Eternal Unrest: A Novel of Mummy Terror

by Dixon, Lorne; Cato, Nick

  Eli’s hands clasped onto her wrists as they balled up again on his torn shirt. As he shook her, his eyes bored into hers, desperate and pleading. “You gotta … leave … me here …”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  But her eyes shot across the hall to the open door.

  Mason, nose flat and face bloody, scrambled across the floor, plucking up the ax on his way, slipping as he fought to stand. Reaching Eli’s feet, he dropped the ax on the fallen man’s chest, grabbed him by the ankles, and pulled.

  Horst’s head, severed from his body, rolled out from under the curtain of smoke, losing teeth from its shattered jawline as it progressed, and spun to rest at Priscilla’s hand. Pushing it away, she scurried to her feet, held on to Eli’s arm, and helped Mason drag him across the hallway and through the open cabin door.

  Inside, she dropped Eli’s arm and turned to shut the door. She saw all three mummies burst through the billowing smoke. The sword one carried was painted with fresh blood, glistening like gel, dripping.

  She slammed the door and locked it. Mason, jumping to her side, pressed himself against the door. Screaming, he pointed to the bare bedframe in the small cabin’s corner, “DRAG THAT—”

  Brigham dropped Dara to the floor, bent down, and retrieved the ax. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Priscilla pushed her shoulder against the door, joining Mason. She felt pressure build from the other side, not a pounding of fists, but something larger and more powerful than the force of human muscle. The door strained inward. Pushing back, it rattled under their hands.

  Brigham swung the ax against the cabin’s wall next to a small porthole window. The thin wooden panel cracked under the heavy blade, a large chunk tearing free when he pulled back. A second blow followed, exposing a section of the ship’s sidewall.

  The force on the door grew, shaking the metal with a brutal ferocity, the vibration surging through her body, as painful as hundreds of hypodermic needles puncturing her flesh. Her voice fluctuated as she yelled, “Hurry.”

  Wide eyed, Dara watched Brigham, looking up with eyes full of fear.

  He swung again, cracking into the outer hull, twisted the blade free, and swung again, until he’d cut a channel to the porthole. With a savage strike, he hit the window’s metal frame, bending it outward. Dropping the ax, he took hold of the frame with both hands and toggled it back and forth until it came free. He tossed it to the floor.

  The edges of the frame were bloody from where it had sliced into his palms.

  Through the hole, Priscilla saw the enormous waves of the crashing open ocean. They were two floors above sea level and still the waves splashed salt water into the cabin.

  The metal door screamed, the edges bending, a crease meandering down the center like a crack in a pane of glass. She knew they couldn’t hold it much longer.

  Brigham widened the hole with his hands, screaming as he broke away black lumber, the old ship’s hull rotten by age and the elements.

  Another set of hands joined them at the door. Eli, body trembling, had risen from the floor and thrown himself against the metal. His heft pushed the collapsing door back into its frame. Cheek flat to its surface, he whispered to Priscilla, “You … two … go.”

  This time, she couldn’t find an argument. The only escape from the cabin was a hole in the sidewall too small for his large body. And to wait any longer was impossible.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and kissed his forehead.

  Eli said nothing, only smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile, the kind that could only be formed on the face of a man who understood that his place in the universe was very, very small and that his time remaining alive was equal in stature. Priscilla didn’t know what had sent him to prison, but she knew that here, right now, he had atoned for his crime.

  Mason stayed at the door for an extra moment as she bolted across the cabin. Brigham took her hand as she reached him and guided her through the opening. Frigid air met her outside, as well as the pungent odor of the sea, and for a moment the thought of jumping froze her even more than the outside temperature. But she saw that plunging into the ocean was not Brigham’s plan—to the side of the opening, resting between portholes, was the first of the starboard-side lifeboats. Hands moving down to her thigh, Brigham pushed her up until her head and shoulders were outside and, bent at her middle, she could perch her feet on the hole’s ledge. There would be only one chance, one leap, and she would find herself either within the lifeboat or the icy black waters below. She braced herself, listening to the rumble of the cabin door rattling under Eli’s weight and realized there was no more time to hesitate. The mummies would be inside soon. Coiling back on her heels, hands gripping the hole’s broken wooden beams, she—

  An explosion rocked through the ship. Like in an earthquake, the ship seemed to lose its place on the ocean, lose all weight, all substance. There was motion in every direction, the metal cot jangling, debris skittering. The Limpkin shrieked, wood splintered, metal beams warped. The ship pitched to the bow, riding not the waves but the force of pure inertia, and Priscilla stumbled, her feet sliding off the ledge. At the last moment she leaped, avoiding a graceless fall into the ocean, but the ship’s tilt changed as she did and her aim was off. For a horrible moment she was certain that the lifeboat was outside her reach, but then, another shift, and she felt the lip of the lifeboat’s bow under her fingers. Tightening, she gripped it, holding on as her body swung.

  Aftershocks rocked the Limpkin. The lifeboats swayed and clattered against the hull, hemp ropes twanging like plucked guitar strings as they snapped taut and then released. Her fingers slipped but she dug in with her nails until they bent back, stopping her slide. Wasting no time, she pulled herself up, flinging herself over the ledge and into the lifeboat. She collapsed there, head slamming against a wooden bench seat, and caught her breath. Rolling, she pulled herself up, fighting against the sway of the boat, and found the left side winch. Unlike the gear winches on the Limpkin’s deck, these were simple release levers, capable of lowering but not raising, and unable to control the speed of descent.

  Holding the mechanism in one hand, she yanked on the lever with the other; it was rusted in place and didn’t move. Another aftershock shuddered through the ship, sweeping the lifeboat away from its mooring and dangling it over the sea. Seawater sprayed. Keeping upright more by willpower than balance, she worked the lever, pushing and pulling to break it loose, worrying that it might be seized up forever, no matter how much pressure she applied. But then it broke free and the bow dropped, her stomach lurching inside her gut like it did at the first free fall of a rollercoaster, until she jammed the lever back up and it clamped down on the rope, ending the drop.

  She adjusted her footing on the sloped floor. The boat was nearly vertical and now swaying at more extreme angles, threatening to shake her loose. Clawing her way to the aft, she leaned on the second lever-winch, this one less hesitant, and leveled out the boat.

  A bright flash of light caught her eye, drawing her attention to the Limpkin’s rear. The burst of light was followed by the sudden release of a huge cloud of black smoke, seeping out through a massive hole torn through the top deck. Wooden panels cracked and split down the length of the ship, spilling debris into the ocean. Tendrils of smoke escaped from the gaps forming in the hull, a million black worms spilling out from a gestation host.

  Whipping around, Priscilla extended her arms as Brigham reached through the destroyed porthole and handed Dara out. Arms outstretched, she ringed her hands under the girl’s shoulders and drew her in. The ship shook again, knocking her off balance and she fell back, collapsing on the bench, Dara in her arms. The girl was crying.

  “Shhhh,” she hushed, though her voice was lost to the sounds of the ship tearing apart, the lapping ocean, and the powerful winds.

  The lifeboat rocked as Brigham clambered aboard.

  Another explosion, this one at sea level, a rush of fire and metal bursting out of the hull. A wave
of heat and ash hit the lifeboat, flashing across Priscilla’s face as she cradled Dara. Brigham, swaying on his feet, reached back into the breach, locked hands with Mason, and helped him aboard.

  The Limpkin tipped forward, leaning, until its weight rocked its starboard, nearly capsizing. Ducking low, they held tight to the lifeboat. Thunder cracked below them, an unnerving sound, as if they were flying above a storm cloud rather than on the sea. Then the remains of the ship’s rudder burst up through the hull, tearing through metal frame and wooden skin, changing the ship’s direction.

  Pressing Dara tight to her chest, Priscilla buried her face in the girl’s hair, trying to block out the sounds and sights. But it was impossible. Some basic self-preservation instinct forced her head back up to witness the madness around her, to pay attention lest this be her last moments alive.

  In the unending choir of destruction, she heard a single voice call out, a shrill final scream that could only have been a death shriek, and knew Eli was dead.

  Mason and Brigham worked the release levers, not easing them down but dropping them, releasing the clamps. The lifeboat fell, that rollercoaster sensation returning, until it hit the ocean’s surface in a squall of displaced surf. The tiny boat dipped to one side, nearly overturning, and then righted itself.

  Freeing an oar, Mason rammed it into the Limpkin, pushing the lifeboat away from the smoldering behemoth, following the wake. Debris continued to fall from the higher decks of the ship, showering down into the water, tiny particles glowing like embers and large chunks of hull in a heavy snow shower of flame.

  The lifeboat drifted out of the debris field.

  The Limpkin’s portholes glowed like the eyes of a Halloween jack-o-lantern bobbing on the water, the fire in its belly spreading through the decks, plumes of black smoke rising into the winds, spreading in the purple-black night sky into a tapestry of spilled ink.

  Brigham reached down and took Dara from Priscilla’s arms, lifting her up and inspecting her, smiling as she did, too, and then embracing her, their cheeks touching.

  As Priscilla slid into a seat on the wooden bench, Mason dropped down beside her and took her hand. Her stare turned from the burning ship to Mason’s face, eyes locking as they both exhaled.

  “Miss Stuyvesant,” he said. “In a moment, after I finish catching my breath, I’m going to kiss you. It probably won’t be much of a kiss, it’s been a long night, you understand, and we’ve been through a lot, but I must tell you, once I start, I don’t intend to stop any time soon.”

  Priscilla smirked. “Well then, I guess you really should start calling me Prissy.”

  “I’ve heard that somewhere before.” He leaned in, close, his broken nose brushing against hers, and kissed her.

  Dara giggled.

  Breaking away, Mason brought a hand up to his nose and said, “I lied. That hurt. Gonna have to wait a while before we continue with all that.”

  She laughed, and whispered, “That’s okay.”

  Brigham bounced Dara up higher, turning her, her good arm wrapped around his neck, and freed an arm. He pointed to the Limpkin’s top deck. Three tall silhouettes stood, illuminated by the glow from the lower decks, too still to be human. Finger aimed at the tallest of the three, he yelled, “WE BEAT YOU. WE. BEAT. YOU.”

  One of the smaller silhouettes stirred, its movements too distant to be recognized, but seeing this, Mason turned and yelled, “Brigham, get dow—”

  The arrow struck the Irishman in his throat, an inch above Dara’s shoulder, and cut straight through his neck. He floundered for a moment, dazed, the force of the impact destroying his balance. Dara shrieked. Stumbling, he turned, revealing the ancient carved rock blade protruding below his hairline, blood bursting from the wound. He fell, toppling overboard with Dara still in his arms, plummeting into the ocean. The dark water devoured him, burying him under the surface, Dara holding tight, still screaming on her way down.

  They resurfaced, bobbing up in a desperate flurry of splashing water and flailing limbs, rippling waves tugging them away from the lifeboat.

  Priscilla snapped her hand away from Mason, curled over the side, and jumped overboard. The water hit her skin with a sensation like diving into razorblades. Near freezing, the salt water lashed out at her with each wave, numbing her, lulling her body to sleep. This, she realized, was temperature shock. Fighting, she swam toward Brigham and Dara, the deceptive ocean current pushing her farther away even as he directed herself to them.

  She heard a splash and, glancing back, saw that Mason, too, had dove into the ocean. He fared better, his overhead strokes more effective than her pathetic doggy paddle. He came up alongside her, one hand reaching around her, and hollered, “You go back. I’ll get them.”

  “NO,” she screamed, struggling, salt water splashing into her face, stinging her eyes, invading her mouth.

  Pulling her close, he spoke directly into her ear in an urgent, commanding voice. “We lose the boat, we all die out here. You go back. I’ll get them.”

  Them. She knew that was a lie. She’d known when she’d leaped into the water that Brigham couldn’t survive. She’d gone in for Dara.

  Muscles cramping, she surrendered, her nod lost in her body’s jerking shivers, and turned to swim back. Mason continued on. Brigham stopped thrashing, head lolling on the water’s surface, body floating. Dara clung to him, eyes shut, the most painful expression on her face, the very definition of agony.

  Climbing back aboard the lifeboat, Priscilla collapsed in the center. Her heart pounded and each breath came in a labored gulp. Pulling herself up, she peered over the boat’s edge. Mason swam toward Brigham’s body, now lifeless, but the ocean drove them farther away, dark waves spiriting him deeper into the open ocean. Larger waves came in, moving walls that blocked her view, and for long, heart-pounding moments Brigham and Dara disappeared.

  Mason fought the waves, rowing his arms and kicking his legs with the force of an Olympian, but the ocean was stronger, and every advance he made was reversed in the next moment. She could see exhaustion overtaking him.

  The little girl’s face, a speck of color on the waves, buried itself in Brigham’s still chest. Another wave came, crashing over his body, and when he resurfaced, she was gone, shaken loose.

  Scanning the ocean’s surface, she saw nothing.

  The numbness spread, digging in deep, and her world darkened. Losing consciousness, a worried thought raced through her mind that she might not awaken at all, that shock was not singing her a lullaby but composing a eulogy. But then the darkness overtook her and the worry—like everything else—disappeared.

  Before the final image blinked out she heard a voice in her head, though it sounded like a pair speaking together: her father and the wretched monster standing on the Limpkin’s top deck.

  “You’ll always be my little girl. You’ll always be mine.”

  Chapter 30

  The sensation of floating came to Priscilla before sight or sound, the thump and slosh of seawater lapping against the boat’s sides coaxing her gently back to consciousness. The glow of the bright amber sun spread across the inside her eyelids, teasing them open. She stared up at the sky, squinting at the burning orange light, icy blue sky, and the long, distant cirrus clouds floating near the limits of the troposphere. For a long time, she didn’t move, didn’t even blink, just drank in the calming sights and sounds, enjoying the contrast to the last few days.

  There was no sign of the Limpkin, only a clear view of the endless ocean and a horizon so far off she could see the curve of the Earth.

  But then Dara’s face, bobbing in the dark ocean, dipping under and resurfacing in a splash of foam, formed in the clouds for a quick moment before dissipating into a meaningless blob. The previous night returned with all its fire and blood and screaming faces: Eli and Brigham, Dara and Mason.

  Mason.

  Bolting upright, a spark of worry lit up her thoughts, but turning, she exhaled. Mason sat on the pinch of the lifeboat’s aft, a
rms folded, eyes cast down at his feet. As still as a statue—Auguste Rodin’s Thinker without the curled arm—except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. His clothes, still wet, hung on his body like a shroud.

  She sat on the bench before him and put a hand on his face. He did not stir. His skin was hot, burning with fever, and speckled with residue from the water. “Mason?”

  He extended one hand and opened it, revealing a few loose strands of dark hair. “I had her, just for a moment. But she slipped away. Just …”

  Cradling his head, she pulled him against her, his face against her breastbone, and brushed back his damp hair. Closer now, she heard a gurgle in his breathing, a telltale sign he had water in his lungs.

  “Slipped … right … away …”

  He didn’t cry, neither did she, and Priscilla thought that was even worse than them breaking down and weeping. They’d gone beyond their emotional limits to a place where they could no longer respond like rational people, where everything felt the same, had identical weight and importance, and just was. She thought about the mother alligator that hatched fifty eggs, fully aware the balance of nature would claim most of her offspring, that birds and fish and other reptiles would devour most of her hatchlings. How many breeding seasons did it take before the mother alligator learned to accept the inevitable loss? Did she eventually lose the instinct to mourn? Would she feel anything at all?

  “Had a little sister, Nadie,” Mason said, the words rumbling out from between his lips in a hoarse, throaty growl. “You wouldn’t know—all the trouble was supposed to be long over by then, the treaty in ’22 and the elections before that—but there were still British soldiers on the island, every day. I’d see them every day outside the schoolhouse, standing at the gate, watching over us as we ran home after we were dismissed from our last class. But they weren’t there to protect us, you understand. They wanted us young Irish boys to see them and know they were in charge and we shouldn’t get any other ideas in our heads.”