Authors: J. Morgan
MisStaked (29 page)
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.
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 never 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?
Now, all that was in jeopardy. Brogan saw it as a direct result of NAFTA, the proliferation of the importation of American television programs, especially
X-Files
, which was the very reason CAPP SAT was put into power in the first place. Worst of all, if he was right, these Yanks were about to open a can of worms that could make even the Pam Anderson thing seem unsavory.
But, who was he to criticize how they did things? His own government gave them free rein to loose the hounds of hell. He never should have come in from his self-imposed exile in the first place. If he hadn't run out of Double Stuf Oreos, he'd still be in his little cabin, happily ignorant of cellular communications and Internet spam.
But that was not to be. He would learn to mind his own business one day. Sure, right, and donkeys would fly out his ass and bring him a handful of Cuban cigars. Brogan leaned back in his chair and listened to the professor and the other loonies decide when to get started. It was so sad it made him want a beer. Then again, when didn't he want a beer?
"Uh, Brogan. Is it all right, if we plan to get an early start? Most of the day is already gone and there's really no reason to try to start anything this late,” Dr. Grayson said.
"Lady, as far as I'm concerned, you can slap a two-by-four up the monkey's ass and play sit and spin,” Brogan grumbled, not believing the agency had disregarded his fears.
No, he believed it all right. That's what happened when you let a politician run the show. What happened to the good old days, when a blood thirsty General was head honcho? They knew how to get shit done. Now, you had touchy-feely intellectuals telling you to get in contact with some feminine side you had no idea you even had. It was more than a man could stand.
"Mr. Brogan, are you supposed to eat that cigar?” Breathred asked.
"Shut up. I'm going for a beer. If I ain't back by morning, dig till your ass falls off.” Brogan pushed his way out of the tent.
"Well, that sounds like an okay to me,” Stud said, picking a matted piece of pine straw from between his toes.
"He didn't sound too happy, did he?"
"It doesn't matter. You heard the guy on the radio. He said we could do whatever we wanted,” Luna said.
"No, he didn't,” Dr. Grayson said. “He said to proceed, but he also said Brogan has the power to call in a task force. Whatever that means."
"I think it means if old Mighty Mite thinks the bogeyman is coming, he can blow our butts to the moon,” Stud said, his voice as serious as death, and as sure as sin.
Breathred felt a quiver turn his noodly bits to Jell-O. He knew with all certainty Stud was right. Brogan wasn't one to jump the gun, but something had the man spooked. Breathred wondered just how spooked they'd all be, if Dr. Grayson was right and there really was a three thousand year old vampire lying under their feet. With cold certainty he knew in the next couple of days the truth would be something they'd find out one way or another, whether they wanted to or not.
Lewis checked his e-mail, while Leopold pranced in front of his full-length mirror. The young vampire did his best to ignore the older one, but it was hard. How could you not notice a white guy dressed in a purple lamé jumpsuit with a feather sticking out of the lapel. The boss man was getting worse. Before long it would look like the Rocky Horror Picture show around here.
A ting from his messenger told him their contact had come through. He surfed through the pop-ups and assorted spam until he navigated the web to his inbox. He could have gone straight to the e-mail, but he didn't. Without knowing it, Lewis had become addicted to getting mail.
Lewis sneaked a look at Leopold. The head vampire was preening over a magenta scarf as he tried to decide whether it clashed with his ensemble, or if he should go with the midnight-blue one. Leo's preoccupation with couture should give him plenty of time to read a few e-mails before he got to the agent's message.
Forty-seven minutes, and twenty-six IMs later, he finally clicked open the message. Lewis ran through the message twice to make sure he read it right. Seeing no sense in rushing into one of Leopold's flights of fancy, he took a minute to gather his thoughts. Once properly steeled for the elder vamp's response, he turned toward his master. “Leo, got a message from our plant."
"Lewis, I told you to never mention that again. My glaucoma has been acting up, and I brought it to settle my nerves.” Leopold dropped the magenta scarf in favor of the blue one.
"Dip-shit,” Lewis whispered. “No, your inside man has sent word they've located the Mother's tomb."
"Well, that's entirely different! Good. Now we'll see some results. Have they opened it yet?” Leopold asked, joining Lewis at the computer.
"Not yet. According to the e-mail, it's still buried. It should take about three or four days to dig down to it. We'll get another e-mail when they have it completely dug out,” Lewis said, minimizing the screen before Leopold could look at his other windows.
The last thing Lewis needed was for the old fop to read the latest installment of the adventures of Mistress Spank My Monkie. Damn, that broad could write some smut. One day he had to hook up with her. If she looked half as good as she wrote and did half of the things she wrote about, he'd turn her just to see what it'd be like to spend all eternity finding out if you could kill a vampire with hot monkey-love.
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The next three days were a blur of activity with little time for anything resembling true human interaction. For most of that time the friends found time to do little more than grunt at each other in passing. The rest of the time they did their utmost to snore, as coherently as possible at each other.