The Mummy's Revenge

by Andrew Beasley

  “My…? Och,” said Doogie, realizing she was talking about the dog. “This handsome laddie is Wellington.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Wellington,” said Charley, rubbing his ears. Wellington gazed back at her from beneath formidable doggy eyebrows. He really was a fine animal, with a beautiful black coat. Pedigree undoubtedly.

  “Lead on,” said Charley.

  Doogie hesitated, unsure whether she was talking to him or the dog, then he snatched up three of their bags and lumbered off, swaying under their weight. “This way,” he said.

  The weather was worsening by the moment, the drizzle turning into small hard pellets of rain. They followed Doogie with their heads down and their collars turned up.

  “Welcome to Scotland,” muttered Billy.

  Suddenly Wellington tensed. The dog stood stock-still, fur bristling, a growl vibrating in his throat.

  “Come on now,” urged Doogie, straining under the weight of the bags.

  “Wait,” said Billy.

  “What is it?” asked Charley.

  “I’m not sure,” said Billy, sticking out his tongue. “But it tastes evil.”

  They were all alert now, eyes trying to pierce the darkness, searching for the danger that Billy and Wellington could sense.

  “There!” snapped Billy, pointing into the shadows. At that instant Wellington broke free from his lead and the pair of them sprinted away. Charley was half a second behind. For a fleeting instant she thought she could see a silhouette, lurking in an archway. The figure had the body of a man and the head of a…what was it? A crocodile!

  Its cover blown, the hulking shape retreated. “Stop in the name of the law!” Charley shouted. Doogie whipped a small knife from out of his sock and brandished it as he ran alongside her.

  Panting, Billy reached the spot where they’d seen the figure hiding. But he was too late. Whoever – whatever – it was, had gone. How long had it been there? What did it want?

  Wellington was barking ferociously at the empty air. Bizarrely, there was a whirlwind of sand twirling on the floor and it was driving the small dog crazy. Billy watched the vortex. Ordinary people might have dismissed it as the wind eddying, but Billy could taste the lingering tang of magick all around. It was the same oily mixture of blood and smoke that he had sensed on the train. The Sandman again?

  Charley and Doogie arrived in time to see the last grains of sand spin to a slow halt. The final traces of magick faded away too. Charley raised her eyebrow. “What a curious phenomenon.”

  “Did ye see it?” gasped Doogie. “Did ye see the beastie?” He still held his knife, his dirk, but his hand was visibly shaking. “I think we must have scared it off.”

  “I doubt that,” said Billy.

  “But how did it get away from us? It must have been at least six foot tall,” said Charley. “It can’t have just disappeared.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” said Billy.

  “Yes,” said Charley, “especially to us.”

  The coach that Sir Gordon had sent to take them to the hotel looked fit for a king. The body was painted dark green, with Sir Gordon’s family crest on the door. The wheels were red. Billy didn’t see any of that though, he only saw the four creatures that were pulling it. They looked like horses, only smaller. Small horses with black and white stripes.

  “What the…?” Billy began.

  “Zebras,” said Charley. “Natives of the African grasslands.”

  “They must feel right at home here then,” said Billy, hugging himself against the chill.

  Doogie stroked one of the zebras on the muzzle. “His Lordship has his special ways,” he said. “Ye get used to it. Sort of.”

  They made the journey to the hotel in silence. Despite its luxurious appearance, the carriage was uncomfortable. The leather seats were hard and it was bitterly cold even with blankets to cover their legs. Somewhere a piper was playing and the sound floated through the night air. The tune was haunting and strangely beautiful at the same time; somehow it fitted their mood precisely.

  “Here we are,” said Doogie eventually, as the zebras whinnied and the carriage juddered to a halt. Billy and Charley looked out of the window to see a tall foreboding building. The moon had helpfully positioned itself behind the turreted roof to make sure that it looked truly sinister. A pair of stone gargoyles stood guard on the gateposts, rain dripping from their gaping mouths and savage claws. Everything about it said Run away, rather than Come on in and put your feet up.

  “I love what they’ve done with the place,” said Charley. “Creepy and unwelcoming. I’m amazed more hotels don’t go for that.”

  Billy shuddered and turned up the collar on his coat before stepping out. “Best make the most of it, eh?”

  Doing their best to ignore the rain, Billy and the driver helped Charley down from the carriage between them, while Doogie untied the wheelchair from the luggage rack on the back so that it was waiting for her on the pavement. Charley quickly got comfortable while Billy was busy removing the rest of their luggage from the roof. Wellington wisely stayed inside.

  When they were ready, the driver clicked his tongue to the shivering zebras and flicked the reins. Doogie waved goodbye from the window. “We’ll be back to collect ye in the morning.”

  Billy and Charley approached the front door and knocked. After what felt like an age they heard jangling keys and footsteps approaching on the other side of the door. Without much of a welcome they were beckoned inside by a tiny old woman, whose eyes, skin, hair and dressing gown all seemed to be the same washed-out grey. They followed her down a dingy corridor until she brought them to a halt outside two neighbouring doors. “Here are your keys. Two singles, both on the ground floor as requested. I can see why now,” she said with a pointed look at Charley. “Such a shame for a pretty lass too.”

  “It would be so much better if I was ugly, wouldn’t it?” said Charley.

  The landlady bristled. “I’m sure you’ll have had your tea,” she said shortly. “So if that’s all, I’ll bid you goodnight and retire to my own bed.”

  It wasn’t all, as far as Billy’s stomach was concerned. He wanted a baked potato, or some soup, or some bread and cheese at least. Charley wanted a nice cup of tea, Early Grey preferably, or Assam at a push. But as soon as their doors were unlocked, the old lady was up the stairs and away.

  “Come into my room for a while,” said Charley. “I’ve got a couple of sandwiches left, I’m sure.”

  Billy was soon wolfing down the remains of Charley’s packed lunch. “What are you having?”

  “Brain food, dear Billy,” she replied, unpacking her microscope and setting it up on the dressing table. She slipped off her watch pendant, placing it carefully to one side, then she rolled up her sleeves ready to work. “Do you have the sand samples we collected?”

  “One from the train carriage and one from the station.” Billy fished two envelopes out of his pocket. “But I still don’t know what you can find out from this.”

  “Watch and learn,” said Charley, sprinkling a few of the grains onto a slide and examining them through the magnifying lens.

  “Aaaah,” said Charley after a few moments. “Mmmm.”

  “Let me in then, Duchess,” said Billy. “Sounds like you’re having too much fun without me.”

  “Well…” began Charley, and Billy settled back in an armchair. She was using her “lecture” voice – they could be here a while. “You know how the sand is different on different beaches, sometimes white, other times gold or grey or even black—”

  “Do the banks of the Thames count as a beach?”

  “Much sand down there?” asked Charley.

  “Nahhh,” said Billy. “Just loads of…” He paused, searching for the right word, found it, then decided that he couldn’t say it in front of a lady. “Loads of mud,” he said eventually. “Stinking piles of it.”

  “I get the picture,” said Charley. “So you’ve never been to an actual beach?”

 
; Billy shrugged. “Seaside holidays aren’t big in the Flint family. Breaking and entering however…barrel of laughs.”

  Charley pulled a face. The criminal behaviour of the rest of Billy’s enormous family was a subject they normally kept clear of. “Anyway,” she said, “believe me when I tell you that sand comes in a variety of colours depending on the minerals, rocks and other materials which make it up.”

  “Different colours, different rocks,” said Billy. “So?”

  “So there are thousands of different types of sand. Biogenic sand contains the skeletal remains of coral, barnacles and gastropod molluscs. There is blue sand in Namibia, star garnet sand in Idaho. No two deserts, no two beaches, no two riverbeds have exactly the same combination. Every grain of sand tells a story…”

  “So what is this sand telling us?”

  Charley smiled. Billy smiled too; she had good news.

  “This sand, Billy, has come a very long way…from the Sahara Desert, in fact.”

  “Where the mummies are,” said Billy.

  “Exactly.” Charley was triumphant.

  “How do you know all this anyway?”

  She reached over and patted his cheek. “They hide information in books.”

  Billy was still trying to think of a witty comeback – something along the lines of “Blow it out your backside” – when a shrill yell pierced the night.

  “Help me!”

  It was a woman’s voice, screaming, and it was followed by the unmistakable sound of slapping feet running full pelt over the cobbles outside. Whoever she was, she was running for her life.

  “Save yourselves… It’s a monster!”

  “That sounds like our cue!” said Billy. The pair of them were at the window in a flash, throwing back the curtain and peering into the rainswept gloom. The terrified woman was nowhere in sight but a solitary figure stood in the middle of the street, illuminated by the flickering gas lamps. A figure wrapped from head to foot in filthy bandages, arms outstretched.

  Spotting the light in their window, the mummy turned towards them and lurched in their direction. Billy closed the curtains again. Too late. They’d been seen.

  “Quick!” he said. “The door.”

  Charley manoeuvred her chair within the confines of the small room, heading for the only way out. Her hand was on the doorknob when the window shattered.

  A fist burst through the glass, and they both watched as rag-covered fingers grabbed the curtains and yanked them down, ripping one end of the curtain rail from the wall. The mummy stood outside, reaching in, fingers now grasping at thin air.

  The stench of putrid flesh filled the room and a strangled moan escaped from its ancient lips.

  “Uuuuuuurrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

  The mummy punched more of the splintered windowpane out of the way.

  Billy staggered backwards, throwing up his arms to shield his face from the shards of broken glass flying towards him like tiny daggers. He felt a sharp sting on his forehead, followed by a hot trickle of blood rolling over one eyebrow. If that had been an inch lower…

  Blinking away the blood, Billy saw that the creature was still desperately trying to break in. Its head and shoulders were through the shattered window and both hands were grasping, sharp finger bones exposed. For a frozen second, Billy couldn’t drag his gaze away from those terrible hands.

  It was a second too long.

  With frightening speed, the skeletal hand grasped Billy’s arm.

  “No!” Charley shouted, but even as Billy heard her warning, he felt his head begin to swim.

  His gift allowed him to sense magick, the supernatural, the unnatural – all those intangible powers, those invisible forces could briefly become clear to him, as if a curtain existed between two rooms and for a moment it was drawn aside, allowing Billy a glimpse of what lay beyond…whether he liked it or not.

  But up this close, actually in the grips of a five-thousand-year-old creature that should have stayed dead and buried, Billy’s sixth sense was overwhelmed.

  The grave stink of the mummy washed over Billy as image after image struck his mind, like the blows of a hammer…

  The pyramids. The stillness of the tomb. The cold of the coffin. The darkness. The silence. The eternity of death… Then the light as the stone lid of the sarcophagus was lifted… Immortal sleep disturbed. The taste of wax in his mouth. The pain! The anger! Ancient gods with monstrous faces, towering above him… A crocodile, massive jaws waiting to snap… A lioness, her mouth a silent roar. A jackal, lips drawn back in a snarl… And another figure…a shaven-headed figure…a powerful man…a man of cunning and magick—

  BANG!

  The sound of the gun being fired was enough to snap Billy out of his trancelike state. He saw Charley holding her pistol calmly in both hands, blue smoke coiling from the barrel. Billy felt the cold grip of the mummy’s hands on his arms, tighter than vices. With a snarl, the mummy shook Billy from side to side as if he was a rag doll.

  Charley’s lip curled back in frustration. Her finger paused on the trigger; she couldn’t risk shooting Billy. “Just stay still, damn it!”

  Billy did his best to resist the creature, but in spite of the fact that its muscles had long since shrivelled away to nothing, there was still incredible strength in those arms. Little by little, Billy was being dragged towards the jagged mouth of the broken window.

  A second bullet sang out and Billy saw it hit the mummy square in the shoulder. The force of the impact rocked the creature back on its heels, but there was no sign that it had actually been wounded except for a trickle of sand which bled from the smoking hole left in the bandages.

  Billy was struggling with all his might now, twisting and turning as he tried to wrench free of the mummy’s cold grip, but he was losing and he knew it. Charley positioned herself for another shot, this time aiming for the head. It was another direct hit, of course, and it knocked the mummy’s head back on its neck a full ninety degrees.

  The mummy’s head hung there for a moment, as if it was only the bandages that stopped it from falling off and rolling down the street. But then, impossibly, the head began to rise again and Billy winced as the skeletal grip tightened around his arms.

  “It’s no good,” Billy breathed. “You get out of here, Charley.”

  “Shut up trying to be brave and let me solve this, will you?”

  There was a small table by the bed with an oil lamp sitting on it. Billy saw Charley look at it, a small smile lighting up the corners of her mouth.

  She quickly crossed the room and picked up the lighted lamp.

  “No, Charley,” said Billy. “It’s too risky.” He thrashed around in desperation, doing everything that he could to break the mummy’s hold on him.

  “You’ll need to get out of the way really quickly then,” said Charley, raising the lamp.

  Billy knew that she meant it. In a last-ditch effort, he lifted both of his feet off the floor, planted them firmly on the window sill and launched himself back with all his might. His jacket sleeves ripped off and were left dangling in the skeletal fingers, but Billy was free! Gasping with relief he fell onto the bed just as Charley’s missile soared through the air above him.

  Once again, the mummy responded with terrifying speed. The oil lamp would have struck it square on the chest, but with one sweep of its arm the creature batted it out of the way to smash against the bedroom wall. Instantly the burning oil took hold. Dozens of flaming drops splashed in every direction, and the moth-eaten bedspread, the stained wallpaper and the threadbare rug all flared into life.

  The mummy did not escape unscathed. The arm which had deflected the firebomb was drenched in oil. Charley might have been mistaken, but she could have sworn that there was a note of panic in the creature’s voice as the first flame took hold.

  “Aarrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhhhhh!” the mummy wailed as the fire spread up its bandaged arm. It flailed around as it tried to manoeuvre itself back out of the window, setting th
e curtains on fire before finally falling backwards out into the rain-drenched night.

  Inside the room the fire had taken hold of the broken curtain rail and was starting to attack the ceiling. Charley grasped Billy’s hand and dragged him towards the door. Billy didn’t resist. Charley only paused to snatch up her microscope and dump it on her lap.

  “Quick!” said Billy, “before the whole place goes up!”

  The Temple of the Seven Stars was cold and dark and oh-so-secret. Down here, in his underground lair, the Sandman ruled. He sat on his golden throne, his hand stroking the smooth dome of his bald head, while he dreamed his favourite dream; a dream of cold bright diamonds and steaming hot revenge. Tall sandstone pillars supported the high ceiling that arched above him. The stonework had been painted a fierce midnight blue, swirling into deepest black, and was pierced with a thousand points of glistening white. It gave the impression that he wasn’t in an underground tomb at all, but was sitting beneath the vastness of the night sky.

  The stone floor was covered with carvings in the language of ancient Egypt. The hieroglyphic pictures and symbols declared that this was more than just a tomb; it was a portal between the Land of the Living and the Land of the Dead.

  The Sandman was not alone. A king needed servants, after all. On a gold chain around his neck hung a pendant in the shape of a triangle surrounding a solitary lidless eye. The Eye of Horus belonged to him. He had the power and so he was the one who sat; the gods of Egypt could stand. The Sandman regarded them coolly.

  Sobek the crocodile; savage and strong. The god of the Nile. Lord of soldiers. He who loved robbery. He of pointed teeth and insatiable hunger.

  Sekhmet the lioness; sleek and deadly. The goddess of fire, war and vengeance. Mistress of the dead. Lady of slaughter. She who mauls.

  Anubis the jackal; proud and powerful. The god of funerals and death. The protector of the grave. Master of mummification.

  The Sandman smiled. All he had to do was click his fingers… But for now he had to wait. Waiting came easily to him; it was what he did, day in, day out. But the waiting had never felt like this before.