Earlier in the day, reconnaissance aircraft had spotted unusual activity at a site approximately one hundred kilometers south of Luxor and one kilometer west of the Nile River valley.
The order to pursue and investigate had come down from the highest echelons of the Third Reich. And while it was not von Straker’s place to question the source of his orders, he knew enough to understand that it had come directly from Hitler himself. His immediate superiors spoke reverently of a prophetic dream in which the Führer had seen the Afrika Corp defeated and the Third Reich brought to its knees by a massive joint allied effort.
It was not uncommon for the Führer to experience prophetic dreams—he was known throughout Germany—and especially within his close ranks—as a mystical person—but, if von Straker’s superiors could be believed and the Führer had actually seen such a terrible future, then this could turn out to be one of the most important missions of the early war.
There were, however, two parts to the Führer’s dream. The second part told of a great archaeological find somewhere in Egypt; an important artifact would be discovered that would result in the rise of an immortal being that would ultimately become the Reich’s saving grace.
Von Straker was not a psychic, as Hitler and others in the Reich claimed to be, and although he secretly believed all such prophesies to be suspect at best, he was a good soldier and he would carry out his orders to the very best of his abilities.
The day had been intensely hot, the desert sand burning beneath his jack-booted feet like an eternal bed of red-hot cinders.
Now he lifted one foot and then the other in an attempt to keep the soles of his feet from burning as he continued to scan across the emptiness. As flat as the land looked at first blush, it had its gentle undulations, its rises and its bottomlands. The point on which they now stood was the highest for many miles. Darkness had begun to fall over the land. If anything, the air had grown hotter. In the distance, a great veil had been drawn over the atmosphere. A few dim planets glowed in the darkening sky.
Von Straker stopped scanning and held his glasses steady as he fine-tuned the focus. “I believe I’ve spotted the encampment,” he told his executive officer who was scanning with his own set of field glasses. “The distance is considerable and it is hard to tell, but if you adjust your glasses twenty degrees west and ten degrees below the horizon, I believe you will concur.”
Zimmerman adjusted his glasses. “Ah, yes, colonel, I see. And it looks like a concentration of activity in and around the vicinity of the most easterly hummock. I believe there is digging going on.”
Von Straker was thoughtful for a long, silent moment watching.
“Perhaps they have found something?” Zimmerman prodded.
“We shall see,” von Straker replied, dropping the glasses from his eyes and doing a sharp about face. “Vorgeryckt!” (Move forward) he commanded. “If we hurry we can be there by dark.”
Chapter 5
It was much too late to be thinking about striking off for Cairo and Alex knew it. That was the reality. Winston was right, much as he hated to admit it. Camille would never last the trip. And besides, he was in no mood to face Nazis. On his trip down here three weeks ago with Camille he had run into some trouble at a checkpoint just outside of Karnak. He’d had to answer some pointed questions about whom they were and where they were bound. Alex, of course had lied, explaining to the German soldiers that he and his girl were on an outing and if they had any questions they could contact Camille’s father, who was the French ambassador to Morocco. The guard had taken the information down and had reluctantly—it seemed—allowed them to pass. Now, three weeks later, the desert seemed to be alive with Nazis and their insane war machines. Earlier in the day he’d seen reconnaissance aircraft and wondered if they were looking for anything in particular.
But he couldn’t think about that now. He needed to take care of Camille. If only he’d followed his better instincts and left a week ago when Camille had first begun showing signs of distress. How stupid of him. But how could he have known? She was only in her seventh month, and up until now the pregnancy had seemed quite normal. He wished he’d never set eyes on this terrible place. He wished he’d never brought Camille here.
But he’d been overcome with excitement when Uncle Winston’s team had uncovered several intriguing artifacts and, after months alone in the desert, Alex had wanted to share this moment of discovery with the woman he’d come to love. So, he’d driven to Cairo knowing full well that she was pregnant and had asked her to return with him. At first she’d been reluctant, but Alex’s persuasions had won out, and in the end Camille had relented. She was so carefree and filled with life, and they had been apart for so long. Who would have thought she’d come to term so early in the pregnancy?
Uncle Winston had not been happy with him when he’d returned with Camille. He’d ordered Alex to return the woman to Cairo at once. Alex had refused, of course. Now he was mightily sorry for all of it.
He should have been more responsible. Winston was right about that. Just the same, Uncle Winston did not have a heart. He didn’t care enough about Camille to even look in on her condition. What a bastard he was being, caring only for his bloody tomb. Camille was in serious trouble, and it seemed nobody gave a damn.
By the time Alex reached his tent the sun was a blood-colored disk on the western desert horizon. Night was falling fast, and if God was merciful he would not bring the sand again. Dear Lord, how the wind had howled in the night. There had been no escaping the fury of the storm, not even within the sanctity of the tents. It had been that horrible sand-storm which had hastened Camille’s labor. This Alex knew beyond a doubt. And then last night the wind and sand had come. Somehow it had brought on an anxiety that had affected everyone in camp. The natives, though used to such winds, had been down on their knees, raising clasped hands to their god moaning and chanting their superstitious rubbish,
And then this morning, the sun rising up out of the eastern desert had had a different appearance somehow than all of the other mornings of Alex’s tenure, and there had been an odd and ominous significance about it, momentarily frightening him, reminding him of a one-eyed freak he’d seen once as a child in a London carnival. He’d never experienced anything quite like it before or since. He’d had nightmares for weeks afterward, imagining the terrifying cyclopse watching him with that one malevolently red eye in the darkness of his bedroom.
The workers had all fallen to their knees and had bowed fearfully toward that baleful red disk as though it was something to be feared, or perhaps worshiped. Who knew with these heathens? Uncle Winston had dismissed the concerns of the men as nothing more than superstitious nonsense. He explained that the appearance of the sun in such a strange way was the result of dust particles in the atmosphere. Such phenomena were common following great sandstorms. And Uncle Winston should know. He’d spent thirty years in the desert. But the natives were far from convinced. They believed that it was the sign of a great spirit-god about to be loosed.
But of course he, Alex was an educated and civilized man and although it had been an odd occurrence, he did not believe in heathen superstition. That’s all it was, of course. Uncle Winston was right about that at least.
But that hadn’t been the end of it. Not more than an hour after sunrise a laborer had come running into camp, down from the dunes with the news of the discovery of the tomb door. A corner of it had revealed itself in the night and the workers had dug all day long and finally uncovered the entrance. What a strange turn of events.
None of this mattered now to Alex, however. At the moment Camille was his only concern. She was suffering greatly, lost in the throes of hard labor. Excruciating pain racked her frail body, and good God, Alex had not the slightest idea what to do about it.
Anwar, Alex’s personal assistant and only true friend and confidant among the workers, had been with Camille nearly non-stop throughout the day. He was a man of great compassion and the only one in camp besid
es Uncle Winston who could possibly know what to do in such a situation. Ah, but alas, even his knowledge was sorely inadequate. He wasn’t a doctor, he was a man of wisdom, and knew of many things. But a medical doctor? Far from it. Even a doctor would have difficulty with such an unnatural birth.
Water was boiled, and clean linens were fetched. Camille lay listless in the stifling heat of the tent, beautiful, even beneath her pain and anguish. Her skin porcelain, hair the color of ripe corn, smeared now to her face in sweat-soaked mats. Oh, how Alex loved this wonderfully delicious French girl as he had never loved anyone in his entire life. He’d first set eyes on her in a club in Casablanca, dancing out on the floor, silly and careless, showing her legs, innocently showing the swell of her breasts, smiling that wide smile as everyone stared, so confident in her flesh, in the contours of her body. And later he’d watched as she stood on the mezzanine, her back against the railing, arms lazily outstretched. Beautiful Camille in her ruffled, flowered dress covered in big yellow lilies. Oversize summer jewelry, white earrings, strands of pearls, flowers braided in her hair, speaking a charmingly-accented English with a man from one of the embassies. But not much engaged in the conversation, her eyes roaming, catching Alex’s, flirting. Oh how Alex had wanted Camille, as he had never wanted another woman in his life. And now he could not bear the thought of losing her. If she died, he would surely go mad.
“The child is almost here, Master Alex,” Anwar said, his brown, intelligent face a mask of conflicting emotions. “Yet it cannot be born.”
Alex kneeled down onto Camille’s bedroll, understanding only too well what his manservant was saying. He wiped the perspiration from Camille’s brow with a soft scrap of linen. “Camille, my love,” he whispered, “can you hear me?”
Camille’s head lolled back and forth in delirium as a violent contraction shuddered through her. Her body tightened down, her belly clenching, and the child crowned, but it was turned the wrong way, damn it. Instead of the head crowning, a tiny foot appeared, bloody and membranous, the other one stuck up inside of Camille’s womb somewhere. Camille howled in agony and began thrashing about on her bedroll.
Alex put both hands down onto her shoulders to control her violent movements. “No, you mustn’t, Camille. You will hurt the child.” The contraction finally relaxed, the foot slipped back in, out of sight.
“Please Alex,” Camille moaned. “Do something. I cannot bear this pain any longer.”
“Camille, the child is trapped within your womb. I fear I may have to cut you to save it . . . and . . . surely it is the only way to save you.”
“Yes, Alex . . . please, yes, do something . . . just make it stop!”
“Bring more morphine, Anwar.” Alex said resignedly. “I cannot bear to see her suffer like this.”
Anwar scurried from the tent and returned carrying a small glass vile of morphine and a cup of warm tea. Alex poured a few drops of the medicine into the tea and held Camille’s head while she drank, taking the medicine eagerly.
“Now you must sleep, my love.”
Camille reached out an imploring hand. “No,” she said. “Stay with me, please, Alex, just a little longer.”
A cacophony of voices rose suddenly from outside sounding like a swarm of human locust. “What is that commotion?” Alex said crossly.
“A strange light in the sky, master. The men are very afraid.”
Alex turned toward the opening in the tent, and as he looked out, the sky suddenly exploded with light, as if every particle in the atmosphere had spontaneously combusted. He stood up and went outside, captivated by the strange phenomenon.
The frenzied buzzing among the laborers heightened to nearly frantic proportions. Over in the stockade the herd of pack animals pushed against the fence snorting and baying fearfully. All eyes gazed toward the west. Alex watched the blazing sky in awe for a long moment before turning in the direction of the main dig. He could see the ever-shifting dunes, and the roof of the mastaba temple with still more workers outlined against the blazing sky. All had stopped in mid-stride and were gazing toward the strange light as if hypnotized.
A sudden and collective gasp arose suddenly among the laborers. Alex’s breath hitched in his throat, for out of that light, the face of a demon materialized. It was a nightmarish vision with slanted cat’s eyes, spade-pointed ears, and a grinning maw of a mouth. Alex took an involuntary step backwards as though he had been slapped. He fell against the tent, his eyes unwittingly closing in the face of that terrifying vision. When at last he reopened them, the extraordinary image had begun to erode. Clouds of fine sand high up in the atmosphere were attacking it, as though it was a living face and subject to the ravages of accelerated decay. Alex tried to convince himself that what he had witnessed was just a trick of nature, but he did not believe it. Every man in camp had seen the same thing; he had heard the collective gasp upon its appearance. The vision lasted no more than a few seconds, and yet Alex felt as though he needed no more than an added iota of time to see beyond the light and that face, into something he was certain would drive him to the brink of madness.
Now the murk and stillness of night was claiming the encampment like an oppressive shroud. The chanting of the superstitious diminished along with the light until there was nothing left but silence to fill the emptiness around them. Alex ducked morosely back into the tent, back to the urgent business at hand.
Camille had long since given up thrashing and lay somnolent in the stifling heat. Unsure if she was conscious Alex examined her more closely and realized that she had drifted off. Her chest heaved up and down in smooth, even swells. Alex fell to his knees beside her and raised his clasped hands in prayer.
Anwar came into the tent and stared down at Camille, his eyes wide and filled with dread. “It is surely a sign, Master Alex.”
Alex stared at his manservant as if he was seeing straight through him.
“A sign from the Gods,” Anwar whispered in a voice heavy with veneration.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Alex said. “For God’s sake, man, you’re sounding just like those religious heathens out there.”
“This cannot be good, Master Alex. The tomb should never have been discovered.”
“Stop it this instant,” Alex said. At the moment he did not wish to discuss any more superstitious rubbish. He needed a clear head. Before him two lives hung in the balance. He carefully lifted Camille’s hips and had Anwar place several pads of linen beneath her. Under his breath, he said another silent prayer.
“Hand me the knife,” he said finally.
Chapter 6
When the strange light appeared in the sky Colonel von Straker gave the command and the convoy halted. He and Zimmerman exited the staff car and trained their field glasses toward the west.
“What do you make of it?” Zimmerman asked his superior. There was a hint of fear in his voice.
“If I didn’t know better I’d say that it was a surface to air battle,” von Straker replied. “But we both know there’s nothing out there but a thousand miles of desert.”
Zimmerman was gazing intently at von Straker. He was thinking how demoralizing all the sand and emptiness of this vast stretch of land was. He’d give anything to be back at his home in the Black Forest where he could look out of his window and see evergreen trees and snow capped mountains. At night he often dreamed of pulling trout from cold mountain streams.
“I don’t like the looks of it,” Zimmerman said.
“Patience, Max,” von Straker replied. “The war has only just begun.”
Zimmerman sighed in defeat. “I think we should dig in for the night.”
Von Straker turned and stared back at his executive officer recognizing the fear in his eyes. “We move forward,” he said. “That is an order.”
Zimmerman frowned. “What about last night?”
“What about it?”
“The sandstorm. It came out of nowhere. It was . . . unnatural. There was something in it that did not
feel right.”
Von Straker flapped a dismissive hand. “Don’t be an ass, Max. It was an ordinary sandstorm. Nothing more.”
“I don’t think you believe that,” Zimmerman said. “Tell me you did not just see what I saw in that light.”
“What do you think you saw, Max?”
Zimmerman stared thoughtfully at his commander. “A . . . face,” he said. His voice was choked, frightened, like that of a child. “I saw the face of a demon. And I think you saw it too.”
“A trick of wind and sand,” von Straker said. “This godforsaken desert is rife with trickery.”
Zimmerman opened his mouth to speak but found he had nothing more to say.
Von Straker turned around and gazed intently at his company of infantry soldiers. They all seemed as edgy and anxious as Zimmerman did. The moment stretched on as von Straker watched them. Although he would never have admitted it to the men, von Straker could not deny in his own mind what he’d just seen. It had indeed looked like the face of a demon with its grinning mouth and slanted cat’s eyes. However, unnerving as it was, it did not matter. He had his orders and he would press onward at all costs.
A month ago Hitler’s army had invaded Poland, setting in motion an irreversible series of events. Von Straker had immediately been dispatched to Egypt to spearhead the Führer’s quest for ancient and mystical artifacts. It was an honor, of course, to be chosen for such a lofty assignment. He understood instinctively that delivering an artifact of the Führer’s desire directly into his hands had the power to catapult von Straker to the highest echelons of the Third Reich. Von Straker understood at least part of why he had been chosen for this assignment, of course. He was an intelligent and educated man, with degrees in both medicine and in ancient studies. It was thus determined by those in the powerful ranks of Hitler’s inner circle that he was the perfect man for the mission. They believed that he was the only person capable of discerning the difference between an ordinary artifact and one with “special” properties. Von Straker had been flattered at their confidence in him. He wasn’t quite so confident, however. But he had been grateful, and eager to carry on.
Servants of Darkness (Thirteen Creepy Tales) Page 14
