Excavation

Before leaving, Henry checked the mummy to ensure it was properly secured on the scanner’s table, then slipped the gold crucifix from around the figure’s neck. He carried it with him as he followed the others out of the room.



The adjoining cubicle was lined with banks of computers and rows of monitors. The research team planned on using a technique called computer tomography, or CT, to take multiple radiographic images which the computer would then compile into a three-dimensional picture of the mummy’s interior, allowing a virtual autopsy to be performed without damaging the mummy itself. Besides the professional contact, this was the reason Henry had hauled his mummy halfway around the world. Johns Hopkins had performed previous analyses on other Peruvian ice mummies in the past and still had backing from the National Geographic organization to continue with others. The facility also had a keen genetics lab to map ancestry and genealogy, ideal for adding concrete data to substantiate his controversial theories. But with the Dominican cross in hand, Henry held out little hope of success.



Once inside the control room, the door, heavy with lead shielding, closed snugly behind them.



Joan introduced them to Dr. Robert Reynolds, who waved them to the chairs while his technician began calibrating for the scan. “Grab a seat, folks.”



While the others scooted chairs into a cluster before the viewing window, Henry remained standing to maintain a good view of both the computer monitors and the window that looked out upon the scanner and its current patient. The large white machine filled the back half of the next room. The table bearing the mummy protruded from a narrow tunnel leading into the heart of the unit.



“Here we go,” Dr. Reynolds said as he keyed his terminal.



Henry jumped a bit, almost dropping the gold cross, as a sharp clacking erupted from the speakers that monitored the next room. Through the window, he watched the tray holding the contorted figure slowly inch toward the spinning core of the scanner. As the crown of the mummy’s head entered the tunnel, the machine’s clacking was joined by a chorus of loud thunking as the device began to take pictures.



“Bob,” Joan said, “bring up a surface view of the facial bones first. Let’s see if we can pinpoint where this fellow came from.”



“You can determine that from just the skull?” the reporter asked.



Joan nodded, but did not turn from the computers. “The structure of the zygomatic arch, the brow, and the nasal bone are great markers for ancestry and race.”



“Here it comes,” Dr. Reynolds announced.



Henry turned from the window to look over Joan’s shoulder. A black-and-white image appeared on the monitor’s screen, a cross section of the mummy’s skull.



Joan slipped on a pair of reading glasses and squeaked her chair closer to the monitor. She leaned forward to study the image. “Bob, can you rotate it about thirty degrees?”



The radiologist nodded, chewing on a pencil. He tapped a few buttons, and the skull twisted slightly until it was staring them full in the face. Joan reached with a small ruler and made some measurements, frowning. She tapped the screen with a fingernail. “That shadow above the right orbit of the eye. Can we get a better look at it?”



A few keys were tapped and the image zoomed in closer. The radiologist removed the pencil from between his teeth. He whistled appreciatively.



“What is it?” Henry asked.



Joan turned and tilted her glasses down to peer over their rims at him. “A hole.” She tapped the glass indicating the triangular shadow on the plane of bone. “It’s not natural. Someone drilled into his skull. And from the lack of callus formation around the site, I’d guess the procedure was done shortly after his death.”



“Trepanning… skull drilling,” Henry said. “I’ve seen it before in other old skulls from around the world. But the most extensive and complicated were among the Incas. They were considered the most skilled surgeons at trepanning.” Henry allowed himself a glimmer of hope. If the skull had been bored, maybe he had uncovered a Peruvian Indian.



Joan must have read his thoughts. “I hate to dash your hopes, but trepanning or not, the mummy is definitely not of South American ancestry. It is clearly European.”



Henry could not find his voice for a few breaths. “Are… are you sure?”



She took off her glasses, settled them back in her pocket, and sighed softly, clearly well accustomed to passing on a dire diagnosis. “Yes. I’d say he came from Western Europe. I’d guess Portugal. And given enough time and more study, I could probably pinpoint even the exact province.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Henry.”



He recognized the sympathy in her eyes. With despair in his heart, he struggled to keep himself composed. He stared down at the Dominican cross in his hand. “He must have been captured by the Incas,” he finally said. “And eventually sacrificed to their gods atop MountArapa. If his blood was spilled on such a sacred site, European or not, they would have been forced to mummify his remains. It was probably why they left him his cross. Those who died on holy sites were honored, and it was taboo to rob their corpses of any valuables.”



The reporter had been hurriedly jotting notes, even though she had a tape recorder also monitoring their conversation. “It’ll make a good story.”



“Story, maybe… even a journal article or two…” Henry shrugged, attempting a weak smile.



“But not what you were hoping for,” Joan added.



“An intriguing oddity, nothing more. It sheds no new light on the Incas.”



“Perhaps your dig back in Peru will produce more intriguing finds,” the pathologist offered.



“There is that hope. My nephew and a few other grad students are delving into a temple ruin as we speak. Hopefully, they’ll have better news for me.”



“And you’ll let me know?” Joan asked with a smile. “You know I’ve been following your discoveries in both the National Geographic and Archaeology magazines.”



“You have?” Henry stood a little straighter.



“Yes, it’s all been very exciting.”



Henry’s smile grew wider. “I’ll definitely keep you updated.” And he meant it. There was a certain charm to this woman that Henry still found disarming. Add to that a generous figure that could not be completely hidden by her sterile lab coat. Henry found a slight blush heating his cheeks.



“Joan, you’d better come see this,” the radiologist said in a hushed voice. “Something’s wrong with the CT.”



Joan swung back to the monitor. “What is it?”



“I was just fiddling with some mid-sagittal views to judge bone density. But all the interior views just come back blank.” As Henry looked on, Dr. Reynolds flipped through a series of images, each a deeper slice through the interior of the skull. But each of the inner images was the same: a white blur on the monitor.



Joan touched the screen as if her fingers could make sense of the pictures. “I don’t understand. Let’s recalibrate and try again.”



The radiologist tapped a button and the constant clacking from the machine died away. But a sharper noise, hidden behind the knock of the scanner’s rotating magnets, became apparent. It flowed from the speakers: a high-pitched keening, like air escaping from the stretched neck of a balloon.



All eyes were drawn to the speakers.



“What the hell is that noise?” the radiologist asked. He tapped at a few keys. “The scanner’s completely shut down.”



The Herald reporter sat closest to the window looking into the CT room. She sprang to her feet, knocking her chair over. “My God!”



“What is it?” Joan stood up and joined the reporter at the window.



Henry pushed forward, fearing for his fragile mummy. “What—?” Then he saw it, too. The mummy still lay on the scanning table in full view of the group. Its head and neck convulsed upon the table, rattling against the metal surface. Its mouth stretched wide open, the keening wail issuing from its desiccated throat. Henry’s knees weakened.



“My God, it’s alive!” the reporter moaned in horror.



“Impossible,” Henry sputtered.



The convulsing corpse grew violent. Its lanky black hair whipped furiously around its thrashing head like a thousand snakes. Henry expected at any moment that the head would rip off its neck, but what actually happened was worse. Much worse.



Like a rotten melon, the top of the mummy’s skull blew away explosively. Yellow filth splattered out from the cranium, spraying the wall, the CT scanner, and the window.



The reporter stumbled away from the fouled glass, her legs giving way beneath her. Her mouth chanted uncontrollably, “Oh my God oh my God oh my God…”



Joan remained calm, professional. She spoke to the stunned radiologist. “Bob, we need a Level Two quarantine of that room. Stat!”



The radiologist just stared, unblinking, as the mummy quieted its convulsions and lay still. “Damn,” he finally whispered to the fouled window. “What happened?”



Joan shook her head, still calm. She replaced her glasses and studied the room. “Perhaps a soft eruption of pocketed gas,” she mumbled. “Since the mummy was frozen at a high altitude, methane from decomposition could have released abruptly from the sudden thawing.” She shrugged.



The reporter finally seemed to have composed herself and tried to take a picture, but Joan blocked her with a palm. Joan shook her head. There would be no further pictures.



Henry had not moved since the eruption. He still stood with one palm pressed to the glass. He stared at the ruins of his mummy and the brilliant splatters sprayed on walls and machine. The debris shone brightly, glowing a deep ruddy yellow under the halogens.



The reporter, her voice still shaky, waved a hand at the fouled lead window. “What the hell is that stuff?”



Clutching the Dominican crucifix in his right fist, Henry answered, his voice dull with shock: “Gold.”



5:14 P.M.



Andean Mountains, Peru



“Listen… and you could almost hear the dead speak.”