The Mummies of Blogspace9: Chapter Sixteen

June 20, 2011
Seville, Spain
*%^&$#(*&    http://www.perdido.blogspace9.ex

Sancti daemones…

Latin to English translation module: activated

Holy demons… 

Insolent fool, can you feel the sun on your skin?  Can you feel the soil under foot?  If such can yet be said of you, you have lived too long.  I cannot beg you because I have centuries ago shed my own fragile mortality, and begging necessitates at least a beating heart.  Nor can I command you because I no longer command armies of men and tortured souls both. 

But I can counsel you, young fool called Bruce, that the time is at hand to drink what poison you must, sharpen any nearest blade and cut deep, because Sopay has already cast his unholy gaze upon you.  And he can extinguish your soul as effortlessly as putting breath to a candle’s flame.

Even if you took refuge in the golden temples of the Hindoos or the hallowed minarets that Sultans climb, or worse yet, should you cling to the silken hems of a papal gown in a painted Roman sacristy, it would not suffice.  Touch his sacred books, will you?  Walk his halls?  Cast your gaze on his wives?  He’ll come for you now. 

For such insolence I would kill you myself, and I bear him no mournful nor generous consideration.  But for the sake of all that is Holy, climb to a noble place, Bruce.  Climb to the top of Giralda Tower.  Once there, set your foot atop the highest ledge, make your last prayer to God, and push off into his embrace before opportunity dims.

 

June 20, 2011
Magdalena de Paz, Peru
Samples      http://www.greatbigLeon.blogspace9.ex 

And a fine good morning to you too, Perdido.  Always good to hear from you!

 Leon, here.  It’s morning on the north coast, and we’re gearing up for another exciting day of Peruvian archaeology!  I thought I’d take this rare moment of electrical connectivity and mental clarity to take stock of our current situation.

Let’s see, our director Cyrus has deserted us, having fled the country. Young Bruce is an international fugitive, possibly a murderer, though unlikely.  Kim is paralyzed with dread, concerned about the deteriorating condition of our diminutive gaucho bodyguard who is currently convalescing from an encounter with what we all now agree was an animated mummy returned from the dead. 

Have I missed anything?  Oh wait, Laney spends her days in near hysteria concerned about Bruce, who is now apparently a Spanish gypsy crime-lord’s new bitch.  And if that weren’t enough, he’s now being threatened by an internet-savvy demon with a penchant for suicidal gloom. 

Not to whine or anything, but I’m almost out of mescaline.  When it rains, it pours! 

Before I forget, Kim asked me to upload the next entry of the Gota journal, so here it is:

“Malleus Momias” - Hammer of the Mummies - entry # 2

You will surely think me a fool for bringing my concern to light, but please consider my predicament.  Though nearly one hundred souls live within earshot of my poor mud house, and though I sleep in the holy bosom of Our Lord, I am ashamed to say that I feel quite alone.  Notwithstanding that I spent two months in Truxillo upon my arrival in the Americas, studying with the native tutors, I confess I speak the indian tongue quite poorly, nearly not at all.

Now, two months into my appointment at our church here in Santa Magdalena de Paz, I am hard at work bringing word of Our Lord to this land.  Even though our church is built of baked mud, and can hold but twelve bodies at a time, I can already count a score of converts.  Notwithstanding my concern that the indians indignantly refuse my sermons if there is no sacramental wine on offer, I believe  they hold me in great esteem.

No, my concern plagues me each night as I tidy my sacred church, sweeping the floor with my poor broom, as if it might do more than simply pool the spills of the fermented beverage the indians consume habitually.  Dutifully I sweep away the chewed bones of the rodents they gnaw at during my service, along with the scraps of indian bread which I daresay is tastier than that with which I am accustomed.

It is this sweeping that causes my indians much distress.  Initially I suspected they cherished some measure of filth, as did in fact my own grandmother, may she rest in the womb of Heaven, no fan of chores was she.  But recently I have come to understand that it is the late hour of my sweeping that is of issue. 

I confess I am remiss in my own chores, and I make my own prayers and my own writings before I undertake my tidying.  And when I tarry in the church after the sun has set, my indians become quite serious in demeanor.  They will usher me quickly to my poor house not fifty paces away, not retreating until my latch is set.

One night, they grew cross when I had cause to return to the church, having forgotten my Breviary.  With great urgency and torchlight they ushered me home.  It was on this night that I first sighted Them, the lurkers who watch from the edges of the village, those who step back quietly into the fields, or who take plodding refuge behind what wall or donkey might suffice to shield them from plain view.

No queries about these individuals would be abided.  But late one night I took to foot about the village, lest these be souls craving knowledge of Our Lord yet be too timid to seek it directly.

And in this assumption, I proved dead wrong, my words being most carefully chosen.  Once approached, and followed around the back of the church, I caught up with one such individual.  It was not difficult in that they move quite slowly.  No sooner had I placed my hand on his arm, did he turn and place his own hand on mine and look deeply into my eyes.

You’ll think me a fool for saying this, as did Father Vasco who has since counseled me on such encounters, but I found great solace in that moment.  For what stood before me was not a living soul, not a soul at all, but a ghoul from some unanticipated proximal hell set loose in our world. 

I knew at that moment that the existence of such a being manifestly laid to rest any doubts I might have had about divinity itself, and I confess that those doubts did arise from time to time arise.  Because if such a spectral being is neither too alien nor cumbersome for this world, then neither is the Lord God I serve.

- Santa Magdalena de Paz, 20 June, Year of Our Lord 1580   SEBASTIANO

The Mummies of Blogspace9: Chapter Fifteen

June 19, 2011
Seville, Spain
Hanson                http://www.historyismine.blogspace9.ex

Eavesdrop: disabled

GPS: disabled

Every other fucking goddamn app: disabled (by Bruce Hanson who is angry)

Laney, it’s me.  I wish I could talk with you.   I asked for a phone, but I’m told that’s not a good idea.  Apparently all cell phone traffic in Europe is recorded, and it wouldn’t be a good idea for you to be in contact with me right now.  Because you see, Laney, I am a wanted man, a murderer if you believe the police.   They have made my “confession” public.  I read about myself in the newspaper today.  My mother always told me I’d be famous, and you know what?  She was right.

I can’t reveal where I am, of course.  But I am among people who I now, for reasons of having no goddamn choice, consider friends.  It’s now two in the morning; I slept most of the day.  I suspect I was medicated, but I don’t really care at this point.  I’ve just consumed three frittatas and three liters of beer, so I think I’m up to the task of telling you about my rescue.

Melchor Sacramonte, remember him – the old gypsy who shoved me into the room with the dead man last week?  Well, he’s my new best friend.  I asked him if he wanted me to keep his name out of this, and he just laughed.  He’s accustomed to police harassment, he told me.  And if the police want to come around his place talking some nonsense about some lunatic American claiming he met with him, he’ll deny it straight away. 

But it was he who had me rescued.  He sent his trusted associate Baltazar, who is my new second best friend.  Do you know where I was being held, Laney?  In the Alcazar itself, the old palace fortress of the Moors, right in the heart of old Seville, not a hundred yards from the Archive.

When Baltazar came through the door of my cell, I was terrified, but little did I know that my terror was only going to get worse.  We ran out through the servants’ quarters, through parts of the palace not visited by tourists.  And not visited by anyone for decades, I’d wager.  Dusty hallways with scuffed tiles and centuries of paint curling up along the walls, the smell of mildew was overpowering. 

Escape proved to be a time-intensive activity as Baltazar dragged me from one shadow to the next, smashing through door after door while rogue policemen searched frantically.  You’d think that would be loud enough, smashing through door after door, but it wasn’t.  The doors were thin, and the wood so damp and worm-laden that you could push a finger straight through without much effort at all.

We climbed more stairs than I thought possible, tripping more often than not on loose or broken tiles, nearly tumbling to my death on several occasions.  Finally we came out onto a little garden, the likes of which I have never seen.  It was completely overgrown.  Vines hung everywhere, dripping with moisture, and weaving in and out of the eye sockets of the hundreds of skulls that littered the ground.  The decapitated enemies of the Caliph, Baltazar told me.  I didn’t remember that part from the audio tour.

I heard footsteps all around us.  The policemen were near, and I didn’t know which way to go.  Baltazar grabbed hold of my arm and swung me through a door.  It was by far the most solid door we had yet encountered, and it nearly cost me a rib, but buckle it did.  We pushed through and found ourselves in a long hallway.  I started to run but Baltazar held me back.  “At this point,” he said, “you must keep moving.  Do not stop for any reason.  Do you understand?”

I nodded, and we sprinted the length of that hall, turning the corner and entering into the private recesses of the harem, where the Caliph kept his 800 women.  “Keep moving,” Baltazar spat at me, pulling me along, but I could not.  My legs betrayed me.  My mind betrayed me.  I thought I might die before I took another step.

It was already growing dark, but there was ample moonlight to see the stirrings in the harem rooms.  Curtains were being drawn, intricate carpets were unrolled on tile patios.  Chairs were dragged outside, and tea was being poured as the concubines awoke and began to move around.  Even with just the moonlight, Laney, it was clear that they were long dead.

“I’m leaving now,” Baltazar spat.  “If you’re coming, come.  If not, you can stay here.  The police won’t dare enter, but the ladies will soon notice you.  And they’ve been lonely for a long time.  I’ve seen what happens when they take a concubine of their own.”

I moved as fast as my rubbery legs would carry me.  We passed through a maze of dim dripping hallways before we crashed through a door in the fortress walls.  A car was waiting.

We found Don Melchor Sacramonte at this flamenco restaurant that he owns.  It doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a hole in the wall.  But inside, it’s painted every color of the rainbow and then some.  It was packed to the rafters.  It’s some kind of dinner theater where dancers act out dramas for the diners as old gypsy women carry trays of steaming food from table to table.

I followed Baltazar through a surprisingly tiny kitchen and into Sacramonte’s office.  He was alone, sitting at a carved desk drinking brandy and playing with a pair of dice. 

“I just saw eight hundred dead women walking around,” I told him.

Sacramonte frowned.  He turned to Baltazar.  “That many?”

Baltazar shrugged.  “I didn’t stop to count, but still, I’d say no more than two or three dozen.”

“See, it’s not as bad as you thought.” Sacramonte came out from behind the desk and hugged me. “Don’t worry, payo.  We’ll be fast friends, you and I.  We have much to talk about.”

The Mummies of Blogspace9: Chapter Fourteen

June 18, 2011
Magdalena de Paz, Peru
Sanderson            http://www.CyrusSanderson.blogspace9.ex

Bruce, I want you to go to the Consulate.  Don’t talk to anyone, don’t meet with anyone. I’m on my way.  There’s more to this than meets the eye, so please be careful. I will explain when I see you.

 

June 18, 2011
Magdalena de Paz, Peru
Cavalcante           http://www.diggirl.blogspace9.ex

Bruce, what the hell?  How did this all spin out of control so fast?  Please call me, please contact me any way you can.  I’m terrified for you.  Who are these people who kidnapped you?  I can only hope you made it to safety, but I need to hear your voice.

I don’t know if that was the police or not in your last post, but they were right about one thing – you are a wanted man.  Cyrus checked with the State Department and with the consulate in Seville, and guess what?  The police are looking for you in connection with the murder of an Archive guard. 

We know you didn’t do it, Bruce.  God, of course you didn’t do it, but you need to go to the consulate as soon as possible.  They’ll turn you over to the Spanish police.  There’s nothing we can do about that, but at least you’ll be safe.  Cyrus left for Lima about an hour ago.  He’s going to fly to Seville.  Leon wants to go too, but we need him here for now.

And things aren’t going so well here either.  The police came this morning - that guy from Chocope who sits outside the bank.  Remember, with the mirrored sunglasses and the Game Boy?  He came speeding up the driveway on his moped to investigate.  He wanted to see the body, but guess what?  Yup, you guessed it, the body is gone. 

Erdulfo claims he left the body behind the shed, but it’s not there anymore.  And the policeman didn’t even want to talk to Segovia, isn’t that strange?  Segovia fires a weapon, kills a man, and doesn’t even get interviewed as part of the investigation.

And Bruce, what the hell is Mallus Momias?  Is that what we’re dealing with here - a book about how to respond to mummy uprisings?  Hammer of the Mummies?  Is that what this is all about?  Father Sebastiano’s diary is the definitive primer on how to protect yourself from the undead?  Are you laughing, Bruce?  Because I am.  I’m weeping with hysteria. 

Mummies.  Maybe that’s what last night’s visitor was, a walking mummy, a dead Indian who crawled out of his grave for vengeance.  You know something, I’m not ready to accept that.  I’m a scientist.  I believe the science is our most reliable source of information about the world we live in.  And science has no room for walking mummies.

We die one day, each one of us, and what transpires after that is not  something that can be investigated via the scientific method.  But it surely doesn’t involve yet more movement, yet more cognition, yet more conscious thought.

Erdulfo has us on lockdown here.  We’re not even going out to the site today unless we can make some sense of our senseless world.  And we’re not getting too far along on that front either.  I’m sitting here sick with worry.  Segovia is down with some kind of fever; that scratch on his face doesn’t look good.  Kim is tending to him.  And Leon has his face in that jug of mescaline, so he’s not much use either. 

I thought about leaving today.  I thought about running for the nearest plane, going to Spain to find you.  But Cyrus went instead, and he left me in charge.  And like I said, baby, I’m a scientist.  I’ve got to see this through.  Call me, text me, something me.

 

June 18, 2011
Magdalena de Paz, Peru
Castillo                http://www.bellisima.blogspace9.ex

Greetings!  Kim here - I’m a scientist too, boys and girls, or at least a scientist in training.  But my mother died when I was four years old, and for the next ten years, she sat by my bedside every night until I fell asleep.  And yes, I know what you’re going to say.  Well guess what, I don’t believe in ghosts either.  So how do I explain it?  I don’t bother trying to.

I was going to make this brief, but Segovia is asleep finally.  He’s not doing so well but at least the fever broke.  I’ll check on him in a bit, but we have work to do.  And until we decide to bug out, we might as well make some progress on that work in the hopes that it will illuminate our present condition.

Malleus Momias – let’s talk about that.  Lane, you’re not willing to believe in the existence of walking mummies because you’re a scientist?  Get over yourself.  Science is a comprehensive yet limited system for investigating natural phenomena.  If there are mummies walking around our world, and apparently there are, then let’s understand that they are a natural phenomenon.  They just haven’t been studied.  They’re like some species of butterfly that flits at the edge of the village at dusk, but is never seen in broad daylight.

There is more here than meets the eye, Cyrus wrote in his last entry.  You know what, Boss?  It would have been nice if you had clued us in before you left.  Because now we have to figure everything out on our own.  So let’s get started. 

One of the many elephants currently squeezed into our already crowded room is this gigantic Ultraviolet scanner that came a couple of days ago.  I Googled the model.  It’s not even commercially available.  It’s military hardware still under development, and it’s worth about two hundred thousand dollars.  Who sent it to us?  We don’t know.  But that’s OK, because it works like a son of a bitch.

So here it is, ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in four hundred and thirty-one years, I give you Father Sebastiano Gota’s diary, translated into English by yours truly:

“Malleus Momias” - Hammer of the Mummies
“Anno Domini Nostri Iesu Christi 1580” - year of our lord 1580

“Padre, padre, me perseguian.” 
Father, father, they are following me.  This is the message I sent to my superior, Father Vasco de Cuellar, whose own church in Chocope (a ride of one hour perhaps) is considerably grander than my own.  It is Father Vasco who delivered me here to Magdalena some months ago.  And it is he who I have come to consider my closest confidant during these harrowing times. 

I write this journal in secret because it is an unholy document, written in an unholy place.  But write it I must.  I daresay that if I do not, the time of human men will soon come to an end.  May we be called to the side of Jesus when the time comes, but this, this is something altogether different.  I speak of nothing other than the gates of hell opening onto our world.

My name is Sebastiano Alfonso Gota.  My father, may the Lord in his heavenly wisdom bless his eternal soul, was Don Efrain Gota of Caceres, Extremadura.  I am a priest in the service of Our Lord, and in the service of Our King Phillip III.  I am twenty-five years old, and I am damned.

///error: connection terminated at server/// 
SEND REPORT  / DON’T SEND REPORT

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The Mummies of Blogspace9: Chapter Thirteen

June 18, 2011
Seville, Spain
Hanson                http://www.historyismine.blogspace9.ex

////auto-refresh///   connection re-established

battery at 1%, connect to power supply to prevent data from being lost

voice activation mode: enabled

indiv 1:  <yelling>    

<background noise excessive>

indiv 1)  “Help me, someone.  Anybody.”

battery low; preparing to hibernate

 

June 18, 2011
Cupertino, CA
Administrator      http://www.admin.blogspace9.ex

Our analysts have recently detected an unauthorized user on your account.  Pursuant with your contract, all users must be identified and processed in advance.  Yet we have no paperwork on the individual identifying as ‘Perdido.’  Please advise.

Our analysts are also concerned about the safety of your project personnel.  Mr. Segovia shared with us, via satellite phone, some of the details of your intruder last night.  He has indicated that he will continue his investigation, and that he can continue to guarantee your safety.  Our confidence in Mr. Segovia is absolute.

It would appear, however, that Dr. Hanson, is under some duress.  His connection was briefly reestablished this morning.  We lost it in under a minute, but were able to locate his position.  He is still in Seville, no more than 500 yards from the Archive.  Be advised that our search for Dr. Hanson is already underway.  Pursuant to section 6.1.29 of you contract, we are activating several additional software modules which may be of use:

1) Latin to English language translator
2) long-life backup battery activator to restore power
3) GPS tracking
4) Eavesdrop – an embedded code that allows us to log in remotely while the computer appears to be off
5) Mayday – the emergency responder packet that you were advised of in the contract.  When the Mayday login credentials are entered, the user is incapacitated.

June 18, 2011
Seville, Spain
Hanson                http://www.historyismine.blogspace9.ex

////auto-refresh///   connection re-established

long-life battery at 100%

Eavesdrop: enabled

“…when we have satisfied ourselves that you are telling the truth.  Now answer my questions.”

“I’ve already told you everything I know.  Why am I tied up?  Where am I?” 

“How did you come to learn of this book?”

“What book?”

“The journal from the Gota archive – Sebastiano Gota’s personal account of his time in the Americas.  It is not in the public domain.”

“I told you, I was investigating names from our excavation documents.  Can I get some water, please?”

“Who have you told about the book?”

“I posted the name to the blog.  Probably a couple of hundred thousand people know about it by now.”

“I doubt that.  Who are you working with here in Seville?”

“I’m not working with anyone.  Look, I don’t know who you are, but I am an American citizen.  People are looking for me.”

“They won’t find you.  These documents you refer to, who else has seen them?”

“My colleagues in Peru.  Can you at least tell me where I am?  The man who came in earlier is a policeman.  I recognize him from when I was at the police station.  Am I under arrest?”

“No.  Can those documents be brought here?”

“Where is here?”

<sound of bottle breaking>

“I don’t think you fully understand the severity of your situation.  You will be detained here until you have answered my questions or until you die.  You are researching a very sensitive subject that interests my employer.”

“Then let me get back to the Archive so I can do more research.”

<sound of laughter>

“Those days are over for you, my friend.  You should know that the police are looking for you.  There’s the matter of the murdered guard at the Archive.  The gun was found in your backpack.  Apparently you were trying to steal a priceless document.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your picture is all over town.  Even if you were to escape from here, you wouldn’t get far.  No airports, no train station, no bus station.  No, Dr. Hanson, you’ll be staying with us here in Spain for some time.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“We’ll have a TV brought in later; you can watch the news.  You killed a family man.  You’ll go to jail for a long time.”

 “You know I didn’t kill anyone.  This is a set-up.”

“You mentioned you had already been to the police station, do you recall?”

“Yes, I went there because I had a run in with a gypsy.”

“I have your statement right here.  You were detained by the police after concerns were raised by Archive personnel.  You were planning to steal a document.”

“That’s a lie.”

“We believe you contracted to sell it to a known criminal, a Mr. Melchor Sacramonte.”

 “That’s a lie.  That’s the gypsy guy I was complaining about.”

“We have a copy of the police report.  It was signed by the officers who detained you.”

“I was not detained.  I went on my own.  I filed a complaint.”

<sound of papers>

“Is this your signature?”

“Yes…..but that’s not what I signed.  No, I signed a complaint about…”

“You signed a confession.”

“But….”

“You were advised to leave Spain, but instead you returned to the Archive.  You waited until it closed, killed the guard, and tried to leave with the document.”

“None of that happened.”

“Perhaps you’re right.  It will be up to a jury to decide.”

 “What do you want?”

“I want the documents your colleagues have discovered.  I want the exact coordinates of the hoard, and I want the Malleus Momias book.”

“The hoard?  What hoard?  What is Malleus Momias?  What the hell are you talking about?”

<excessive background noise>

“…if you insist on pretending you don’t understand, I will cut your fingers off.  We’ll begin immediately.  Please excuse me while I retrieve my pliers.”

 “Wait…”

<sound of door being shut>

<sound of door being opened>

<sound of crash>

“Oh, god.”

“You know who I am, young man?”

“You’re one of those gypsy guys who pushed me into the room with the dead man.”

“I am pleased you remember.  You are a man with few friends.  I am one of those friends.”

“Did you just kill the guard outside the door?”

“Very likely.  You must come now.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“I am cutting the restraints from your wrists.  Let me show you something.”

“There’s nothing written on that card.  It’s just a green wagon wheel.”

“He is the only person who can keep you safe.”

“Wait, you mean Sacromonte?”

“Will you come with me now?”

“Yes.  Let me grab my computer.”