Eternal Unrest: A Novel of Mummy Terror

by Dixon, Lorne; Cato, Nick

  Mason took her hand. “Good.”

  “There’s nothing good about it,” she said.

  Chapter 21

  Bennie Leland watched as tendrils of smoke drifted up from the aft stairwell. Ducking into the hall from the last cabin in the hallway, the sight struck a chord of panic in his head. Coal smoke was pure white, like snow as fine as vapor, but the mist rising from the engine room deck was a sooty gray. It meant the smoke wasn’t the byproduct of an unchecked coal furnace smoldering out of control—that would have been bad enough—but that a fire had broken out below. The Limpkin was little more than wooden skin over a steel skeleton. Wood would burn and steel would bend in the heat. Unless caught early, the ship would sink.

  With Hilliard dead, Bennie had been passed the stewardship of the Limpkin, captain at last, but unless he could find a way to contain the fire, his new position would be short-lived—perhaps as short as the dwindling remainder of his life—if he didn’t wake his wandering mind out of his daze. It had been twenty minutes since he’d lost track of the Germans as they headed down to the service levels. Following them any lower would have been too dangerous, leaving him with only a single stairwell as an escape route. Instead, he’d finished his search of the worker’s cabins, tossing their beds and closets, finding dozens of racy magazines, marked playing cards, and bags of loose tobacco, but no guns.

  Climbing the stairwell, he considered a path that would take him past the room where he’d seen Felix and the Germans lock up Eli and the others, but that seemed risky, too. He couldn’t be sure that the guard hadn’t returned, and without a key there was nothing he could do to help them anyway.

  He poked his head out through the portal to the commissary hall, found it clear, and hurried down it. There was still no plan in his head, only the sharp realization that to avoid capture he needed to keep moving. He’d considered using one of the fire axes fixed to the hallway walls to split the winch lines, drop a lifeboat into the ocean, and then dive in after it. But even if the shock of the freezing water didn’t kill him outright before he could climb into the lifeboat, the resulting pneumonia almost certainly would.

  A sound jarred him from his thoughts and he flinched, knees bending, feet scurrying, before he could place the noise. A wet, hacking sob. Turning his head, he faced an open cabin door. His trip through the bowels of the Limpkin had brought him full circle. Inside the cabin, Buddy Martin was sprawled on a cot, arm dangling over the side.

  After a quick twist of his head to make sure no one was coming, Bennie crept inside and closed the door behind him. Men who were unused to life aboard a ship had trouble telling one cabin door apart from another. He doubted the Germans would notice the door had been shut, but if they did come through it he would at least have the element of surprise. He hoped.

  Turning back toward Buddy, he felt a chill race across his face, as if he’d been sprinkled with freezing water. A long, slim trench knife protruded from the center of Buddy’s chest, too perfectly centered to puncture his heart, but deep enough to be a mortal blow. Except that it hadn’t been. The man was still breathing.

  “Thought you was dead,” Bennie whispered.

  Lips trembling, Buddy sputtered as he fought to speak. “You … saying … I’m not?”

  Between the gunshots in his abdomen and the blade in his chest, Bennie was surprised the man was even conscious, let alone able to crack a joke. “Well, you best find a way to stick around a little longer, ’cause everything’s gonna be okay soon and then—”

  “Not … a chance.” A line of dark red drooled out of the corner of Buddy’s mouth, marking the side of his face in an upward crescent, a clown’s exaggerated smile. “But … listen …”

  Bennie leaned in.

  “Brought … a Luger … Captain Hill—”

  “Hilliard,” Bennie finished when Buddy’s voice trailed off. “He made you stow it, didn’t he? Always had a thing about firearms coming aboard. Where did he have you lock it up?”

  Buddy didn’t answer. His face had gone slack.

  “No, no, listen, I need to know where the Luger got to. You gotta tell me.” He put the palm of his hand across Buddy’s throat. His pulse was weak. “You’ve gotta tell me right now. Buddy—”

  Nothing.

  Swearing under his breath, Bennie reached for the trench knife’s hilt, took hold, and pulled it free. Buddy’s body jerked up, mouth open as if to scream, but no sound came from his mouth. Convulsing, he fell back to the cot and writhed.

  “Where’s the Luger? Tell me where it is,” he demanded, wiping the trench knife’s blade clean against his pant leg.

  Eyes closing, Buddy whispered, “… shoe.”

  Buddy Martin’s face went soft, muscles relaxing, jaw relaxing. His chest flattened as his lungs released their trapped air and deflated. His kicking legs lost ambulation, one becoming a limp pendulum dangling from the side of the cot.

  Bennie backed away from the dead man. Mind racing, he stared down at the bloodied knife in his hand. A swastika had been engraved in the blade, the creases of the mark deep enough for blood to pool inside, and underneath, a legend:

  Scnicksal

  His fingers twitched and his grip threatened to fail, as if his hands protested touching the blade. He spoke French and understood a little Dutch, but nothing of German. The word schnicksal might have meant anything, but in that moment the knife became a wicked talisman, its engraving a single-word, black magic spell. He wanted to throw it to the floor and run from it.

  But it was a weapon, one he could use against the Germans. He forced his hand to close tight around the hilt.

  Shoe. It might as well have been scnicksal for all it meant to Bennie. It was possible—likely, even—that Buddy had drifted into nonsensical gibberish at the end, but there was a chance the word was a hint to where the captain had stowed Buddy’s Luger.

  Noise came from the hallway, a cavalcade of boots running at top speed. Dropping, Bennie flattened his face to the floor to allow a view through the narrow slit between door and frame. A pair of steel-tipped work boots and two pairs of German military jackboots ran through, each blocking out the harsh overhead light as they passed by. Felix and two of the Germans, he figured; he waited for more.

  None came.

  Bennie wondered how bad the fire below must have been if they were fleeing instead of dousing it with the half-dozen fire extinguishers bracketed to the the engine room walls. Where were they going?

  Tracking their fading footsteps, it sounded as if they were heading up to the bridge, no doubt to meet up with the soldier they had left there to man the controls, but again, on a ship at sea it made no sense to run from a fire. Wood would burn, metal would warp, and the Limpkin would sink.

  Even a man who had never been at sea would surely understand that, he thought.

  When the sound of their retreat faded into silence, Bennie pushed himself off the floor and cracked open the door. Peeking through, his hands firm on the trench knife’s hilt, he surveyed the hall. Empty. He crept out, moving slow, trying to avoid making any noise. He knew the Limpkin at night, knew the groan of its hull and the hum of its engine, its long shadows and the glare of light bulbs against port windows. He couldn’t have explained it, but tonight the ship felt different, as if the Germans’ presence aboard the ship had lengthened its hallways and darkened its cabins.

  Street clothes. Shoe. The ship’s laundry.

  A smile grew on Bennie’s face. There was a lockbox in the laundry room, intended to safeguard possessions and coins found in the wash sinks. The crew rotated shifts, handing off the box’s key along with the responsibility of scrubbing down the crew’s work clothes. A single leather shoe had resided in the box for months, unclaimed although everyone had the chance to take it. Bennie pictured it with a new roommate: Buddy’s Luger.

  Bennie didn’t waste time. The laundry was a level below and on the opposite end of the ship. Head down, he made his way back into the stairwell. A fragile seedling of hope had sprou
ted in his head. A gun in his hand—and an automatic at that—would go a long way toward surviving this voyage.

  Maybe he’d get his chance to try ortolan after all.

  ٣

  1153 B.C.

  The western winds tousled the heavy flax flaps of the vendor’s tent. Loose soil, carried on the air stream, tapped against the cloth walls, creating a barrier of noise that masked the three priests’ advance into the tent. It made no difference. Petosiris would have felt their presence even if he were rendered completely deaf and blind. Faces buried behind black scarves sewn into the collars of their tunics, he watched them enter, each studying the interior, searching for him. His disguise was better than any clothing. Petosiris was invisible to the eyes and ears of the patrons and vendors, as well as to his newly-arrived companions. They saw a frail old woman in his place, features drawn from each their memories, long dead mothers in many cases, a harmless and reassuring presence. They went about their business and ignored him.

  He lifted the glamour for the priests. Seeing him emerge in their vision, they headed over to the small table where he sat drinking henqet from a wooden drinking cup. Ankhhaf led the way, untying his scarf to reveal his unshaven face, followed by Siatum and Khaemweset, an order that ignored their rank. Siatum stumbled as he moved, his left leg suffering a limp, revealing the reason for their formation: wounded, the archer would be kept in the middle to protect him from frontal or rear attack.

  He saw it in their eyes even before they sat down and, one by one, told him their stories: each had been attacked by a team sent by the new Pharoah. Ankhhaf was jolted out of mesmeric prayer by the march of soldiers’ feet inside the Abu Simbel temple. Siatum’s thigh was punctured by a quick blade in the crowded streets of Memphis. He fell and was quickly surrounded by men bearing tattoos of the Pharaoh’s new secret guard. Khaemweset was attacked in his home.

  None of the soldiers were priests; most were only conscripted boys with fresh faces and clumsy hands that shook as they brandished their weapons. Petosiris saw this as proof that Egypt was changing, becoming less spiritual and more militaristic. None of those young soldiers had survived the assaults. Petosiris led a prayer for their spirits, asking Re to forgive their arrogance, Hathor to build them a bed in the afterlife where they could rest, Osiris to re-educate them with the truest knowledge, and Ptah to watch over them. Following their prayer, the priests bowed their heads in silence and wept for the men they had killed.

  But the prayer was only for the benefit of his companions. Petosiris meant none of it. The new Pharaoh and all of the men who served him could not be forgiven for Chione’s death. He felt no remorse for killing the soldiers on the Nile, nor wished them any comfort in the next life. Before raising his head, he recited a prayer that he did mean, a salutation and offering to Sobek, the god with the face of a crocodile, and asked for strength and resilience against his enemies.

  Finishing his drink, Petosiris tossed away the cup and led his men out of the tent. The robust spires and columns of the Karnak Temples grew into the sky like wild vines, separated from the street market by a tall, natural rock wall. The largest and most glorious place of worship in Egypt, the temples were also, by Re’s law, the residence of the Pharaoh for a full year following his father’s death, a time of contrition and learning. Petosiris knew the young Pharaoh had little use or patience for the teachings of master priests, or of the gods themselves, but that violating the law would turn the nation against him; To quell dissent, Hekamaatresetepenamun, Pharoah Ramesses IV, would abide.

  Petosiris meant to make the temple his grave.

  With dawn still blooming, the streets were filling, men bustled toward the shops where they toiled, women with children lashed to their bosoms headed into the market, sun glinted off ashen faces, humble animal skin tunics flapped in the wind. Petosiris expanded his influence to every eye on the street: the crowd saw four old women bundled against the cold, hobbling down the street. His power was not limitless, though, and he hoped that those on the periphery would not recognize them. Two soldiers dressed in dark robes passed them, oblivious.

  Siatum grunted with each step. Petosiris wondered how deep the wound went. He was trained in healing—both medical and mystical—but there was no time now to gather the proper lotions and idols. He prayed for the eldest of his warrior priest. It would have to be enough.

  Four guards stood at the temple gates, armored and armed, their pupils dilated with concentration as they studied the worshipers who approached. Redirecting his deceit, Petosiris abandoned the pedestrians on the street and focused his influence on the guards. They were trained men, more aware and critical than the common men and women of Egypt, more difficult to confuse. Most women were barred from the temple, of course, but not those who cleaned and tidied, so it was that image he projected. The guards ignored them.

  Through the gates, the sacred grounds outside the temple opened into three courtyards, each decorated with sculptures and fountains. Stone pathways led to the buildings beyond—prayer rooms, libraries, worship centers, and cleansing baths. For most who visited, the complex ended there, but Petosiris knew better. The temple continued underground for many levels, deep enough for the clay brick walls to coat with perspiration. In the lowest depths there were sacred burial chambers. It was there the new Pharaoh would be found, standing vigil over his dead father for hours each day, as the law demanded.

  Justice was close at hand, less than a mile under his feet.

  Stepping into the crowded center courtyard, Petosiris led his men along the pathway toward the looming arches that led into the main prayer hall. The chatter of voices and clapping of sandals against stone drowned out all other sound. Navigating through the assembled, meandering worshipers, Petosiris caught a glimpse of movement, silhouettes in dark robes fading in and out of his vision, obscured by the crowd. He tried to focus his influence on the darting figures, but couldn’t lock on.

  He stopped and raised a hand for the others to follow suit. Turning his head, he motioned into the sea of bodies and mouthed, “We are followed.”

  Khaemweset trudged up beside him, leaned in, and whispered, “I’ve seen them, too.”

  Searing pain shot through Petosiris, radiating out from his lower ribcage. His hands shot down to the pain and wrapped around Khaemweset’s short blade. The youngest of the priests twisted the blade, slicing open his hand and deepening the wound. His concentration evaporated, and with it, his influence. Falling away from the blade and staggering to remain upright, he saw the Pharaoh’s secret guards emerge from the scattering crowd, weapons raised.

  Siatum slid his short bow out from his robe, but before he could center an arrow, a blade was at his neck, forcing him onto his knees. Ankhhaf surrendered, bowing before the guards.

  “I am sorry. It bereaves me to do this,” Khaemweset said, aiming lower with his knife and slashing the back of Petosiris’s ankle.

  He fell to the stone bricks of the pathway and stared up at his betrayer. The dark-robed guards surrounded him, eclipsing the new day’s light and pushing Khaemweset out of his sight. They forced his arms and legs flat and held him down, swords never far from his flesh.

  “Hold him,” a voice said. Craning his head from under a strong pair of hands, he saw the guards part. Khafre, the Pharaoh’s physician, slinked through, carrying a small, curved knife. “None of us are safe yet.”

  The doctor knelt down and pointed the knife between Petosiris’s lips. “He will still be able to pray, but the most powerful prayers must be spoken. I’ll remove his greatest weapon. Pry open his mouth.”

  More hands clasped onto his face. Palms pressed against the sides of his jaw and sharpened thumbnails dug in. Clenching, he refused to be subdued any further; with all their might, the guards could not force his mouth to unlatch.

  Snickering, Khafre traced his knife between the guards’ hands and across Petosiris’s cheek, stopping just below the ear. With a quick stab, the blade cut through the tendons beneath. The guards yanke
d down. The right half of his jaw swung down. Khafre repositioned his blade and repeated the procedure on the opposite side. Even without new pressure, Petosiris’s mouth fell open.

  Petosiris screamed, not in pain, although it surged through him with an intensity he had never felt before, but in fury.

  Khafre seized his tongue between his thumb and forefinger. Sliding the blade deep into his mouth, he set it under the root, and with a single savage wrench of his wrist cut it out of his mouth.

  As blood filled his mouth, pooled in his throat, and seeped into his sinus cavities, he began to pray. Without his tongue, it was true that his psychic arsenal was limited, but he was not defenseless.

  He remembered the final teaching he’d received as a young man, the most secret knowledge of the Old Order. His teacher had told him that the gods were not as they seemed but really a much older, singular force that countless cultures had imagined in many, many forms. Some, as was their custom, divided this force into many deities, others knew it as one. They communicated with it in any way they could, in language and art, in prayer and ritual.

  But there was another force, almost as ancient but far darker, a force that had no use for man other than to enslave and torment it. This force had many names, too, through unrecorded histories. It was powerful and cruel and not to be trusted. To call on the force in prayer was to face the most horrible of afterlives. Some had, of course, in lust for power or wealth or women, and it had always changed them into monsters, hollow vessels filled only with darkness and hate.

  For his vengeance, Petosiris sacrificed his afterlife.

  In his mind, he began to pray.

  Chapter 22

  Miss Prissy explained it all to her in simple phrases and short words, all delivered in as steady and plain a voice as she could muster, but still Dara could detect the tremors in her voice and hear uncertain little pauses here and there. Kneeling down to her level, Miss Prissy slid her hands down the sides of the child’s face, kissed her forehead and told her everything would be okay.