Ghosts of Karnak

by George Mann

The Ghost sighed. To get involved now would be fraught with danger. He still hadn’t come up with a practical way of stopping the Enforcers, and he doubted he’d be able to pull the same trick again, tempting it up the side of a building. He couldn’t withstand the beating necessary to lure it in, for a start.

  Still, he couldn’t leave an unarmed man to be murdered by the thing in cold blood. He was going to have to try a snatch and grab—lift the man out of there as quickly as possible, and try not to get hit in the process.

  He didn’t have time to consider—he pulled the cord and dived off the building, bringing his arms around before him like a swimmer making a swan dive. The air rushed past his face, cool and invigorating, as he hurtled toward the flagstones below.

  His boosters kicked in about halfway down, shooting him forward, and he angled his body, swooping down low, twisting in front of the Enforcer and grabbing for the man, grappling him around the waist.

  He hoisted him up into the air and they shot across the ground. The Ghost’s arms burned as he tried to cling to his payload, and the man, suddenly realizing what was happening to him, started to beat down upon the Ghost’s back with both fists, yelling curses and shouting to be set down.

  “All right! All right!” The Ghost twisted, sending them careening down an alleyway, and, unable to reach inside his coat to cut the power, used a nearby trash cart as the next best thing to a soft landing.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” bellowed the man, as he picked himself up, dusting off a filthy banana peel from his clothes. In his haste, the Ghost hadn’t noticed what the man was wearing, but now he could see that he was dressed in flowing black robes, and had a scarf wrapped around his head, so that only his eyes were exposed.

  “Getting you away from that thing,” said the Ghost. “It was about to pulverize you.”

  “I was luring it into a trap, you bloody fool!” He reached behind him, pulling a curved blade from his belt. He tossed it from one hand to the other, and it caught the light, glinting menacingly. “I should kill you now for your interference, but you haven’t left me the time.”

  He hopped down from the heap of overturned trash, and ran for the mouth of the alleyway.

  “Well, I wasn’t expecting that,” said the Ghost. “A simple thanks would have been enough.”

  He ran after the man, his feet stirring puddles of effluvia from the bins. Trap or not, the man had no chance of taking the Enforcer down with a sword. He was going to get himself killed, and whoever he was, the Ghost was going to stop him. He hadn’t had the opportunity to check the man’s wrist for a tattoo, but the suspicion had already bloomed that he might be involved in whatever was going on with Ginny, and the reciprocal killings between the cultists and the mob, and the Ghost wanted answers. If keeping him alive was the only way to do it, so be it.

  He burst from the mouth of the alleyway into the street, skidding to a halt. The man hadn’t been joking about the trap. There were five, six, seven other men in the street now, all similarly attired, all wielding the same curved blades. They surrounded the Enforcer, dancing forward to jab at the pilot with their swords, drawing streaks of dark blood, as the Enforcer swung its arms in a wild, uncoordinated fashion, smashing up the sidewalk and attempting to keep them at bay.

  The Ghost watched as it lumbered over to a parked car, wrenching the driver’s door off and holding it up like a shield, battering away their attacks as they ducked in, swords flashing. It was impressive to watch, the way they harried it, driving it back. They were goading it toward the mouth of a different alleyway, he realized, trying to corner it, like lion tamers maneuvering an errant beast back into its cage.

  The Enforcer caught one of them upside the head with the edge of the car door and he went down, blood spraying across the pavement. It took the opportunity to finish him off, lurching forward and crushing him beneath its massive foot. The Ghost cringed at the sound of cracking bones.

  Another one went down, too, as it swiped its fist in a low arc, taking out his legs, knee joints exploding. He screamed as he hit the ground, but was silenced seconds later by another blow from its fist. The police surgeon was going to have a difficult time telling him apart from the concrete in the morning.

  The Ghost considered his options. If he got involved now, he risked death at the hands of both factions. The idea wasn’t particularly appealing. He felt entirely helpless, standing there watching the battle unfold, but there was little else to be done. His best option was to swoop in when and if they brought the Enforcer down, try to disarm one of the men and get them somewhere else where he could question them. It wouldn’t be easy, but it might give him the answers he was looking for.

  He hugged the shadows in the mouth of the alleyway, remaining on guard.

  The men had now managed to drive the Enforcer back into the alley opening, and were holding it in check with their hit-and-run tactics, jabbing at the pilot then pulling back, trying to keep out of the way of its fists.

  The Ghost adjusted his goggles, straining to see. As he watched, the shadows around the Enforcer suddenly seemed to spring to life, tumbling out of the alley mouth to reveal another six men. These, too, were dressed in flowing black robes, although they were armed with blowpipes, rather than swords.

  They flowed around the Enforcer like pooling oil, their blowpipes raised. While their sword-wielding companions kept the thing occupied, they raised their blowpipes to their lips and issued a synchronous volley of darts, which struck the pilot in a meticulous line, forming a necklace of feathered darts around his throat.

  The men fell back, moving outwards in a widening circle around the Enforcer, as, enraged, it hurled the car door into their midst, lifting another man from his feet and sending him careening back into a building. He struck the wall with a crunch, and slid unconscious to the ground.

  The Enforcer took an unsteady step forward, and then seemed to pivot on its left foot, almost toppling. It slammed its fist into the ground to steady itself, and hung there for a moment, still and silent. Then the pilot began to seize up inside his harness, muscles twitching, spittle frothing at his mouth. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, and the Enforcer suit began to shake, mirroring his uncoordinated gestures, thrashing at the ground and sending plumes of tarmac into the air.

  It toppled onto its back, still twitching as the poison ran its course, chewing up the road as it clawed unknowingly at the ground.

  Within moments, the pilot was dead. The suit froze, caught in a bizarre, ungainly pose as the poison constricted the pilot’s muscles, and his curling limbs caused the machine to hug itself until the pistons popped with a hissing release of gas.

  The Ghost—who had been fixated on the spectacle of the Enforcer’s demise—glanced around, searching for a likely target amongst the men.

  They were all gone—every single one of them. They hadn’t even waited around to see their work completed, but had simply melted away, running off into the night. He’d been a fool. He’d waited too long for the fight to play out.

  Cursing, the Ghost stepped out of the alley mouth, wondering if any of the dead men might yet provide any clues. He twitched as he felt a prick of something sharp in his neck, and raised his hand, suddenly panicked, to find a feather dart protruding from the soft flesh behind his ear.

  He could already feel the tranquilizer numbing his senses, spreading like a cold compress being held against his skin. He had seconds before he went out. If he collapsed here, the cult would have him. He couldn’t imagine they would let him live, and dead, he was no use to Ginny.

  He pulled the dart from his neck, having the foresight to shove it in his pocket, and then, wavering, fired up his booster jets and shot up into the sky.

  The cool breeze helped to keep him sensate long enough to clear a few blocks, hopefully putting enough distance between himself and the cultists that they wouldn’t be able to find him.

  Blackness lined his vision. He dipped his head, targeting a nearby rooftop, and dropped like a stone
, landing heavily and breaking into a roll. He came to rest in the shadow of a potted fern tree, his body already too numb to feel the pain.

  Woozily, he tried to prop himself up, but the drug was already taking effect.

  His last, bizarre impression was of a baboon, sitting on the low wall across the rooftop, observing him with a single, glowing eye.

  EIGHTEEN

  The parade had been due to start at ten o’clock, and Gabriel was running late. It was already close to eleven.

  He’d woken on the rooftop around nine, the sun stinging his eyes, a pigeon pecking obtrusively at his sleeve. He’d staggered to his feet, ignoring the ache of fresh bruises, and boosted across the rooftops to his apartment building, where he’d let himself in, showered, and swallowed three cups of strong coffee in an attempt to bring himself round.

  Even now, as he hurried through the park on his way to the museum, he felt tired and sluggish, as if he were wading through molasses. He’d chosen not to dose himself up on painkillers, fearing they would further impair his senses, and now, with a debilitating headache stirring, he cursed himself for not bringing them along. Still, at least he’d remembered his sunglasses; a habit acquired after years of insobriety. He was thankful for small mercies.

  New Yorkers had emerged in their droves to witness the promised spectacle, and the police had deployed in equal measure, lining the avenue with metal barriers to hold back the thronging masses. Little stalls selling candied nuts, hot dogs and ice cream had set up along the route, and were on course to make a bundle, as the carnival spirit set in and people made the most of the clement weather. The noise was tremendous, filled with excited babble, honking horns and the distant rumble of drums, as a marching band led the floats along the avenue, past the cheering crowds.

  The parade, he gathered, had started in Washington Square Park, and would end upon arrival at the museum. The Mayor would then declare the exhibition formally open, and no doubt Arthur and his colleagues would spend the rest of the day turning people away as they fought over the few remaining tickets for the afternoon.

  Gabriel was surprised by the sudden surge of interest in the exhibition, but then, he supposed the ancient dead had always had a powerful draw—particularly to a nation like his, whose roots were still shallow when compared to some of the ancient civilizations of Africa and Europe. He doubted the city would make such a fuss over the visit of a living monarch, but then again—they’d probably shelled out a great deal to secure the opportunity to debut the exhibition at the Met, and so any interest they drummed up amongst potential visitors would help to soften the blow.

  The area around the museum itself was dense with milling people, so Gabriel backtracked a little way, until he could find a quieter spot, closer to the railing. He propped himself against it, hunching low, his head throbbing and his mouth dry. He’d get the dart to Donovan later; see if one of the police surgeons couldn’t run a comparison on the tranquilizer the cult had used to sedate him.

  What had they wanted with him? Had they simply thought to incapacitate him so he couldn’t follow them? If they’d meant to kill him, he’d have been dead and cold by now. And what of the baboon he’d seen, the one with the mysterious glowing eye? Perhaps he’d been rendered delirious by the drug. That was certainly the most reasonable explanation.

  Then again, nothing seemed reasonable where it related to the present case; compared to living statues, ancient cults and floating specters, a baboon seemed a relatively modest proposition.

  Absently he wondered if Donovan was in the crowd somewhere, and how his investigation was progressing. He decided to stop by the precinct building later that night, before continuing his search for the apparition. It was time they compared notes again, to see if either of them could fill in any of the other’s blanks.

  Around him, the crowd had started cheering, and he glanced up to see the parade was drawing near. The lead float comprised the head and torso of a colossal statue, rendered in papier mâché and painted to look like sandstone. It had the head of an ibis; its long, sweeping beak resembled the curve of the cultist’s swords, and the sight of it caused a shudder of recognition in Gabriel.

  Thoth.

  The cult was taunting the Reaper. The entire parade—the whole exhibition, in fact—was a celebration of their core beliefs. They were uniting the whole of New York in a carnival to welcome Thoth to the city, right under the noses of the mob. Every time the Reaper looked at a newspaper, a street sign, a member of the public waving a souvenir flag, all he was going to see was his dead girlfriend. The audacity of it was breathtaking, but there was one thing that Gabriel was certain of—the Reaper was not going to stand for it. There was trouble in the air.

  The float was being pulled along by four horses, and flanked by an army of waving men and women, many of them sporting faux Egyptian headdresses and wearing tunics and sandals. He saw others with curved wooden swords and heavy black eyeliner, and amongst them, men dressed in black robes, wearing headscarves that covered their faces.

  So, it seemed the cult were expecting a fight, too.

  Gabriel scanned the crowd, looking for any faces he recognized. If the cultists were here, it was likely the mob was here, too, and they’d find it easy to move amongst the crowds without being spotted by the police. If they started something now, then a whole host of innocent civilians were likely to get hurt.

  The first float slid by, followed in quick succession by the marching band. Gabriel winced, the bass drum setting off tremulous detonations of pain in his head.

  The next float was a pyramid, surrounded by gleeful schoolchildren, most of whom seemed to be enjoying the attention, calling out to the crowd and waving furiously at everyone they passed. They, too, were steeped in fancy dress, from pharaohs to tiny Cleopatras, complete with an ominous rubber asp.

  The third float was a massive sphinx. It sat like a statuesque cat upon an enormous trailer, towed along by a motorcar. It had a man’s face, complete with gaudy headdress and ceremonial beard, and sitting astride its back was a woman, waving down to the heaving crowds. People were pointing up at her and waving back, cheering her on.

  Gabriel recognized her immediately. It was Ginny.

  He stared up at her as the float sailed by, mouth agape. Her clothes and makeup had been designed to resemble an Egyptian queen, and she carried a golden staff in her left hand, topped with an orb. She was wearing a black wig, cut in severe bangs that framed her pretty face.

  There was no doubt in his mind—this time, he wasn’t seeing things. It was Ginny up there.

  “Ginny!” he bellowed, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Ginny!” He broke down into a wracking cough, a white star of pain flaring in his lung.

  If she heard him above the adoring crowd, she didn’t acknowledge it. The man behind him was leaning in, pressing him up against the barrier, and so Gabriel shoved him out of the way and ran after the float, trying to keep pace, waving his hands to get Ginny’s attention. From up there, though, he must have seemed like any other person in the crowd, calling out and gesticulating.

  There was nothing for it. He was going to have to get closer.

  Men in costume, all dressed in the white rags of Egyptian slaves, surrounded the float. He had no way of telling whether they were affiliated with the cult, or simply people who’d been brought in to support the celebrations. Either way, he’d have to fight his way through—whoever they were they weren’t going to like him getting close.

  He saw a break in the crowd, and he took it, pushing his way past a man holding a young boy, and swinging up and over the barricade. He saw people pointing and shouting, but ignored them, running up alongside the float. It must have been twenty feet high, and he couldn’t see a means to scale its smooth exterior. There was probably a hidden ladder inside, but he didn’t have time to waste looking for it. “Ginny! Down here!”

  She glanced down at him, and their eyes met. A confused expression crossed her face, as if she doubted the evidence of her own
eyes.

  “Ginny, it’s me, Gabriel,” he called. Someone tried to block his path, but he shoved him aside, still maintaining eye contact with Ginny, running along beside the trailer.

  “Gabriel?” she called. She was echoing his words as a question, as if still unsure who he was or what he was doing here, shouting up at her like this.

  “Jump down! Come on, get down from there, right now! It’s time to go home.”

  She frowned, as if his words had suddenly struck a chord.

  “Come on!”

  But then the first blow struck him in the gut, and he doubled over, gasping for breath. He tried to right himself, to push past the men who were swarming in around him, but there were too many of them, and the float was already receding into the distance.

  It was like fighting against the tide. There must have been ten or more of them, surrounding him, channeling him back to the barrier. He railed against them, but they pinned his arms, pushing him back. They weren’t going to do anything here, not in front of all these people, but nor were they going to allow him to get close to her.

  He felt his back strike the barricade, and then he was up and over, sprawling to the ground amongst the booted feet of the onlookers as the crowd of men dispersed again.

  He dragged himself to his feet, dusting himself down. His damaged ribs flared with pain. Another band was passing now, trumpets blaring, and up ahead he could see only the tail end of the sphinx, disappearing into the distance.

  He was about to go after it again, when the shooting started.

  Around him, everyone started to scream.

  “Get down! Everybody, onto the floor!” The people nearby did as he said, starting a wave that dropped like dominoes; parents sheltering their children, husbands their wives.

  Gabriel tried to see where the shooting had come from, but it was no good—there were still too many people and the gunmen were already lost in the panicked crowd. Uniformed police officers were moving in, pushing everybody back, telling the crowd to disperse. The bands had stopped playing, and the only sound now was people screaming as they ran for cover, trying desperately to get away from whoever had a gun, and the terrible thing they’d done.