Rakitaki: A Jonas Quartermain Adventure Read online

  “I'm ready,” Simon said. Dylan nodded and readied to snap a picture of each strike. Simon lifted the pick over his shoulder. He swung it with a roar. The stone chipped away at the strike, a sharp retort echoing in the small chamber.

  Twenty minutes of work and two rolls of film later, the first hole provided a look into the space beyond the wall. Dylan pushed in past Simon and to get a photo. Jonas marveled at the construction. It was over ten inches thick. Simon breathed heavily, leaning on the haft of the pick.

  “When you're ready, let's get this open. I think everything we need to know is in there,” Jonas said. Simon grunted, swapped the pick for a sledgehammer, then signaled to Dylan. Dylan readied, then snapped pictures as his friend did what he did best.

  Once the dust settled, Jonas stepped forward. A thrill shot up his spine, knowing something was going to change right there and then. Simon stepped out of the way. Dylan snapped picture after picture from behind, throwing Jonas' shadow up the wall in a strange, twisted mockery of his own form. None of them noticed. Jonas stepped through the newly opened portal into the cramped room. Calhoun raised a hand to object, then dropped it. Jonas didn’t see the mix of emotions that crossed the Professor’s face at that moment; nor did he know how torn the man was to give the experience up.

  Inside was a stone desk with cubbyholes above it. Most compartments held tablets, though a few held what looked to be sheep or goatskin hides. One or two even looked to be papyrus. Dylan snuck in next to Jonas and took half a dozen pictures before Jonas reached out to a hide. As he touched it, the hide fell to dust. Jonas looked back at Calhoun. The Professor hid any reaction to the results of the incident, instead waving Jonas on.

  Dylan continued to snap pictures as Jonas turned back to the cubbyholes and grabbed the biggest tablet in the middle. The rest of the tablets and all the hides crumbled to dust in reaction. A sharp snap sounded, and a spike of stone rose through the chair next to Jonas. He blanched and stepped back, hugging the heavy stone tablet to his chest.

  “Jonas, back out slowly,” Calhoun said without inflection.

  Jonas followed the order, backing out of the closet-sized office and into the antechamber.

  “Holy shit that was scary. I have recovered one tablet. Dylan, did you get pictures of that?”

  Dylan nodded, dumbstruck. He looked at the spike of stone that would have impaled Jonas had he sat. It would have gone straight through his friend’s body with little resistance. He dry-swallowed, his throat clicking.

  Simon walked past Dylan and around Jonas and into the small space. He leaned in, looking intensely at the cubbyholes. After a minute of study, he turned back to the small group.

  “The whole desk was boobytrapped, not just the chairs and shelf. We, uh, we shouldn't go back in there.”

  “How bad is it?” Calhoun looked concerned. Jonas looked back and forth between his professor and the usually unflappable jock. Simon was as white as a sheet.

  “The only reason Jonas is still alive is because he didn't lean on the desk surface. Every one of those cubbyholes had a spike that destroyed the artifacts. You saw how close the chair’s spike was to him. The desk had dozens.”

  “How did we miss that?”

  “It’s darker than it should be in there,” Simon said. “Not to mention each of the spikes had a small stone cover that leveraged out of the way.”

  “How do you know all that?” Dylan asked.

  “I told you, my dad works for yours.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Jonas said. He sounded unnerved.

  “My dad used to bring me on all of his jobs after school. That’s why I got into football, so I could actually spend time at school and with my friends.”

  “Now is not the time for personal revelations,” Calhoun said from the back.

  Jonas sighed. “Could I have done something to disarm the traps?”

  “Shy of chiseling into the rock? I don't think so. If I had to guess, someone was put into a different space to set up all the pressure plates in this tomb, then sealed the access routes. Inaccessible for us without heavy equipment.”

  “Jesus,” Dylan whispered.

  “I don't think he had anything to do with it,” said Calhoun quietly. “During the Old Kingdom period, around or a little after this pyramid was built, slavery was common. Some retainers were sacrificed for the pharaoh to have in the afterlife. It is possible there is a human corpse in those tunnels, preserved by time and nothing else.”

  “That sucks,” replied Simon.

  “Is there anything left in there, Simon?” Jonas asked to regain control of the situation and refocus the group.

  Simon looked inside the room with a flashlight to banish the few shadows. He carefully studied the left-side wall. “Aside from the spike recessed into the wall that you narrowly avoided tripping?” Simon shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Noted. Let's get some fresh air,” Jonas said as he turned and walked through the tunnel. The other three followed him out.

  They gathered on the surface, shaking in the non-existent breeze.

  “What's on it?” Asked Simon.

  “On what?” Jonas looked at the larger man, apparently having forgotten the tablet he still clutched.

  “The tablet, Quartermain.” Calhoun looked curious, a distinct change of pace for him.

  Jonas held it out to look at in the light of the lamps. It was chiseled from edge to edge with hieroglyphs.

  “What does it say?” Dylan was the first to ask the question on all their minds.

  “Quartermain, you can read hieroglyphs the best of anybody I know. As hard as it is to say, possibly better than me. I know you’ve been doing extra work and sending away to other programs for their studies on hieroglyphics. What does it say?”

  Jonas shot a look at Calhoun. “How did you know?”

  “Did you think you could contact other professors in my field without me finding out? Now, tell us what it says.”

  He nodded and looked at the tablet in a steady light. The symbols refused to sit still, as if lit by a fire in a cave. Only one image, at the very top, was clear to him. A man knelt in front of a pyramid with the Eye of Osiris.

  “It's... well, I think it's a prayer to Osiris. I can't really... ugh, this thing is giving me a migraine.” Jonas wiped at his eyes to clear them.

  “Stop whining and translate, geek,” Simon said with a gentle shove.

  “Why don't you read it then, you illiterate neanderthal?”

  The entire group was shocked by the sudden outburst.

  “Look… sorry.” Jonas shook his head. “I can't make out the symbols after the Eye of Osiris. It's just a squirming mess and my head hurts. It looks like eels in a water tank. You know the one,” he said as he handed the tablet to Calhoun. “We saw them in the marketplace.”

  “I didn’t see anything like that,” Dylan said. Simon shook his head in the negative as well.

  “I know I saw that.”

  “It sounds like something out of a movie set in China,” Calhoun said. He looked at the tablet, though it looked like he couldn’t read anything either.

  Jonas took another look, then rubbed his eyes with his palms. A third look provided nothing.

  “Take pictures, send it to an expert. My head is killing me, I need a nap.”

  Jonas shoved the tablet into Calhoun's hands, then stomped off to the sleeping tent. After he disappeared inside, the other three looked at each other.

  “Should I go apologize?” Simon looked confused.

  “Don't bother. He's working himself to the bone. You should see the paperwork he does after you go to bed,” Calhoun told Simon. “Let him be. He needs the break.”

  Jonas entered his tent and glanced at the desk. Just as Calhoun had said, the desk was piled with paperwork. He had to deal with everything beyond the artifacts, and it had been piling up while he had been helping with cataloging. He secured his tent against storms, stripped to his underwear and lay down. He had lied, and it was bot
hering him. He had read one more phrase on the tablet. It haunted his mind as he curled up on the cot. He knew it connected with everything else that had been happening, he just didn't know how. Translated, the phrase read 'Crimson Night'.

  It circled his head until he fell asleep. He opened his eyes, finding himself standing in the middle of the desert. Sunlight baked the air and ground. The sand shifted constantly in the wind. Jonas looked around himself, wondering how he had ended up far from anything he knew in the middle of the day. The thought it was a dream hadn’t entered his head yet. The scene was familiar, and he knew something else was going to happen soon.

  When he finished turning in a circle, Tricky was standing a few feet away, looking expectantly. His long hair cascaded over his shoulders, giving the normally relaxed man a more devilish look. He stood with a joint pinched in his left hand, lighter in his right. He inhaled hard, causing the cherry to glow brightly for moment. The lighter went into a pocket and a ring of smoke went into the sky.

  “Want some? This is primo,” Tricky said casually.

  Jonas shook his head. “Uh, no, but I would like to know where the hell I am. And why you're here.”

  Tricky looked around, seeing something Jonas couldn’t. “You don’t remember. Well, I guess I was late.”

  “What?”

  He held out the joint. “Take a hit, trust me.”

  “No, I want some answers.”

  Tricky sighed, then took another puff. Jonas stared silently at the strange man.

  “It's rude to stare.”

  “You're nothing like the real Tricky.” Jonas crossed his arms.

  “Or is he nothing like me? What even is real? Like, is he real because he’s in the waking world?”

  “What?” Jonas was filled with confusion. He finally realized he was sleeping. This was the second time he had dreamed of talking with the bizarre drug dealer.

  “I told you before, 'red means stop.' Obviously, that wasn't enough.” Tricky sighed, then took another puff. “Now they're back,” he said with a smoke-thick voice.

  “Who are back?” Jonas held his arms out as he started to shout. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Crimson Night.” Smoke bloomed from Tricky’s mouth, wreathing his head so thickly it looked like a hood. His face sank into shadow, appearing as a grinning skull.

  The words hit Jonas like a brick to the gut. He held a hand out to steady himself. He failed and fell onto his ass in the sand.

  “What did you say?” Jonas whispered. He looked up, only to find Tricky was gone.

  A puff of smoke rushed past his ear, making him jump. Tricky's voice came from right next to his head.

  “Crimson night. Red still means stop, by the way,” he said as he exhaled again. “Just remember that. Oh, and think with your heart.”

  Jonas turned to look, but Tricky was gone. He stood and spun in a circle, seeing nothing but sand out to the horizon. Jonas sat down, burying his head in his hands.

  “What the hell does that mean?!”

  26

  Jonas woke with a start. He was growing tired of having strange dreams and terrifying nightmares. Suffering from dry mouth, he got out of bed and walked to the tent. Sunlight was spilling in through the gap in the heavy canvas and he took a step back. His hands throbbed with phantom pain for a moment and he rubbed the back of one hand with the other.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he threw the flap open and stepped into the midday sun. He hesitated for a moment, turning his hand in the bright sun. When nothing happened, he walked briskly to the mess tent for water. When he had sated his thirst, he returned to his own tent to think. He didn't want to return to work at the dig site, didn't want to sleep, didn't want to be in the dry air of Egypt anymore. Neither did he want to go home. He had been so overwhelmed with the events of the week, he felt numb. He was exhausted, yet couldn’t sleep. Even when he did sleep, it was troubled. He was starting to hallucinate while awake.

  He shook himself, both figuratively and literally. He refocused on the present. Indiana Jones had always moved forward, never being bogged down by paperwork, by mundane tasks like cataloging his finds. He never dealt with depression. Somehow, Jonas had strayed from the path laid out by his hero.

  “What would Indie do?”

  Jonas sat, mulling over the question for a long time. The sun set and the camp came alive with sounds of working men. He ignored it all as he stewed over thoughts and potential plans. Calhoun poked his head into the tent, then left him alone. Eventually, Jonas joined them at the dig. Nobody mentioned his absence. He worked slowly, lacking the motivation he’d had before.

  “I think we’ll head back to Cairo today,” Calhoun said off-hand. Simon and Dylan looked at him in surprise, but kept quiet at a signal from the Professor. Jonas grunted in response, still lost in his own head. They finished out the night, and Calhoun tiredly drove them back to the hotel. Jonas took to his room, trying to figure out what he wanted. He slept fitfully, dreaming of a falcon with strange eyes looking at him from a high perch in the middle of the dark desert, of glowing red veins against pale skin.

  When he woke, he felt tired, yet invigorated. He dressed in something he thought looked good, then walked to the lobby. The concierge greeted him. Jonas walked up to the counter and struck up a conversation.

  “Hey, you look like you might know where I can go to have a good time.”

  The man spoke with the same accent that seemed to be part and parcel with the uniform. “That depends entirely on what you are seeking, sir.”

  Jonas shrugged. “A drink, a dance, maybe a bit more.”

  “Ah, yes, I see.” The man nodded, then made direct eye contact. “Providing you have the, ahem, liquidity, there is a club I can recommend in Zamalek.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  The man gave him an address and directions. Jonas checked his wallet, finding the cash he had stashed from his job back in Akron. He counted out thirty-five dollars, but even twenty dollars went a long way in Egypt. It would have to be enough to get him into the kind of trouble he was seeking out.

  Half an hour later, he was on a familiar street. He thought the rental agency was on that block, yet he couldn’t find the ugly building. He walked three blocks in each direction, yet still couldn’t locate it. Everything was shiny, new, and very upscale. He began to worry that the small amount of cash he had wouldn’t be enough to even get in the door.

  Finally, he found the entrance to the club. It was hidden just out of sight from the street itself, behind a metal lattice-work door. A neon sign had tipped him off. He could read this one, which said ‘Discotheque’ in the looping style of all neon signs. Beyond the gate were two bouncers, muscles rippling under tight shirts. Seizing on the behavior he remembered from Hatem, he strode past the bouncers. They looked at him and went back to staring blankly at the far wall.

  Inside, Jonas noticed the differences first. While the other club in Sharm El-Sheikh had been leather and cloth with a black and red theme, this one was checkered all over. Black and white tile on the floor, the ceiling, even parts of the walls. There were mirrors everywhere. It was far brighter than Marqas had been, though a bit smaller. The bar area was the same size, but the dance floor was about half the size. There were also about a third as many tables. A staircase near the front led to an upper area. Music thumped, lasers shined through fog, and the floor was packed with people. The air was thick with sweat and pheromones.

  He moved over to the bar and signaled for a drink. He was ignored in favor of the men flashing handfuls of pink and orange bills marked with a ‘50’ in the corner. He knew his five was worth about four times as much as each of the colorful bills. Jonas wasn’t going to try to keep up with that kind of spending. Instead, he waited patiently. After a few minutes, one of the harried bartenders addressed him.

  “How much for a Stella?” he asked.

  The bartender looked him over, then signaled another bartender over. He said something in Arabic, the
n the second man addressed him.

  “What can I get for you?” Asked the man. Jonas was unsurprised to hear the telltale English of an ex-pat.

  “How much for a Stella,” he asked again.

  “Fifty Egyptian Pounds. That’s about a buck and a quarter if you have US Dollars. I’ll take either.”

  “No wonder these guys are flashing handfuls of bills if each one is only a single beer,” Jonas muttered as he dug the five out of his wallet. The bartender snatched it and stuck it in his pocket. He grabbed a bottle from a low-set fridge behind him, popped the cap and placed it on the bar. He then produced three of the colorful ‘50’ notes in change and gave them to Jonas before heading off to help other customers.

  Jonas nodded, then walked away, stuffing the bills into his pocket. He had other goals to attend to. He walked back to the staircase, pissed to find a second bar area that was far calmer. It was only sixty feet or so from the first bar, yet had two bartenders and only a dozen or so patrons calmly sitting at the bar. He shook his head and took a swig of his beer as he walked toward the back. There he could look down on the dance floor. He leaned against the waist-high fencing and started people watching.

  The song changed from Olivia Newton-John’s Physical, to Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger. Jonas remembered listening to the songs during his freshman year.

  Women danced, covered from neck to ankle, or sometimes crown to toe. Other women, as if in brazen defiance of the first group, were garbed in hardly more than a bikini. Dozens of dancers each moved in their own way. He recognized what he thought of as dancing, a western style where the man and woman stood close. There were several women belly dancing, even a few in full length body covering burqas, which entertained him immensely. Most of the men danced calmly, doing a two-step or something similar. One man cleared space for himself and started to breakdance with surprising skill.