Almost Complete Short Fiction, page 18
Bradley seemed to assume Jesse was coming along. That wasn’t a very sound assumption; screwing around with any kind of grave was very high on the list of things Indians didn’t do.
And yet, without knowing why, he climbed over the heap of scree and rubble and stepped down into the shaft after Bradley.
Bradley was standing halfway down the stone steps that formed the floor of the shaft. He was shining his flashlight here and there on the walls, which were covered with colored pictures. The paint was faded and flaking, but it was easy to make out lively scenes of people eating and paddling boats and playing musical instruments—some naked dancing girls in one panel, complete with very candid little black triangles where their legs joined—as well as other activities Jesse couldn’t identify. Animals, too, cats and baboons, crocodiles and hippos and snakes; and, in among the pictures, lines of hieroglyphic writing.
There were also some extremely weird figures, human bodies with bird or animal heads. “What are they,” Jesse asked, pointing, “spirits?”
“Gods,” Bradley said. “Neterw, they were called. The one with the jackal head, for example, is Anubis, god of burials and the dead.”
“This one’s got a boner.”
“Oh, yes. Ithyphallic figures weren’t unusual.” Bradley headed down the steps, swinging his flashlight. “But we can look at the art later. Let’s see what we’ve got down here.”
The shaft leveled off into a narrow passageway. The walls here were covered with murals too, but Bradley barely spared them a glance as he strode down the corridor. “Ah,” he said as the hall suddenly opened into a larger and very dark space. “Now this is—oh, my God.”
Behind him, Jesse couldn’t see at first what Bradley was ohing his God about. He looked over Bradley’s shoulder into a low-ceilinged chamber, about the size of a cheap motel room. The flashlight beam showed more paintings on the walls and ceiling. It also showed a stack of wooden boxes against the back wall.
Bradley crossed the room fast and began yanking at one of the boxes. The lid came off and thudded to the stone floor. “Shit!” Bradley cried, shining his light into the box. He reached in and hauled out what Jesse instantly recognized as an AK-47 assault rifle. Kalashnikov’s products tend to make an indelible impression on anyone who has ever been shot at with them.
Bradley leaned the rifle against the wall and opened another box. This time it was a grenade he held up. “Bastards,” he said, almost in a whisper.
Another corridor led off to the rear. Bradley charged down it, cursing to himself, and Jesse hurried after him, disinclined to wait alone in the dark. The corridor was a short one, ending in another room about the size of the first. It contained an even bigger stack of boxes and crates, piled to the ceiling. Some wore red danger—explosives markings in Arabic and English. There were also a number of plastic jerricans full of gasoline. No wonder they went outside to do their smoking, Jesse thought. What the hell was this all about?
Bradley ripped off the top of a cardboard box. “Great,” he said sourly, and pulled out a small oblong packet. “U.S. Army field rations. Good old Meals, Ready to Eat. Possibly the most lethal item down here. Wonder where they got them?”
He flashed the light around the room. This chamber was fancier than the other one. Somebody had even painted fake columns along the walls.
“Bastards,” he said again. “A priceless treasure of art and knowledge, and they used it for a God-damned terrorist supply dump.”
“What do you suppose they did with the mummy?” Jesse asked, thinking about those stories about the mummy’s curse. And that snake-bit guy lying outside.
“Oh, that was probably disposed of centuries ago, along with any portable valuables. Tomb robbing is a very ancient tradition in this country.” Bradley made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Here.” He tossed the MRE packet to Jesse and fished out another. “We better do lunch. We’ve got a burial detail waiting for us, and I don’t think we’ll have much appetite afterwards.”
They buried the dead man in a shallow grave, using a couple of shovels that they found in the outer chamber of the tomb, piling rocks on top. “Rest in peace,” Bradley said. “You poor evil little son of a bitch.” He wiped his forehead with his hand. The heat was incredible. “Let’s get out of this sun,” he said. “Back to the tomb.”
Back in the outer chamber, he tossed his shovel into a corner and sat down on a crate. He took off his cap and hoisted the water bottle and poured the contents over his head. “Needed that,” he said. “I’ll go get a refill in a minute.”
“Don’t bother,” Jesse told him. “There’s a big plastic jug of water over here, nearly full.” He was poking around in a clutter of odds and ends by the front wall. “You can save your flashlight, too.” He picked up a big battery lantern and switched it on.
“Sons of bitches made themselves at home, didn’t they?” Bradley clicked his flashlight off. “Ninekiiler, I’m about to commit a major breach of security. But the situation’s pretty unusual, and there’s no way to keep you out of it, so you’d better know the score.”
He leaned back against the wall, his head resting just beneath a painting of an archer taking aim from a horse-drawn chariot. “Does the name Nolan mean anything to you?”
“Isn’t he the American . . . renegade, I guess you’d say, supposed to be working for the Libyans? Running some kind of commando operation?” Jesse sat down on the floor next to the entrance. “I heard a few rumors, nothing solid. They say he’s hiring pilots.”
“Yes. Quite a few Americans are working for Gadhafi now,” Bradley said, “fliers mostly, young soldier-of-for-tune types gone bad. But Nolan is an entirely different, higher-level breed of turncoat. It’s not easy to impress people in this part of the world when it comes to terrorism, sabotage, and assassination, but Nolan is right up there with the best native talent. The Colonel values his services very highly.”
A circuit closed in Jesse’s head. “So that’s what this business was all about. Archaeology hell, you were hunting Nolan.”
“A preliminary reconnaissance,” Bradley said. “Word was he had something going on in this area. You wouldn’t have been involved in any real action.”
“Nice to know this was such a safe job,” Jesse said dryly. “Why not just let the Egyptians do it?” Another realization hit him. “That’s right, I remember what I heard. Nolan’s a rogue CIA officer, isn’t he? You guys want him out of the way without any international embarrassment.”
“That, of course, I couldn’t tell you,” Bradley said calmly. “Your need to know extends only to the immediate situation.”
He picked up one of the AK-47s from the open box. “Sooner or later, somebody is going to show up here. Too much to hope that it’ll be Nolan himself, but at least it’ll be somebody from his outfit. If the odds aren’t too bad, and we make the right moves, we’ll have a handle on Nolan and a ride out of here.” He hefted the AK-47. “Know how to use one of these?”
“The hell,” Jesse said angrily. “I’m a pilot, not a gun-fighter. Do your own bushwhacking. You’re the one who works for the CIA.”
“Oh? Who do you think owns Mideast Air Charter and Transfer Services?” Bradley paused, letting that sink in. “You’re a pilot? Okay, I’m an archaeologist. No shit,” he said, and glanced around the tomb chamber. “Got my degree from the University of Pennsylvania, did my field work over at Wadi Gharbi. That’s where they recruited me . . . and there was a time I’d have given a leg and a nut to find something like this. Well, as it turns out, I’ve made myself a valuable discovery of a different kind.”
He looked at Jesse. The Teddy Roosevelt grin didn’t even try to make it to his eyes. “But you’re welcome to sit on your ass and play conscientious objector while I take the bastards on alone. Then if they kill me you can tell them all about what an innocent bystander you are. I’m sure they’ll believe you.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“So I’ve been told.” He got up and walked over and held out the AK-47. “Take it, Ninekiller. It’s the only way either of us is going to get out of this place alive. Or even dead.”
Bradley insisted they maintain a constant watch, taking turns up at the crest of the rise, hunkering in the inadequate shade of the fist-shaped rock outcrop and staring out over the empty desert. “Have to, guy,” he said. “Can’t risk getting caught down in that tomb when the bad guys arrive.”
When the sun finally went down, in the usual excessively spectacular style of tropical sunsets, Jesse assumed they’d drop the sentry-duty nonsense for the night. Bradley, however, was unyielding. “Remember who these people are,” he pointed out, “and what they’re up to. Moving by night would make good sense.”
He thumbed his watch, turning on the little face light. It was getting really dark now. “I’ll go below and catch a few Zs, let you take the evening watch. You wake me up at midnight and I’ll take over for the graveyard shift. That okay with you, guy?”
Jesse didn’t argue. He hardly ever turned in before midnight anyway. Besides, he didn’t mind spending a few hours away from Bradley and the God-damned tomb. Both were starting to get on his nerves.
Alone, he slung the AK-47 over his shoulder and walked up the slope, taking his time and enjoying the cool breeze. It wasn’t so bad now the sun was down. The stars were huge and white and a fat half-moon was climbing into the black sky. In the silvery soft light the desert looked almost pretty.
A dry voice in his left ear said, “‘Siyo, chooch.”
Jesse groaned. “‘Siyo, eduda. What’s about to happen now?”
There was a dusty chuckle. “Don’t worry, chooch. No warnings this time. Turn around—and keep your hands off that war gun.”
Jesse turned. And found himself face to face with Wile E. Coyote.
That was who it looked like at first, anyway, the same long pointy muzzle, the same big bat ears and goofy little eyes. But that was just the head; from the neck down, Jesse saw now, the body was that of a man about his own size.
Jesse said, “Uh.”
Grandfather’s voice said, “This is Anpu. Anpu, my grandson Jesse.”
“Hi,” Coyote said.
That’s it, Jesse thought dazedly. Too much time out in the sun today, God damn that Bradley. Talking coyotes— no, hell, no coyotes in Egypt, must be a jackal. Sure looks like a coyote, though. Then memory kicked in and Jesse said, “Anubis. You’re Anubis.”
“Anpu.” The jackal ears twitched. “The Greeks screwed the name up.”
“Anpu wants you to meet some friends of his,” Grandfather said.
“This way,” Anpu said. “The way you were going, actually.”
He walked past Jesse and headed up the slope, not looking back. Grandfather’s voice said, “Don’t just stand there, chooch. Follow him.”
“I don’t know, eduda,” Jesse said as he started after the jackal-headed figure. “This is getting too weird. How did you get hooked up with this character?”
“He’s the god of the dead, in these parts. And, in case you’ve forgotten,” Grandfather pointed out, “I’m dead.”
Anpu was standing at the base of the fist-shaped rock outcrop. “Here,” he said, pointing.
Jesse saw nothing but a big cleft in the rock, black in the moonlight. He’d seen it dozens of times during the day. “So?” he said, a little irritably.
Anpu stepped into the cleft and disappeared, feet first. His head popped back out long enough to say, “Watch your step. It’s pretty tricky.”
Jesse bent and stuck his arm down into the crack. His fingers found an oval shaft, just big enough for a man’s body, angling steeply down into the rock. It was so well camouflaged that even now he knew it was there, he couldn’t really see it.
“It’s all right, chooch,” Grandfather said. “Go on.”
Jesse stuck a cautious foot into the hole. There were notches cut into the wall of the shaft for footholds, but they weren’t very deep. Gritting his teeth, he let himself down into the darkness.
He couldn’t tell how far down the shaft went, but the absolute blackness and the scariness of the climb made it feel endless. The rock seemed to press in on him from all sides; he gasped for breath, and might have quit except that going back up would be just as bad. The tunnel bent to one side and then there was nothing under his feet. He probed with one toe, lost his grip, and plummeted helplessly out of the shaft and into open space. Off balance, he hit cross-footed and fell on his ass onto very hard flat stone.
He opened his eyes—he didn’t know when he’d closed them—and saw immediately that he was in another tomb. Or another underground chamber, anyway, complete with artwork on the walls and ceiling. This one was filled with a soft, slightly yellowish light; he couldn’t see the source.
Anpu was standing over him, reaching down a hand. “Are you all right?” the jackal-headed god asked anxiously. “I should have warned you about that last bit. Sorry.”
Jesse took the hand and pulled himself to his feet. Suddenly a tall, beautiful woman in a flowing white dress came rushing up, shoving Anpu out of the way and putting her arms around Jesse’s neck. “Oh, poor man,” she cried, pulling Jesse’s head down and pressing his face against her bosom. It was one hell of a bosom. “Did you hurt yourself? Do you want to lie down?”
“This is Hathor,” Anpu said. His voice sounded muffled; Jesse’s ears were wonderfully obstructed for the moment.
“Goddess of love and motherhood,” Grandfather’s voice said. “Get loose, chooch, there’s others to meet. Later for the hot stuff.”
Jesse managed to mumble something reassuring and Hathor reluctantly let him go. As she stepped back he realized she had horns. Not just little ones, either, like the ones on the Devil in the old pictures. These were big, curving horns like a buffalo’s, white as ivory and tipped with little gold balls.
A deeper voice said, “Nasty bit of work, that access tunnel. We don’t like it either. But the main entrance shaft is sealed, and buried by sand as well.”
The speaker was another animal-faced figure, this one with the head of a shaggy gray baboon atop a short, skinny human body. He looked a little like Jesse’s high school principal. “I am Thoth,” he added.
“God of wisdom and knowledge,” Grandfather explained in Jesse’s left ear.
“And this,” Anpu said, waving a hand at a fourth individual, “is Sobek.”
Jesse would just as soon have missed meeting Sobek. From the shoulders down he looked like a normal man— though built like a pro wrestler—but above that grinned the head of a crocodile. The long jaws opened, revealing rows of sharp teeth, and a voice like rusty iron said, “Yo.”
“I still don’t get what he does,” Grandfather admitted. “Got a feeling I don’t want to know.”
“Sorry we can’t offer refreshments,” Anpu apologized. “We didn’t come prepared for social occasions.”
“Excuse me,” Jesse said, “but where did you all learn English?”
“Your grandfather taught us,” Thoth replied. “This afternoon, in fact.”
“That fast?” Talk about quick studies.
“Of course,” Thoth said stiffly. “Simple brain-scan. I mean, we are gods.”
“Yeah,” Grandfather’s voice said, “but I tried first to teach them Cherokee and they couldn’t get it worth a damn.”
Jesse looked around the chamber. It was larger than the ones the Arabs had been using, and finer. The ceiling was cut in an arching vault shape, and the pictures on the wall had been carved in low relief as well as painted. “Nice place,” he remarked politely. “Somebody loot this one too? I don’t see any mummies.”
“As a matter of fact,” Thoth said, “this tomb was never used. It was built for the last commander of this outpost, a nobleman named Neferhotep—”
“He screwed up bad back in Thebes,” Sobek croaked, “and Pharaoh sent him to this shit-hole.”
“—who was killed,” Thoth went on, glaring at Sobek, “in a clash with Libyan raiders. His body was never recovered. Soon afterward the outpost was abandoned.”
“So what are you, uh, gods doing here now?” Jesse was trying not to stare at Hathor. That gown was so thin you could see right through it, and she wasn’t wearing a damn thing underneath. For that matter none of the neterw had exactly overdressed; the others wore only short skirts and assorted jewelry.
“A mistake,” Anpu said. “Strange business. You see, the dead man, the one you buried today, happened to be a very distant but direct descendant of the Pharaoh Ramses the Great. Though of course it’s unlikely he knew it.”
“The death of one of royal blood,” Thoth said, “so near an unused tomb, somehow resulted in a false reading in the House of the Dead.”
“Osiris stepped on his dick,” Sobek growled. “Old Green-Face is losing it.”
“Even Osiris,” Anpu protested, “could hardly have predicted such an improbable coincidence.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Thoth looked thoughtful. “Perhaps not such a farfetched chance as it might seem—”
He produced a polished wooden box, bound in gold, about the size and shape of an attaché case. Sitting crosslegged on the floor, he flipped a jeweled catch and the box opened into two sections. The lower half, which rested flat on his lap, contained a long ebony panel with rows of carved ivory pegs. The upper section was entirely filled by a smooth rectangle of some dark crystalline stone. Thoth tapped his fingertips over the pegs and a row of hieroglyphics appeared on the surface of the crystal, glowing with a faint greenish light.
“Let’s see,” Thoth mused. “Ramses the Second lived thirty-two centuries ago. He had over one hundred known offspring by his various wives. Now assuming an average number of progeny—”
“At any rate,” Hathor sighed, “the four of us were sent, and here we are.” She gave Jesse a smile that would have given the Sphinx an erection. “Well, perhaps things could be worse.”
