Rakitaki: A Jonas Quartermain Adventure

by Lee Alexander

  Toran sighed again. “Yes. The money he gave me for the tablet was the seed for my current business.”

  “Toran, you never told me he got it from you,” Souleiman said.

  “I am sorry, Hassan. He urged me to keep my mouth shut, and paid enough I believe the implied threat. I did not know he donated it to the museum.”

  Jonas stepped in again. “That is weird, but we need to focus. We need all the information you have about the tablet,” said Jonas. Souleiman nodded in affirmation.

  “I can only tell you one other thing about it. Namely, that it was retrieved from old site that had been revisited with new technology. That led to the pyramid dig you were on,” said Toran.

  “How did you know about the pyramid?” Asked Jonas.

  “Hassan and I go back a very long time. He informed me of the dig while you were translating the rubbing.”

  “I can’t imagine how many times I’ve violated the NDA,” Jonas mumbled. When the other two looked at him in confusion, he waved them off. “I think I need to get back to the third site. There must be something else there that can shed further light on the ritual.”

  “Why?” Asked Souleiman. “The ritual could mean power, if the prophecy is right, but surely you cannot believe that the Pharaoh Atakh—”

  “Do not say his name,” Jonas cut in. His tone was so tense, so firm, that the two older men did not argue.

  “Very well. You believe he has returned?” Souleiman asked. He shared a glance with Toran.

  “Not only do I believe that, I think he might be trying to use me as the ‘willing host’, except in no way am I willing. I think he’s trying to corrupt my mind through my dreams.”

  All three fell silent. Jonas stared at his shoes, rubbing back in its tube and hanging limply at his side. Neither of the older men said anything. Finally, Souleiman extended an awkward hand to Jonas’ shoulder and patted it.

  “I wish you the best of luck in your journey, my friend, and may the gods favor you.”

  Toran noticed the second cigarette gripped in the corner of his mouth. He took it out and crushed it underfoot. As if that had been the signal, the group broke up. Each went their own way, with Souleiman retreating into the University buildings, Toran walking west out of the campus, and Jonas traveling back to where the taxi had left him. He counted his lucky stars when he found an idle taxi at the roadside. He clambered in and spoke to the driver.

  “Hilton hotel, please.”

  The man nodded without saying a word, and they were off. Unusually, the music was quiet, though he didn’t strike up any conversation. Instead, Jonas was left to stew in his own conundrum. When he arrived at the hotel, he paid and walked inside. His stomach was knotted tight, banishing any thought of food. He went back up to his room, sat on the couch, and watched whatever was on the TV.

  When his stomach started to rumble, he ordered room service. A burger with fries showed up, and he absently ate it. He was stuck. He had no idea what to do about the rising issue of the mummy, or of the ritual. When the sun started to rise, he mechanically readied himself for bed.

  He lay down, unable to sleep, for a long time. Thoughts whirled in his mind. Atakheramen represented a looming threat to the entire world. If he could amass enough power, create an army of vampires, of the Rakitaki, he could rule over everything.

  Jonas eventually fell asleep, despite his reservations. He was concerned, rightly, about the possibility of having another dream-memory from Atakheramen’s past.

  47

  As the sun set and the world began to cool, Atakheramen emerged from his room. What had started as a deadly sensitivity had turned to outright intolerance. In his first year, he could be near sunlight, even feel its reflected radiance. Now, he couldn’t have his rooms lit with natural light, unless it came from the moon, and thus his patron god, Khonsu. His eyes burned bright red in the darkened space. He opened the curtains that contained his bed and glanced over the greater room. Only a single candle guttered in a corner. The body of a slave had already been removed, leaving a large stain on the stone floor. He stood, stretched mightily, dressed, and wandered into the throne hall.

  His six chosen lieutenants stood in a semicircle, waiting around the throne. He ascended the single step and sat in the uncomfortable seat. They waited in silence, utterly and totally still. The lack of movement, of life, was the only thing that betrayed their true nature. Each of the men still had olive skin, darkened by years of toil in the sun. He had trained them extensively and they listened without question.

  “There is a village a few miles south of here. We are running low on… stock. We must replenish. Our citizens count on us to keep them safe and we depend on slaves to keep the well running.”

  The six men did not alter their eyes or move an inch. For all anyone looking on would know, the Pharaoh spoke to himself with six grotesquely realistic statues arrayed around him. He waited for a moment, looking at each in turn, then spoke once more.

  “Leave the village standing. Bring every man, woman, and child here. Alive.”

  The men left the building at a stately pace. They gathered up six wagons, each with a camel to drive it and a large trailer to contain their prey. A minute later the lieutenants were out of sight. Atakheramen stood and stalked out of the hall toward the market. It was already bustling with people. His eyes had already faded from the brilliant red to a nearly human scarlet. They no longer glowed. As such, he did not cause a panic when he walked among his subjects and spoke with them.

  “Your baskets are exceptional today,” he said to the owner of a stall as he passed. A child ran up and offered a clay cup filled with water to him. He smiled and accepted the cup. He drained it in one gulp, then handed the cup back with his thanks. The child ran off to its mother, babbling about how the Pharaoh had accepted his water. He continued his walk, encouraging his people. The well glowed in his new sight. He passed it on his walk, a comforting landmark. The source of his people’s prosperity. Water in the desert. The marketplace was far better lit now, with torches available for each stall.

  The hustle and bustle of the village was a comforting susurrus. They could not hear the yipping of jackals in the night, or the yowl of a caracal. Neither did those animals approach the village. The lights and sound were scary enough to the wildlife, but they knew instinctually a new apex predator had taken up residence in the area.

  Atakheramen stopped at a building with no lights. There were no windows, and very few chimneys for smoke to escape. He approached the door and entered the darkened interior. A loose band of four men played music as women danced in various parts of the room. Candles were spaced few and far between, often near small stages with woven reed seats arrayed around them. The women danced in time to the band, shaking their hips and raising their hands to make their bangles sing with the song.

  “You see, I knew about venues that displayed the beauty of women long before your time.”

  He spoke to himself, though it appeared the people all around him could not hear him speak at all.

  “I brought wealth, prosperity. Strength. Yes, great strength to my village. We swelled in population. Local predators fell in number, and the prey were carefully herded and raised as a food source. We ate meat as much as three times a week.” He sat near a pit to watch a woman dance under thin veils. She was young, plump, healthy. Her cheeks glowed with youthful vigor. She had sajat, small cymbals made of metal, on each of her index fingers and thumbs. She clapped rhythmically along with the song, weaving an additional layer into the entrancing show.

  “You may think I am evil for the acts I have committed, but know I did it for the good of my people. I craved power, yes, but for the sake of my city, of my people. To bend the world to my will, so that we might all prosper. I wished for my name to live on in life as well as death. For my second life to be lived in great wealth and comfort. What I didn’t understand is I would be taking my second life now, in my first. To live forever and forsake the second. I didn’t understand,
in my youthful ignorance, what the ritual would cost. What it would take from me.”

  The woman danced through song after song. She retired from the pit for a time, while another young woman took her place. Young men and women approached with desires to be sated, wishes to be fulfilled. It was his time of audience, for those brave enough to approach. He was offered fresh fruits. He ate a small one as a token of thanks, then gave them out to the men and women in the club. He felt a bestial hunger in his stomach, a yearning to lunge at the young woman and rip her throat out. He sat, denying the hunger, until it was too much. He rose and swiftly left the club. Once in the open air, he took a loop of rope from a nearby house and turned to the desert.

  His eyes adjusted to the brilliance of the moon-bathed sands. He could see fine details more than a hundred cubits away. The still forms of a hundred sleeping gazelle lay in the distance. He changed his approach to fast and silent, then leapt upon the oldest and frailest of the herd. He drained it dry in mere moments, feeling the blood run down his face and throat. The first of the herd woke at the smell of blood and bolted. He snagged two more with his hands as powerful as star-iron. He took the rope from his waist and bound the three corpses together, then pulled them along behind him.

  “Animal blood does not nourish like human blood. It does, however, provide some relief from the eternal hunger.” The three bodies dug shallow grooves in the ever-shifting sands. He took his time on the walk back, not worried about the corpses. He enjoyed the calm night, the occasional faint breeze, the relative silence of the countryside. He walked with his eyes to the sky, taking in the waxing moon and the messages of the gods in the form of constellations.

  “This is what I want. Peace, quiet. That is all I’ve ever wanted. I gave up my second life for the power to bring peace. First it was for my part of the world, but now I think I need to bring peace to the world entire.”

  Atakheramen returned to the market to find his lieutenants had returned. They had captured every living soul in the far-off town he had sent them to. The final wagon came to a rest as he entered the marketplace. Silence ruled over the square.

  “Welcome, new friends and family.” His voice thundered out, carrying to each and every soul in the square. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His natural presence demanded attention.

  The captured slaves booed, hissed, threw whatever they could get their hands on. He bore their calls in silence. Every member of the city remained silent, soon cowing the new slaves into submission.

  “You will be given a place to sleep, food to eat, and water each day. In return, you will be expected to work. If you refuse, you will be sacrificed to the gods for their favor.”

  He stood and watched the slaves as they shifted inside the wagons. With a flick of the hand, he signaled for them to be released. The six lieutenants immediately obeyed, allowing the slaves out. One of the larger men grew a spine and punched the closest of his officers. The vampire didn’t even flinch. He smiled, showing his fangs had grown.

  “Bring that one to me.”

  Hands of star-iron clamped on the rebellious slave’s shoulders and drew him inexorably to the Pharaoh.

  “Kneel, kiss my feet, and you may live.”

  The slave spat instead. Before he could draw another breath, the soldier behind him took his head from his shoulders with a single swipe of his sword.

  He spoke to the crowd as the body slumped to the ground. “Listen to these six men. They control your lives now.”

  The murmurs from the crowd grew in intensity as he left the market and walked back to his palace. He knew they would either bend the knee or fall right there. His soldiers would make sure of it.

  And the wells needed feeding.

  48

  Jonas woke slowly. His mind whirled with the remnants of the dream. He wiped a hand across his brow, expecting sweat. Instead, he was cool and rested. He rose, then readied for the day. Once he was dressed and prepared, he called for the work van. It arrived fifteen minutes later. He made the two-hour trip out to the dig site again, hoping against hope there would be new artifacts to shed light on the mysterious vampire that haunted his dreams.

  The last vestiges of sunlight faded away as the sun set. He stepped out of the van and felt the air change. It was charged, the environment had an energy it had been missing before. The crews he could see moved about purposefully. He found the nearest English-speaking person and asked where the lead excavation team was at. He was pointed toward the center of the cleared city.

  The village itself was almost exactly as he had remembered it from the dream-vision. The façade of the palace had been revealed, though high banks of sand covered the metal-framed wood doors, the sides and even the roof. The massive doors still stood, closed against the ravages of time. Dozens of houses sat along the pathway between the market square and the palace. The village had grown since the last vision, until it had become a city in its own right.

  Jonas marveled at the progress made in the few days. Even considering the party he had thrown for them, it looked like the men had worked nonstop since, clearing away millennia of sand and dirt. What had been a squalid collection of abandoned buildings before now resembled an actual city.

  The market square lay empty except for a few stalls made from stone or hardy wood. The sandstone paving had been exposed as well. In the center, surrounded by people, sat the opening of the well. The same well that had been rumored in the tablet. The same well he had seen in the memories. He couldn’t help but let a vision of the bustling marketplace overtake him for a moment. Torches flickered in the light breeze as men and women walked around in loose clothing and bartered for goods.

  He snapped back as he approached the well. A large stone lid stood up nearby. A photographer was taking pictures from every angle. Half a dozen men were standing at the edge, peering down into the darkness. They were tense, and even without asking Jonas could see something had disturbed them. A flashlight held by one man illuminated the walls of the well. Three men had been lowered in with ropes to explore a room he could just make out from above. It looked to be round and eighteen feet high. It was deep enough for two men to stand shoulder-to-shoulder.

  That was not what disturbed the men. Jonas quickly got caught up with a translator. The men had worked at a fevered pace until they found the well. It had been one of the last structures uncovered because of how low set it was. He mentally agreed as he felt the stone lip dig into the underside of his knee. He tried to get lower for a better look into the opening.

  Glowsticks were placed next to corpses. From where he stood, he could just see their skin still intact, though drawn tight with time. The state of preservation was incredible, considering the millennia they had lain there. They should have been nothing but bones. One of the men called up observations, which were translated to English for Jonas. Most were curled into the fetal position; eyes rotted away by time and mouths open in eternal screams.

  He leaned further in to get a closer look. Frustrated, he finally said “can someone lower me into the well?”

  He looked at the questioning faces around him then pointed at the bodies that were barely visible.

  “I want a better look. These are actual ancient Egyptians! Not to mention they have been preserved by something, and it can’t have been the well on its own. The moisture would have contributed to decomposition.”

  The translator argued with the men for a minute, waving his hands all around. Jonas had to duck more than once to avoid being hit by the over-enthusiastic man. When the arguing in Arabic ended, one man reluctantly held out a coil of nylon rope to Jonas. He wrapped a loop around his waist and tied a knot. The man looked at him critically, sighed, then indicated he should climb over the wall and into the well. He held onto the rope as he descended the smooth walls, staring at the ground more than twenty feet below. His foot slipped halfway down the wall and he plunged two feet before the men caught him. It happened so quickly he hardly reacted, merely groaning
in pain before continuing his slow descent. A moment later he set foot on the floor and untied the rope.

  He rubbed his hands together in anticipation, then walked across the rough terrain to the nearest body. Desiccation had drawn the tendons and muscles tight to the body. Each of the corpses looked to be terrified on first glance. Jonas put on a pair of examination gloves he had grabbed from the kit above and touched the first body. It was stiff to the touch and hard as rock. After looking at the surrounding area, he checked the hands of the corpse. The fingertips were damaged, though it could have been from whatever had preserved the body.

  He called above for a lantern or flashlight. A moment later, a bulky flashlight thudded to the ground in the center of the well. A deep rumbling noise sounded far below, then subsided. Every man in the well stopped what they were doing, crouching in place. Each instinctively reached out to a wall as if to steady themselves. The tension did not ease even after it stopped. They met eyes, then began moving about once more. Jonas retrieved the flashlight, noting that the sand seemed lower than before.

  He returned to the corpse he had been examining a moment before. He saw that some patches of hair were still present, though they crumbled away at his touch. The wall behind the corpse bore dark stains and deep gouges. It was difficult to guess what tool had caused the marks. There were curious markings, worn away by time to illegibility. He left the first corpse behind and moved to the next. It had an arm thrown up at the wall, frozen in place by time. It was also missing its nails. He continued to circle the well, checking each body in turn. One had actual handholds burrowed out of the nearby sandstone and a broken neck, but no tools. It was a curiosity.

  Finally, he completed the circle by returning to the first corpse. He was puzzled. The story the bodies told fascinated him. Some had tried to escape by creating handholds with what looked to be crude tools, but they had not found tools in the room. Others had seemingly wailed their final hours away. All told, each had died down there within the same time frame. He found seven bodies in total.