expression that might have been a smile but really wasn’t, not if you studied the dread that mingled with resolve in his unblinking blue eyes.
“Here we go again,” he breathed.
And on the floor nearby, Evy O’Connell—seeing the reddish-brown terra-cotta Emperor alive up on his chariot with his impatient steeds awaiting him to take rein—was thinking the very same thing.
5
Shanghaied
E mperor Er Shi Huangdi, awakening to find himself a terra-cotta figure standing in a chariot, before bronze steeds restlessly come to life, was welcomed to the twentieth century by General Yang, who stood on the monument platform nearby.
Head bowed, the general spoke in ancient Mandarin: “I have awakened you, my lord. I live to serve you, and to attend to your final transformation. Allow me please to guide you to a safe haven.”
The Emperor’s nod was barely discernible but enough to encourage Yang to climb up onto the chariot.
No sooner had the general done so than the revived Emperor Mummy snatched up the reins and began to whip his bronze steeds. The entire chariot and the cortege wagon it drew lurched forward, then plunged off the platform and, building speed, began to lumber across the marble floor of the rotunda, bound for the huge stained-glass window directly ahead.
Rick O’Connell, a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver in either hand, raced after the two-sectioned vehicle, unloading on the hard-clay Emperor Mummy and his passenger, the sharp cracks of the handguns punctuating the sound of the galloping hooves and rumbling chariot wheels like Chinese New Year’s firecrackers, and having about as much impact.
Not so much to his astonishment as to his dismay, O’Connell—perhaps the most seasoned mummy fighter on the planet—watched as a bullet chipped off the Emperor’s ear, only for that ear to spontaneously regenerate.
Bastard’s impervious, O’Connell thought.
Unfortunately none of his shots claimed the not-impervious Yang, who was firing back with his own pistol at the pursuing O’Connell, driving him back behind a pillar as building materials in the path of the chariot were churned to debris and scattered, chunks of God-knew-what going every which way.
In the meantime, another player was running after the chariot, attempting to hitch a ride.
Roger Wilson, his tuxedo dust-splotched now, had a look of utter frustration as he pursued his ride to fame and fortune, yelling, “Wait for me! Wait for me . . . !”
And O’Connell had to admit the old SOB, for his age and weight, ran quickly, even managing to make his way up alongside the terra-cotta Emperor as the chariot built speed going toward the big rotunda window. Wilson was trying to clamber up onto the vehicle, next to Er Shi Huangdi, who reacted harshly. In the Emperor Mummy’s defense, he had no reason to recognize Wilson as an ally, just some wayward hitchhiker.
That was scant solace for Wilson, as the Emperor Mummy unsheathed his sword and swung it with a whoosh, neatly taking Wilson’s head off and sending it rolling into the periphery with the other rubble, the professor’s headless body stumbling along a step or two before collapsing in a pile that even the Eye of Shangri-la could not do anything for.
As O’Connell, from behind his pillar, threw gunfire at Yang, who threw gunfire back, son Alex was dashing at the chariot from the other side, using the distraction his father was providing to slide as if into home plate, right underneath the rumbling wagon, where he grabbed brackets on the undercarriage of the cortege wagon and got purchase.
Unlike Wilson, Alex had successfully hitched a ride.
Lin had watched Alex’s move and now imitated it, the lithe female warrior in black similarly sliding, and with a hand Alex helped her get a hold under the chariot as it continued to gather speed.
Both Alex and Lin held on for dear life as the four bronze horses burst through the window in a spray of shattering glass, bearing the chariot and
“Here we go again,” he breathed.
And on the floor nearby, Evy O’Connell—seeing the reddish-brown terra-cotta Emperor alive up on his chariot with his impatient steeds awaiting him to take rein—was thinking the very same thing.
5
Shanghaied
E mperor Er Shi Huangdi, awakening to find himself a terra-cotta figure standing in a chariot, before bronze steeds restlessly come to life, was welcomed to the twentieth century by General Yang, who stood on the monument platform nearby.
Head bowed, the general spoke in ancient Mandarin: “I have awakened you, my lord. I live to serve you, and to attend to your final transformation. Allow me please to guide you to a safe haven.”
The Emperor’s nod was barely discernible but enough to encourage Yang to climb up onto the chariot.
No sooner had the general done so than the revived Emperor Mummy snatched up the reins and began to whip his bronze steeds. The entire chariot and the cortege wagon it drew lurched forward, then plunged off the platform and, building speed, began to lumber across the marble floor of the rotunda, bound for the huge stained-glass window directly ahead.
Rick O’Connell, a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver in either hand, raced after the two-sectioned vehicle, unloading on the hard-clay Emperor Mummy and his passenger, the sharp cracks of the handguns punctuating the sound of the galloping hooves and rumbling chariot wheels like Chinese New Year’s firecrackers, and having about as much impact.
Not so much to his astonishment as to his dismay, O’Connell—perhaps the most seasoned mummy fighter on the planet—watched as a bullet chipped off the Emperor’s ear, only for that ear to spontaneously regenerate.
Bastard’s impervious, O’Connell thought.
Unfortunately none of his shots claimed the not-impervious Yang, who was firing back with his own pistol at the pursuing O’Connell, driving him back behind a pillar as building materials in the path of the chariot were churned to debris and scattered, chunks of God-knew-what going every which way.
In the meantime, another player was running after the chariot, attempting to hitch a ride.
Roger Wilson, his tuxedo dust-splotched now, had a look of utter frustration as he pursued his ride to fame and fortune, yelling, “Wait for me! Wait for me . . . !”
And O’Connell had to admit the old SOB, for his age and weight, ran quickly, even managing to make his way up alongside the terra-cotta Emperor as the chariot built speed going toward the big rotunda window. Wilson was trying to clamber up onto the vehicle, next to Er Shi Huangdi, who reacted harshly. In the Emperor Mummy’s defense, he had no reason to recognize Wilson as an ally, just some wayward hitchhiker.
That was scant solace for Wilson, as the Emperor Mummy unsheathed his sword and swung it with a whoosh, neatly taking Wilson’s head off and sending it rolling into the periphery with the other rubble, the professor’s headless body stumbling along a step or two before collapsing in a pile that even the Eye of Shangri-la could not do anything for.
As O’Connell, from behind his pillar, threw gunfire at Yang, who threw gunfire back, son Alex was dashing at the chariot from the other side, using the distraction his father was providing to slide as if into home plate, right underneath the rumbling wagon, where he grabbed brackets on the undercarriage of the cortege wagon and got purchase.
Unlike Wilson, Alex had successfully hitched a ride.
Lin had watched Alex’s move and now imitated it, the lithe female warrior in black similarly sliding, and with a hand Alex helped her get a hold under the chariot as it continued to gather speed.
Both Alex and Lin held on for dear life as the four bronze horses burst through the window in a spray of shattering glass, bearing the chariot and
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