The Tomb

by F. Paul Wilson

  24

  Gia cradled the phone and thought about what Jack had said about all this being over tonight.

  She fervently hoped so. If only Jack weren’t so evasive about everything. What was he hiding? Something he was afraid to tell her? God, she hated this. She wanted to be home in her own little apartment in her own bed with Vicky down the hall in hers.

  Gia started back toward the bedroom and then stopped. She was wide awake. No use trying to go back to sleep just yet. She pulled the bedroom door closed, then searched through the kitchen for something to drink. The MSG in Chinese food always left her thirsty. When she came across the box of tea bags she grabbed them. With the kettle on, she spun the television dial looking for something to watch. Nothing but old movies …

  The kettle started to boil. Gia made a cup of tea and sugared it, filled a tall glass with ice, and poured the tea over the ice. There: iced tea. Needed some lemon, but this would do.

  As she approached the couch with her drink she caught a rotten odor. Just a whiff and it was gone. Something oddly familiar about it. If she could catch it again, she was sure she could identify it. She waited but it didn’t return.

  Gia turned her attention to the television. Citizen Kane was on. She hadn’t seen that one in ages. It made her think of Jack … how he’d go on and on about Welles’s use of light and shadow throughout the film. He could be a real pain when you just wanted to sit and watch a movie.

  She sat and sipped her tea.

  25

  Vicky shot up to a sitting position in bed.

  “Mommy?” she called softly.

  She trembled with fear. She was alone. And there was an awful, pukey smell. She glanced at the window. Something there … outside the window. The screen had been pulled out. That’s what had awakened her.

  A hand—or something that looked like a hand but really wasn’t—slipped over the windowsill. Then another. The dark shadow of a head rose into view and two glowing yellow eyes trapped her and pinned her where she sat in mute horror. The thing crawled over the ledge and flowed into the room like a snake.

  Vicky opened her mouth to scream out her horror but something moist and hard and stinking jammed against her face, cutting off her voice. A hand, but like no hand she’d ever imagined. Only had three fingers—three huge fingers—and the taste of the palm against her lips brought what was left of her Chinese dinner boiling to the back of her throat.

  As she fought to get free, she caught a fleeting close-up glimpse of what held her—the smooth, blunt-snouted face, the fangs showing above the scarred lower lip, the glowing yellow eyes … every fear of what’s in the closet or what’s in that shadowed corner, every bad dream, every night horror rolled into one.

  She had to get away! Tears of fear and revulsion streamed down her face. After an instant of paralyzed panic she kicked and twisted convulsively, clawed with her fingernails—nothing she did seemed to matter in the slightest. She was lifted like a toy and carried to the window—

  —and out! They were twelve floors up! Mommy! They were going to fall!

  But they didn’t fall. Using its free hand and its clawed feet, the monster crawled down the wall like a spider. Then it was running along the ground, through parks, down alleys, across streets. The grip across her mouth loosened but Vicky was clutched so tightly against the monster’s flank that she couldn’t scream—could barely breathe.

  “Please don’t hurt me!” she whispered into the night. “Please don’t hurt me!”

  Vicky didn’t know where they were or what direction they were traveling. Her mind could barely function through the haze of terror that enveloped it. But soon she heard the lapping sound of water, smelled the river. The monster leaped, they seemed to fly for an instant, and then water closed over them. She couldn’t swim!

  Vicky screamed as they plunged beneath the waves and gulped a mouthful of foul, brackish water. She broke the surface choking and retching. Her throat was locked—air all around her but she couldn’t breathe! Finally, when she thought she was going to die, her windpipe opened and air rushed into her lungs.

  She opened her eyes. The monster had slung her onto its back and was now cutting through the water. She clung to the slick, slimy skin of its shoulders. Her pink nightie was plastered to her goose-fleshed skin, her hair hung in her eyes. Cold, wet, and miserable with terror, she wanted to jump off and get away from the monster, but knew she’d go down under that water and never come back up.

  Why was this happening to her? She’d been good. Why did this monster want her?

  Maybe it was a good monster, like in that book she had, Where the Wild Things Are. It hadn’t hurt her. Maybe it was taking her someplace to show her something.

  She looked around and recognized the Manhattan skyline off to her right, but something sat between them and Manhattan. Dimly she remembered the island—Roosevelt Island—in the river at the end of Aunt Nellie’s and Grace’s street.

  Were they going to swim around it and go back to Manhattan? Was the monster going to take her back to Aunt Nellie’s?

  No. They passed the end of the island, but the monster didn’t turn toward Manhattan. It kept swimming in the same direction downriver. Vicky shivered and began to cry.

  26

  Gia’s chin dropped forward onto her chest and she awoke with a start. Only half an hour into the movie and already she was nodding off. She wasn’t nearly as wide awake as she’d thought. She flicked it off and went back to the bedroom.

  Fear stabbed her like a knife in the ribs as she opened the door. A rotten odor filled the room. Now she recognized it—the same stench as in Nellie’s room the night she disappeared.

  Her gaze shot to the bed and her heart stopped when she saw no familiar little lump of curled up child under the covers.

  “Vicky?” Her voice cracked as she said the name and turned on the light. She has to be here!

  Without waiting for an answer, Gia rushed to the bed and pulled down the covers.

  “Vicky?” Her voice was almost a whimper. She’s here—she has to be!

  She ran to the closet and fell to her knees, checking the floor with her hands. She found only Vicky’s Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case. Next she crawled over to the bed and looked under it. No Vicky there either.

  But she spotted something else—a small dark lump. Gia reached in and grabbed it. She thought she’d be sick when she recognized the feel of a recently peeled and partially eaten orange.

  Jack’s words flooded back to her: Do you want Vicky to end up like Grace and Nellie? Gone without a trace? He’d said there was something in the orange—but he’d thrown it away! So how had Vicky got hold of this one?…

  Unless there’d been more than one orange in the playhouse!

  This is a nightmare! This isn’t really happening!

  Gia ran through the rest of the apartment, opening every door, every closet, every cabinet. Vicky was gone!

  She hurried back to the bedroom and went to the window. The screen was missing. She hadn’t noticed that before. Fighting back a scream as visions of a child’s body smashed against the pavement flashed before her eyes, she held her breath and looked down. The parking lot, directly below, well lit by mercury-vapor lamps. And no sign of Vicky.

  Gia didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. All she knew right now was that her child was missing and she needed help. She ran for the phone, ready to dial 911, then stopped. The police would certainly be more concerned about a missing child than about two old ladies who’d disappeared, but would they accomplish anything more? Gia doubted it.

  She knew only one number to call that would do her any good.

  Jack will know what to do. Jack will help.

  She forced her shaking index finger to punch in the numbers and got a busy signal. She hung up and dialed again. Still busy. She didn’t have time to wait! She dialed the operator and told her it was an emergency and she had to break in on the line. She was put on hold for half a minute that seemed like an hour, then th
e operator came back on, telling her that the line wasn’t busy—the phone had been left off the hook.

  Frantic, Gia slammed down the receiver. What was she going to do? What was wrong at Jack’s? Had he left the phone off the hook or had it been knocked off?

  She ran back to the bedroom and jammed her legs into a pair of jeans and pulled on a blouse without removing her pajamas. She had to find Jack. If he wasn’t at his apartment, maybe he was at Abe’s store—she was pretty sure she remembered where that was. She prayed she could remember. Her thoughts were so jumbled. All she could think of was Vicky.

  Vicky, Vicky, where are you?

  But how to get to Jack’s … that was the problem. Finding a cab would be virtually impossible at this hour.

  The Honda keys she’d seen earlier! Where had they been? She’d been cleaning in the kitchen …

  She ran over to the flatware drawer and pulled it open. Yes! She snatched them up and ran out into the hall. She checked the apartment number on the door: 1203. Now if only the car was here.

  The elevator took her straight down to the first floor and she hurried out into the parking lot. On the way in this afternoon she’d seen numbers on the asphalt by each parking space.

  Please let it be here! she said to God, to fate, to whatever was in charge of human events.

  Is anybody in charge? asked a small voice in the back of her mind.

  She followed the numbers from the 800s up to the 1100s, and there up ahead, crouched like a laboratory mouse waiting timidly for the next injection, sat a white Honda Civic.

  Please be 1203! Please!

  It had to be.

  It was.

  Almost giddy with relief, she unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat. The standard shift on the floor gave her a moment’s pause, but she’d driven her father’s old Ford pickup enough miles during her teens back in Iowa. She hoped it was something you never forgot, like riding a bike.

  She didn’t know Queens but knew the general direction she wanted to go. She worked her way toward the East River until she saw a TO MANHATTAN sign and followed the arrow. When the Queensboro Bridge loomed into view, she slammed the gas pedal to the floor. She’d been driving tentatively until now, reining her emotions, clutching the wheel with white-knuckled intensity, wary of missing a crucial turn. But with her destination in sight, she began to cry.

  27

  Abe’s dark blue panel truck was parked outside the Isher Sports Shop. The iron gate had been rolled back. At Jack’s knock, the door opened. Abe’s white shirt was wrinkled and his jowls were stubbly. For the first time in Jack’s memory, he wasn’t wearing his black tie.

  “What?” he said, scrutinizing Jack. “You run into trouble since you left me at the apartment?”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “Bandage on your hand and you’re walking funny.”

  “Had a lengthy and strenuous argument with a very disagreeable lady.”

  He rotated his left shoulder gingerly; it was nowhere near as stiff and painful as it had been back at the apartment.

  “Lady?”

  “It’s stretching the definition, but yeah—lady.”

  Abe led Jack toward the rear of the darkened store. The lights were on in the basement, as was the neon sign. Abe hefted a wooden crate two feet long and a foot wide and deep. The top had already been pried open and he lifted it off.

  “Here are the bombs. Twelve of them, magnesium compound, all with twenty-four-hour timers.”

  Jack nodded. “Fine. But I really needed the incendiary bullets. Otherwise I may never get a chance to set these.”

  Abe shook his head. “I don’t know what you think you’re going up against, but here’s the best I could do.”

  He pulled a cloth off a card table to reveal a circular, donut-shaped metal tank with a second tank, canteen-sized, set in its middle; both were attached by a short hose to what looked like a two-handed ray gun.

  Jack was baffled. “What the hell—?”

  “It’s an old No. 5 Mk I Flamethrower, affectionately known as the Lifebuoy. I don’t know if it’ll suit your purposes. I mean, it hasn’t got much range and—”

  “It’s great!” Jack said. He grabbed Abe’s hand and pumped it. “Abe, you’re beautiful! It’s perfect!”

  Elated, Jack ran his hands over the tanks. Why hadn’t he thought of it? Especially after all the times he’d seen Them!

  “How does it work?”

  “This is a World War II model—the best I could do on such short notice. It’s got CO2 at two thousand pounds per square inch in the little spherical tank, and eighteen liters of napalm in the big lifebuoy-shaped one—hence the name. A discharge tube with igniters at the end and an adjustable nozzle. Range is up to ninety feet. You open the tanks, point the tube, pull the trigger in the rear grip, and foom!”

  “Any helpful hints?”

  “Yeah. Always check your nozzle adjustment before your first discharge. It’s like a firehose and will tend to rise during a prolonged tight stream. Otherwise, think of it as spitting: Don’t do it into the wind or where you live.”

  “Sounds easy enough. Help me get into the harness.”

  The tanks were heavier than Jack would have wished, but did not cause the anticipated burst of pain from the left side of his back; only a dull ache. As Jack adjusted the straps to a comfortable fit, Abe looked at his neck questioningly.

  “Since when the jewelry, Jack?”

  “Since tonight … for good luck.”

  “Strange looking thing. Iron, isn’t it? And those stones … almost look like—”

  “Two eyes? I know.”

  “And the inscription looks like Sanskrit. Is it?”

  Jack shrugged, uncomfortable. He didn’t like the necklace and knew nothing about its origins.

  “Could be. I don’t know. A friend … lent it to me for the night. Do you know what the inscriptions say?”

  Abe shook his head. “I’ve seen Sanskrit before, but if my life depended on it I couldn’t translate a single word.” He looked closer. “Come to think of it, that’s not really Sanskrit. Where was it made?”

  “India.”

  “Really? Then it’s probably Vedic, one of the Proto-Aryan languages that was a precursor of Sanskrit.” Abe tossed off the information in a casual tone, then turned away and busied himself with gently tapping the nails halfway back into the corners of the crate of incendiary bombs.

  Jack didn’t know if he was being put on or not, but he didn’t want to rob Abe of his moment. “How the hell do you know all that?”

  “You think I majored in guns in college? I have a BA in Anthropology from Columbia with a minor in languages.”

  “And this is inscribed in Vedic, huh? Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “It means it’s old, Jack … O-L-D.”

  Jack fingered the iron links around his neck. “I figured that.”

  Abe finished tapping down the crate top, then turned to Jack.

  “You know I never ask, Jack, but this time I’ve got to: What are you up to? You could raze a couple of city blocks with what you’ve got here.”

  Jack didn’t know what to say. How could he tell anyone, even his best friend, about the rakoshi and how the necklace he was wearing made him invisible to them?

  “Why don’t you drive me down to the docks and maybe you’ll see.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Abe groaned under the weight of the case of incendiary bombs while Jack, still in harness with the flamethrower, maneuvered his way up the steps to the ground floor. After Abe had deposited the crate in the rear of the panel truck, he motioned Jack out to the street. Jack darted out from the doorway and through the rear doors of the truck. Abe pulled the iron gate closed in front of his shop and hopped into the driver’s seat.

  “Where to?”

  “Take West End down to Fifty-seventh and turn right. Find a dark spot under the highway, and we’ll go on foot from there.”

  As Abe put the
truck into gear, Jack considered his options. Since climbing a rope with a flamethrower on his back and a crate of bombs under his arm was out of the question, he’d have to go up the gangplank—his variable frequency beeper would bring it down. Events could go two ways after that: If he was able to get aboard undiscovered, he could set his bombs and run; if discovered, he’d have to bring the flamethrower into service and play it by ear. If he found any chance to do it safely, he’d let Abe get a look at a rakosh. Seeing would be believing—any other means of explaining what dwelled in Kusum’s ship would be futile.

  Either way, he would see to it that no rakoshi were left alive in New York by sunrise. And if Kusum cared to interfere, Jack was quite willing to help his atman on its way to its next incarnation.

  The truck stopped.

  “We’re here,” Abe said. “What now?”

  Jack gingerly lowered himself to the street through the rear door and walked up beside Abe’s window. He pointed to the darkness north of Pier 97.

  “Wait here while I go aboard. I shouldn’t be long.”

  Abe glanced through the window, then back at him, a puzzled expression on his round face.

  “Aboard what?”

  “There’s a ship there. You just can’t see it from here.”

  Abe shook his head. “I don’t see anything but water.”

  Jack squinted into the dark. It was there, wasn’t it? With a mixture of amazement, bafflement, and relief growing within him, he sprinted down to the edge of the dock—the empty dock.

  “It’s gone!” he shouted as he ran back to the truck. “It’s gone!”

  He realized he must have looked like a crazy man, jumping up and down and laughing with a flamethrower strapped to his back, but Jack didn’t care.

  He’d won. He’d defeated the Mother rakosh and Kusum had sailed back to India without Vicky and without Kolabati. Triumph soared through him.