by J. Morgan
"Don't I just know it? At this rate I'll never get any grandchildren.” Stud laughed.
"You know I haven't exactly seen you swinging from any chandeliers yourself, Monkey Boy,” Luna said.
Stud poked a finger in Breathred's chest. “Hey, that's not my fault. In that Clint Eastwood flick they at least drugged the orangutan's date to the prom."
"I told you I wasn't slipping ecstasy to that chimpanzee at the Seattle zoo,” Breathred said, shamefaced at the very idea.
"No, Mr. Goody Goody, if you'll remember correctly I said just hand it to me and I'd do it. You still owe me for that wasted Viagra. A four-hour pup tent for nothing,” Stud griped to no one in particular.
"And where, may I ask, did you get Viagra?” Luna demanded, tapping her toe.
"Same place I got the ecstasy—the Internet."
"Can we please just forget about illicit drugs and fornicating monkeys?” Breathred asked.
"Sure, but she brought it up.” Stud pointed at Luna.
"No, I didn't!” Luna shouted.
"Yes you did. I was discussing Breathred's lack of a sex life, and you dragged me into it. Seems to me you're the one with the problem. Not me."
"What problem would that be?” Luna demanded.
"You're frustrated,” Stud said.
"I am not!"
"Look, honey. You're a healthy young woman with a boyfriend with the sex drive of a petrified turnip. If that isn't the definition of frustrated, I don't know what is,” Stud stated, as cool as you please.
Luna howled before storming off with Dr. Grayson close behind her.
Stud turned to Breathred. “See? Frustration. Most clear-cut case I've ever seen."
Breathred gave the chimp a puzzled look but didn't say anything. That was because he wasn't exactly sure what frustrated meant. From the look on Luna's face the slayer wasn't sure he wanted to know, but sure hoped she found a cure for it—whatever it was. If Stud was right and Luna had it, it looked painful.
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Twenty Eight
To get the job done, you have to be prepared to get your hands dirty—or at the very least, slightly dusty.
Breathred watched Brogan sitting beside the dwindling fire. Its orange halo cast dark shadows that all but obliterated the man's face. It was late—too late for anybody to be up. After all the hard work to get here and then setting up the camp, Breathred hoped he'd be the only one fool enough to be up this late. The Fates decided to give him company, and who did they pick? The only guy he'd ever struck in anger, well struck at all. He hoped the man was the forgiving sort, but seriously doubted it. Still, that was no reason to stand here like a goob.
"Er, excuse me, sir. Uh, Brogan, do you mind if I join you?"
"Clamp a log between your ass cheeks."
Breathred sat quietly beside the fire. He bristled under Brogan's scrutiny. Something in the man's eye told him the Canadian was sizing him up. Breathred kept his eyes facing down afraid to antagonize the man any more than he already had. Finally, the silence got to him. Any minute now he would have say something or it would kill him.
"I'm sorry about, you know—hitting you yesterday.” Breathred nearly jumped at the sound of his own voice. Then what he'd said hit him. Oh great, remind the homicidal Canadian who wants to kill you, that you hit him. Was it too late to run back to his tent for a witness or two?
Brogan looked up and gave Breathred a smile that would have made a shark take to land. “Seeing as how I'm in a good mood, I'll let it slide. You were just protecting your woman, after all. Can't blame a man for looking after a prime piece of real estate like that."
Breathred stiffened but wasn't stupid enough to try his luck a second time. The look on the man's face did make him want to give it a good hard think. Brogan was just trying to get his goat. Well, fool him. He didn't have a goat.
Brogan reached over and punched him in the shoulder. “You know if you don't loosen up, you're gonna blow an artery."
Breathred looked down. His fists were clinched so tight his knuckles were white. He let his hands go slack. The tension eased from his shoulders, but a knot had settled in the back of his neck. It might be the start of a tumor, but he'd have to wait until they returned to Seattle for verification.
Breathred finally spoke up. “I'll take your advice under advisement.” It seemed the only polite thing to say, even if it was said through gritted teeth.
"You do that. You can breathe now, if you want.” Brogan chuckled.
Breathred let out a gasp of air. “Do you mind if I ask you ask a question?"
"If it'll help you sleep at night, shoot,” Brogan poked the fire with a stick.
"Are you just mean, or do you enjoy making people nervous?” Breathred asked.
"Both."
"Well, that's not very nice."
"Never claimed to be nice. Look, I get the job done. That's it. I don't make friends. Making people happy isn't my purpose in life. The Canadian government wants you here and wants you safe. It's my job to see both of those things happen. It's been my experience tourists can't seem to manage either on their own. You, my friend, are proof of that.” Brogan jabbed the ember-tipped stick in Breathred's face.
Breathred couldn't dispute his words. Most of the team had never been in the wilderness before. The true archeologists weren't much better. The minute their hands touched earth, they'd forget their own names let alone remember the dangers that surrounded them. Brogan was right. They were babes in the woods, and he was their only protection from the environment and themselves.
Instead of drawing the man into further conversation, Breathred sat in silence. His mind was a maze of doubts. He couldn't back down from this. After failing at so many things, this was his last chance at being something other than a geek who lived in his old man's basement.
As the night gave way to the first streaks of dawn, Breathred gently slipped into sleep with a log for his pillow.
* * * *
Breathred awoke to the smell of burning bacon. Opening one eye expecting his mother to be fighting smoke at the old family stove, he was relieved to see a boy of about nineteen manning the fire with a flat pan full of smoldering meat. Breathred sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
"What time is it?” Breathred mumbled, trying his best to disguise his chronic morning breath.
"Half past nine, Doctor Petrifunck,” the boy answered.
"I'm not a doctor.” Breathred grumbled, wondering what all Dr. Grayson had been saying about him. “Call me Breathred. Where are the others?"
"They're already at the dig site. Mr. Brogan said to let you sleep. Doctor Grayson took the rest of the team over to the grid to get an early start.” The boy grinned, oblivious to the fire shooting up from his frying pan.
"Better watch that pan,” Breathred advised, rising from the ground and heading toward the sound of digging.
He stopped by his tent and quickly brushed his teeth before running a comb through his hair. Like the rest of the team, Breathred would have to wait for a good bath until they went back to civilization. He could handle everything but the Porta-johns. His twenty-five can stockpile of disinfectant and hand sanitizer took care of most of his reservations. The rest he filed under memories to be repressed and to agonize over later.
It was a short walk to the main grid. On the way Breathred sidestepped the boy who had awakened him. The boy's arm was on fire, and he was streaking toward the small stream that ran through the western edge of the clearing.
Told him to watch that pan. Breathred brushed a stray ember from the arm of his jacket. He stopped long enough to hear the hissing sound of the boy's arm sinking into the stream, then wandered to the site.
Even after all these years, he heard his first professor's voice in his head. “The first thing to get out of your head is the Indiana Jones mentality about archeology."
Dirt wasn't flying from heaping shovels. There was no chanting in rhythm to get the work done. As Breathred looked acro
ss the clearing, all he saw were a bunch of bowed heads and knotted backs. The movies painted a picture that was romantic and exciting. Unfortunately, the movie version was as far from the truth as you could get, short of reading a comic book.
The meat of real Archeology was delicate and boring repetition. Shovels rarely came into play. Most of the work was done with computers, thanks to modern technology and military research that had filtered down to the scientific community. After that, the majority of the hard labor was done with brushes and trowels. When shovels did come into play, they were used judiciously and sparingly, so as not to damage any of the finds to be unearthed. Over the years amazing discoveries had been lost due to sloppy handling of the tools of the trade. Dr. Grayson wasn't about to let that happen here, Breathred was happy to note.
He moved through the grid workers, careful not to disturb their work. Most of them paid him no attention. They were so enthralled in the job that he simply didn't exist in their pocket-universes. For the majority, a comet could come crashing to earth on top of them and they wouldn't know it. Breathred gave them a clinched smile and kept on going.
He had seen the most docile of archeologists turn to rabid Chihuahuas, when they were broken from the spell of the dig. Nothing was more pathetic than having to watch a middle-aged balding man foam at the mouth. Breathred had witnessed it firsthand, and it wasn't pretty.
Breathred skirted the rest of the dig-zombies and made a beeline for Dr. Grayson. The top of her head peeked over a bank of monitors sitting in front of the two pillars. He waited to hear Stud's voice, but it never came, thank his lucky stars. Even the extra sleep wasn't enough of a balm to sooth over the sound of raw chimp voice, the way he was feeling this morning.
Rounding a freshly turned mound of earth, Breathred found himself in something more like NASA ground control than an archeological dig. Three monitors sat on a card table facing away from the pillars. Two keyboards rested in front of them with a third monitor controlled by a device that looked like a cross between a metal detector and a bazooka.
He wasn't surprised to see the huge gun in Luna's petite hands. She ran the machine over the top of a freshly tilled patch of ground in the center of the stone monoliths. The device sent a grainy image to the third monitor, where Dr. Grayson was busy tabulating data in a worn-out notebook.
The most amazing thing of all was Stud, manning the other keyboard feeding in Luna's data, as fast as she wrote it down. Breathred had never seen the chimp so serious. All the time Stud spent on the Internet ogling girls and posting love stories under the pseudonym Mistress Spank My Monkie must finally be paying off.
Breathred stepped over a bunch of taped-up wires that ran to the solar-powered generator. He snagged his toe and knocked the edge of the computer table before he stopped his downward slide. His misstep earned him a stern look from Stud, of all people. Dr. Grayson just kept on scribbling in her tablet, not even noticing the flickering screen his clumsiness ‘caused. Again he was amazed by academic zombification at work.
"Sorry.” Breathred stepped carefully over another bank of wires.
"Oh, Breathred, you're up,” Dr. Grayson said, hearing his voice. Before he could respond, she continued, “You won't believe what we've already found. According to the radio telemetry, we're sitting atop a huge void in the bedrock structure."
"Should we move to the other side of the camp, or something?” Breathred asked, stepping deftly to her left.
"No, it means we're over the tomb, Numb Nuts,” Stud answered for her.
Breathred scratched his head. “Well, that's different."
"Stud, be nice. Can't you see Breathy's still half asleep?” Luna put the radar gun down and walked over to join them.
"I'll be nice when I get to sleep till noon,” Stud snapped.
Luna smacked him on the head. “It isn't noon. It's only nine o'clock. Now shush."
"Look you guys. The telemetry is telling us is there's an open space underneath us. It may not be the tomb. This area's riddled with caves. The void could be nothing more than one of them. Until we can locate the entrance, it's all speculation,” Doctor Grayson warned them.
"What did the last sweep tell us?” Luna asked.
Dr. Grayson handed the tablet over to the chimp. “If Stud will feed the last of my figures into the computer, we can see."
Stud hunkered over the keyboard and fed the row of numbers into the computer. He rechecked the data and ran the program. All four heads bent over the monitor waiting for the results. It didn't take long.
In the span of seconds a map flashed on the screen. It was scratchy and blurred along the edges, but clear enough to show a workable schematic of a series of tunnels and rooms that could only be the tomb.
"There she blows. Looks like we have a tomb. Anybody got some popcorn while we wait for the mummy to come get us?” Stud joked.
Breathred was slightly peeved. You sleep late once in thirty-five years and look what happens. You miss all the fun stuff and end up being around for the hard part—the shoveling.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Twenty Nine
Okay you've found the grave. What are you going to do now?
Excitement ran through the camp, like Jell-o through a nursing home inmate. Everybody caught the fever except for one notable person—Brogan. Dr. Grayson was surprised to find he saw the discovery as a headache. Before any digging could commence, he had to radio the Canadian Archeological Cultural Agency, which explained the headache. It seems CACA was the one who had to make the last decision on whether or not the team could actually excavate, now that they had found something.
Dr. Grayson, herself, was distraught over this fact. Like most scientists, she had forgotten to read the small print in the contract. After breaking out a handheld magnifying glass and a miniature electron microscope, they were able to read the negative five-point type at the bottom of the contract. It read simply—"Hey Bub, it's our country. If you don't like doing what we say, haul your ass back to America."
Needless to say, it threw the entire camp into a tailspin. Without CACA's go ahead they were royally screwed. Most of the team retired to the tents, while Dr. Grayson and her handpicked crew waited with Brogan for word.
"So, does anybody want to play Yahtzee, while we wait?” Brogan smirked through a haze of cigar smoke.
"Tournament rules or regular?” Stud chimed in from where he sat on the ground.
"Stud, shut up. Mr. Brogan, is this really necessary? All my documentation was in order before we even came here. If it wasn't, why let us come here to begin with? There is absolutely no need for you to continue with this farce,” Dr. Grayson harped. It was enough to make her want to scream. The very idea she wasn't fully authorized to conduct an archeological expedition.
"According to my boss—namely me—you do,” Brogan countered.
"What is the reasoning behind this course of action? This is an accredited archeological dig. Surely you can't think we're fortune hunters,” Luna interjected.
"Honey, that I believe.” Brogan laughed. “Let me be honest with you. I've been on a lot of these little excursions, and I know when something doesn't smell right.” He held his hand up before anybody could speak. “It isn't you. It's this place. Something about this mud-hole makes my nose hair itch. Before I let even one shovel touch ground, I want confirmation this place is kosher."
"If you trust us, why hold us up?” Breathred asked. “This is all very confusing."
"Despite our rocky start, I like you all, even the dirty-mouth monkey. I'd hate to see something happen to you. I've learned to trust my instincts, and they tell me to haul ass."
"You don't mean to say you're allowing superstition to impede our work. I thought we were past the age of bogeymen hiding in tombs and ancient curses. Science has come so far since Carter and Tutankhamen's tomb, and I flatly refuse to think that such outdated reasoning is truly the case,” Dr. Grayson exclaimed.
"Darlin', believe what you want, but my nose is nev
er wrong.” Brogan tapped the side of his nose with his thick finger.
Before Dr. Grayson could reply, the radio chimed to life. The tension was so thick, they all jumped at the static-filled burst. Brogan grabbed the receiver, while they piled in closer to listen.
"Wombat, this is Blackbird, over,” the radio crackled.
"Wombat, here, over,” Brogan answered back.
"Checked over your inquiry. No sign of extracurricular activity. Proceed with all caution, over."
"Repeat, no sign of extracurricular activity?"
"Checked with CAPP SAT. Area shows no sign of activity. Advise daily reports. Any sign of activity call in task force to contain. Copy Wombat? Over."
"Copy. Over and out.” Brogan slapped the receiver down hard on the table.
"What the hell was that all about? The last time I looked we didn't have cheerleaders along, so what was all that extracurricular activity bullshit?” Stud demanded.
"When I called in my reservations, my bosses called CAPP SAT to check things out. If they confirmed my suspicions, I would have packed you up and headed home,” he told them.
"Brogan, what exactly is a CAPP SAT?” Breathred asked.
"CAPP SAT's an agency that works closely with CACA. It stands for Canadian Agency for Paranormal Protectorate,” Brogan answered.
"What does SAT stand for, Mulder?” Stud snorted.
"Nothing. Some dumb-ass in the publicity department said a government agency needed to end with SAT to look official, so they put it in at the end so it'd look on the up and up. Let me tell you, I'm still trying not to laugh at the millions of political dollars that went into that decision."
"Who the hell would believe something as stupid as that?"
"A politician, who else? I'm just glad the Prime Minister didn't go with the idiot's first choice of names. Thankfully, the X-Men was already taken, even the government can't get around copyright infringement."
Brogan leaned back in his chair watching the team debate issues they couldn't change if they wanted to. Damn, the government was finally getting its shit straight, and these Americans were coming in and screwing that up. We'd got Dan Akroyd and Mike Myers firmly entrenched on American soil. Pamela Anderson was none too quietly sleeping her way through the Headbangers Ball, effectively putting Canadian hockey stats on the rise again. Maple syrup sales were on the upswing again after the low calorie craze of the past few years. What more could a Canadian ask for?