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

by Peter Meredith

  The detective leveled a look of skeptical puzzlement at Jack before asking: “You had a sword, yet you were the one who ran? That seems very backwards to me.”

  It seemed very backwards to Jack as well. It felt as though he had painted himself into a corner until Cyn remarked: “Remember you said that you thought he was reaching for a gun?”

  Again Jack began an eager nodding. “Right, right. He reached into his coat and I just ran. And...and I didn’t have anywhere to go. All my friends are out of town and so I went to see Cyn.”

  “Did you consider calling the police?” Richards asked. “It’s kind of our job to deal with this sort of thing.” Jack started to stutter into another poor lie, but the detective waved it away. “Maybe you should get your lies straightened out before you go any further.”

  Cyn strode into the room, her face set in hard lines. “Listen, officer, it’s not illegal to have your flat broken into or to be attacked. He came to my place and was very distraught. I let him stay the night on the couch and now we’re here. There’s not much more to the story. Now, if you don’t mind, there is a grand opening at...”

  “The Metropolitan Museum of Art?” Richards asked. “I’m sorry to say that it will be postponed, because there is more to this story than anyone is letting on. Especially, him.” He pointed an accusing finger at Jack. “Ms. Childs, were you with him all night? Was he within eyesight until morning?”

  She didn’t answer right away but, eventually she said: “No, but there are cameras everywhere in the hotel; I’m staying at the Waldorf Astoria. I’m certain that they will corroborate our story. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

  Although she had a smile for him, he could see the cool distrust in her eyes. She knew that he could have left the hotel room at any time after she had gone to bed. “I didn’t leave the room,” Jack stated, being completely honest for the first time. “So yeah, please check the tapes. And also, I think we deserve to know what’s going on.”

  He knew before the detective spoke that he was going to say there had been a ritualistic, sacrificial murder at the museum—and more mummies were missing. He wasn’t wrong.

  Chapter 8

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Manhattan

  Once again, Jack was standing just on the other side of yellow tape, pressing it forward so that it was on the verge of snapping. More than once Richards barked at him to back away—he would have, if that was an option. He had to decipher the glyphs; he had to know what the hell was going on.

  The evil smell and the chest rattling sensation that he had been feeling was ten times as bad in the museum. He had even gone light-headed and had nearly fainted dead away and had to suffer the embarrassment of being caught by Cyn.

  “It’s the smell,” he said; it was making him gag.

  Her pert nose was wrinkled but she wasn’t fainting. “It smells like a body pulled from a bog.” It was far worse than that, in Jack’s opinion.

  In spite of the cancelled grand opening of the exhibit, the Egyptian wing was crawling with people. A minimum of thirty police officers were going in a dozen directions, inspecting every floor, door, wall, glass casing, framed picture, and velvet rope.

  There were also ten world renowned Egyptologists offering advice, fretting over everything, freaking out that displays were being trashed and, while they were doing all of this, were also shooting eye-daggers at Jack and grinding their teeth. He couldn’t blame them. The police were making a hell of a mess. Pottery and papyri, limestone stellas and sandstone statues, ebony jewelry boxes inlaid with gold and ivory were being lined up in the long hall—all supposedly evidence in some way and all handled in such a way that the exhibit’s curator looked as though she was going to have an aneurism. And to top it all off, what wasn’t being pulled from their display cases was being covered in fingerprint powder.

  “These are ancient and priceless artifacts; these are ancient and priceless artifacts!” one of the Egyptologists kept repeating.

  “I think I need to find a new profession,” Jack whispered to Cyn.

  She didn’t disagree, and she also didn’t stand very close to him when she could help it. “At least you’re no longer a suspect,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. Richards had sent a detective around to the Waldorf to examine the security tapes, proving that Jack’s alibi was airtight.

  “I don’t know about that,” he answered. “They took my sword. I bet they don’t know what to think.” He felt naked and vulnerable without his sword—even with all the police around, he didn’t feel in the least bit safe.

  Cyn grimaced. “I don’t even know what to think. We have entered a world in which five-thousand year old mummies are coming back to life. That, dear cousin, is a batty world that I don’t much care for.”

  Richards came over and, without saying a word, lifted the tape and gestured for them to duck under. “Follow me and do not touch anything.” He led them down the hall, their shoes echoing on the marble floor. “Do either of you recognize him?” The detective had a finger pointing at a corpse that was naked, spread eagle and bled so white that he matched the cold marble in color. He was sliced open, right up the gut so that all of his organs were on full display.

  Jack recognized him. It was the man he had dreamed of the night before. Once again, his head started going light and he had to step away and stare up at the ceiling until he stopped seeing spots.

  “You faint at the sight of blood, Dreyden?” Richards asked. He wasn’t concerned; he was suspicious.

  “No...at least not normally. Though I guess I don’t come across this much blood on a daily basis and certainly not like this, anyway.” Jack swept his arm to indicate the room, which was painted in blood. Around three exhibits: two glass cases and a sarcophagus, there were double circles and more of the Heiro-Sumerian glyphs. All hand drawn in blood—the coppery smell had his stomach roiling.

  Cyn looked a little pale as well. She said: “I don’t know this man, although I might have seen him when I came by three days ago. My mum and I were given a private tour.”

  “Along with Robert Montgomery and his son,” Richards stated, watching her closely. “And do either of you know where the younger Robert is? No one seems to know.” The two cousins shook their heads in unison and Richards followed the question with another, this one totally unexpected: “And do you think we’ll find his blood on that sword of yours, Mr. Dreyden?”

  It took Jack a second to answer: “No, w-why would you ask that? Was there blood on the sword? There shouldn’t be.”

  “What should be on the sword, Mr. Dreyden?”

  The question was as out of the blue as the last. Jack’s mouth came open and he made little noises that wouldn’t have amounted to an entire word if they had been smushed together. He had no idea what to say. Richards watched him struggle with what should have been an easy question before asking: “Would you be surprised that we found epithelial cells that were five-thousand years old on it?”

  Again words failed him and Cyn answered: “I think anyone would be surprised and Jack is practically speechless in surprise, or so it seems.” She gave him a hard look that he understood as: Pull it together!

  “Yes, I am surprised,” Jack finally said. “And I don’t believe it. You’ve been in possession of the sword for two hours. There’s no way any carbon dating could have been done in that time, which leads me to believe that you’re trying to trip me up in some fashion. I don’t appreciate it. In fact, it seems I should exercise my Fifth Amendment right and not say any more since I did not do this. I had nothing to do with this. Nothing whatsoever.”

  Richards’ hound dog face broke into lines as he smiled. “Nothing? Really? You do realize that it’s a felony to lie to a police officer. It’s called obstructing justice, so you may want to reconsider your answer. I know for a fact that you’re involved with this. The sword proves it. You were right about the carbon dating, but we did run some of the particulates through a mass spectrometer. Any guesses as to what we found?”<
br />
  Jack had a few good guesses: natron, which was a carbonate salt collected from the edges of desert lakes, resin found in trees that grew along the Nile, linen fibers from the Abeston flax, something that was hardly native to New York City. All the items needed to embalm a mummy.

  “I-I guess certain oddities, or rare, um, plant fibers, but I work with such stuff and...”

  “Save it for the judge,” Richards said, advancing until he was almost nose to nose with Jack; he was suddenly furious. “I plan on bringing you up on charges if you don’t come clean with me this instant. I have you on conspiracy to commit murder, obstruction of justice, and more than likely a dozen international antiquities laws. Yes, we know about your safe deposit box and we’re just waiting on a judge to issue a warrant.”

  For the third time that day, Jack’s head began to swim. How could he come clean with a story that was altogether unbelievable? The truth sounded like a child’s sick fairy tale. He was stuck, that was the real truth. He would have everything pinned on him and he would go to jail and all of his hard work might as well be flushed down the toilet. Now, it was his turn to get angry.

  “Come clean?” he asked, his lips twisting. “Sure, I can come clean. I was attacked by an Egyptian mummy…”

  Cyn grabbed his arm and hissed “Jack! Don’t say a word. We’ll call your lawyer. I’m sure the police don’t have anything on you.”

  “My lawyer?” he asked, a furious, uncontrollable laugh barking from him. “I don’t have a lawyer. I’m not like you, Cyn. I don’t come from money.”

  He was fuming, but she didn’t take offense. She was honestly puzzled and she asked with her head cocked: “You didn’t receive an inheritance from your father? Or your grand fa…Oh, right.”

  “What do you mean, oh right?” He was very aware that Richards was right there watching them, but he had been caught by her words and the way her eyes suddenly opened wide.

  “Nothing,” she answered, looking uncomfortable. “Don’t worry about it. I will pay for your lawyer. What this bobby is doing is bullying, plain and simple.”

  Richards shook his head, no longer looking angry. He was back to being his usual tired, somewhat emotionless self. “It’s not bullying, Ms. Childs. It’s the truth. Your cousin is neck deep in trouble and I’m just trying to figure it all out and it isn’t helping that he keeps lying to me. Yes, lying, don’t start with the denials, Jack. You are simply the worst liar I’ve ever run into and you should take that as a compliment. A good liar is a practiced liar. A very good liar is one without a soul.”

  “Thanks, I guess,” Jack said.

  Cyn gave him a warning look; she didn’t trust Richards, he supposed, but Jack was screwed three ways from Sunday—he had to trust somebody. The detective acted like she wasn’t there. “Listen to me, Jack. If you haven’t done anything wrong, then tell the truth…even if it is weird. Trust me; I’m expecting weirdness out of this.”

  Cyn made a pleading sound in her throat, but Jack didn’t pay attention. The truth was that he was tired of the lies. Richards was correct: Jack was the worst liar in the history of liars. He hated lying; it made him feel greasy and dirty, and so he told the truth, the entire truth. Right off the bat, Cyn groaned and stared up at the ceiling as if praying for lightening to come down and strike Jack in order to shut him up.

  No lightning came down to save him from himself and he went on, starting with the illegal papyrus and finishing with the weird feeling that came over him when he had come into the museum. As he spoke Richards nodded politely and said things like: Go on, and Really? and Is that right?

  When Jack was done with his tale, which took longer than he had expected, Richards only stood there gazing at the ancient artifacts that were being catalogued and photographed and packed up to be brought back to the evidence locker at the police station.

  “So Robert can raise Egyptian mummies? That’s what this is all about?” he asked after a time. When Jack nodded, emphatically, Richards’ softly lined hound dog face tightened up. He ordered: “Come with me,” and stalked away, his steps surprisingly fast.

  He strode through the museum until he came to the main building; only then did he look up at the signs that directed people to this exhibit or that. He saw what he wanted and took two rights until they were among the Incan exhibits. Cyn gave Jack a puzzled look; he could only shrug his shoulders in response.

  There was another police presence here; this one much more subdued: a single bored looking officer standing before a taped off display that consisted of nothing but a glass case—a broken and empty case.

  “So you say that Robert can bring Egyptian mummies back from the dead?” Richards asked.

  It was obvious that an answer of ‘Yes’ wasn’t going to cut it and yet, Jack didn’t have another answer even though he could read the plaque on the exhibit: Incan Mummy—Mountain Sacrifice and he could see the glass that was shattered all over the floor.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “But this doesn’t make any sense. Where are the glyphs and the ritual circles? How is this possible? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  Richards rubbed his eyes shut for a moment and then looked straight at Jack as he said: “Nothing about this entire case makes sense. Absolutely nothing. The evidence is sketchy and all over the board and doesn’t add up, and my two main suspects believe in spells and the undead and superstitious crap.”

  “You wouldn’t be saying that if you had inspected the sword, yourself. Did you, Detective?” Cyn asked.

  He shrugged. “I gave it a cursory look. There wasn’t anything obvious about it.”

  “Then you don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “That sword was…wrong. There was something bad about it.”

  He gave her a little smile that suggested that her terminology of ‘bad’ wasn’t either scientific or legalistic. “And if it is where does that leave me? I have one suspect who admits that he’s in possession of stolen property and another who can’t be found. Now, I have asked that first suspect to come clean with me and what does he give me? Monster stories. And what do you have? A ‘bad’ sword. Let me tell you, that’s not exactly helpful.”

  “And what if he helps in some other fashion?” Cyn asked. “Jack is the only person…other than Robert, who can decipher the glyphs at the scene of the crime.”

  Richards looked confused. “I thought Robert didn’t know this, uh, ancient hieroglyphic sort of language.”

  “He’s not stupid,” Cyn chided. “He may not have a degree in Egyptology, but he has been raised within the culture. You pick up things. Besides, Jack did all the work; it doesn’t take a genius to be able to substitute characters from one text to another.”

  Richards glanced around at the rather dull—in Jack’s opinion—Incan exhibit, before he asked: “And what good would an interpretation of this mumbo-jumbo do any one?”

  The archeologist in Jack wanted to reply simply: It is knowledge. It was ancient knowledge and for that reason alone it made sense to decipher the writings that Robert had painstakingly, in more ways than one, written out in blood. Instead, he replied in a manner that a detective would understand: “Perhaps it mentions what he is hoping to accomplish with all of this. Or it might give us a clue as to what he’s planning next.”

  “Or it just feeds into your psychosis,” Richards remarked, though, by the slow way in which he did, he didn’t really believe himself. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I’ll need the contents of my safe deposit box,” Jack said, feeling strangely nervous and excited at the same time. He was dying to interpret the glyphs both for the police and for himself. He hadn’t been given money as an inheritance as Cyn had, he’d been given something greater: a pounding desire to discover, to know more, to unearth secrets that the world had buried away for all time.

  Secrets that only he was supposed to know.

  Chapter 9

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Manhattan

  Reluctantly, as though he
was being dragged to the edge of a cliff, Richards agreed to allow Jack to decipher the glyphs. Jack was sure that the detective would never admit it himself, but there was a pull in everyone, a need to know what shouldn’t be known.

  Too bad that it would remain unknown as far as the detective was concerned. Jack decided that he would interpret the words for himself, but he would never give up their true meaning. These were words of power. It was crazy…very, very, outrageously crazy to think that such things as spells and charms and circles of power were real things, but he had seen Hor with his very own eyes and smelled the otherworldly decay with his own nose and, yes, he had nearly died as a result.

  The words he was supposed to decipher were as evil as they were powerful. They could never be allowed out into the world. They had to remain secret.

  Jack gave up the key to his safe deposit box to a uniformed policeman and then was subjected to a long wait in which he and Cyn and Detective Richards sat on opposite sides of the hall on low marble benches that were smooth and elegant but also hard and uncomfortable. The silence between them was equally uncomfortable. It became almost palpable, as though it was a real thing. The air was thick with the silence, like jungle air, Jack thought.

  Richards’ presence was to blame. He had read them their rights and had officially ‘detained’ them so that they were essentially under arrest, but without the formality of handcuffs.

  It was after three before the policeman returned with the glass case that had, for the last five years, sat in Jack’s bank. The sight of it caused a harsh whispering to break out among the museum dignitaries. Richards ignored them altogether and Jack tried not to shrink into his green army coat as they tried to wither him with their looks of outrage.

  “Please, don’t try to open the scroll,” Jack begged when Richards started to unscrew the glass case. “Please, it’s too delicate. I transcribed everything into the notebook.”