Vampire

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘It is too late,’ said Ramesses, ‘I have seen her eyes, and she is as you. No, Sekhmet, your time is done. As soon as I leave this place, my armies will destroy the temple above, leaving no trace of its location. This whole valley will be filled in and planted over with crops. Mention of Itjawi will be forbidden on pain of death, and within a generation, no one will know this place even existed.’

  ‘That is impossible,’ said Sekhmet, ‘you can’t fill in an entire valley.’

  ‘I am Ramesses,’ shouted the king, ‘and I will do as I wish. Even as I speak there is a workforce of a hundred thousand approaching this place. My troops are evacuating the town and within one cycle, this valley will be nothing more than a forbidden memory. That is my wish, and my wish is law.’

  Silence fell again and Ramesses took a deep breath, before speaking calmly once more.

  ‘So, Sekhmet,’ he said, ‘it seems that despite your inability to die, it is I who will become immortal. In a thousand years, my name will still be spoken, yet you will be nothing but dust beneath the shifting desert sands. I have prevailed, Sekhmet, I am the master and you are the servant. In my kingdom, I have the ultimate power of life and death over my people, and today, my decree is that you die. The blood of the mason may sustain you for a while, but die you will, Sekhmet, and one day you will be as insubstantial as the dust on the floor.’

  ‘My kind do not die, Ramesses, for there will always be another. Do your worst, treacherous king, I spit on your name.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Ramesses and his face disappeared from the hole. He climbed down off the ladder and turned to the soldiers alongside him. ‘I am done here,’ he said. ‘Seal them in.’

  Two more masons approached with mortar and limestone blocks to block up the hole.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Yafeu, banging on the inside of the doors again. ‘What about me? You can’t leave me down here with them.’ He sensed someone behind him and spun around, holding the burning torch before him. The younger woman stood two paces away from him, her head slightly tilted as she stared at him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, ‘why are you looking at me like that? Oh my god, what’s wrong with your eyes?’

  ‘Not yet, Nephthys,’ whispered Sekhmet’s voice from the darkness, ‘we have to make him last.’

  ----

  Chapter Twelve

  The British Antiquities Museum - 2012

  Amy lingered on the second floor balcony. She had delivered the paperwork to Montague and had taken the opportunity to spot the Ushabti collection while she was there. After she left the office, Amy waited, knowing that his meeting was overdue. Sure enough, Montague left the office a few minutes later, and quickly made his way downstairs. Without hesitation, Amy unlocked the door and made her way over to the side table where the exhibits lay. All twelve were in their tiny, coffin-like boxes and though they all looked similar to Amy, one was without its inscription. She took the Ushabti from its box and made her way back downstairs as quickly as possible. Within minutes, she was back in Becky’s office, her heart racing, yet revelling in the subterfuge.

  ‘Amy’ said Becky with relief, ‘what happened, are you okay?

  ‘Fine,’ said Amy, ‘he just took a bit longer to leave than I thought he would.’

  ‘Do you have it?’ Asked John,

  Amy reached inside her wrap and pulled out the Ushabti, placing it on the table.

  ‘There it is,’ she said. ‘Fill your boots!’

  Both Becky and John crouched down and stared at the small figure with interest.

  ‘See anything?’ asked John.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Becky. ‘Looks fine to me.’

  ‘Almost too fine,’ said John, picking up the clay doll. He turned it over and over in his hands, before making a statement that made Becky’s heart sink.

  ‘Do you know what, Becky?’ he said, ‘I think we’ve been had. This Ushabti is fake.’

  ‘Fake? No, it can’t be. The Ushabti is genuine, it’s just the inscription is wrong.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said John. ‘If you look carefully, you can see the marks on the head where the clay burs were filed off after firing. I’ve seen this before, it’s the type that’s mass produced in the back streets of Cairo and touted to every tourist that ever sets foot in any city in Egypt.’

  ‘It can’t be,’ said Becky and took the Ushabti from John. For a few moments, she was quiet, but eventually, she replaced it on the table and sat down with a sigh.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, ‘how can it be fake and such a bad one at that? Both my father and Montague verified them alongside the experts from the Cairo museum. There’s no way this cheap imitation would have got past them.’

  ‘Unless…’ started John

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Becky,’ said John, ‘didn’t your father say he had let himself back into the museum on the night of Samari’s supposed attack?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t say why.’

  ‘No, but what if he went in to swap the Ushabti after they had been verified. He could have let himself into his office and simply opened the package ready to be shipped to the UK, before replacing the original with this fake.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Becky. ‘Surely, you don’t think he stole the original to sell it.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said John, ‘I think he used this modern one as a message and put in the false description, knowing you would probably see it for what it is.’

  ‘But there’s nothing on it,’ said Becky.

  ‘Look at the base,’ said John.

  Becky picked up the doll again and turned it over. Though it seemed the same as the rest, there was a slight difference in texture. She rubbed it with her thumb and grains of sand fell on the table.

  ‘It’s coming off,’ she said. ‘It’s as if it is glued on.’

  ‘I think it’s a false base, Becky,’ said John. ‘The message isn’t on the Ushabti, but in it!’

  Becky grabbed the paper knife on the desk and started to scrape the rest of the base. Within seconds, she unveiled a hole in the base seemingly filled with wax.

  ‘Whatever is in there is well protected,’ said Becky.

  ‘Let me see,’ said John and took it off her. He peered at the wax plug and before Becky could do anything to stop him, John banged it on the edge of the table, smashing the clay outer casing.

  ‘John, what are you doing?’ exclaimed Becky.

  ‘Becky, it’s worth about ten pence in a boot sale,’ he said. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  He continued to peel away any remnants of clay, until he was left with a wax cylindrical tube about six inches long and two inches across.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Amy, as John held it up to the light.

  ‘I can’t see,’ said John, ‘the wax is obscuring whatever is inside. Put the kettle on, will you?’

  ‘You want tea?’ asked Amy, incredulously.

  ‘It’s not for tea, Amy,’ said Becky, ‘it’s for hot water to melt the wax without damaging whatever is inside.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Amy and filled the kettle as asked.

  A few minutes later, Becky and Amy sat at the desk, while John stood at the sink, trickling hot water onto the wax cylinder. Gradually the wax dripped away and he uncovered what had been hidden inside.

  ‘Oh, my god,’ said John, with his back still toward them.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Amy and ran to the sink to see what he had uncovered.

  John stepped aside as Amy stared into the sink.

  ‘Yuk,’ she said, ‘that’s disgusting.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Becky, and as Amy stepped aside, she too could see the message her father had sent. It wasn’t a typed piece of paper, or even writing of any sort, but the last thing she had expected to see. An ancient human finger.

  ----

  Fifty miles away, Samari stood in the doorway of large room lit by dozens of overhead lights. The walls were tiled floor to ceiling and a non-slip vin
yl covered the floor. Banks of computers lined the walls along with all sorts of machinery, much of which Samari didn’t recognize. The whole effect was very clinical and the room was spotlessly cleaned with a hint of disinfectant in the air. Three technicians in white overalls busied themselves taking notes between machines and calibrating dials. One turned to greet the visitors and came over.

  ‘Dr Samari,’ she said ‘we have been expecting you.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Of course, and I suppose you are impatient to see the subject.’

  ‘Subject?’

  ‘Dr Samari isn’t fully aware of his role here yet, Jenny,’ said Leatherman, ‘but I am about to put that right.’ He turned to Samari. ‘Doctor, please take a seat and I will bring you up to speed.’

  They both sat at a table and Jenny brought a couple of coffees in cardboard cups.

  ‘First of all,’ said Leatherman, ‘tell me what you know so far, and then I will fill in the gaps.’

  ‘Well,’ said Samari, ‘following Doctor Ryan’s illegal discovery of Amenemhat’s tomb, we found the king’s sarcophagus had already been opened and his body discarded across the chamber. In addition, at the far end of the tomb, we found the skeletal remains of a woman who had obviously died of old age. Many of the bones had apparently crumbled to dust; however, within the coffin itself was a nondescript body, with seemingly no royal connections whatsoever. As there had been no obvious forced entry to the tomb, we assumed that they had been brought to the tomb hundreds of years after Amenemhat’s interment, perhaps as a living sacrifice. We believe that both women had been brought through the main entrance and the door subsequently resealed.’

  ‘And the body in the coffin?’ asked Leatherman.

  ‘Like I said, the body was obviously female and still wore the remnants of a simple linen dress. The corpse displayed the typical aging process to be expected of a someone entombed for over two thousand years, yet the flesh had been naturally mummified from the dry environment, a condition not completely unknown in other tombs.’

  ‘But this was different?’ suggested Leatherman.

  ‘It was,’ continued Samari, ‘though mummified, there seemed to have been no decomposition. Everything seemed to be in place, including organs, eyes, and brain. Obviously we did not do any invasive surgery, but our initial examinations were very exciting.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because to the best of my knowledge, nothing like this had ever been found before; it was almost as if the subject had died and became instantly preserved by the unique conditions in the tomb. This meant that the entire make up of a person who lived over two thousand years ago could be examined in great detail.’

  ‘So you called us,’ said Leatherman.

  ‘I did, for two reasons. First, to my shame, I saw an opportunity to make some money on the artefacts prior to making the discovery public. There was so much there, I knew that it would become worldwide news very quickly and I wanted a slice before the museum world started circling.’

  ‘And the second reason?’

  ‘There was something about the body in the coffin. I believed I had discovered a previously unknown mummification process and wanted my name to be associated with it. I knew from my dealings with your organization in the past, that not only did you have an interest in gene science, but you were also crooked enough to smooth any, shall we say, shady dealings. Subsequently I took a tissue sample and sent it to you. Within weeks the place was swarming with technicians, I was paid off, and you threatened me with a gun. After that I heard nothing until you phoned me a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Seems correct to me,’ said Leatherman, ‘So let me bring you right up to date. First, you are right that we have an interest in gene therapy. In fact it is fundamental in our sponsors business. This building has an interesting history. It was built in the nineteenth century and was the country residence for some rich aristocratic family. In the First World War, it was used as a hospital for casualties of the Somme, and the government in the Second World War sequestered it again, albeit for a different purpose. The room we stand in now was constructed at that time and was a tactical centre for the control of England’s aircraft. After the war it fell into disrepair before our sponsor bought it and turned it into what it is now, a luxury home for the elderly.’

  ‘Our sponsor has a string of such properties,’ continued Leatherman, ‘and his company is at the forefront of medical research. In particular, bearing in mind our clientele, he is particularly focused on the aging process, or should I say, slowing down the aging process.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Samari.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Leatherman, ‘but suffice to say, that is the focus of our research. There are people in this world that will pay an absolute fortune for even the possibility of a few extra years, so when you put that alongside the wallets of the giant drug corporations, you can see it is a very lucrative business.’

  ‘And have you been successful?’ asked Samari.

  ‘A little,’ said Leatherman, ‘but nothing worth writing home about. However, all that changed when you sent us that sample. You see, what you sent us was far more than a new mummification process, it was something we had never seen before.’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Well, bearing in mind that this body had been dead for over two thousand years, imagine our surprise when under the microscope, we found cells that had not deteriorated at all. Yes, they were surrounded by mummified or dead tissue, but amongst them all, there were some cells that were still alive. Dormant, admittedly, but alive.’

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ said Samari. ‘Your testing process must have been flawed.’

  ‘That’s what we thought,’ said Leatherman, ‘so we tested again and in all scenarios the results were always the same. That body in the tomb, contained live tissue. You can imagine how we felt; it was like finding the Holy Grail. All we had to do was identify the gene sequence in those cells and there was a possibility of replicating the DNA and finding a cure for the aging process. Imagine that, Samari, no more old age. Imagine how much the oil sheiks and corporate billionaires would pay for such an option.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ stuttered Samari, ‘It’s too much to take in.’

  ‘I know;’ said Leatherman, ‘anyway, suffice to say our sponsor pulled out all the stops to obtain that corpse. The corporation kicked into gear like a military machine and we moved the operation out to Egypt immediately. However, it soon became clear that we were working with more than we had bargained for and we had to bring the body back here to our laboratories where we have the best scientists and technology available.’

  ‘The mummy is here?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Leatherman. ‘Anyway, over the last few weeks we have had spectacular success with our experiments and have moved forward at a pace we could only dream of. However, we have now come across a problem that needs your particular skills, hence the phone call.’

  ‘Considering what you already have here,’ said Samari, ‘I can’t imagine what it is I have that you need so much.’

  ‘You are about to find out,’ said Leatherman. ‘Please come this way.’

  He led Samari through a door at the far end of the room and into what seemed like a small cinematic auditorium. The room was well lit and a heavy pair of drapes covered where the screen should be.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ said Leatherman. Between the seats, two sets of strange headgear were sitting on a simple wooden coffee table. They were similar to baseball caps, but with visors made of transparent plastic.

  ‘Doctor, when we brought back the mummy from Egypt, we took samples of the hibernating cells and tried to reproduce them. Everything failed. However, when we found that the veins were intact, albeit collapsed, we tried pumping a watered down version of plasma through them to encourage the release of any dormant cells so we could try to harvest them. What actually happened was beyond our wildest imagination. The veins immediately flexed
enough to allow passage of fluid. Well, you can imagine our astonishment, but absolute delight. This meant that if we could transfuse real blood through the veins, hopefully, any dormant hibernating cells would react with the haemoglobin and we could extract them for our experiments. Subsequently, we increased the consistency until basically we had given the body a complete transfusion.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Samari.

  ‘At first nothing. We farmed the blood, but all we got back was the same blood cells we had pumped in. We tried repeatedly, but were ultimately stumped. That night we left the lab, very disappointed, but within a few hours, I had a phone call in my room from a very concerned technician, demanding I return to the lab straight away. Apparently, he had taken a fresh sample from one of the veins, but the composition had changed and was exhibiting traits none of us had seen before. First of all, it hadn’t congealed, but still lay in a liquid form, and secondly, it was much thinner than what we would have expected. It was as if all the proteins had disappeared and what was left was almost water. Anyway, we arranged another transfusion and over a period of several hours, the same thing happened. The blood consistency seemed to thin out as if it was being absorbed through the walls of the veins. To back up these results, we found the moisture content of the body had also risen accordingly. Obviously

  we were ecstatic, as it seemed to indicate that the dormant cells must have been reacting with the blood, so we harvested the blood again to see if there were any cells attached, but once more, the tests were negative. All through the night, we pumped the body’s veins with fresh blood, and each time it absorbed the protein, but despite everything, we could still not reproduce the cells in enough quantity to reproduce them in a Petri dish. However, what did happen was even more fascinating and we soon realised all we had to do was continue with the transfusions, and wait.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, what we think happened is that those elusive dormant cells not only interacted with the blood transfusions, but actually used them as nourishment and started to reproduce. As soon as we realised this, we continued to pump in fresh blood every hour, each time removing the thin waste that it replaced. The effects were astonishing; within days, the moisture content of the flesh rocketed. Old skin cells fell away and the keratin re-grew. To all intents and purposes, the body was renewing itself.’