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

by Peter Meredith

  The detective looked suspicious until Cyn assured: “It’s standard operating procedure to both photograph and transcribe. Besides, Jack obviously thought this was a secret. I doubt he had a fake notebook right next to the real scroll.”

  This logic saved the scroll from being pawed over and possibly ruined by the detective. He did, however, hover around Jack as he began making notes in his book. Jack knelt a foot away from the twin circles that went around the broken sarcophagus. “You said these are funeral texts,” Richards said. “Are these the same sort of writings from The Book of the Dead?”

  “You know about The Book of the Dead?” Cyn asked, surprised.

  He held up his phone. “I googled it.”

  “Then you know that the original Egyptian name for the text,” Jack said, without looking up, “is transliterated rw nw prt m hrw and is read as the Book of Coming Forth by Day. Another translation would be the Book of Emerging Forth into the Light. Of course, there is no one Book of the Dead. Each tomb thus far uncovered has its own ‘book’ so to speak.”

  Richards glanced at his phone and then stuck it in his pocket. “Its own book? That seems like a lot of work.”

  “Well, the Egyptians were all about death,” Cyn said. She too was hovering. Richards just over Jack’s left shoulder, Cyn over his right.

  “Can I get some room, please?” Jack asked. He was sketching the glyphs from the floor, something that had to be exact, and the two of them were making him nervous. “You two are making me jumpy and I don’t want to screw this up. One little squiggle out of place can change the meaning, completely. Thanks. And Cyn is right; the Egyptians were utterly obsessed by the idea of life after death. But, really it was more than that. They didn’t just want to be immortal, they wanted to be gods.”

  Richards moved in closer, again. “Is that what that says?”

  Jack waved him back. “I don’t know what it says, yet. So far, I think it’s just a standard magic spell.”

  “Oh,” Richard said, sounding disappointed. “More spells, great.”

  “Yes, the spells were intended to assist a dead person's journey through the Duat, or underworld, and into the afterlife,” Jack said, speaking in a monotone as if reading from a very dull textbook. “They were written by many priests over a period of about a 1000 years. Now, what makes these glyphs so interesting is that, although they are far older than the traditional funerary texts, they were written on papyrus.”

  Judging by his facial expression, Richards didn’t find this interesting in the least. “Is that right?”

  “That is right,” Cyn said, frowning. “And it’s highly abnormal. The earlier ‘Coffin’ texts and the ‘Pyramid’ texts were all painted on objects and not on papyrus. Very strange. Clearly these works are more important than we first took them to be.”

  Even though by saying “we” and using the plural “works” she had practically admitted that she was also in possession of an illegal scroll, Richards didn’t notice. He was good and bored by the discussion just as Jack had hoped he would be, and when he turned away to make a call, Jack slid his sleeve up and began to scribble glyphs onto the inner portion of his arm. He knew that he wouldn’t be allowed to keep the notebook when he was done and there were glyphs he had never seen before.

  He was positive that they were names. In the ancient world names were extremely important; true names held power out of all proportion to the syllables uttered. Jack didn’t understand why, he just knew on a gut level that they did. The night before, Hor had been stopped by the sound of his name.

  When Cyn saw what him scribbling on his arm, she shook her head and then pulled her hand from her coat pocket and showed him the phone she had kept hidden; she quickly took a few pictures and then hid it away again.

  “I recognize the glyphs on the outer ring,” she whispered. “They came from my mum’s papyrus; I can tell by their order. Is the inner ring from your papyrus?”

  He gave her a tiny, covert nod and then spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Yes, but there are glyphs within it that I’ve never seen before. Here at the top of the inner ring. It is very close to another glyph meaning add or more. My guess is that its meaning is likely something like: combine and it matches the glyph at the arch of your spell. It makes me think these spells can be used alone or together. I’ve never seen that before. It may be a first.”

  “And what does it mean that Robert also called an Incan mummy to life?” Cyn asked. “That shouldn’t be possible without any of the ritual circles, in other words without any of the spells.”

  “None of this should be possible,” Jack answered. “And I don’t know what it means, but I have a guess. The Incan mummy might have been called by accident. If you take a look, the one mummy that had been in this case was called with a very specific name—Amanra.” He pointed at the second ring of glyphs at an odd symbol of a bird standing next to what looked like a rake—it was copied three times in a repeating pattern.

  Jack then went to the closer of the broken glass casings and pointed out a sun over a mountain glyph situated in the outer ring that surrounded it. “It means thee or thou, sort of a generic term.”

  She nodded slowly. “That’s how easy it is? That sort of scares me more than anything. If Robert can call some no-name mummy, what else can he call?”

  “Maybe anything. This third mummy may be the key to how the Incan was called. Robert thought he was only bringing up this one mummy, but see the lines of blood are thinner and the calligraphy sloppier—a few of the glyphs are ambiguous and one is downright nonsense. Look.” Jack pointed at the poorly rendered glyph. “It should be a man with the wings of a bird, basically a version of the word Ba, which was an element of the soul, instead Robert had simply repeated the previous glyph: a triangle with a quarter moon over it.”

  “What are we looking at?” Detective Richards said from behind the pair. Jack nearly jumped out of his skin.

  He considered lying, but a lie would have been valueless in this situation. “Right there. Robert drew two of the same glyphs: feast and feast, side by side. You would call it the hierogliphical equivalent of a typo. It might explain how the Incan mummy came to life.”

  Richards looked as though he was about to make a joke, but then he just waved Jack to explain further.

  “Ok, the two rings of the power circle have different functions. The inner ring is the spell that I was in possession of. It opens the portal to the netherworld. The second ring actually acts as a barrier or a protection so that only the being called forth will come through.”

  “And that’s how come we have a missing Incan mummy?” Richards asked, speaking through a sigh.

  Jack gave him an apologetic nod. “Essentially. I’d like to examine the body of the guard. I couldn’t see how he died...I mean...” Jack stumbled to halt.

  “How could you have possibly seen how he died if you were snug in your hotel?” Richards asked with a dangerous tone.

  Was it time for another horrible attempt at lying or was it better to go with the altogether crazy truth. Jack’s broad shoulders sagged. “I dreamt of all of this last night. I didn’t say anything because I know it sounds completely insane, but really, I know I sound crazy no matter what. I’ll take a lie detector test if you need me to.”

  “Oh, I don’t need a lie detector to know you’re crazy,” Richards said. “I was just hoping that you’d be helpful in your craziness. I think it’s time you two left, unless you have something relevant I can use in this investigation? And don’t tell me about any more dreams. Dreams are not admissible in court. What I need to know is who did this and where your cousin is.”

  Jack bounced his shoulders in a shrug. “I wish I could help you with that, I really do, but the glyphs don’t mention him or point in any direction.”

  “Then you’ve wasted my time,” Richards growled, poking Jack in the chest. “Go sit on that bench until I call for you.”

  Jack’s notes were taken, including the primer. “You didn’t actua
lly translate any of that, did you?” Cyn asked when they were sitting on the bench.

  “No way. I was going to try and fake my way through it, but once I copied the new text into my notes I just doodled fake glyphs.” She laughed at this, high and sweet, earning a glare from both Richards and a number of the experts. “Maybe you shouldn’t sit so close,” Jack suggested. “I think my career is pretty much over before it really got started. I don’t want to suck you down as I drown.”

  She patted his leg and then, oddly, gave it a squeeze. “If this was over, I probably would, but it’s not. Robert has managed to open a portal to hell. My gut says so even if my brain is refuting all the evidence that is being presented to me. It’s the sword. It defies logic. And so does Robert’s actions. He can open a portal into hell, but why would he want to? What does he gain from it?”

  “He’s already wealthy,” Jack replied, “and I really doubt that he’s trying to impress a girl, so that only leaves power as a justification for murder.”

  “That’s pretty weak,” she said. “There’s only so many mummies and so many museums, certainly not enough to raise a zombie army to take over the world. There’s not enough to even take over Iceland, not that anyone would want to. I’ve been to Iceland. It’s empty and the people are nice but so dull that you want to pull your hair out by the roots.”

  Jack felt he could use a little dullness in his life. “Ok, it’s not Iceland he’s after. Maybe he’s trying to take over New York...assuming he’s still in New York. There’s a pretty large Egyptian exhibit in Philadelphia. I took a day trip down there last summer.”

  “Was it any good?”

  He see-sawed his hand back and forth as he answered: “Naw, not really. The usual: pottery and clay tablets with hieroglyphs. And the mummies. There were four of them. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s going there next.”

  “But where is he now?” That was an unsettling question. “He was staying at the Waldorf in the penthouse suite, of course. That’s Robert, you know. Wherever he is, it won’t be in any flea-bag hotel. It’ll be somewhere fancy. We should inform Inspector Richards of where he should begin his search.”

  “It’s Detective Richards,” Jack told her, “and who knows if he’s even looking. I’m the one right in front of his nose talking hocus-pocus. I should never have said anything. I should’ve played ignorant like Robert’s dad. You should’ve seen...”

  Jack abruptly stopped talking as an image came to him—it was a memory, actually and only a fragment of one: he was in the Brooklyn Museum and had just pulled Robert the Sixth aside to ask him about his son and what he knew about what was going on. Nervously, Jack had glanced at Detective Richards, and saw the policeman watching him, his dark, hound dog eyes alive with much more intelligence than he let on.

  And then as Jack had turned back to Robert, he had caught just a glimpse of Dr. Loret and for once the curator wasn’t in a prissy anger; he was nervous.

  Chapter 10

  Lindenhurst, Long Island, New York

  Two cars: a blue, Ford Taurus and a Lindenhurst police cruiser, paused side by side. The cruiser had been leading but was now stopped before a large wrought iron gate that sat astride Loret’s driveway, blocking them. It was after eight and their headlights lit everything in front, brilliantly but left the rest of the world deep in shadows.

  “I thought you’d like to do the talking,” one of the officers said in a carrying whisper to the Taurus.

  Both of the local policemen were young and excited. Lindenhurst was a sleepy village on Long Island, about an hour from the city. It was a place where nothing of importance had ever taken place and the few crimes that did occur were always exceedingly banal: one or two drunk drivers per year, a stolen bike back at the beginning of summer and in September some bored teens were caught smoking pot on the beach; they had pleaded down to trespassing and had gotten off with a very small fine.

  For the officers, an inquiry in a murder investigation was the highpoint of their careers.

  Jack and Cyn watched from the back of the Taurus as Detective Richards got out and went to the speaker beside the gate and hit the button. There was a very long pause during which Richards thumbed the button every three seconds. He was just checking his watch for the second time when there came a nervous voice over the speaker: “Yes?”

  “Dr. Loret? This is Detective Richards of the NYPD. I have a warrant to search your property. Please open the gate.”

  “A warrant?” There was another long pause, followed by: “Just a second.”

  Richards thumbed the button once more. “We are looking for Robert Montgomery the Seventh. Any attempt on your part, Dr. Loret, to hide him or to attempt to help him in any way to escape is aiding and abetting a fugitive.” He stood there for a few more seconds and when nothing more was heard from the box, he strode back to his car and leaned in the window.

  “You were right, Jack,” he said. “He’s definitely in there.”

  “Then why aren’t you breaking down that gate?” Jack asked; he was getting nervous, which always made him edgy. “He could be getting away.”

  This made the detective laugh; it was a genuine laugh and his smile was actually warm. It made his hound dog face actually handsome for the brief few seconds that the smile braced up his cheeks. “Robert is not going anywhere. He might run out the back, but he’ll leave his car behind and we’ll scoop him up right quick, you’ll see.”

  He had been far less confident three hours before when Jack had explained: “I know where Robert is. Remember the check I told you about?”

  Richards had gazed at him with eyes as hard as stone before saying: “Despite the fact that I don’t have a fancy and utterly useless degree in Egyptology, I’m not an idiot. I remember everything about this case.”

  “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to imply anything; I just meant to preface my remarks. So, about the check, Robert saw me put it in my top drawer. You see what that means?”

  “No,” Richards said, blandly.

  “It means I was wrong. I thought someone had broken into my place, but they really hadn’t. It was really...”

  Richards had interrupted: “You mean you weren’t attacked by an undead mummy?”

  “I was,” Jack insisted, trying to hold in his anger. “I’m talking about before then. Do you remember how Loret went right for my desk when you two came to visit? Of course you do, sorry. You remember everything, and so you also remember how Loret looked nervous when I pulled Robert’s father aside. Before that he was as snide as can be, but just then he didn’t know how Robert’s dad was going to react. Loret was working with the son, that’s what I think. He probably let Robert into the museum that night. He probably also did something about the security cameras, too.”

  The detective’s eyes drifted up as he began nodding. “The cameras had been turned off and the alarms disabled,” he said. “I thought it was an inside job at first, but nothing of real value had been stolen and the uh, circles and glyphs suggested a nutcase had done it.” He was quiet for a time and then started to shrug his shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”

  “No,” Jack had snapped. “It’s all very impossible, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. If you accept the idea that this is real, then everything I’ve said falls perfectly inline.”

  “And if I believe that you’re trying to steer me away from your accomplice, then what?” Richards asked. “You see, that is a much more likely scenario. I don’t have to believe in magic for that scenario to be true. I just have to believe that you and Robert or whoever are plum crazy.”

  Richards had a smug look on his face, but there had been doubt in his eyes that Jack picked up on. “Only you don’t fully believe that, either. The problem, Detective, is that you’re stuck in the middle, you know that this is a supernatural phenomenon but you’re trying to understand it from the viewpoint of the natural or the normal.”

  Cyn agreed. “You have to change your paradigm; you have to open up your mi
nd. I know it sounds somewhat hippy-like, but trust me this has nothing to do with peace and love. This is all about murder and blood sacrifices.”

  “Ok, fine,” Richards said, slowly. “Let’s say there are mummies running around New York, where are they? And why did Loret bring in the police? The doors to his museum were wide open; that’s how we were called into this to begin with.”

  Jack grunted out a small laugh. “I don’t know where the mummies are now. They could be in the back of a van parked under a bridge for all I know. But I have a pretty good guess why the doors to the museum were open. Loret was probably not prepared for what he saw. Maybe he didn’t really believe that Robert could do what he said he could do. Maybe he was only humoring him while collecting a big check and then…”

  “Then the mummies actually came alive,” Cyn said. “I know I’d bloody-well freak.”

  Another laugh had escaped Jack, this one completely without humor. “You’d do more than freak. You have no idea what kind of fear comes off of them. It takes over your mind. It fills it so that you can’t think. I bet Loret just took off screaming.”

  Richards’ deep brown face froze, his lips slightly parted, his eyes, once again lost as he contemplated, not just Jack’s words but also the obvious veracity in his face. Finally, the detective had made a sound that lay somewhere between giving up and pain. “Fine, I’ll bring in Loret. Nothing else is working.”

  That had led to a slew of phone calls and discussions with two different district attorneys and, in the end, a warrant to search Loret’s property.

  But now Jack was nervous. A feeling of dread was creeping into his bones to settle there like ice. And he was suddenly sure that he had made a huge mistake by bringing the police to Loret’s home. It was a big home, basically a mansion. The very high and prominent edges of it could be seen just over the tips of the trees.

  It was dark and it was cold and anything could be in there.