Eternal Unrest: A Novel of Mummy Terror

by Dixon, Lorne; Cato, Nick

  She’d heard that before— “it’ll be okay” —a mantra spoken by adults whenever they knew things would not be okay, that things would change forever and there was nothing that could be done to prevent it. Her mother had told her “It’ll be okay,” when Dara heard the crackling radio announce that Germany had invaded their country. It wasn’t okay. She heard the phrase again again when the soldiers appeared on their doorstep. They dragged her father out into the street and beaten him, kicked him with their boots until his eyes were swollen and black blood drooled out of his mouth, then, backing up, raised their rifles and shot him. Pushed back inside their home at gunpoint, the soldiers had moved on to the next house. And the next. Two hours later the gunshots were too far away to hear through her cupped hands.

  Destroyed by grief, her mother committed suicide that night in the bathtub, an empty bottle of red wine floating between her breasts and a straight razor on the tub’s lip.

  “It’ll be okay,” Aunt Keena had assured her as they snuck into the farmyard and onto one of the many red wagons filled with bodies. They buried themselves under their dead neighbors. The stench was overpowering—not rot, that came later, on the second day—but body odor and urine. The soldiers returned and swung more bodies onto the wagon. Breathing through gaps in the random piling of bodies overhead, she hadn’t been allowed to cry or even whimper for fear it would alert the soldiers. Aunt Keena held her hand, squeezing it sometimes as if to whisper, “It’ll be okay.”

  Looking into Miss Prissy’s eyes, Dara understood the phrase wasn’t a premonition or a promise, but rather a desperate wish. She wanted to tell her that wishes didn’t come true. When the soldiers dumped the last body onto the wagon, she’d closed her eyes and wished that when she opened them she wouldn’t see her dead father’s pale and beaten face staring down from the top of the body pile. But wishes didn’t come true.

  Miss Prissy had given her instructions, a lot of them, telling her how to get to the top floor and into a room called the bridge, which wasn’t a bridge at all but the room where the captain steers the boat, how to listen before turning a corner, to run if she heard anything—anything at all—and keep running.

  “Don’t hide,” she said, “just run.”

  The rest of the plan was spelled out for her in that same careful school teacher voice: the numbers written in the book, the lock on the box, the guns. At that point tension vibrated in Miss Prissy’s voice as she said, “But, honey, you have to be careful. The guns are dangerous. You don’t touch them except on their handle. Not on their trigger. And you always face it away, like this—”

  Miss Prissy turned her hand into a caricature of a gun, index finger extended, thumb raised, the other three fingers closed in a half-fist.

  Dara nodded. She knew all about guns and how dangerous they were. The image of the young soldier at the fueling station came into her head and lingered there: his pistol raised and firing, the loud snap of metal-on-metal and the thunderclap of gunpowder igniting, Uncle Tamir’s head torn apart by the bullet.

  Mr. Mason put on a grim smile and said, “Good girl.”

  He’d been doing that throughout Miss Prissy’s instructions, adding little gestures and phrases to reinforce her words, never more than “That’s right” or “Exactly so,” but once “You’ll do fine,” which sounded suspiciously like “It’ll be okay.”

  Beyond the bars, Old Scrat rubbed against the door, whiskers bristling as she let out a quick yowl. Tail swishing, she pranced out into the hallway, as if impatient for Dara to follow. Pulling away, Dara said, “Okay, Miss Prissy. Goodbye.”

  “No, no, honey.” Miss Prissy wiped away a falling tear. As she straightened up, she shivered, but not like it was cold. “Not goodbye. Let’s say ‘see you later’ instead. Okay?”

  Okay, Dara nodded. “I see you later, yes.”

  Squeezing between the bars, the thought struck her that the moment she stepped out into the hallway she would be alone. Truly alone. For the first time in her short life, there would be no adult within shouting distance to come to her rescue, no safety net to catch her, no unspoken promise of protection. Her parents were dead. Her aunt and uncle, too. The strangers she left behind as she approached the door had taken up the role of guardian after less than a day, and now they, too, would be unable to be at her side. Her arm throbbed but this new pain was worse: the sudden realization she could really die out in the hallway and no one could stop it from happening. She breathed in, filling her lungs, and held it, listening for sounds from the hallway. She almost wished she could hear footsteps. That would give her the excuse she needed to slide back inside the cell and stay with Briggy, Miss Prissy, Mr. Mason, and Mr. Eli, but the hallway was silent; she couldn’t even hear Old Scrat’s pawsteps. Wishes didn’t come true.

  Still holding her breath, she stepped out into the hall. The bare bulbs that hung from the ceiling blazed with an intensity that hurt her eyes. She blinked hard and shielded her vision with her good hand. Even burning so bright, the bulbs only managed to illuminate the floor directly underneath them like a string of super bright spotlights. The brightness became overbearing each time she entered one of their circles, then evaporated as she entered the darkness, blurring her vision behind a strong glare. Losing focus, the end of the hallway became fuzzy and washed out, gray walls bleeding into gray floors, black shadows streaking and bending across her vision.

  Her skin went cold. Her stomach tightened.

  She heard each of her footfalls drop against the floor, the sound magnified and impossibly loud, sure to draw the soldiers’ attention and bring them running. She froze, unable to take another step, legs shaking. She knew she couldn’t remain standing there in the hallway, a bright bulb buzzing over her head to point her out to them, but she couldn’t move, either. Her unresponsive feet had turned to concrete, too heavy to pull off the floor.

  At the stairwell entrance, on the fluctuating edge of the final bulb’s projected orb of light, a dark shape moved. She could see that this motion was different than the tricks of lights and shadow. Something crept across the floor and leaped onto the first metal rung of the stairs. And yowled back at her.

  Dara released her breath and watched Old Scrat bounce up the stairs and out of sight. Paralysis overcome, she stepped out from underneath the glow of the overhead bulb. Each step came easier than the last, and faster, until she, too, was climbing the stairs, and then crossing the hall as Miss Prissy had instructed, avoiding the cross-halls the soldiers were most likely to use.

  Up more stairs and across the landing, she glanced down at the dining hall and remembered Briggy standing up to Mr. Felix, chastising him for throwing that wrench at Old Scrat. She thought the old tortoiseshell cat might be repaying the favor, leading her on her journey through the ship. But the thought was too good to be true. With a quick look back, Old Scrat turned away and headed to the dining hall. With a despondent sigh, Dara turned in the other direction and made her way to the port stairwell on the opposite side of the ship. It struck her again that she was alone, now even more so without the cat as a walking companion.

  She stopped at the landing of the stairwell. Voices drifted down from above, angry and scared and German, rambling and arguing. They were yelling at one another, words wielded like weapons, voices overlapping. Dara stepped back, ready to run, before realizing that the booming voices were distant and the soldiers were not on the stairs but somewhere in the cabins above.

  She remembered her father and mother’s arguments, just as loud, the words every bit as jagged and barbed as the Germans, and crept onto the first few rungs of the stairs. When adults argued, they became fixated on their sparring partners and could see nothing else. If she was quiet, Dara had no doubt she could sneak right past them.

  Each metal stair let out a tiny metal growl under her feet as she climbed. The yelling continued. At the top of the stairs she peeked out into the hallway. At the end of the hall, Mr. Felix stood in an open doorway, facing into the bridge. His body was in c
onstant motion, arms flailing and hands gesturing, his voice growing louder as he tried to drown out the other voices further inside the room.

  Dara darted into the hallway, keeping her head low, and went halfway down it before sliding into an open door. It was dark inside, which worried her, but from this perspective she could see farther into the bridge. The doctor stood in the center of the room, both arms raised, shouting. Horst leaned against the far wall, his shirt covered in blood. The third soldier, seated at the ship’s controls, watched the others, eyes shifting between them, with a look of disbelief on his face.

  “ENOUGH,” the doctor barked in English. The others quieted down. “Nothing has changed. We prepared for resistance. Our plan remains the same.”

  “Resistence?” Felix asked. “What I saw was not resistance. It was—”

  “It was what?” Horst asked. “You tell me what it was. I do not know. You tell.”

  The doctor slapped a hand down on the control panel. “I said enough. We accomplish nothing by bickering like women on porch steps. We cannot turn back. Europe is poisoned for us. You all know this.”

  “What do we do about the … the …?” Felix asked, moving in from the doorway. As he turned, Dara saw that his clothes were spotted with blood, too. She wondered what happened.

  The doctor reached into his holster and withdrew his pistol. “We have everything we need to take control of this situation. Down there we lost the element of surprise, but we will not be caught unready again. We have known war. This is no different.”

  “No different? Were you even down there? Did you see what I saw?” Felix turned and stormed down the hallway. The Germans watched him go.

  Horst cocked a thumb toward Felix as he retreated. “Should I?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Do not waste your energy. He has no choice anymore. He has no friends aboard this ship.”

  Sinking back from the doorway as Felix passed by, Dara stood in the dark, unsure of what else might hide in the cabin with her. She could still see a small sliver of the bridge’s doorway, but little more as the biggest German shuffled into the center of the room, blocking her view.

  “There is a different problem, Herr Oelrich,” the soldier seated at the controls said. His English was more fluid than the others, clearly taught in a classroom. Dara remembered her own one-room schoolhouse. She never thought she would miss it, but now she certainly did. Once Felix’s footsteps descended down the far stairs, she stepped back up to the window.

  “What is it?” the doctor asked.

  The soldier rattled a handle on the control board. “We’ve lost control of the ship. One moment, I was in command of the rudders and the speed, and the next, I was not. It is as if there is a second set of controls somewhere else aboard.”

  The doctor shook his head. “This ship is too old for that. Are you certain that the mechanism hasn’t simply failed?”

  “I am sure,” the soldier said, standing and abandoning his position at the controls. “Someone is steering this ship, just not from this console.”

  Sighing with frustration, the doctor asked, “How would you know that?”

  “Because ten minutes ago the ship changed course.” He moved to the nearest porthole window. “We’re headed due south.”

  “Not back to England?” The doctor joined him at the window and followed his eyes up to the sky. “Where are they taking us, then?”

  “Herr Oelrich,” the soldier said, “do you see the stars? They may mean nothing to you, you were not trained for the Kriegsmarine, but I was. Astronomy is still taught extensively, even with all of the modern technology available to us. You see bright twinkles in the sky; I see a map.”

  “Does the map tell you where we’re headed?”

  It was the soldier’s turn to shake his head. “No, it tells me where we are. Doctor, this ship has only been sailing for a few hours. And the course, as I have reported, only changed moments ago. But …”

  The doctor turned away from the porthole. “Tell me.”

  “We are already seven hundred nautical miles from England. Seven hundred miles south.”

  The big German in the doorway blurted out, “Is a lie.”

  “No, the stars don’t lie,” the soldier said.

  “It’s impossible,” the doctor said.

  “But, Herr—”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe you, Erich. I said it’s impossible. And it is. I don’t need to explain this to you.” The doctor pointed to Horst. “You saw those … things down there. You saw them control the bodies of the dead men. They must be in control of the ship as well. To fix this and get back on course, we need only to destroy them.”

  “Them?” Erich asked. “Who was down there?”

  “Cargo. Mummies,” Horst said.

  “What of them?” the young soldier asked.

  The doctor hissed, “They’re alive.”

  A hand wrapped around Dara’s face from behind, strong fingers covering her mouth, forcing her jaw to remain shut. Pulled back from the doorway into the dark, another arm wrapped around her waist and lifted, pressing her against a warm chest. She struggled to break free, whimpering, her fractured arm trapped under a muscular forearm.

  “Shhh, shhh, little girl,” a voice close to her ear whispered. “It’s just me, Bennie, you remember me, don’t ya? Shhhh.”

  She did remember Mr. Leland, but for a moment she continued to struggle anyway, no longer willing to trust anyone except Briggy and Miss Priscilla. When his grip on her loosened, most of her terror faded and instead of fleeing, she stayed close to the heat of his body. She remembered the weird voices that had slipped out from Uncle Tamir’s lips and an aftershock of fright rang through her. In the dark, it was impossible to tell if it really was Mr. Leland, or if something awful had stolen his voice. She glanced at the lit doorway and kept her feet poised to run if he should make too sudden a move.

  “Just stay still,” he whispered as he lowered her. Her shoes hit the floor with a soft clap. It sounded as loud as fireworks to Dara’s ears, but the Germans gave no indication that they heard.

  Dara pointed toward the sliver-view of the Bridge she saw through the door, but then dropped her arm, realizing he couldn’t see the gesture in the dark. She whispered, “I go there. Flare. In box.”

  “No,” he answered. “We don’t need it. I’ve got a gun already, a real one. Can’t use a flare gun aboard anyway without burning the whole ship down. ‘Sides, in there you only get one shot and there’s four of them.”

  Dara didn’t respond, didn’t know what she could possibly say, but she sunk closer to him, letting his arm drape around her shoulder. She didn’t know what he had planned, but even if it was reckless and dangerous and stupid, it felt good not to be alone. Her head still told her not to trust him, not completely, but her heartbeat slowed and her breathing steadied.

  The Germans continued to discuss the situation, English and German words dancing, until it was clear they had come up with a plan. Leaving Erich behind, Horst and the doctor marched out of the bridge, down the hall, and hurried down the same staircase Felix had descended.

  Mr. Leland stirred beside her, repositioning himself for a better view through the door. Although she couldn’t see him, she sensed he was studying the scene and calculating. Finally, he leaned over to her and whispered, “You stay here. There’s something I have to do. I’ll be right back for you.”

  Her hand reached out and closed around his arm before she even knew what she doing, a motion as quick and instinctive as flinching away from an open flame. “No. No alone. I go. I go.”

  He sighed and then gave in. “Stay behind me and if I tell you to run, you run.”

  “And don’t stop,” she said, echoing Miss Prissy’s words.

  Mr. Leland stood up and said, “Exactly.”

  Chapter 23

  Inside the cell, Priscilla paced, fear shrinking into agitation and restlessness. Mason and Eli, sitting with their backs to the wall, watched as she walked the l
ength of the cage, spun on her heels, and reversed course. Brigham, still sprawled out on the floor, continued to stare at the ceiling, not flinching, not even blinking, as Priscilla’s feet dropped inches from his face.

  She expected one of them—though, she supposed, not Brigham—to ask her to stop, to utter out some sort of protest, , but they remained silent. Of course they did, she thought, they feel as guilty as I do, sending a child out to fetch a flare gun, knowing full well she had only the thinnest possible chance of making it back alive.

  But, then, no, she realized, they couldn’t possibly feel as guilty. No doubt they had the Nazi deserters on their minds and maybe an imaginary scene of horror playing like one of those seaside flicker show movies: little Dara’s body, shot full of holes, on a hallway floor, the blood pool widening, Dr. Oelrich standing over her, his pistol still aimed down at her lifeless body. But Priscilla had more thoughts and more images to reconcile, like that ancient, demon-faced monster from the crate, now missing, roaming somewhere aboard, full of malevolence and cruelty. What would a creature like that do to a child? What could it do?

  The sound of echoing footsteps stopped her mid-stride and for a hopeful moment relief flooded through her, releasing the tension in her stomach, but then she realized it was too soon for Dara to return and that the sound was boots against metal stairs, the heavy plod of a fully-grown man storming down the hallway, not slowing as he turned.

  Felix bolted into the shop cabin and approached the bars. He pointed one shaking finger at Priscilla. “You. You’re a museum person. You know about all that old stuff in the hold.”

  Keeping an arm’s length away from the bars, she turned to face him and stared into his glassy eyes. The man was frightened beyond rationality. He looked desperate. She spoke to him in a slow, deliberate voice. “Yes, that’s why I was put in charge of the safekeeping transfer.”