Nightmare Passage

by James Axler

  Mildred shook her head. "Not exactly. He's gone to a great deal of trouble to evoke the look of the Eighteenth Dynasty, so it's more than just a fantasy land to him. We've got to take it seriously because he takes it seriously."

  J.B. suddenly hissed, "Shh!"

  Sandaled feet slapped against the floor down the corridor. A moment later, two tall men walked into the cell-block area. They were dusky skinned with completely shaved heads. Gold earrings glinted in the flickering torchlight. Both were dressed identi­cally in simple linen tunics. One of them carried a long metal key attached to a strap looped around his right wrist. They glanced impersonally into each cell and stopped in front of the lock to Mildred's door.

  At the clink of metal on metal, J.B. demanded, "What are you doing?"

  The pair ignored him.

  "Listen," Ryan said to the man without the key, "how long are we supposed to stay here?"

  There was no answer.

  "Why don't you tell your pharaoh that we came here to see him?"

  "He knows that," the man grunted.

  "I want to talk to him," Ryan stated.

  Again, there was no reply.

  The turnkey removed the lock and swung the barred door wide. Mildred backed up against the wall, a snarl twisting her lips, assuming a defensive stance, all thoughts of modesty vanishing. "What­ever you assholes are selling, I'm not in the mar­ket."

  "This is no time for insolence," the turnkey rum­bled coldly.

  He stepped in, reaching out for her. Mildred struck at him with her clenched fist. The turnkey, with the skill of long practice, twisted away from the punch and caught her wrist. He wrenched her arm up between her shoulder blades.

  Crying out, Mildred back-kicked him, her heel connecting with his right kneecap. The man made no sound. He merely increased the pressure of the hammerlock and forced her to her knees. The turn­key's companion cuffed her brutally on the side of the head with an open hand. Stars swirled before her eyes, and her head snapped back with a tendon-twinging force.

  Shouting in wordless fury, J.B. reached between the bars, clawing for the turnkeys. They ignored him, pulling Mildred to her feet, both of her arms pinioned behind her in a grip she remembered was called the "police come-along."

  She allowed herself to be manhandled out of the cell. She made no further resistance, but rage smol­dered in her dark eyes. J.B. swatted for the nearer man, but his fingers fell inches short of a target.

  "Calm down, shorty," said the turnkey. "We aren't going to hurt her unless she forces the issue."

  "Where are the rest of our people?" Ryan asked. "The red-haired woman and the albino kid?"

  They offered no response, marching Mildred be­tween them down the corridor and out of sight. J.B. slumped against the bars, hanging his head like a sick dog.

  "Don't become despondent, John Barrymore," Doc said soothingly. "I believe we can take their words at face value. They will not harm her."

  J.B. nodded miserably. "I don't suppose they left you your swordstick?"

  Doc sighed. "Alas, no."

  "I thought mebbe since they let me keep my glasses—"

  "An obvious physical infirmity," Doc said. "As is Ryan's vision. When I was stripped, I surmise they found no reason I should need a walking stick."

  Ryan listened to the exchange without really hear­ing it. His knees were wobbling, so he eased down on the edge of the cot. He and his friends at one time or another had been cast into the role of captives, but repetition didn't make the part any easier to play or endure.

  He held on to the ragged scrap of hope that Krysty and Jak had eluded capture, but he could not imag­ine how. He forcibly steered his imagination away from the vision of Krysty in the hands—or arms— of Hell Eyes.

  He reconstructed his last conscious memory be­fore awakening in the cell. He began rebuilding the image of the bronze giant towering over him, but all he could really call to mind was a pair of red, blaz­ing eyes. Those eyes swam through his brain—solid red, not like Jak's crimson-hued irises.

  And the deep, throaty voice had held a note of triumph, of patronizing amusement. Ryan remem­bered something else about the voice, a vibration that had set up throbbing ululations in his ears.

  Then the red-eyed giant had kicked him.

  Ryan touched the welt on the side of his head. It still hurt. He tried to make himself angry about it, promising to give as good as he got at his first op­portunity, but he found that he couldn't.

  And that scared him.

  THE TWO MEN ESCORTED Mildred through a door standing opposite the one leading to the cell block. Crossing a corridor, they entered a broad chamber whose walls were veiled by heavy tapestries, em­broidered with scenes of dark-skinned people in­volved in all sorts of activities, most of them lasciv­ious.

  The men released Mildred and backed out of the room, shutting a wooden door inlaid with ivory and chased with gold leaf. She heard the unmistakable click of a lock.

  She stood for a moment, rubbing feeling back into her wrists, studying the chamber. It wasn't very spa­cious, but it was nicely appointed with a low, highly varnished table, a couple of chairs and a curtained alcove. A square of light shone through an open window high in one wall, so high that she couldn't reach it even by standing on one of the chairs. She wondered why the quality of the light seemed suf­fused, then guessed that the window faced east and it was late afternoon, with the sun shining on the other side of the building, whatever it was, wherever it was.

  Padding over to the alcove, Mildred tugged the curtain aside. She saw a sunken tub surrounded by a white stone rim and a short ceramic cylinder pro­jecting from the floor. A pull cord dangled from a water tank attached to the wall above it. Realizing with relief that it was a toilet, she quickly used it. She had refused to squat over the bucket in her cell and had already begun to wonder how long she could control the building pressure in her bladder.

  When she was done, she pulled the cord, and a gush of water swirled and flushed the contents of the toilet away. It began to fill again almost imme­diately. Mildred knew ancient Egyptians had pos­sessed indoor plumbing, but she was impressed nevertheless. Even the tub had cunningly crafted faucet spouts and knobs.

  As she considered drawing a bath, she heard the door lock turn. Peering around the curtain, she saw a woman enter, holding several folded articles of clothing in her arms.

  Tall, slim and lithe, moving with the soundless grace of a panther, the woman returned Mildred's stare with impersonal, black-outlined eyes. Her fea­tures were haughty and imperious, yet sensual, with a touch of ruthlessness about the full lips. She was dressed simply in a brief frock that left her arms and legs bare, the material so gauzy that her small breasts and black pubic triangle were only slightly blurred, not obscured. Jewels glittered and winked on her slim throat and slender wrists.

  "Who are you?" Mildred asked, still standing be­hind the curtain.

  The woman gazed at her speculatively, inclined her head toward the door and listened intently. Then she moved swiftly to the alcove. "What is your name?" the woman whispered.

  "Wyeth. Mildred Winona Wyeth," the doctor re­plied, whispering herself.

  "You must bathe and get dressed. Mimses awaits you."

  "Who?"

  "The high counselor of Aten. He's heard about you. He wants to see you immediately."

  Mildred narrowed her eyes. "Let him wait. I asked who you are, remember?"

  "A friend."

  Mildred smiled wryly. "That's great. I can use one in this place. Does my friend have a name?"

  In a voice pitched so low it was barely audible, the woman answered, "I am Nefron. You must trust me."

  "Nefron? Pharaoh's rebellious daughter?" Mil­dred eyed the woman closely and saw that though her manner was mature, the skillful application of cosmetics made her appear older than she really was.

  Nefron arched a delicate eyebrow. "I had nothing to do with the uprising. I was used as a rallying point during my father's self-imposed
exile. I accepted Pharaoh's decision."

  "Even when he disowned you?"

  "Who told you that?" Suspicion colored Nef­ron's tone.

  Sensing she was treading on uncertain ground, Mildred replied, "It doesn't matter. Besides, you're just a kid."

  "I am sixteen. That is quite old in this kingdom. Old enough to do what must be done. Now, do what I say."

  "Why should I?" Mildred's voice rose slightly. "Where are my other friends? Are they alive?"

  Nefron hushed her, eyes wide with urgent appre­hension. "You must be quiet. If the guards think you're giving me a difficult time, they'll come in and bathe you themselves. I don't think you'd like that, would you?"

  "Not particularly. But answer my questions."

  Nefron sighed. "The red-haired woman is alive, held here in another part of the palace."

  "And the men? What will happen to them?"

  "What are their names?"

  "Ryan Cawdor, Theophilus Algernon Tanner— he answers to 'Doc'—and John Barrymore Dix."

  "They will be well treated. At least for a while."

  "And Jak—the young one?"

  "He was not captured."

  A thrill of hope leaped through Mildred. "Do you know where he is?"

  Nefron shook her head and pushed Mildred gently toward the tub. Turning on the faucet, she waited until the gush and gurgle of water was loud before whispering into her ear, "I do not know where he is at present. That ignorance is of my choice and for his own safety…as well as mine and yours. When the time is appropriate, I will find out. And so will you. Now, we must stop wasting time."

  Mildred hesitated, locking eyes with Nefron. They were dark, even darker than her own, but she saw a glint of red swirling in those sepia depths. Shudder­ing inwardly, Mildred stepped into the tub. In spite of her fear, anger and anxiety, she was happy for the opportunity to wash away two days' worth of dried sweat and grit in the warm, rose-scented water. Using a small pitcher and a cake of soap, Nefron wet her head and shampooed her beaded hair.

  Mildred allowed it, not even complaining when lather dripped into her eyes. For whatever reason, Nefron was trying to be kind to her, and she decided it would be foolish to question her about her rela­tionship with her father. If Pharaoh had reduced the girl's status to that of a bath attendant, there was no point in interrogating her about what had to have been a humiliating reversal of fortune.

  "It will take too much time to remove the beads and comb out all your braids," the girl said. "Mimses will just have to get used to a different hairstyle for women."

  "Why am I supposed to meet this Mimses?" Mil­dred asked, sponging water over her limbs.

  "As I said, when he heard a black woman had been captured, he ordered you to be brought before him. He is very important, very powerful. Second only to my father in his influence over Aten. When you go before him, you must curb your tongue and not anger him."

  "Why?"

  "Pharaoh has left the decision of what to do with you and your friends in Mimses's hands. Unfortu­nately, since you killed so many Incarnates, he's tempted to torture all of you to death."

  "Even Krysty, the red-haired woman?"

  Nefron shook her head. "No. Her fate has already been decided. By Pharaoh."

  "Why am I not surprised?" Mildred muttered.

  Nefron used the pitcher to rinse the soap suds from Mildred's hair. As she poured the water, she leaned in close, her lips almost brushing Mildred's earlobe. "One last thing, Mildred Winona Wyeth. When you're in with Mimses, do not think of any­thing I have told you. Send your thoughts in another direction."

  Knuckling water from her eyes, Mildred asked, "Why don't you just ask me to think about ele­phants?"

  "What?" Nefron's eyes were puzzled.

  "When you tell someone not to think of some­thing, invariably the first thing they think about is what they're not supposed to think about."

  She paused and added, "Is Mimses a psychic or a telepath or something along those lines?"

  "Not exactly. But he to whom Mimses is an­swerable—"

  A sharp, impatient rapping came from the door. A voice rumbled, "The counselor awaits the outland woman."

  Mildred quickly rose from the tub, water cascad­ing down her body. Nefron handed her the garments, and she dressed in them quickly. When she had put them on, Mildred looked down at herself and growled, "Somebody has got to be kidding."

  Instead of a frock or a skirt, she wore a broad strip of purple cloth fastened to a leather belt girding her hips. Another strip at the back fell to her upper thighs. Circular cups made of thin, gilt-edged leather barely covered her breasts, exposing a good amount of cleavage. High strapped sandals completed the costume. She shook her head in disgust, the beads in her hair clicking. "Who does he think I am, Scheherazade the dancing girl? I'm not really built for this outfit."

  Nefron smiled for the first time. "That's for sure. Here." She touched a red pencil to Mildred's full lips, rouging them quickly. "No time to make up your eyes with kohl, but your eyelashes are long enough as it is. Besides, you've got good bone struc­ture. You're very pretty for a woman so old."

  "Thanks," Mildred said dryly, pressing her lips together. It had been a long time since she had wom any cosmetics. "Did Mimses pick out this ensem­ble?"

  "Yes, but consider yourself lucky. Usually the women he calls for aren't allowed to wear anything at all."

  The door opened and one of the shaved-headed guards beckoned to them. "Come on."

  Mildred obediently crossed the chamber, feeling like a contestant in a Miss Belly Dancing contest. Before stepping through the door, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Nefron stared after her, her eyes burning with a strange, indecipherable light.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The two men marched on either side of Mildred, this time not laying a hand on her. At the end of the corridor, they ascended a winding staircase that led directly to a great, high-ceilinged hall. Her eyes darted around the vast room in wonder. She had seen splendor on this scale before, but only in movies, costume epics of the type DeMille had favored.

  The hall attested to the wealth and power of its owner, not just by its size but by the richness of the furnishings. Lotus-topped pillars upheld the high ceiling, and smoldering bronze braziers filled the air with a spicy, aromatic scent that was at first unpleas­ant, then somehow soothing.

  The polished surfaces of the walls bore a confus­ing jumble of pictographs and symbols and col­ors—bright reds, vivid greens, deep cyans, brilliant yellows. Plush chairs, divans and settees were scat­tered about, seemingly in a random pattern, but laid out and arranged so the eye followed the furniture to the open terrace at the far wall.

  Late-afternoon sunlight shafted down a heavyset black man reclining on a cushion-piled dais. His gray-sprinkled hair was blunt cut and very short. He wore a linen tunic that exposed arms and legs that had once been firm with muscle but were now sag­ging with flab. His deeply lined face had a sensual, lupine quality about it. His eyes were almost hidden by puffy bags of flesh. A supple-bodied girl barely into her teens kneeled behind him, massaging his neck and shoulders. Her fingers moved deftly and expertly. When Mildred drew closer, she saw that his youthful masseuse was stark naked except for hieroglyphic designs painted on her arms, legs and budding breasts.

  A pair of huge men, one wearing the head of a jackal and the other the head of a bull, stood on opposite ends of the terrace. Both gripped metauh staves in their fists.

  Mildred's two-man escort suddenly halted, turned smartly on their heels and strode back to the door. Mildred stopped, almost wishing thev hadn't left her.

  The black man gestured to her. "Get over here, woman. You've kept me waiting long enough."

  Mildred hesitantly edged onto the terrace, then to the base of the cushion-heaped dais. She locked her gaze on his face, dark eye to dark eye. His strength shone nakedly in his eyes, but it was an ugly strength, devoted only to fulfilling his own wants and whims. His eyes bored into hers as
though they were trying to gauge her own strength. Remember­ing Nefron's warning, she sent her thoughts skitter­ing in different directions, tumbling over one an­other. For a woman with such a disciplined mind, she found it difficult to allow chaos to fill her thoughts, but she managed. She knew the man ex­pected her to turn away, unable to bear that gaze. She met his expectations, casting her glance down.

  "Gen-you-wine brown sugar," the man drawled. "Real color by birth, not by a fucking bottle."

  Although Mildred was pleased that her guess re­garding the uniform skin and hair color of Aten's citizens had been correct, she said nothing.

  The man grinned, showing off large, discolored teeth. "What's your name, brown sugar?"

  "Mildred." She didn't offer her full name, acting on the impulse to provide him with as little infor­mation as possible.

  The man nodded. "I'm Mimses. Not my real name, of course, but it'll do."

  "What is your real name?" Mildred asked.

  His eyes narrowed for a moment. "Stockbridge. Mean anything to you?"

  "No."

  "Thought not. I was a nothing as Stockbridge. A goddamn Farer. Not worth a rat's fart in a hurricane. Mimses is a different story altogether."

  Mildred said nothing, standing and waiting si­lently.

  "You're a pretty woman, you know that?" Mimses stated. "Kind of stocky, but I like that. Built for strength and breeding."

  Mildred didn't respond. She remained silent, fear beginning to grow within her.

  "Lovely and a real brown," Mimses continued. His right hand stole beneath the hem of his tunic and moved slowly, back and forth, fondling himself. "Yeah, a real lovely brown."

  Her rising fear was suddenly outstripped by a rush of anger. "Stop it, you goddamn pervert."

  Mimses stared at her in surprise for a long mo­ment, then threw back his head and laughed. He withdrew his hand and pushed himself to his feet. "I haven't gotten going yet, Mildred."

  Staring at the man as if she were a disinterested observer, Mildred vaguely realized she was disas­sociating. She noted a brief metallic gleam beneath his tunic. She watched him step off the platform, smile at her, then draw back his right hand. It swung around in a swift arc to connect with her face.