Candice Cushing and the Lost Tomb of Cleopatra

by Georgette Kaplan

  Lines of coagulated blood ran like dry riverbeds along the floor.

  Candice came down the aisle holding a knapsack full of Camelbak water bottles. She handed them out to the children and wounded and elderly. When she got to Nevada, she sat down beside her, the bag in her lap. Nevada took a bottle out of it. It was customized with some church logo, a crucifix with the sideways figure-8 of the infinity symbol crossing the arms.

  Nevada opened the tab on the bottle and sipped from it. The water on the tank had been staid, as dry as water could be and still be water. This was Nirvana in comparison. Or at least Pearl Jam.

  “You feeling okay?” Candice asked, digging out a water bottle of her own.

  “I’m great,” Nevada said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “No reason. It’s just been a long coupla days.”

  Nevada swiveled in her seat, resting her back against the window and planting her feet against Candice’s thigh. “What about you? Any second thoughts?”

  Candice was somber. “Second thoughts, third thoughts, fourth thoughts… nothing serious. If nothing else, we’re doing these kids a favor.”

  “My good deed for the decade,” Nevada said, putting her heels up on Candice’s lap.

  Candice pushed Nevada’s boots off, and they clunked down against the floor. “Tell me something. Back on the train, when you went after Farouq—was it to save these people or to get the map off him?”

  Nevada let one leg dangle off the seat and put her other foot up on the bench, toes saber-rattling at the border of Candice’s ass. “What kind of a question is that? Both. Duh.”

  “Duh,” Candice repeated, imitating Nevada’s American accent. She scooted away to the edge of the bench seat.

  Nevada pushed her foot out further but didn’t bring it into contact with Candice’s hip. “Yeah. Duh. People do stuff because they get something out of it. They eat to feel good or they don’t eat because thinking of being thin makes them feel good. They even give to charity just to feel good. Once you realize that and stop feeling bad about it, you can stick your nose in the trough and get your fair share, instead of wondering why assholes have all the money.”

  “And that’s all that motivates you? Enlightened self-interest?”

  “Aww, you called it enlightened.” Nevada smirked. “What else is there?”

  “Love, compassion, nobility. Most of human emotions, really.”

  Nevada prodded her foot in Candice’s side. “People do shit because it makes them feel good or they don’t do shit because it makes them feel bad.”

  Candice chopped at Nevada’s ankle. “So if Farouq hadn’t had the map, would you have just left those people to die?”

  Nevada picked her foot up and rested it on the back of the seat, her legs now spread-eagle. “Are you implying I would’ve felt bad if they died? Because that’s kinda my point.”

  “Could you please put your legs together?”

  “Now you sound like my mother.” Nevada hopped her other foot up onto the seatback, reclining down with both feet beside Candice’s head.

  “How can that possibly be comfortable?”

  “I’m doing yoga.”

  “You have your head up your ass.”

  “I had a swami who could do that once.”

  “You did not.”

  “Namaste.”

  Nevada and Candice slept in shifts as the bus drove through the night, passing the flaming wrecks of other vehicles and those that had long since cooled. Candice didn’t know what she would do if trouble came, besides wake Nevada up, but then, she didn’t even know if Nevada was just in it for the money or not. Hell, she didn’t even know why she was doing this. Archaeological knowledge, minus the artifact Nevada had her eye on, or her career? Or both, like Nevada had said?

  Or it doesn’t even matter, because you already told Nevada where to go so you might as well get used to the idea.

  Despite telling herself that, Candice’s troubled thoughts let her stay up through the night with ease. Shortly after dawn, they reached their destination.

  Camp Esau had started its life as a hunting lodge in colonial times, circular clay buildings with thatch roofs and hardwood floors, the lesser trophies of its occupants decorating the Out of Africa surroundings. When the civil war had broken out between the Dinka and the Nuer, it’d been razed to the ground, only to be resurrected in the peaceful lull of South Sudan’s new nationhood. When the fighting had resumed, David Pike had converted it into a refugee camp, the lodge now housing a school, a clinic, dormitories, a kitchen, and a library. Tukuls—mud huts ten feet across that could be built in less than a week—had been erected around the lodge for additional housing. Rows of acacia trees—a certain breed that had no leaves, only needle-sharp thorns as long a pencil—grew around the compound, serving as fencing. Outside that was a field of yellow-tipped elephant grass growing waist-high. The bus parked at the edge of the grass. A footpath connected the parking spot to the inner compound.

  With the tribesmen hurrying them off the bus, Candice and Nevada found themselves pressed into service as chaperones, Candice staying on the bus to make sure everyone disembarked, and Nevada riding herd on them as they got off,

  “Hold up a damn minute, would you? You, back here, now! Stay with the group, ya little monster. Yeah, make a face, it’ll freeze like that.”

  Candice was trying not to get her hopes up, which of course meant tantalizing herself with all the possibilities civilization had to offer. A hot bath. A hot meal. A toilet with actual toilet paper. And clean clothes—the ones she had on she would quite like to burn. Deodorant—

  She was suddenly jerked back several thousand years, to a time when all a person could be was prey. Thoughts of the wider world vanished, eclipsed by an awareness of her immediate surroundings. She could feel air currents breaking against her skin, the pattern of the sunlight as it filtered through the clouds. And she knew something was watching her.

  “Nevada,” she said gently.

  “I know,” came the terse reply.

  Nevada moved between the group and the threat. Candice could almost make it out now. A lion, its tawny fur blending into the wilting grass. It looked bigger than it could possibly be, broken outline sucking up all the shadows and indistinct yellow in its vicinity, drawing that bulk around the sizzling golden eyes that gave an undeniable reality to the fear taking hold of Candice. Nevada put her hand on the butt of her useless, empty pistol.

  Candice backed away, a few steps behind Nevada, saying in hushed tones for everyone in the group to stay together. But the lioness had spent far longer than any of them in this primordial state of kill or be killed. She growled, the sound sizzling the air, making it almost too hot to bear. And she swished her tail, which scythed through the grass around her to give a fearful suggestion of her size and nearness. Something half-seen, present but unknown, there and not there. The fear was almost intimate in how deep it was under Candice’s skin. It was in the bones of her legs, pulling at them, trying to get her to run. She kept moving at a snail’s pace, slow enough for the wounded and the elderly. They were all one big mass, with Nevada the face, staring right at the lioness.

  It growled louder and raked its claws through the earth, big scabs of soil coming up under its paws.

  “Don’t take that fucking tone with me, slut,” Nevada said. She took the gun out of her belt. “You see this? YOU SEE THIS, MOTHERFUCKER? THIS IS LIKE A SPRAY BOTTLE TIMES A MILLION!”

  It was barely a rainy season. Everywhere Pike drove, the grass was brown and brittle, the Ankole-Watusi cattle had ribs and shoulders showing almost as prominent as their upturned horns, and the riverbeds had burnt down nearly into rock. There were so few animals now—certainly none of the herds of prancing gazelles that the mzunga had once watched from the terrace outside his second-story office. It seemed like one day soon, there would only be vultures to sit and count the minutes he spent resting.

  The Dinka Spear Masters made their sacrifices, called upon their animal
spirits and upon Nhialic, the god of the sky, but he only answered the prayers of the vultures.

  Their god was asleep on the job. Pike wasn’t.

  The money that his guests’ rich benefactor, Mr. Singh, had offered had seemed like a windfall, but the Sudan had a way of swallowing it all up. They needed more water, more food, more everything to keep the camp running as they waited for the dry season to release its stranglehold and allow the rains in. And even that would not be enough. Noah’s flood would not be enough—but at least it would make this dirty place clean .

  I Counted Each Star As I Placed It In The Sky And Foresaw The Path Of Every Wind That Would Cover The Earth. I Have Given You Enough.

  “But Lord,” Pike replied, “I can’t see how we can keep everyone here with not even enough money for half—”

  You Are A Worthy Steward, David Pike. You Will Act Wisely With The Gifts I Have Given You. You Will Walk After The Lord Your God. I Shall Roar Like A Lion.

  Then he heard it. The throaty, braying bellow of a lion, almost as clear to him as God’s voice. And yelling, from outside the entryway to the camp.

  Pike left his pen and spreadsheet and went to the gun rack. For a lion, his Sako 85 Kodiak should suffice. It was already loaded with .375 H&H. The Nosler Partition bullets would expand inside the target, like he’d shot his prey with an explosion. Not the kind of doomsday weapon that would take down an elephant or cape buffalo, but just right for four hundred and fifty pounds of predator. It would almost be an even fight. But then, he had the Lord.

  Nevada jabbed the revolver at the lioness for emphasis as she continued to curse her out, calling the animal every name under the sun, even a few in Italian. The lioness was keeping her distance, confused by Nevada’s boldness and waiting to see who would break from the herd and be easy pickings. But she was getting impatient. Step by step, the group was getting closer to the safety of the compound, and the lioness couldn’t have that.

  “FUCK YOUR MOTHER, FUCK YOUR FATHER, AND THE LION KING RIPPED OFF JAPANESE ANIME! TELL ME I’M WRONG, COCKSUCKER!”

  The lioness roared. A full-on MGM Studios roar. Nevada felt the revolver shaking in her hand. This was usually about the time she would improvise something and pretend it had been the plan all along, but she couldn’t think of anything to do except hope that she tasted bad. And she hadn’t heard any complaints in a very active dating life.

  “Anybody have a spray bottle?” Nevada muttered.

  Thunder cracked in a staccato rhythm. A pop, then a millisecond of a bolt-action being racked. Pop, racking, pop, racking. Three gouts of blood burst from the lioness’s chest in rapid succession, splashing the stalks of grass around her, and then she went down so quietly she might’ve been lying down with the lamb. Nevada could only watch in disbelief. She could see the three entry wounds. They were grouped together in a circle no bigger than her fist; hit the lioness right in the heart. It must’ve been like a miniature freight train hitting her out of nowhere.

  “Down?” a gritted voice came from on high. Nevada turned to see a tall man standing on a wood-beamed platform on the second floor of the lodge. He wore layers of leather, khaki, and flannel, with a priest’s collar around his neck and a bolt-action rifle in his hand.

  Nevada gave the lioness a kick. She kept bleeding and being dead. “Way down.”

  “You must be Nevada.”

  “And company,” Nevada called up, indicating Candice and the others.

  “Come on in—let’s get this barbecue kicked off!”

  He turned to head back inside, and Nevada started toward the compound again, Candice falling in beside her. She had a hand on the shoulder of one of the children, who was holding his ears after the violence of the gunshots. Either not used to the noise or far too used to it.

  “You faced down a lion with an empty gun?” Candice asked.

  “Lion didn’t know it was empty.”

  “Uh-huh,” Candice said, rolling her eyes. “And who was that? Friend of yours?” She gestured up to where Pike had gone back inside.

  “The man in charge.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Africa’s the same as anywhere else. The man with the gun makes the rules. Shall we?”

  Candice looked at the hunting lodge, seeing its Victorian trappings, and let out a deep breath. “You know it’s literally colonial architecture, right?”

  Nevada put an arm around Candice’s shoulders. “You must be so much fun at Thanksgiving.”

  “I’m British.”

  “Oh, that’s right, you’re never fun.”

  “Which of our countries invented Family Guy ?”

  “That’s a low blow.”

  On the inside, the compound was more like a village than a refugee camp, its center a bustling town square. A tailor worked on a Singer sewing machine to repair loincloths and robes. Women stripped beans by slapping them against heaps of gunnysacks. Children ran around beating play drums, pushing little clay figurines around on the ground with short sticks. Others were fooling around with gourds filled with water, slapping their bellies after puffing them out.

  Candice noticed Nevada’s eyes following them. “They’re playing luony kou .”

  “He one of those new Star Wars characters? I can’t keep track anymore.”

  Candice gave her an admonishing tap. “It’s something they’ll do when they become young men. A competition at cattle camp. Over the summer, the richest men with the most cows try to become fat by only drinking milk from their own cows.” Candice pointed out one of the boys guzzling from his water-filled gourd. “Whoever is fattest at the end gets the girls.”

  Nevada shrugged. “Has to be better than The Bachelor . But that wasn’t what I was looking at.”

  Candice took a closer look at the boy with the gourd. Then she had to look away. Even a glimpse of his lips and ears was almost too much. “Jesus…”

  “Not in the slightest.” Pike was coming out of the lodge, ringed by three tribesmen in strangely modern clothing. One had a bandana with a button from the Mitt Romney campaign pinned to it. “The Zuni tribe will swell their ranks by taking in anyone they capture, but first they mark them.” He slapped the back of his hand against the chest of one of his men. “Get everyone to the infirmary, have them checked out. Go tell Francis to cook up a big lunch. After they eat, I want them cleaned up, fresh clothes, and bunks for all of them to sleep in.”

  The one with the Romney button asked something in the Rek dialect, and Pike responded in kind before his men hustled off to herd the incoming children with an experienced professionalism. One of them ran back and hugged Nevada, who patted him on the head reluctantly before he let her go.

  Pike crossed his arms contemplatively. “And that is exactly why I’m going to put you up in the lodge. Follow me, I’ll show you to your rooms.”

  Inside the lodge, the furnishings were surprisingly palatial. Wicker furniture, animal-skin rugs, big game mounted and stuffed—with heaps of gunnysacks, supply crates, and stacks of ammunition taking up space. Like a social club taken over by revolutionaries.

  “Thank you for your help with the lion,” Candice said, her small voice almost swallowed up by the floorboards creaking under their feet and the booming footfalls of Pike’s biker boots.

  “Weren’t nothing. But it was a lioness. No mane. And with lions, it’s women who do the hunting.”

  “I’ve been to shoe sales like that,” Nevada commented.

  “To be honest,” Pike continued, his gravelly voice like a country singer near the end of a tour, “no matter how much your boss paid, I was leaning towards putting you up in one of the tukuls. I sleep there myself. Roughing it a little is nothing compared to what these folks go to. But hearing about how you took care of the lost sheep out there, the least I can do to repay you is put you up in one of the old mzungu rooms. We cleared out all the shit, changed the sheets, even did some vacuuming.”

  “Oh, no,” Candice said, instantly demurring, “with all the people you have
here already, we couldn’t possibly—”

  “Take more than one room!” Nevada interrupted quickly. She put an arm around Candice’s waist and pulled her close. “Since it’s just us girls, we can share a bed.” She smiled at Candice. “It’ll be fun. Like having a slumber party.”

  Pike led them up a flight of stairs that revolved around a chandelier made of antelope horns. Only half the lightbulbs were lit. “Fine by me. I wish we had so many supplies that we couldn’t spare the space, but that just ain’t so. And speaking of supplies, I’m gonna need your peacemaker.”

  “I already gave you guys the bullets,” Nevada protested, getting an elbow from Candice for her trouble.

  “I know that, but you can see how our other guests don’t see much of a distinction.” Pike stopped at the top of the stairs, chuckling to himself and running his hand over his facial hair. “You know what they tell me? They know that in America, a man only takes one wife. Figure that makes a lotta women left over. So now they’re worried you’ll—” He made a gun of his fingers and aimed it at Nevada. “Take ’em away and force ’em to marry you.”

  “They should talk to my cousin,” Nevada said, taking the revolver out and handing it to Pike.

  He looked it over. “What is this, the gun that killed Liberty Valance?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Pike pointed to a room at the end of the hall. “You’re in there. If you want a hot shower, I suggest you get to it before we get the kids washed off. There’s fresh clothes in the drawers—the stuff me and the boys don’t have much use for. And we really will be having a barbecue this evening to welcome you newcomers. Not our usual fare, but since we’re having company over, why the hell not?”

  “What is it?” Candice asked. “Cow? Pig?”

  “Elephant,” Pike replied.

  The room’s opulence reminded Nevada of the Burj al Arab, all those years ago. Funny, how dealing with the criminal and the corrupt tended to land you in high society as much as it did the gutter. She picked her way through the antique furniture, the glass-shrouded candles waiting to be lit, the framed drawings and paintings that had given some long-ago adventurer a taste of England. There was even a Victrola in the corner.