The Edge of Hell: Gods of the Undead A Post-Apocalyptic Epic

by Peter Meredith

  “Sort of one,” she answered. “The warning was written on a separate piece of paper. It was written in English and then right after it were more of the glyphs, but no one has yet been able to make heads or tails of it.”

  A warning bell went off in Jack’s head. “No one? Who else has seen it? Did Robert? He did, didn’t he? Son of a bitch!”

  “No, it wasn’t Robert; he’s not an accredited Egyptologist. He’s too lazy, or at least I thought he was. My mum showed it to Robert’s father. He, at least, has a doctorate, but still couldn’t decipher it. How did you do it?”

  Jack was slow to answer. Cyn was family, in a very, very distant way, and she was going to let him stay the night on her couch, but he felt he had already broken his father’s wishes to his great detriment. “I, uh, guess by plugging in the glyphs over and over again until they began to make sense.” That’s how he had started, at least; it hadn’t worked.

  “Hmmm,” Cyn said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “You don’t trust me? I guess that’s good in a way. A little too late, but good.” She checked her watch and Jack checked his right after. “It’s late,” she declared. “You may sleep on the couch. I will be in the bedroom and, I’m sure you understand, I will be keeping the sword with me. Trust, you know, has to be earned.”

  “Good night,” he said as she shut and locked her door. He didn’t blame her. Had he been an accomplished liar, she’d be at his mercy. “But what if she’s the liar?” he whispered after the lights were down. “What if she is trying to get information out of me?” He laughed and said: “Then she’s doing an excellent job.”

  He had told her everything except for the location of his papyrus and the key to the primer—the now useless primer at least as far as Robert was concerned. His cousin had an entire three-hundred and seventy character text spelled out for him; Robert could translate anything now, including Cyn’s papyrus.

  “I need to see that text,” he said, getting up. He tapped on the door. “Cyn, I need to see the papyrus you were given. It may tell us what Robert is going to do next.”

  “Ok, I’ll just pull a five-thousand year old scroll out of my bum. I don’t have the scroll here. It’s back home. My mum might have a copy on her lap top, but I don’t know if I want to get her involved, especially at midnight on Christmas. I know her; she’ll find it without precedent and dismiss our fears out of hand.”

  Jack felt the pull of urgency. Something was going to happen; maybe it was even happening right at that moment. The idea wouldn’t leave him, making sleep hard to come by. He tossed and turned on the couch and at two in the morning when the scream of a siren drifted up thirty-eight stories, he went to the window and saw the splash of red and blue lights heading north on 5th Avenue.

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art was to the north.

  And so too was Harlem and the Bronx and three million people. It was farfetched to think that the police lights were related to him in any way and yet he watched them until the intervening buildings hid them from view. Jack fell asleep sometime an hour later and dreamed of Robert squatting in the dark. He was hunched over a naked man who was tied spread eagle; the flesh of his abdomen was spit wide open, however, his organs hadn’t been much damaged.

  His skin had been slit using a scalpel and a delicate touch—fresh, hot blood was what the spell called for. The man was a living inkwell. At first, Robert used the finest brushes dipped in the blood that pooled on top. Later, he dug the brushes in deep as if the blood on top was no longer any good.

  The man, the night guard at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, screamed his mind inside and out—no one could hear him. His partner was long dead, torn limb from limb. The museum was empty of the living all save for Robert. He didn’t consider the guard as one of the living, not when there was so little time left for him.

  Jack woke in a sweat, his heart like a hammer, one that was trying to pound its way out of his chest. He found himself on his feet beside the couch and couldn’t remember if he had leapt up or had been dreaming while sleepwalking. His mind echoed with a scream and he didn’t know if it had been his own scream or the guard’s.

  “There was no scream,” he told himself. He knew he was a liar.

  In spite of the scream still reverberating in his mind and the horrifyingly vivid dream and the anxiety that was eating him up, Jack fell straight back to sleep. He was exhausted in a way he had never felt before; it was as though his soul had exerted itself in some strange Olympic style event. He was internally tired.

  Chapter 7

  Manhattan, New York

  For the second day in a row, Jack slept in, although this time it wasn’t footsteps in the hall that woke him, it was Cyn running around the suite.

  “We’re late!” she cried. “I slept in. I forgot to set the alarm and my mum is heading over. You have to hide.”

  Jack was still blinking and bleary. The truth was he didn’t know where he was and he barely knew Cyn. She was scurrying around with his sword in one hand and his faded boots in the other, but what mostly caught his eye was the fact that she was wearing an extremely short pair of pajamas.

  She’s your cousin, he reminded himself. A second voice in his head added chirped up: She’s your very, very distant cousin. That was also the truth. Still, he averted his gaze as she hustled him into her bedroom, just as a knock sounded on the door.

  “Just a moment!” she yelled. She then turned to Jack with a hard look of warning in her eye. “Don’t say a word. Cousin or not my mum might just bloody well gut you if she finds you here.”

  “Sure,” he whispered. She shut the door on him and he tiptoed into the bathroom to stand in the tub with the curtain drawn, just in case.

  He could hear a mumbly sort of conversation coming through the two walls but what was being said, he didn’t know. What he did know was that the sword hadn’t lost any of the evil smell on it. His nose wrinkled at its proximity.

  There was the sound of a door shutting and then moments later; Cyn was in her bedroom calling out: “Jack? Where are you?”

  “In here,” he answered and then, once he had stepped out of the tub, turned on the water, going for maximum heat. “What did she say about your text? Does she have it on her?”

  Cyn came to stand in the bathroom doorway looking puzzled at Jack’s position. “What are you doing?”

  He was kneeling over the tub, feeling the water as it steamed out of the faucet. He wanted the temperature to be just this side of scalding. “Washing the sword. I hate the smell.”

  She stopped him. “Don’t. It’s one of our few clues as to Robert’s criminality. Without it we have a stinky boot and your word. So stop. And about the text, she says she has it on her laptop, and she’s going to bring it with her to the exhibit and confront Robert the Sixth with the evidence that she thinks points to his culpability.”

  Jack glanced down at the blackened blade. He hated that it had such an evil feel; it had saved his life and deserved to shine once again. “I probably should go with you, then. If I don’t, Robert will just shift blame in my direction and try to duck out of his role and who knows what that really is.”

  Cyn checked her watch. “We have an hour and a half. Please tell me you have something to wear besides these Indiana Jones rejects, such as a suit and tie?”

  “I do,” he said, irritably after a glance at himself in the mirror. He didn’t think his clothes were so bad. Weren’t faded jeans, in? And since when did Indiana Jones wear jeans? He didn’t. The old boots and the khaki shirt might have had a little Indy inspiration, but certainly not the jeans. That was just silly. “What are you going to wear? A princess gown?”

  Her lips practically disappeared at this and her blue eyes were like very sharp and very angry diamonds...the look lasted for only a few seconds and then she pouted. “I don’t know. I had a slinky black number picked out, but my mum was in a pantsuit and if we run into Robert, you know, Robert the Seventh, then I don’t know if I want to be in heels.”

  S
he stared into her closet, until he unhelpfully noted: “It’s also cold out.” She pushed him out of her room.

  “Just trying to help,” he said to himself as he went to the window where far below the New York traffic was back in full swing, the cars looking like beetles as they crawled through the streets. He stared for just a brief second before his mind turned to his dream and from there it leapt to the police car that he’d seen the night before. “They had nothing to do with each other,” he said. “And really nothing to do with me. The dream was meaningless.” He did not believe in dream interpretation, nor did he believe in clairvoyance or pre-cognition or dream-catchers or Big Foot or any of that hokum.

  “I also didn’t believe five-thousand year old mummies could come alive and kill people.” That was too true to be argued with.

  In his gut he believed the dream. Thinking about it left him with a nervous trill that made his stomach flutter. He was anxious to get going and at the same time, he didn’t want to leave the safety of the hotel; he liked the idea of hundreds of people between him and the mummies.

  “I am being such a chicken,” he whispered, turning from the window and catching sight of his sword. Despite the smell and the evil emanating from it, he was glad to have it. “But I can’t be walking around with it.” He called the front desk to see if they had a cardboard tube or a long umbrella that he could borrow and was surprised to find out that the Waldorf had an entire shipping department available to their guests and in minutes, something was sent up.

  Even though he knew someone was coming to the room, he still hesitated when a soft knock came at the door. Cyn poked her face out from the bedroom; her eyes were wide.

  “It’s ok,” Jack told her. “I called downstairs for something to hide the sword in.” He tried to sound confident; however, he was cautious as he opened the door. It was a young man in a maroon vest holding out a shipping tube. He gave Jack an odd look as he slid the sword in it. “Thanks, it’s a perfect fit,” Jack told him.

  Then there was an even odder moment when the young man stood there with an air of expectation. It stretched out uncomfortably before Jack snapped his fingers. “A tip, yes, I forgot. I don’t actually have any money, but I promise to get back with...”

  “Oh, please, Jack, you’re being ridiculous,” Cyn said. “Give him this.” In her hand was a five-dollar bill. It was a strange feeling taking it from her. It reminded him of when he had been a kid and his mom would give him money for the ice cream truck. “Thanks,” he said before handing the money to the young man.

  “It’s nothing. Now, if you don’t mind, shut the door.” She kept shifting her gaze to the hallway.

  “Yeah, sure. You ok? Are you nervous?”

  “Maybe just a little. Now that the sun is up, I find the idea of mummies coming to life extremely far-fetched. I have to say that I am embarrassed for having entertained the idea and yet, I feel...” She rubbed her stomach as though she was becoming nauseous.

  Jack was right there with her. “I lived through it and I’m still having trouble telling myself it was real.” He tried a confident grin and changed the subject. “What happened to your choice of shoes? I thought you weren’t going with heels.”

  She had on a simple white, button up shirt and black slacks that clung to her slim figure a little too nicely. On her feet were a pair of four-inch high stilettos. “Well, I just figured that I shouldn’t be in any danger. If something happens, it’ll likely happen to you. Besides, aren’t these shoes cute?”

  Her logic was spot on; he was the only link between the break-in at the Brooklyn Museum and Robert the Seventh. “Yeah, they’re great,” he growled. It was logical that his life was in danger but that didn’t mean he liked it. “Almost ready?”

  She was made up and bundled in a heavy, knee-length coat seven minutes later. They called down for a cab and one was waiting for them when they passed through the grand front entrance of the Waldorf. The cold was biting and the wind carried an icy edge that seemed to slice right to the bone. Even the short distance to the cab was nearly enough to send Jack into shock, but he refused to let it show—for some reason he didn’t like the idea of appearing weak in front of Cyn, who looked even prettier in the bright light of day with her blonde hair spilling onto her shoulders and the color high in her cheeks.

  He knew he was a little too aware of her beauty and once again he had to remind himself that she was his cousin.

  Besides, his life was in danger. He needed to focus his attention outwards. During the cab ride to his apartment, Jack tried to feel for the presence of Hor or the Priest of Thorthirdes. Nothing came to him. He also tried to remain hyper-vigilant. Casually, he threw an arm across the back of the seat and looked back to see if they were being followed.

  When he turned once more to the front, he saw that Cyn had a pale gold eyebrow raised. “What are you doing?” she asked; her eye flicked to his arm that was just above her shoulders.

  The truth that he was making sure they weren’t being tailed seemed more than a touch melodramatic; in fact, it seemed like something a teenaged douchebag might say. “Just stretching,” he said. Too late, he realized that sounded like a lame excuse to get close to her.

  “Would you mind stretching in another direction?”

  “Sure.”

  Embarrassed, he stared out the window until they pulled up to the residence hall. As she paid, he stepped out and gazed all around him, again trying to ‘feel’ the presence of the undead creatures. It was there, but fading into the background of the city. Life was washing the ugly feeling away.

  “Do you feel that?” he asked Cyn when she came to stand next to him with the city rising all around them, grey but not lifeless. For the most part, people were still in holiday mode and although the streets weren’t nearly teeming at full capacity there were still a few hardy souls scurrying by.

  She pulled her coat tighter against her shoulders. “The cold? Of course I do.”

  The cold wasn’t registering on Jack’s senses; he was too focused. “No, not the cold. Remember the feeling coming off the sword? It’s here, but it’s weak and getting weaker.”

  Cyn was quiet for a time and her eyes lost their focus. She then shrugged. “I don’t feel it. Come on, let’s get inside before you freeze to death.”

  They entered the building, both of them quiet, gazing all around. Cyn was nervous; Jack less so. The fading presence was sharper inside, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as it had been the night before.

  In the elevator it faded to practically nothing; however, once on the seventh floor, it came back strong enough to set Jack’s nerves on edge. “Tell me you feel it now,” he said.

  “A little, but it’s not very strong.”

  “What about the smell?”

  The smell seemed particularly heavy to him, but Cyn only made a face. “For the most part I smell old marijuana...like rancid bong water. Ugh! Isn’t it illegal in the States?”

  “Apparently not in college housing.” The smell of the stale weed was indeed unpleasant and it mixed with the stench of Hor to create something bizarre and mean to the senses.

  Slowly they went down the hall until they were just a few feet shy of his apartment door. It sat partially open, the sprung locks visible. There were heavy dents in the door and the paint was scratched and grooved in places. The evil feeling was particularly strong on the door.

  “This backs up your story,” she said, pointing at the locks and the door. She made to open the door, but he stopped her.

  “Let me,” he whispered. “I don’t think those creatures are near, but that doesn’t mean Robert isn’t.” She took a step back and he swung the door open, making sure he stood off to one side.

  There was someone in his apartment. He was just a dim figure leaning against the wall facing the door. Jack flinched and was just starting to fumble for the sword tucked away in the tube when he saw that the figure was larger than Robert and seemed to be far more rumpled than he had ever seen his dapper cousin.<
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  “Detective Richards?” Jack asked. “What-what are you doing here?”

  The detective stepped forward and he was indeed very rumpled, as though he had slept in his clothes, if he had actually slept. His eyes were bloodshot and his hound dog face drooped even more than ever.

  “I came to talk to you and saw that your door had been smashed in. Legally, I’m allowed to be in here, probable cause, you know. Care to tell me what happened? It looks like there was quite a struggle.”

  Jack’s chair was tumbled, his lamp was broken and papers and books were strewn everywhere.

  Since the truth would mean a quick trip to an insane asylum, he had to come up with a lie. Strange ideas started jumping into his mind, but all that came out of his mouth were a collection of vowels and random words: “I-I, uh, I...I m-mean we, m-me an-and, uh...”

  He might have gone on in that monosyllabic mumble until he was arrested for obstruction of justice, but Cyn came into the apartment then.

  “What Jack meant to say is that he was attacked last night by a large man.” She seemed perfectly reasonable and so Jack, who was never very good at lying, started shaking his head, vigorously, as if he had never heard anything more true. She went on: “They tussled until Jack grabbed his sword and ran out of here.”

  “Ms Childs,” Richards intoned. “How interesting that you should show up here. Interesting, but not exactly helpful. Now, I would love to hear your version of events, but first I need to hear from Jack. You were attacked? Do you know by who?”

  It was more of a what—he couldn’t say that. “No, sir. It was dark and all I know was that he was big and dressed in, uh, like black clothes.”

  “Like a ninja?” Richards asked.

  “A ninja?” Jack didn’t know if the detective was being serious or if he knew that Jack was lying and was just messing with his head. “No—no it wasn’t a ninja. I didn’t know who it was. But he smashed in the door...”

  Richards held up a hand. “At what time?”

  “Around midnight, I guess. He just bashed in the door and charged in and we sort of wrestled like Cyn said. And then I grabbed my sword and ran.”