And the general trained the weapon on O’Connell, up on the monument.
Evy thrust herself between the general’s weapon and her husband, putting herself at point-blank range. “No! I did as you said, I read you the bloody thing, don’t do it!”
Yang lowered the gun and smiled. “The inscription, as I interpret it, Mrs. O’Connell, does not require a virgin. But it does require someone pure of heart. And only the pure of heart would sacrifice himself . . . or herself . . . for the one she loves.”
Colonel Choi, summoned by Yang’s sideways glance, came over and, with sensual grace, removed the glove from Evy’s right hand; then Choi unsheathed a knife and extended its blade over Evy’s pink upturned palm.
Yang snapped to Wilson, “Open it!”
Up on the platform, Wilson cautiously lifted a crowbar that leaned against the scaffolding rail and handed the tool to O’Connell, who went quickly to work prying the lid from the sarcophagus, creating a nails-on-blackboard grinding that filled the rotunda.
The grinding masked any sound from above—though that sound was nearly nonexistent already—as Lin, followed by Alex, climbed down onto the scaffolding, hidden from view by piles of brick and other building materials, block and tackles swagged from the corners of the chamber.
When their worst suspicions were confirmed by the sight of General Yang and Colonel Choi, both facing Alex’s mother, who was passing her hand over the Eye, held out in the general’s paired palms, the two exchanged glances of alarm.
Lin thought, The Eye of Shambhala, Alex thinking the same, but substituting Shangri-la.
With the point of her knife, the cruelly lovely Choi pricked Evy’s finger and a few drops of pure-of-heart blood dripped down into the fabled object held in the general’s cupped palms, blood like red mercury gliding over and down and around and through the mesh of golden snakes.
Evy’s eyes widened, as—incredibly—the stone appeared to absorb her blood.
Then, as a few drops touched the inscription oval, the decorative snakes seemed to come alive and writhe and wriggle and release themselves from the grip of the gem they had enshrouded for countless centuries.
And now the gem itself began to transform: the diamond split along its facet lines, the golden lattice around it now wholly unfurled, lotuslike, and within crystalline petals sat a stamen floating in a substance that could only be liquid diamond—the Elixir of Eternal Life!
This magical metamorphosis had taken place in the upturned palms of that self-styled warlord, that most unmagical General Yang, whose usually stoic expression had also transformed—into one of childlike awe.
Wilson—knowing both O’Connells were dangerous and that the longer this took, the riskier it was—frowned down from the monument and demanded, “Yang! Get on with it!”
Throughout, O’Connell had been both watching and working, gouging that crowbar in under the sarcophagus lid and prying with all his strength, always looking for a moment he could take advantage of. But that moment refused to come and, now, furious with his own helplessness, he shoved the ajar lid with savage abandon and the thing crashed to the monument floor.
The thunderclap of that brought Yang back to reality, or at least his concept of it, and with the blossomed Eye in one hand now, he climbed the stairs onto the platform. Below, Evy remained at knifepoint in Choi’s custody.
Referring to the liquid-diamond Elixir, Yang spoke with more emotion than might be thought possible from such a man: “Once this touches the lips of Er Shi Huangdi, the Emperor will not merely once again walk among us—he will be immortal!”
O’Connell was between Yang and the opened sarcophagus, the skeleton revealed there, in weathered royal robes and with a golden medallion at its neck.
The general snarled, “Move back! . . . Wilson, dispense with this fool.”
Wilson, with perhaps the tiniest smirk of regret, swung the Colt automatic into position and was about to squeeze the trigger when someone kicked the curator in the head . . . from above.
O’Connell had just witnessed an amazing sight: his son, Alex, his formal white coat abandoned somewhere, swinging down from the right rear corner of the rotunda, swooping in from a block-and-tackle swag!
And then, with timing that could not have been improved upon had the two young rescuers been through weeks of training, Lin launched herself similarly from the left rear corner, swinging down on her own rope, and her feet slammed into Yang, smashing him hard into the rear of the monument, against the bronze chariot, the Elixir splashing onto the bronze armor of the statue of the Emperor at the reins of the bronze horses.
And that Elixir was absorbed within the bronze armor, much as Evelyn O’Connell’s blood had been into the Eye of Shangri-la.
Using the edge of the chariot, O’Connell launched himself, making a spectacular gymnastic vault to the museum’s marble floor, then went sliding toward his discarded guns.
In the meantime, Lin had landed, catlike, withdrawing the dragon dagger, and then she did something that would have seemed very peculiar to those around her, had they not been otherwise occupied: with a graceful martial-arts pirouette, she came around to slam that dagger down into the open coffin and deep into the chest of the skeleton within.
Something significant that would have meant nothing to the others had they noticed—with the possible exception of archaeologist Evelyn O’Connell—caused Lin’s dismayed expression when she came face-to-face with a gold medallion around the neck of the skeletal remains.
Lin recognized the medallion as that of the Emperor’s chief eunuch and head minister, Li Zhou, and knew at once something was terribly wrong . . .
. . . because this skeleton was almost certainly not the Emperor’s.
Choi had turned away from Evelyn and was poised to throw her knife at O’Connell when Evy shoved the woman’s arm and the knife flew harmlessly from the colonel’s grasp, clattering onto the marble.
Furious, Choi faced Evy, and the woman in the gray uniform with black-leather trappings crouched into a posture that spoke of an imminent martial-arts attack . . .
What Choi did not know was that Evy had been, in another life long ago, the Princess Nefertiri, and was skilled in ancient methods of combat not usually found in former librarians. Plus, her husband had taught her a trick or two.
So when the two women traded martial-arts blows, fists, arms, legs, blurring in motion, Choi was surprised by her opponent’s quickness, dexterity and skill.
But Evy remained modest: “I must warn you, I’m a trifle rusty . . .”
The rust got shaken off quickly, however, as the two women went at it, Choi’s cap flying off and Evy’s hair coming undone, her furs flying. Finally Evy grabbed on to the taller woman and took her for a ride in a back roll that sent the colonel crashing into a pile of crates.
And Colonel Choi apparently needed a breather, because she did not get up.
Evy, frankly impressed with herself, thought, Not bad, old girl, not bad.
On the monument platform, their old “friend” Wilson was trying to get to his feet but Alex stopped that, kicking a gun from his mentor’s hand, popping it up so that the boy could catch it. Then he gave Wilson another swift kick in the head, which sent the professor napping.
Nearby, Lin was ripping the medallion from the skeleton’s neck. Her eyes and nostrils flared. “It’s a decoy—this is not Er Shi Huangdi!”
Alex came over for a look. “Who the hell is it, then?”
“I believe it is his head minister. I have seen pictures of the symbol on that medallion.”
“Okay, then where the hell’s your emperor?”
“He is not my emperor!”
This discussion was interrupted by the sound of a horse whinnying. Both Alex and Lin turned to frown at the bizarre sight of a bronze hoof pawing the platform’s floor. And then all of the legs of the horses were alive, the animals shifting in place, bronze manes shaking, as the entire rotunda began to tremble and the trembling turned to tremors and it wa
s as if an earthquake had selected this one chamber in Shanghai in which to do all its destructive work . . .
Lin dove from the platform and rolled to a corner of the rotunda while Alex did the same, moving to the opposite corner, both covering up instinctively, which was fortunate, because the “statue” of the Emperor blasted apart, chunks of bronze flying, revealing a second, slightly smaller statue hidden within, like one Russian doll in another.
O’Connell dove for cover, too, as did Evy. He had his guns now, two of them anyway, one for either hand, and was getting to his feet when out of the dust-cloud aftermath of the explosion appeared a terra-cotta figure, its arms raised as if in pain, or perhaps rage.
And Emperor Er Shi Huangdi took his first breath in two millennia.
Rick O’Connell, his hair mussed, his tuxedo powdered with dust, his face dirty, had an expression that might have been a smile but really wasn’t, not if you studied the dread that mingled with resolve in his unblinking blue eyes.
“Here we go again,” he breathed.
And on the floor nearby, Evy O’Connell—seeing the reddish-brown terra-cotta Emperor alive up on his chariot with his impatient steeds awaiting him to take rein—was thinking the very same thing.
5
Shanghaied
Emperor Er Shi Huangdi, awakening to find himself a terra-cotta figure standing in a chariot, before bronze steeds restlessly come to life, was welcomed to the twentieth century by General Yang, who stood on the monument platform nearby.
Head bowed, the general spoke in ancient Mandarin: “I have awakened you, my lord. I live to serve you, and to attend to your final transformation. Allow me please to guide you to a safe haven.”
The Emperor’s nod was barely discernible but enough to encourage Yang to climb up onto the chariot.
No sooner had the general done so than the revived Emperor Mummy snatched up the reins and began to whip his bronze steeds. The entire chariot and the cortege wagon it drew lurched forward, then plunged off the platform and, building speed, began to lumber across the marble floor of the rotunda, bound for the huge stained-glass window directly ahead.
Rick O’Connell, a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver in either hand, raced after the two-sectioned vehicle, unloading on the hard-clay Emperor Mummy and his passenger, the sharp cracks of the handguns punctuating the sound of the galloping hooves and rumbling chariot wheels like Chinese New Year’s firecrackers, and having about as much impact.
Not so much to his astonishment as to his dismay, O’Connell—perhaps the most seasoned mummy fighter on the planet—watched as a bullet chipped off the Emperor’s ear, only for that ear to spontaneously regenerate.
Bastard’s impervious, O’Connell thought.
Unfortunately none of his shots claimed the not-impervious Yang, who was firing back with his own pistol at the pursuing O’Connell, driving him back behind a pillar as building materials in the path of the chariot were churned to debris and scattered, chunks of God-knew-what going every which way.
In the meantime, another player was running after the chariot, attempting to hitch a ride.
Roger Wilson, his tuxedo dust-splotched now, had a look of utter frustration as he pursued his ride to fame and fortune, yelling, “Wait for me! Wait for me . . . !”
And O’Connell had to admit the old SOB, for his age and weight, ran quickly, even managing to make his way up alongside the terra-cotta Emperor as the chariot built speed going toward the big rotunda window. Wilson was trying to clamber up onto the vehicle, next to Er Shi Huangdi, who reacted harshly. In the Emperor Mummy’s defense, he had no reason to recognize Wilson as an ally, just some wayward hitchhiker.
That was scant solace for Wilson, as the Emperor Mummy unsheathed his sword and swung it with a whoosh, neatly taking Wilson’s head off and sending it rolling into the periphery with the other rubble, the professor’s headless body stumbling along a step or two before collapsing in a pile that even the Eye of Shangri-la could not do anything for.
As O’Connell, from behind his pillar, threw gunfire at Yang, who threw gunfire back, son Alex was dashing at the chariot from the other side, using the distraction his father was providing to slide as if into home plate, right underneath the rumbling wagon, where he grabbed brackets on the undercarriage of the cortege wagon and got purchase.
Unlike Wilson, Alex had successfully hitched a ride.
Lin had watched Alex’s move and now imitated it, the lithe female warrior in black similarly sliding, and with a hand Alex helped her get a hold under the chariot as it continued to gather speed.
Both Alex and Lin held on for dear life as the four bronze horses burst through the window in a spray of shattering glass, bearing the chariot and cortege wagon from the first-floor rotunda into the Shanghai night.
Within moments the metallic steeds were smashing through the museum’s wrought-iron rear gates, and then the Emperor’s chariot thundered onto the nearby city street, even as Alex and Lin hung on below the attached cortege wagon, every bone in their bodies, every tooth in their mouths, getting rattled like dice.
The Emperor Mummy proceeded to welcome in the New Year as his chariot hurtled down a street festooned with Chinese lanterns and beautiful flowers, the unlikely vehicle disrupting everything in its path, including the festive atmosphere. Revelers, rickshaws, bicycles, all did their best to get out of the way and, when they couldn’t, were smashed aside. Market stalls were knocked apart while celebrants both tourist and local went scrambling in dumbfounded fear. One crushed bicycle seemed to reach out for Alex and Lin, catching the young woman’s black coat and ripping away its lower half.
Back at the museum, O’Connell and Evy were running out through those wrecked rear gates just as a truck—whose canvas side panels proclaimed TSE KAR WAIT FIREWORKS COMPANY—was rumbling by. O’Connell, a revolver in either hand, tried to wave the driver down, but the vehicle barreled on, the driver either not hearing . . . or perhaps spotting O’Connell’s weapons . . .
The couple, whose evening wear was soiled and ripped already, went sprinting after the slow-moving vehicle and jumped onto its running boards, on either side, in near unison.
The Chinese driver began to curse at them. To O’Connell this was just singsong gibberish and, anyway, he had no time for discussion in any language.
“Sorry, pal,” O’Connell said. “Mummy on the loose . . .”
And that was all the explanation the driver got before O’Connell opened the truck door, yanked the guy out from behind the wheel and dropped him unceremoniously off on the pavement. More cursing, more gibberish followed, but only for a moment. The truck commandeered, Evy was behind the wheel now and O’Connell was riding shotgun, or anyway Smith & Wesson revolver . . .
A few blocks away, Jonathan Carnahan was emerging from the Jolin Bar, his favorite gin mill (other than his own), bidding several Chinese regulars a fond good-bye. He spoke to them in Mandarin and was quite proud of being able to do so, unaware of how terrible he was at it: “Gong xi fa chai cha cha . . .”
Knowing he was going to be driving, Jonathan had held it down to just one cocktail—well, two. So he was feeling singularly sober, and pleased with himself for being so, when a chariot drawn by horses of bronze, commanded by what appeared to be a reddish-brown living statue, and hauling some sort of wagon, came careening around the corner a block down.
Jonathan, in the process of unlocking the door of his prized Bentley, parked on the street, knew damned well this was no hallucination, because he—like the O’Connells—was one of a rare breed of human being: his experiences in Egypt had led him not to be surprised when a mummy decided to get itself reanimated.
This did not prevent him from blurting in dismay, “No! No! Bloody hell! Bloody fuh . . .”
The rest of his remark was blotted out by a tram rumbling by that also served to narrow the street and send the oncoming chariot veering toward Jonathan, and his parked vehicle.
“Hey!” Jonathan shouted. “You there—watch where you’
re driving that thing!”
The Emperor Mummy did not seem to hear, or anyway care, and the pounding bronze hoofbeats grew louder as the strange procession bore down on Jonathan, and the bizarre vehicle was only half a length away when Jonathan dove over the hood of his Bentley. He landed on the sidewalk in a heap just as the chariot sideswiped the love of his life, then added insult to injury—actually, injury to injury—when the spikes on the cortege wagon wheels blew out both his tires and ripped a wide gash in the Bentley’s sheet metal.
The chariot rumbled off and Jonathan got to his feet and examined the damage. He was almost in tears, and trembling, not in fear, but in rage. He was swearing revenge when a fireworks truck pulled up and slowed and a knife blade from within the rear of the vehicle split the canvas side and O’Connell stuck his head out.
“Climb aboard, Jonathan! We have work to do!”
Jonathan allowed himself to be hauled aboard, shaking his head, saying, “Honestly, the two of you—you’re virtually mummy magnets, aren’t you?”
Up front, Evy accelerated.
A block away, the chariot was on Main Street, plowing wildly down the broad avenue, crushing anything unfortunate enough to be in its path. Underneath the rough-riding cart, Alex and Lin were working to move, from handhold to handhold, to the rear of the cortege wagon. Right now they were almost to the back bumpers. They were unaware that Alex’s parents were at all in pursuit, much less in a fireworks truck some hundred yards back, and closing.
In the rear of the truck, O’Connell was ripping canvas away so that he and Jonathan could get a view over the cab. Jonathan had discovered a big red rocket that might have been the mother of all the fireworks crated and piled back there. The two men lifted the thing up and onto the roof of the cab. Evy flinched a little as she heard them slam the rocket down, not aware of what her husband and brother were up to.
Right now O’Connell was explaining the situation to Jonathan as wind whipped their hair and they bounced up and down with the jostle of the truck, from which Evy was coaxing considerable speed.
The Mummy Tomb of the Dragon Emperor Page 8