“We’re only going to get one shot at this, Jon,” he said. Then to Evy in the cab, he shouted, “Honey! Drive nice and straight!”
Then to Jonathan, he said, “Okay, buddy—light ’er up!”
Jonathan nodded and, thinking of his Bentley and the horrendous gash in its poor side, he thumbed his gold-plated Dunhill lighter and held the flame to the fuse. Then he stuck his fingers in his ears.
O’Connell grinned at his brother-in-law. “Happy New Year.”
Then the rocket took off, and its blastoff almost blew the two men out and off the back of the truck.
Down the street the rocket screamed, O’Connell’s aim dead-on. Half a moment before what would have been a direct hit, the Emperor Mummy turned unblinking dead eyes to see the rocket coming and, with a simple gesture of his head, redirected the spark-spewing missile and sent it instead into an electric trolley car.
The force of the explosion threw the trolley, like a toy train, into the air, passengers diving off as the car and the blast shattered neon signs and ripped wooden signs off structures. The Emperor Mummy guided his bronze steeds deftly around the resulting rubble.
Even a seasoned mummy fighter like Rick O’Connell could hardly have known that Er Shi Huangdi possessed a mastery of fire.
And even if he had known, O’Connell had another crisis, albeit a small one, on his hands: the launch of the rocket had somehow set the seat of Jonathan’s pants on fire. O’Connell began smacking the flames with his hands.
Jonathan, unaware his ass was on fire, objected: “Stop that! Why in bloody hell are you smacking me on the bum?”
“Because your bum is on fire!”
“On fire? Well then, crikey, man, smack it! Smack it!”
But smacking wasn’t doing the trick, so O’Connell yanked off his dinner jacket and roughly smothered the flames attacking his brother-in-law’s behind. “Stay still!”
“You stay still, with a flaming ass!”
“Hold on, it—it’s almost out . . . It’s out.”
Chin up, his dignity as shredded as the seat of his pants, Jonathan said, “Would you do me a favor, dear brother-in-law? Next time you’re in Shanghai, will you give me sufficient warning so that I might be the hell elsewhere?”
“You’re welcome.”
Then the two men almost lost their balance as Evy hung a wicked left, clipping the curb. Up ahead, fires raged in the wake of the trolley mishap.
O’Connell leaned down to call through the rear window into the cab. “Evy! Sweetie!” He pointed. “The mummy went that way . . .”
She called, “I’m taking a shortcut!”
Meanwhile, Alex had helped Lin up and over the back bumpers onto the cortege wagon, where they hunkered down at the foot of the sarcophagus that separated them from the chariot and Er Shi Huangdi and General Yang. The pounding hoofbeats and the rumble over cobblestones gave them cover to whisper, as they assessed their situation.
Alex handed Lin his pistol. “Cover me. I’ll go after the Emperor—take him by surprise.”
She handed the weapon back. “No, I’ll go after the Emperor.”
He grinned at her. “Trust me—I’m pretty sure I have more experience with mummies than you do.”
His light brown hair was an unruly mess and his face was smudged here and there, but he looked very good to Lin, who found herself enormously attracted to this young man.
But she insisted. “I have to do it—I have the only weapon that can kill him.”
Her eyes said she meant business. And, truth be told, after fighting with her, Alex was convinced she could take care of herself, even if he wouldn’t have minded doing the job for her.
So he said, “Okay, Lin—you win. This time.”
Back on the fireworks truck, Alex’s father was in the hands of another strong woman—Alex’s mother—who was demonstrating exactly what her “shortcut” was: the truck plowed through the brick wall of a Buddhist temple, scattering worshippers celebrating the New Year, and driving diagonally across its courtyard. This caused chaos in the temple, of course, knocking over incense stalls and malla-bead vendors, with more than one chicken squawking and wing-flapping its displeasure as Evy pounded through.
O’Connell and Jonathan, holding on for this thrill ride, had figured they’d experienced the worst, and then Evy burst through another brick wall. Jonathan was launched backward but not out of the truck, fortunately hitting a metal strut and settling down for a knocked-cold nap.
O’Connell, about to scream at his wife, stifled it because, sure enough, they now bump-bump-bumped through the brick rubble onto Olympic Street, where the chariot was racing toward them, so close that the Emperor Mummy had to rein his horses to keep the chariot from colliding with Evy, who had pulled in front of him. As Er Shi Huangdi tried to steer around her, Evy swerved and stayed out in front.
Er Shi Huangdi shot a fierce glance at General Yang, and commanded in ancient Mandarin, “Clear them from my path!”
Yang immediately began to open fire on the truck.
O’Connell pushed Jonathan into a relatively safe position, then went over and lowered the truck’s tailgate, and almost tumbled out, since Evy had just swerved to avoid Yang’s slugs.
He scrambled back up to lean through the cab window and hand Evy one of the Smith & Wesson revolvers.
“You might need this,” he said.
Then he leaned in some more and kissed her on the back of the neck. She smiled. She seemed to feel the old tingle—he certainly did.
Her eyes flicked from the road to his. “Where are you going?”
“Out. Don’t wait up.”
Then he sprinted toward the rear of the truck, where the chariot was close behind now, and leaped!
O’Connell reached out and grabbed one of the bronze horses storming toward him, its nostrils flaring, and got it by its pounding neck and held precariously on, riding backward and upside down, the cool feel of the bronze on his palms strange in contrast to the hot breath of the steed.
Back on the truck, Jonathan came to. He made his way up and crawled in through the window into the cab and sat beside his sister. “Where’s Rick?”
“Where do you suppose?”
Jonathan looked back, and saw O’Connell struggling like a drunken Cossack trying to hold on to that bronze horse. “Oh dear . . .”
But finally O’Connell hauled himself up onto the horse’s back and, like a cowboy chased by Indians, began throwing shots behind him. Again, one of his bullets caught the Emperor Mummy’s ear, blowing it off . . .
. . . and again it regenerated in an instant.
“Kill him!” demanded Er Shi Huangdi.
The chariot plowed through a sidewalk café, scattering partygoers and demolishing tables, the rough ride making Yang’s shots go wild.
O’Connell flicked out his butterfly knife to see if he could sever the bronze harness keeping the steeds together; to his relief, the bronze cut like leather, and within moments O’Connell was able to rein his horse and had soon dropped back to the rear of the cortege, where Alex and Lin were behind the sarcophagus, about to make their move.
O’Connell held his hand out to his son. “Come on, Alex! Jump!”
As Alex signaled his father to back away, Lin said with a smirk, “Well, so much for our surprise . . .”
Alex’s eyebrows were up. “What can I say? The old man has a hero complex.”
And as Lin feared, Yang now realized the wagon behind the chariot bore other passengers. He turned and fired at Alex, who ducked down behind the sarcophagus for cover, returning fire.
Yang ducked behind the skirts of the chariot as Alex’s slugs pinged off their thick bronze.
With the general busy with their stowaways, the Emperor Mummy was left by himself to deal with O’Connell and the now stray bronze horse. The Emperor locked eyes with the metal steed and the animal went out of control, bucking and veering off and down a narrow alley.
O’Connell, with no idea why the horse had spooked,
yelled, “Whoa!” to no avail, as the thing kept bucking and he kept slamming back down on its bare bronze back.
And, once again, seasoned mummy fighter Rick O’Connell could not know that Er Shi Huangdi had a mastery over metal.
The other end of the alleyway O’Connell was unwillingly racing down was Warehouse Street. Here hogsheads of Tsingtao Beer were being craned in a cargo net across the street to a waiting flatbed truck. The runaway horse, with O’Connell on its back, dashed down the narrow alleyway, the crane swinging into view and blocking passage.
O’Connell dropped below the withers, hoping to avoid collision, but the horse plowed right through the crane and its bronze head, in a shower of sparks, was sheared clean off. The detached horse’s head landed in the lap of an old Chinese wino, sleeping off an early start to the New Year under a tattered blanket, only to wake up with a scream.
O’Connell grabbed the reins of the headless horse, but trying to steer the blind creature was a pointless process, and the best he could do was grab the mane and the jagged hollow neck and hold on . . .
Throughout all this, Evy had managed to stay in front of the chariot and keep the Emperor pinned behind her, maneuvering as necessary.
This infuriated the Emperor Mummy, who could see beyond the truck to where Annie Avenue widened into a square. To Yang he said, “Use your weapon on the fire sticks.”
Driving his remaining horses, the Emperor managed to pull the chariot abreast of the truck as Yang pumped rounds into the canvas-lined rear of the vehicle, more sharp cracks rising above the hoofbeats and chariot wheels and engine noise. Several of Yang’s bullets pierced wooden firecracker crates riding behind Evy, and set off a chain reaction, a blazing, noisy fireworks show suddenly exploding through the truck’s canvas roof.
Evy, unable to control the truck, rocked by the ongoing blasts, veered onto Warehouse Street, and the chariot pulled away, going down Lantern Street.
Yang’s attention drawn away from them, Alex and Lin, hunkered at the foot of the sarcophagus, faced each other.
Alex said, “I’ll lay down cover. You go up and over. Ready?”
She nodded.
The chariot barreled around the next curve, going past the front museum gates as the chase came back to nearly square one. Once again the Emperor Mummy and his chariot were on Main Street, now traveling east to west.
Alex began laying down fire with his revolver and Yang ducked for cover while Lin dropped into the sarcophagus. She crawled over Li Zhou’s bones, edging toward the chariot and the Emperor, her dragon dagger at the ready. Popping up, ready to strike, Lin found herself facing Yang, who shot her twice at nearly point-blank range, blowing her back into the box.
Alex screamed: “Lin!”
Er Shi Huangdi guided his rig over a high curb and sent the distracted Alex catapulting off the rear of the chariot; he hit the pavement, hard, but reached up and grabbed the wagon’s black cleat, one-handed, his gun gone. Now he was being dragged . . .
Within the sarcophagus, the young female who’d suffered two wounds was not dead; she was waiting for her two wounds to regenerate, much as the Emperor Mummy’s terra-cotta ears had reappeared. As the bullet punctures resealed, leaving her completely healed, she was relieved that Alex had not witnessed this outright magic.
Alex, dragged but not defeated, was using a combination of sheer will and young-bull strength to latch on to another cleat, and somehow got a leg over the wagon’s side, and was attempting to pull himself up when a slender hand reached down and yanked him up and onto the rear of the cart, alongside the sarcophagus.
And in fact Lin was inside that sarcophagus, leaning out to give him that helping hand.
As they bumped along, he said, “Thank God—I thought you were dead!”
“Yang missed.”
Alex did not have time to contemplate how Yang might have missed at such close range, because he could see the Emperor Mummy up there, craned to send his dead eyes back their way.
Er Shi Huangdi turned to Yang and shouted, “Release the wagon!”
Yang quickly went to work disconnecting the linchpin between the vehicle’s two halves.
Not far away, unaware of what was to come, at the Shanghai Opera’s outdoor theater, a crowd of New Year’s Eve theatergoers was being entertained by “The Disciples of the Pear Garden.” The cast members were working themselves up to the climax of The Nose, a performer in a Chen Qi mask squaring off in song against another in a Chong Heihu mask.
Back on the Emperor Mummy’s bronze-steed-drawn ride, Yang had pulled the pin, separating the chariot from the cortege wagon, which sent the latter into a wicked spin on its two wheels.
Alex, not wanting to be thrown off, dove into the sarcophagus with Lin. On top of her, he was about to excuse taking this liberty when the coffin was propelled by centrifugal force off the wagon and sent flying onto Billboard Street.
At the outdoor opera, more singing was under way, pleasing its audience, at least until Rick O’Connell on his headless horse burst through the rear paper gates just as the sarcophagus came sliding through the main gate.
Bailout time, O’Connell thought, and like a circus acrobat, he got up and stood on the back of the runaway horse and then leaped up for a strung banner. He was up and off the horse, which got promptly clipped by the coffin. The headless metal horse flew over Alex and Lin down in the sarcophagus like a bowling pin.
Elsewhere, Evy was coming around the bend onto Main Street and almost ran head-on into the chariot, but the Emperor Mummy avoided the out-of-control, fireworks-spewing vehicle. By now the glare in the truck cab was blinding, and then there, in front of Evy, too close to do anything about it, was the cortege wagon, spinning.
She yelled to Jonathan beside her, “Abandon ship!”
And sister jumped from one side and brother from the other, hitting the pavement, skidding on their own flesh as the truck plowed into the wagon, which exploded in a huge fireball that put a very big period on the end of the sentence of the chase.
Because the chariot, unburdened by the cortege wagon and its stowaways, driven by a statue come to life, had charged away into the neon-streaked night.
6
Plane Crazy
When the cab pulled up to the curb in front of the posh nitery known as Imhotep’s, the distinctive neon sign was off and the uniformed doormen were nowhere to be seen. One by one, the members of the bedraggled O’Connell party emerged from the cab, their fancy evening wear ripped and filthy and scorched, their faces smudged and bruised, their hair a mess. Among them was Lin, whose cat-burglar-black attire was also shredded and soiled, in particular the coat she wore over her black top and pants, though perhaps she looked the least worse for wear.
Rick O’Connell exited last, moving slowly and wincing from the pain that bouncing on that bronze bucking bronco had caused the family jewels, which were no Eye of Shangri-la but were priceless to him. Jonathan was weaving as if drunk, though he was very much sober, having survived concussions, explosions and more. The cabbie leaned to look out the passenger window and scowl as he barked at Jonathan in Mandarin.
Jonathan, closing his eyes as if hungover, said, “Uh, Rick, my boy—the taxi fare, if you please.”
O’Connell, whose tuxedo was a shredded memory, said, “Do I look like a man with a wallet?”
Sighing in a weight-of-the-world manner, Jonathan dug into his pants pocket—fortunately his funds had not been in either back pocket, which had been burned away with the seat of trousers—and produced some colorful bills. Several of these he tossed in the window, got another scowl for his trouble, and the vehicle tore away.
“I don’t mean to a stickler for detail,” Jonathan said, with an eyebrow arched, “but how exactly does one—even if one happens to be a reanimated, two-thousand-year-old, terra-cotta Emperor—bring bronze horses to life?”
Glumly, Alex said, “He has mastery of the elements—earth, metal, wood, water and fire.”
Frowning, O’Connell said, “Th
at explains it.”
Jonathan, both eyebrows up, said, “Oh, yes, that explains it quite nicely. After all, what a crashing bore a mummy would be without supernatural powers.”
O’Connell, doing his best to be patient with his brother-in-law, asked gently, “Jonathan, could we go inside? Some of us may have worked up a thirst.”
“Well, you know it is after hours,” Jonathan said archly, and then he fiddled in his other pants pocket for his keys and found them and went over and opened the door.
Evelyn, taking charge, gestured as she said, “Come on, everybody—inside!”
“Yes,” Jonathan said, “please. Drinks are half price.”
The proprietor of Imhotep’s flipped on the lights and the room, with chairs on top of tables, looked somehow both bigger and smaller, empty of customers and employees, the mock-Egyptian decor exposed for the Hollywood-style sham it was. Jonathan ambled over and turned the lights on at the bar and got behind there to provide service. Shortly, every one was grouped loosely at and near the bar.
Evelyn had a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Sweetheart—are you all right?”
Alex frowned at her, though he did not remove her hand. “If you two hadn’t blown my position, I would have killed the bloody Emperor.”
“We were only trying to help, dear.” She drew her hand away. “To save you.”
“Did I look like I needed saving?”
Actually he had, and did; he was perhaps the filthiest and most bedraggled of all of them, with the exception perhaps of Jonathan.
But she said, “No, dear, of course not . . .”
His chin crinkled, much as it had when he was ten or eleven. “You don’t have to keep looking over your shoulder at me. I can hold my own.”
O’Connell, having heard this exchange, said, “Didn’t exactly look that way tonight.”
Alex turned to his father, frustrated. “You should be happy—you’ve raised another mummy! Now you can play the big hero, just like in the good old days.”
“I don’t believe,” O’Connell said evenly, “that I dug this one up, not in the first place, anyway. I believe that was . . . you!”
The Mummy Tomb of the Dragon Emperor Page 9