething mass blocked the narrow door at the far end.

  “One at a time!” Nora screamed.

  Directly ahead of her, a man was trying to beat his way through the crowd. With her free arm, she seized him by his tuxedo collar, yanking him off balance. He looked around wildly, took a swing at her.

  “Bitch!” he yelled. “I’ll kill you!”

  Nora backed off in horror and the man turned back, grabbing and tearing at the people before him. But it wasn’t just him: all around, people were screaming, boiling with rage, eyes rolling in their sockets—utter bedlam, a Boschean vision of hell.

  She felt it even within herself: overwhelming agitation; a muddy, unfocused fury; an impending sense of doom. Yet nothing had actually happened. There was no fire, no mass murder—nothing to justify this kind of mass insanity . . .

  Nora spotted the museum’s director, Frederick Watson Collopy. His face looked shattered and he was staggering forward toward the doorway, one dead-looking leg trailing behind him: Draaaag-thump! Draaaag-thump!

  He spied her and his ravaged face grew bright and hungry. He staggered toward her through the crush. “Nora! Help me!”

  He seized the injured woman. Nora was about to thank him for his help, when he tossed her roughly to the ground.

  Nora looked at him in horror. “What the hell are you doing?” She stepped forward to help the woman but Collopy seized her with incredible force, his hands clawing and grasping at her like a drowning man. She tried to twist free, but his desperate strength was shocking. In his frenzy, he twisted one arm around her neck.

  “Help me!” he screamed again. “I can’t walk!”

  Nora jabbed him in the solar plexus with her elbow and he staggered, but still clung to her.

  There was a sudden flash by her side and Nora saw Viola, kicking Collopy fiercely in the shins. With a shriek, Collopy released his grip and collapsed to the floor, writhing and spitting curses.

  Nora grabbed Viola and together they backed away from the writhing crowd, staggered toward the rear wall of the Hall of the Chariots. There was a crash and the sound of shattering glass as a display case toppled over.

  “My head, my head!” Viola groaned, pressing her hands to her eyes. “I can’t think straight.”

  “It’s like everyone’s gone crazy.”

  “I feel like I’m going crazy.”

  “I think it’s the strobe lights,” Nora said, coughing. “And the sounds . . . or maybe some chemical in the fog.”

  “What do you mean?”

  And then a swirling image appeared above them—a huge three-dimensional spinning spiral. With a thudding groan of sound, it twisted slowly . . . and then a piercing tone sounded, and another a quarter tone away, and another, throbbing and beating in dissonance, as the spiral began to rotate faster. Nora stared at it, instantly mesmerized. It was a holographic projection, it had to be. And yet it was real . . . it was like nothing she had ever seen before. It drew her forward, sucking her in, pulling her down into a maelstrom of insanity.

  With a huge effort, she tore her eyes away. “Don’t look at it, Viola!”

  Viola trembled all over, her eyes still fixated on the swirling image.

  “Stop it!” Nora slapped her across the face with her free hand.

  Viola just shook her head to clear the blow, her eyes wild, still staring.

  “The show!” Nora said, shaking her. “It’s doing something to our minds!”

  “What . . . ?” Viola’s voice sounded drugged. And when she looked at Nora, her eyes were bloodshot—just like Wicherly’s had been.

  “The show. It’s affecting our minds. Don’t look at it, don’t listen!”

  “I don’t . . . understand.” Viola’s eyes rolled backward in her head.

  “Down on the floor! Cover your eyes and your ears!”

  Nora tore a strip off her gown and blindfolded Viola. Just as she was about to blindfold herself, she caught a glimpse of a man standing in an alcove in the far corner, dressed in white tie and tails, utterly calm, an eye-mask over his face, head tilted up, hands clasped in front, standing stock-still, as if waiting. Menzies.

  Another illusion?

  “Fingers in your ears!” Nora cried, hunching down next to Viola.

  They huddled in the corner, eyes squeezed shut, ears stopped, trying to shut out the hideous, grotesque show of death.

  65

  Smithback followed Pendergast at a dead run through the emptied museum halls, the beam from the agent’s flashlight licking its way along the velvet ropes. Within minutes, they had reached the rotunda, their footsteps clattering on the white marble, and seconds later, they emerged onto the grand, red-carpeted staircase before the museum. Police cars were arriving in force along Museum Drive now, sirens wailing and brakes screeching. Smithback could hear the thudding of helicopters overhead.

  Many of the police were engaged in crowd control, trying to clear Museum Drive of the panicked guests, onlookers, and press. Numerous other police officers were clustered together at the foot of the great steps, where they were setting up a mobile command center. There was pushing and shoving, and a hubbub of shouting filled the air. The flashes of photographers exploded like a fireworks display.

  Pendergast hesitated at the top of the stairs, then turned to Smithback. “That’s the subway entrance we need,” he said, pointing to the far end of Museum Drive. Their route was blocked by a seething mass of guests and onlookers.

  “It’s going to take twenty minutes to force our way through that crowd,” Smithback said. “And for sure somebody’s going to knock that beaker out of your hands along the way.”

  “That would be unacceptable.”

  A hell of an understatement, Smithback thought. “What do you plan to do about it, then?”

  “We shall simply have to part the crowds.”

  “How?” But even as he asked the question, Smithback saw a gun appear in Pendergast’s hand. “Jesus, don’t tell me you’re going to use that.”

  “I’m not going to use it. You are. I wouldn’t dare fire a gun while carrying this—the proximity of the discharge could set it off.”

  “But I’m not going to—”

  Smithback felt the gun placed in his hand. “Fire into the air, high up into the air. Aim out over Central Park.”

  “But I’ve never used this model—”

  “All you need to do is pull the trigger. It’s a Colt .45 Model 1911, kicks like a mule, so wrap both hands on the grip and keep your elbows slightly bent.”

  “Look, I’ll carry the nitro.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Smithback. Now, get moving, if you please.”

  Reluctantly, Smithback advanced toward the crowd. “FBI!” he said unconvincingly. “Make way!”

  The crowds didn’t even notice him.

  “Make way, damn it!”

  Now some of the crowd stared back at him like a herd of cows, placid, unmoving.

  “The sooner you fire, the sooner you will have their attention,” Pendergast said.

  “Make way!” Smithback raised the gun. “Emergency!”

  A few at the front perceived what was coming, and there was a flurry of action, but the mass of the crowd between them and the subway entrance just stood there dumbly.

  Bracing himself, Smithback squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He squeezed harder—and the gun went off with a terrific boom, jolting him.

  A chorus of screams erupted and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing?” Two cops started running toward them from where they’d been pushing back the crowd nearby, their own guns drawn.

  “FBI!” Pendergast shouted as they rushed forward into the breach. “This is an emergency federal action. Do not interfere!”

  “Let’s see your shield, sir!”

  The bac
k of the crowd was already coalescing and Smithback realized his mission was not yet accomplished. “Make way!” he yelled, firing the gun again while walking forward, to dramatic effect.

  A series of screams, and a fresh pathway appeared almost miraculously before them.

  “You crazy bastard!” somebody shouted. “Firing a gun like that!”

  Smithback broke into a run, Pendergast following as quickly as he dared behind him. The cops attempted to give chase, but the crowd had already drawn together behind them. Smithback could hear the cops cursing as they tried to fight their way through.

  A minute later, they’d reached the entrance to the subway, and here Pendergast went ahead, taking the stairs quickly yet with remarkable smoothness, still cradling the small flask. They trotted along the deserted platform, ducked around a corner at the far end, into the museum’s subway entrance. Halfway down it, Smithback could see two figures: D’Agosta and Hayward.

  “Where’s our entry point?” Pendergast called out as he arrived.

  “Between those lines,” said Hayward, indicating two lines that had been marked on the tiles with lipstick.

  Pendergast knelt and placed the flask carefully against the wall, positioning it between the lines. Then he stood and turned to face the little group. “If you would all please withdraw around the corner? My sidearm, Mr. Smithback?”

  As Smithback handed the gun to the agent, he heard the sound of feet charging down the stairwell into the station. He followed Pendergast back around the corner onto the platform proper, where they crouched against the wall.

  “NYPD!” came a shouted command from the far end of the station. “Drop your weapons and freeze!”

  “Stay back!” Hayward shouted, waving her badge. “Police action in progress!”

  “Identify yourself!”

  “Captain Laura Hayward, Homicide!”

  That seemed to flummox them.

  Smithback saw Pendergast taking careful aim. He shrank closer to the wall.

  “Stand down, Captain!” one of the policemen yelled.

  “Take cover now!” came Hayward’s reply.

  “Ready?” Pendergast asked quietly. “On the count of three. One . . .”

  “I repeat, Captain, stand down!”

  “Two . . .”

  “And I repeat, you idiots: take cover!”

  “Three.”

  There was another gunshot, followed immediately by a terrific, earthshaking roar, and then a concussive blast that smacked Smithback hard against the chest and knocked him to the cement floor. Instantly the entire station filled with cement dust. Smithback lay on his back, dazed, the wind temporarily knocked from him. Chips of cement pattered down around him like rain.

  “Holy shit!” It was D’Agosta’s voice, but the man himself was invisible in the sudden gloom.

  Vaguely, Smithback could hear confused shouting from the other end of the station. He pulled himself to a sitting position, choking and spluttering, ears ringing, and felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Then Pendergast’s voice was in his ear.

  “Mr. Smithback? We’re going in now, and I’ll need your help. Stop the show—rip out wires, rip down screens, smash lights, but stop the show. We must do that before we do anything else—even before we help the people. Do you understand?”

  “Call for backup!” came the choking cry from somewhere at the far end of the platform.

  “Do you understand?” Pendergast asked urgently.

  Smithback coughed, nodded. The agent pulled him to his feet.

  “Now!” Pendergast whispered.

  They bolted around the corner, D’Agosta and Hayward at their heels. The dust had cleared just enough to show a gaping hole in the wall. From it gushed billows of fog, brilliantly illuminated by the maniacal flashing of strobe lights.

  Smithback held his breath, readied himself. Then he ducked inside.

  66

  Just inside the breach, they paused. The heavy mist was pouring out of the gap like water from a broken dam, filling the tunnel and the subway station beyond; within the tomb itself, it was already subsiding below eye level, allowing them to see the upper portions of the tomb. Smithback immediately recognized it, from Nora’s descriptions, as the burial chamber. Strobe lights of extraordinary, even painful intensity were flashing from every corner, and an unholy rumble filled the tomb, overlaid by a throbbing, nerve-shredding, high-pitched shriek.

  “What the hell is going on?” D’Agosta asked behind him.

  Pendergast moved forward without answering, waving away the swirling tendrils of fog. As they approached the huge stone sarcophagus in the center of the chamber, the agent paused, looked around at the ceiling, took aim, and fired: a fixture in the corner exploded in a flash of sparks and streamers of glass. He rotated his stance, fired again, and then again, until all the strobes were dead—although flashing could still be seen coming through the doorway to the next room of the tomb, and the hideous sounds continued.

  They moved forward again. Smithback felt a sudden lurch in his gut: as the fog cleared, he could see bodies on the ground, moving feebly. The floor was slick with blood.

  “Oh, no.” Smithback looked around wildly. “Nora!”

  But it was impossible to hear anything over the maddening wall of noise that seemed to penetrate his very bones. He took a few more steps, frantically waving away the mist. Another explosion from Pendergast’s gun, followed by the hollow screech of feedback and an electric arc as an audio speaker crashed to the floor. Still, the sound throbbed on, unabated. Smithback grabbed some loose wires, yanked.

  A plainclothes policeman approached them, staggering as if half drunk. His face was scratched and bleeding, and his shirt was torn and hanging in strips. His shield flapped on his belt as he moved, and his service piece dangled from one hand like a forgotten appendage.

  Hayward frowned in surprise. “Rogerson?” she asked.

  The cop’s eyes swiveled toward her briefly, then swiveled away. After a second, he turned his back on them and began staggering off. Hayward reached over and plucked the gun from the man’s unresisting hand.

  “What the hell happened here?” D’Agosta cried, looking around at the scattering of torn clothes, shoes, blood, and injured guests.

  “There’s no time to explain,” Pendergast said. “Captain Hayward, you and Lieutenant D’Agosta head up to the front of the tomb. You will find most of the guests up there, clustered at the entrance. Lead them back here and out through the gap in the wall. But be careful: many of them have undoubtedly become unhinged as a result of this sound-and-light show. They may be violent. Take care not to cause a stampede.” He turned to Smithback. “We must find that generator.”

  “The hell with that. I’m finding Nora.”

  “You won’t be able to find anyone until we stop this infernal show.”

  Smithback stopped. “But—”

  “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

  Smithback hesitated, then nodded reluctantly.

  Pendergast slipped a second flashlight out of his pocket and handed it to him, and they moved forward into the fog, side by side. It was a horrifying scene of carnage—wounded were sprawled across the marble floor, groaning, and more than one body lay motionless in a grotesque, unnatural position . . . apparently trampled to death. The floor was littered with shards of pottery. Smithback swallowed and tried to control his wildly beating heart.

  Pendergast shone his light across the ceiling, the beam finally coming to rest on a long stone molding. He aimed his gun, fired, and blew off a corner of the molding, exposing a power cable that smoked and sparked.

  “They would not have been allowed to bury the cables in the walls of the tomb,” he explained. “We need to search for more false moldings.”

  Slowly, he traced his light along the molding, which had been plastered, textured, and painted to look like stone. It ran to a corner, where it was joined by a second molding, and from there a larger molding headed through the doorway to the adjoining
room.

  They picked their way over several bodies piled before the door and entered the next chamber of the tomb. Smithback winced at the blinding strobes, which Pendergast dispatched with four well-placed shots.

  As the last shot reverberated through the gloom, a figure emerged from the dissipating fog, shambling, picking up and dropping its feet as if shackled with heavy weights. The mouth moved as if in violent speech, but Smithback could hear nothing over the thundering sound.