The Mummy Tomb of the Dragon Emperor by Max Allan Collins Page B
Authors: Max Allan Collins
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sheet metal.
The chariot rumbled off and Jonathan got to his feet and examined the damage. He was almost in tears, and trembling, not in fear, but in rage. He was swearing revenge when a fireworks truck pulled up and slowed and a knife blade from within the rear of the vehicle split the canvas side and O’Connell stuck his head out.
“Climb aboard, Jonathan! We have work to do!”
Jonathan allowed himself to be hauled aboard, shaking his head, saying, “Honestly, the two of you—you’re virtually mummy magnets, aren’t you?”
Up front, Evy accelerated.
A block away, the chariot was on Main Street, plowing wildly down the broad avenue, crushing anything unfortunate enough to be in its path. Underneath the rough-riding cart, Alex and Lin were working to move, from handhold to handhold, to the rear of the cortege wagon. Right now they were almost to the back bumpers. They were unaware that Alex’s parents were at all in pursuit, much less in a fireworks truck some hundred yards back, and closing.
In the rear of the truck, O’Connell was ripping canvas away so that he and Jonathan could get a view over the cab. Jonathan had discovered a big red rocket that might have been the mother of all the fireworks crated and piled back there. The two men lifted the thing up and onto the roof of the cab. Evy flinched a little as she heard them slam the rocket down, not aware of what her husband and brother were up to.
Right now O’Connell was explaining the situation to Jonathan as wind whipped their hair and they bounced up and down with the jostle of the truck, from which Evy was coaxing considerable speed.
“We’re only going to get one shot at this, Jon,” he said. Then to Evy in the cab, he shouted, “Honey! Drive nice and straight!”
Then to Jonathan, he said, “Okay, buddy—light ’er up!”
Jonathan nodded and, thinking of his Bentley and the horrendous gash in its poor side, he thumbed his gold-plated Dunhill lighter and held the flame to the fuse. Then he stuck his fingers in his ears.
O’Connell grinned at his brother-in-law. “Happy New Year.”
Then the rocket took off, and its blastoff almost blew the two men out and off the back of the truck.
Down the street the rocket screamed, O’Connell’s aim dead-on. Half a moment before what would have been a direct hit, the Emperor Mummy turned unblinking dead eyes to see the rocket coming and, with a simple gesture of his head, redirected the spark-spewing missile and sent it instead into an electric trolley car.
The force of the explosion threw the trolley, like a toy train, into the air, passengers diving off as the car and the blast shattered neon signs and ripped wooden signs off structures. The Emperor Mummy guided his bronze steeds deftly around the resulting rubble.
Even a seasoned mummy fighter like Rick O’Connell could hardly have known that Er Shi Huangdi possessed a mastery of fire.
And even if he had known, O’Connell had another crisis, albeit a small one, on his hands: the launch of the rocket had somehow set the seat of Jonathan’s pants on fire. O’Connell began smacking the flames with his hands.
Jonathan, unaware his ass was on fire, objected: “Stop that! Why in bloody hell are you smacking me on the bum?”
“Because your bum is on fire!”
“On fire? Well then, crikey, man, smack it! Smack it!”
But smacking wasn’t doing the trick, so O’Connell yanked off his dinner jacket and roughly smothered the flames attacking his brother-in-law’s behind. “Stay still!”
“You stay still, with a flaming ass!”
“Hold on, it—it’s almost out . . . It’s out.”
Chin up, his dignity as shredded as the seat of his pants, Jonathan said, “Would you do me a favor, dear brother-in-law? Next time you’re in Shanghai, will you give me sufficient warning so that I might be the hell elsewhere?”
“You’re welcome.”
Then the two men almost lost their balance as Evy hung a wicked left, clipping the curb. Up
The chariot rumbled off and Jonathan got to his feet and examined the damage. He was almost in tears, and trembling, not in fear, but in rage. He was swearing revenge when a fireworks truck pulled up and slowed and a knife blade from within the rear of the vehicle split the canvas side and O’Connell stuck his head out.
“Climb aboard, Jonathan! We have work to do!”
Jonathan allowed himself to be hauled aboard, shaking his head, saying, “Honestly, the two of you—you’re virtually mummy magnets, aren’t you?”
Up front, Evy accelerated.
A block away, the chariot was on Main Street, plowing wildly down the broad avenue, crushing anything unfortunate enough to be in its path. Underneath the rough-riding cart, Alex and Lin were working to move, from handhold to handhold, to the rear of the cortege wagon. Right now they were almost to the back bumpers. They were unaware that Alex’s parents were at all in pursuit, much less in a fireworks truck some hundred yards back, and closing.
In the rear of the truck, O’Connell was ripping canvas away so that he and Jonathan could get a view over the cab. Jonathan had discovered a big red rocket that might have been the mother of all the fireworks crated and piled back there. The two men lifted the thing up and onto the roof of the cab. Evy flinched a little as she heard them slam the rocket down, not aware of what her husband and brother were up to.
Right now O’Connell was explaining the situation to Jonathan as wind whipped their hair and they bounced up and down with the jostle of the truck, from which Evy was coaxing considerable speed.
“We’re only going to get one shot at this, Jon,” he said. Then to Evy in the cab, he shouted, “Honey! Drive nice and straight!”
Then to Jonathan, he said, “Okay, buddy—light ’er up!”
Jonathan nodded and, thinking of his Bentley and the horrendous gash in its poor side, he thumbed his gold-plated Dunhill lighter and held the flame to the fuse. Then he stuck his fingers in his ears.
O’Connell grinned at his brother-in-law. “Happy New Year.”
Then the rocket took off, and its blastoff almost blew the two men out and off the back of the truck.
Down the street the rocket screamed, O’Connell’s aim dead-on. Half a moment before what would have been a direct hit, the Emperor Mummy turned unblinking dead eyes to see the rocket coming and, with a simple gesture of his head, redirected the spark-spewing missile and sent it instead into an electric trolley car.
The force of the explosion threw the trolley, like a toy train, into the air, passengers diving off as the car and the blast shattered neon signs and ripped wooden signs off structures. The Emperor Mummy guided his bronze steeds deftly around the resulting rubble.
Even a seasoned mummy fighter like Rick O’Connell could hardly have known that Er Shi Huangdi possessed a mastery of fire.
And even if he had known, O’Connell had another crisis, albeit a small one, on his hands: the launch of the rocket had somehow set the seat of Jonathan’s pants on fire. O’Connell began smacking the flames with his hands.
Jonathan, unaware his ass was on fire, objected: “Stop that! Why in bloody hell are you smacking me on the bum?”
“Because your bum is on fire!”
“On fire? Well then, crikey, man, smack it! Smack it!”
But smacking wasn’t doing the trick, so O’Connell yanked off his dinner jacket and roughly smothered the flames attacking his brother-in-law’s behind. “Stay still!”
“You stay still, with a flaming ass!”
“Hold on, it—it’s almost out . . . It’s out.”
Chin up, his dignity as shredded as the seat of his pants, Jonathan said, “Would you do me a favor, dear brother-in-law? Next time you’re in Shanghai, will you give me sufficient warning so that I might be the hell elsewhere?”
“You’re welcome.”
Then the two men almost lost their balance as Evy hung a wicked left, clipping the curb. Up
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