indiv 1: I don’t think you fully understand the severity of your situation. You will be detained here until you have answered my questions or until you die. You are researching a very sensitive subject that interests my employer.
indiv 2: Then let me get back to the Archive so I can do more research.
indiv 1: Those days are over for you, my friend. You should know that the police are looking for you. There’s the matter of the murdered guard at the Archive of the Indies. The gun was found in your backpack. Apparently you were trying to steal a valuable document. This is becoming quite a pattern of yours.
indiv 2: What are you talking about?
indiv 1: Your picture is all over the city. Even if you were to escape from here, you wouldn’t get far. No airports, no train station, no bus station. No, Dr. Wheeler, you’ll be staying with us here in Spain for some time.
indiv 2: I don’t believe you.
indiv 1: We’ll have a TV brought in later; you can watch the news. You killed a family man. You’ll go to prison for a long time.
indiv 2: You know I didn’t kill anyone. This is a set-up.You have no evidence.
indiv 1: You mentioned you had already been to the police station, do you recall?
indiv 2: Yes, I went there because I had a run in with a gypsy.
indiv 1: I have your statement right here. You were detained by the police after concerns were raised by Archive personnel. You were suspected of stealing a document.
indiv 2: That’s a lie.
indiv 1: We believe you contracted to sell it to a known criminal, Mr. Melchor Negromonte.
indiv 2: No. That’s the gypsy guy I was complaining about.
indiv 1: We have a copy of the police report. It was signed by the officers who detained you.
indiv 2: I was not detained. I went on my own. I filed a complaint.
indiv 1: Is this your signature?
indiv 2: Yes…but that’s not what I signed. No, I signed a complaint about…
indiv 1: You signed a confession. You were advised to leave Spain, but instead you returned to the Archive of the Indies. You killed the guard, and tried to leave with the document.
indiv 2: None of that happened.
indiv 1: Perhaps you’re right. It will be up to a jury to decide.
indiv 2: I...
indiv 1: Now, right now, I want the exact coordinates of the hoard, and I want the Malleus Momias book.
indiv 2: The hoard? What hoard? And what the hell is Malleus Momias?
indiv 1: …if you insist on pretending you don’t understand, I will cut your fingers off. We’ll begin immediately. Please excuse me while I retrieve my clippers.
indiv 2: Wait…
indiv 2: Oh, God.
indiv 3: You know who I am?
indiv 2: You’re one of those gypsies who pushed me into the room with the dead man.
indiv 3: Am pleased you remember. You are man with few friends. I am friend. I am Radu.
indiv 2: Did you just kill the guard outside the door?
indiv 3: It is likely. You must come now.
indiv 2: How do I know I can trust you?
indiv 3: I am cutting restraints from your wrists. Look at card I have for you to look at.
indiv 2: There’s nothing written on that card. It’s just a green wagon wheel.
indiv 3: He is the only person who can keep you safe.
indiv 2: Wait, you mean Negromonte?
indiv 3: Negromonte, yes. Will you come now?
indiv 2: Yes. Let me grab my laptop.
June 18, 2011
Segovia, Peru
Cyrus Sanderson
Bruce, I want you to go to the Consulate. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t meet with anyone. I’m on my way. There’s more to this than meets the eye, so please be careful. I will explain when I see you.
June 18, 2011
Segovia, Peru
Michelle Cavalcante
Bruce, what the hell? How did this all spin out of control so fast? Please call me, please contact me any way you can. I’m terrified for you. Who are these people who kidnapped you? I can only hope you made it to safety, but I need to hear your voice.
I don’t know if that was the police or not in your last post, but they were right about one thing – you are a wanted man. Cyrus checked with the State Department and with the consulate in Seville, and guess what? The police are looking for you in connection with the murder of an Archive security guard.
I know you didn’t do it, Bruce. God, of course you didn’t do it, but you need to go to the consulate as soon as possible. They’ll turn you over to the Spanish police. There’s nothing we can do about that, but at least you’ll be safe. Cyrus left for Lima about an hour ago. He’s going to fly to Seville. Leon wants to go too, but we need him here for now.
And things aren’t going so well here either. The police came this morning - that guy from Chocope who sits outside the bank. Remember, with the mirrored sunglasses and the Game Boy? He came speeding up the driveway on his moped to investigate. He wanted to see the body, but guess what? The body is gone. Cyrus claims he left it behind the shed, but it’s not there anymore.
I don’t know what got into Kim either. I read the nonsense she wrote to you, but that wasn’t what happened. There’s a reason we lock the gate at night. This is Peru, where the average annual income is about $3, 000. We’re sitting on close to a hundred grand worth of equipment, and that attracts burglars. We’re going to have to be more careful.
And Bruce, what the hell is Mallus Momias? Hammer of the Mummies -- is that what we’re dealing with here - a book about how to respond to mummy uprisings? Father Sebastiano’s journal is the definitive primer on how to protect yourself from the undead? Are you laughing, Bruce? Because I am.
There are no walking mummies. Period. I’m a scientist. I believe the science is our most reliable source of information about the world we live in. And science has no room for walking mummies.
We die one day, each one of us, and what transpires after that is not something that can be investigated via the scientific method. But it surely doesn’t involve yet more movement, yet more cognition, yet more conscious thought. That being said, the world is full of superstition, so if an old book of mummy superstition exists, we might want to steer clear of it because apparently other folks are looking for it too.
Cyrus has us on lockdown again. We’re not even going out to the site today unless we can make some sense of our senseless world. And we’re not getting too far along on that front. Bolivar is down with some kind of fever; that scratch on his face doesn’t look good. Kim is tending to him. And Leon has his face in that jug of mescaline.
I thought about leaving today. I thought about running for the nearest airplane, going to Spain to find you. But Cyrus went instead, and he left me in charge. And like I said, baby, I’m a scientist. I’ve got to see this through. Call me, text me, something me.
June 18, 2011 Segovia, Peru
Kim Castillo
Kim here - I’m a scientist too, boys and girls, or at least a scientist in training. But my mother died when I was four years old, and for the next ten years she sat by my bedside every night until I fell asleep. And yes, I know what you’re going to say. Well guess what, I don’t believe in ghosts either. So how do I explain it? I don’t bother trying to.
I was going to make this brief, but Bolivar is finally asleep. He’s not doing so well but at least the fever broke. I’ll check on him in a bit, but we have work to do. And until we decide to bug out, we might as well make some progress on that work in the hopes that it will illuminate our present condition.
Malleus Momias – let’s talk about that. Michelle, you’re not willing to believe in the exist
ence of walking mummies because you’re a scientist? Get over yourself. Science is a comprehensive yet limited system for investigating natural phenomena. If there are mummies walking around our world, and apparently there are, then let’s understand that they are a natural phenomenon. They’re like a species of butterfly that flits at the edge of the village at dusk, but is never seen in daylight.
So let’s see if we can expose a little of this to daylight. I’ve spent much of the day working with this gigantic ultraviolet scanner that was delivered a couple of days ago. I Googled the model. It’s not even commercially available. It’s South Korean military hardware still under development, and it’s worth about two hundred thousand dollars. Who sent it to us? We don’t know. But that’s OK, because it works like a son of a bitch.
So here it is, ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in four hundred and thirty-one years, I give you the first entry of Father Sebastiano Gota’s journal, translated into English by yours truly:
Anno Domini Nostri Iesu Christi 1580, 18 Junio // year of our lord 1580, 18 June
“Padre, padre, me perseguian.”
Father, father, they are following me. This is the message I sent to my superior, Father Vasco Cuellar, whose own church in Chocope (a ride of one hour perhaps) is considerably grander than my own. It is Father Vasco who delivered me here to Segovia some months ago. And it is he who I have come to consider my closest confidant during these harrowing times.
I pen these words in secret because my task is an unholy one, written in an unholy place. I daresay that if I do not recount this tale, the time of human men will soon come to an end. May we be called to the side of Jesus when the time comes, but this, this is something altogether different. I speak of nothing other than the gates of hell opening onto our world.
My name is Sebastiano Alfonso Gota. My father, may the Lord in his heavenly wisdom bless his eternal soul, was Don Efrain Gota of Caceres, Extremadura. I am a priest in the service of Our Lord, and his servant Our King Phillip III. I am twenty-five years old, and I am damned.
///error: connection terminated at server///
SEND REPORT / DON’T SEND REPORT
June 19, 2011
Seville, Spain
Bruce Wheeler
voice activation mode: disabled
GPS: disabled
Every other fucking goddamn app: disabled (by Bruce Wheeler who is angry)
Michelle, it’s me. I wish I could talk with you. I asked for a phone, but I’m told that’s not possible. Apparently all cell phone traffic in Europe is recorded, and it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to be in contact with me right now. Because you see, Michelle, I am a wanted man, a murderer if you believe the police. They have made my “confession” public. I read about myself in the newspaper today. My mother always told me I’d be famous, and you know what? She was right.
I can’t reveal where I am, of course. But I am among people who I now, for reasons of having no goddamn choice, consider friends.
It’s two in the morning; I slept most of the day. I suspect I was medicated but I don’t really care at this point. I’ve just consumed three frittatas and three liters of beer, so I think I’m up to the task of telling you about my rescue.
Melchor Negromonte, remember him – the old gypsy who shoved me into the room with the dead man last week? Well, he’s my new best friend. I asked him if he wanted me to keep his name out of this, and he just laughed. He’s accustomed to police harassment, he told me. And if the police want to come around his place talking nonsense about some lunatic American claiming he met with him, he’ll deny it straight away.
But it was he who had me rescued. He sent his trusted associate Radu, who is my new second best friend. Do you know where I was being held, Michelle? In the Alcazar itself, the old palace fortress of the Moors, right in the heart of old Seville, not five hundred yards from the Archive.
When Radu came through the door of my cell, I was terrified, but little did I know that my terror was only going to get worse. We ran out through the servants’ quarters, through parts of the Alcazar not visited by tourists. Dusty hallways with scuffed tiles and centuries of paint curling up along the walls, the smell of mildew was overpowering.
Escape proved to be a time-intensive activity as Radu dragged me from one shadow to the next, smashing through door after door while rogue policemen searched frantically. You’d think that would be loud enough, smashing through door after door, but it wasn’t. The doors were thin, and the wood so damp and worm-laden that you could push a finger straight through without much effort.
We climbed more stairs than I thought possible, tripping more often than not on loose or broken tiles, nearly tumbling to my death on several occasions. Finally we came out onto a little garden, the likes of which I have never seen. It was completely overgrown. Vines hung everywhere, weaving in and out of the eye sockets of the skulls that littered the ground. The decapitated enemies of the Caliph, Radu told me. I didn’t remember that part from the audio tour.
I heard footsteps all around us. The policemen were near, and I didn’t know which way to go. Radu grabbed hold of my arm and swung me through a door. It was by far the most solid door we had yet encountered, and it nearly cost me a rib, but we broke through. We found ourselves in a long hallway. I started to run but Radu held me back. “At this point,” he said, “you must keep moving. Do not stop for any reason. Do you understand?”
I nodded, and we sprinted the length of that hall, turning the corner and entering into the private recesses of the harem, where the Caliph kept his 800 women. “Keep moving,” Radu spat at me, pulling me along, but I could not. My legs betrayed me. My mind betrayed me. I thought I might die before I took another step.
It was still dark, but there was ample moonlight to see the stirrings in the harem rooms. Curtains were being drawn, intricate carpets were unrolled on tile patios. Chairs were dragged outside, and tea was being poured as the concubines awoke and began to move around. Even with just the moonlight, Michelle, it was clear that they were long dead.
“I’m leaving now,” Radu spat. “If you come, come. If not, you stay here. Police won’t enter, but ladies will soon notice you. I’ve seen what happens when they take concubine of their own.”
I moved as fast as my rubbery legs would carry me. We passed through a maze of dim hallways before we pushed through a door in the fortress walls. A car was waiting.
We found Melchor Negromonte at his flamenco restaurant. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a hole in the wall. But inside, it’s painted every color of the rainbow and then some. It was packed to the rafters. It’s a flamenco dinner theater with musicians and dancers on stage, and old gypsy women carrying trays of steaming food from table to table.
I followed Radu through a tiny kitchen and into Negromonte’s office. He was alone, sitting at a carved desk drinking brandy and playing with a pair of dice.
“I just saw eight hundred dead women walking around,” I told him.
Negromonte frowned. He turned to Radu. “That many?”
Radu shrugged. “I did not count, but no more than two or three dozen.”
“See, it’s not as bad as you thought.” Negromonte came out from behind the desk and hugged me. “Don’t worry, payo. We’ll be fast friends, you and I. We have much to talk about.”
June 20, 2011
Seville, Spain
Vasco Cuellar
Sancti daemones…
Latin to English translation module: activated
Holy demons…
Insolent fool, can you feel the sun on your skin? Can you feel the soil under foot? If such can yet be said of you, you have lived too long. I cannot beg you because I have centuries ago shed my own fragile mortality, and begging requires at least a beating heart.
Nor can I command you because I no longer command armies of men and tortured souls both. And in truth, I never did.
But I can counsel you, young fool called Bruce, that the time is at hand to dri
nk what poison you must, sharpen any nearest blade and cut deep, because Sopay has already cast his unholy gaze upon you. And he can extinguish your soul as effortlessly as putting breath to a candle’s flame.
Even if you took refuge in the golden temples of the Hindoos or the hallowed minarets that Sultans climb, or worse yet, should you cling to the silken hems of a papal gown in a painted Roman sacristy, it would still not suffice. Touch Sopay’s sacred books, will you? Walk his halls? Cast your gaze on his wives? He’ll come for you now.
For such insolence I would kill you myself, and I bear him no mournful nor generous consideration. But for the sake of all that is Holy, climb to a noble place, Bruce. Climb to the top of Giralda Tower. Once there, set your foot atop the highest ledge, make your last prayer to God, and push off into his embrace before opportunity dims.
June 20, 2011
Segovia, Peru
Leon Samples
And a fine good morning to you too, Vasco Cuellar. Always good to hear from you!
Leon, here. It’s morning on the north coast, and we’re gearing up for another exciting day of Peruvian archaeology. I thought I’d take this rare moment of electrical connectivity and mental clarity to take stock of our current situation.
Let’s see, our director Cyrus has deserted us, having fled the country. Bruce is an international fugitive, possibly a murderer, though unlikely. Kim is paralyzed with dread, concerned about the deteriorating condition of our diminutive gaucho bodyguard who is currently convalescing from an encounter with what we all now agree was an animated mummy returned from the dead.
Have I missed anything? Not to whine or anything, but I’m almost out of mescaline. When it rains, it pours.
Before I forget, Kim asked me to upload the second entry of Sebastiano Gota’s journal, so here it is:
Anno Domini Nostri Iesu Christi 1580, 20 Junio // year of our lord 1580, 20 June
You will surely think me a fool for bringing my concern to light, but please consider my predicament. Though nearly one hundred souls live within earshot of my poor mud house, and though I sleep in the holy bosom of Our Lord, I am ashamed to say that I feel quite alone. Notwithstanding that I spent many weeks in Trujillo upon my arrival in the Americas, studying with the native tutors, I confess I speak the Indian tongue quite poorly, nearly not at all.
The Mummies of Blogspace9 Page 6