The Khufu Equation (22 page)

The blow was mighty. His hair stood up and his muscles convulsed. In his brain the only discernible thought was, "No-o-o-o!"

The Beast directed its attention to Jeff, but the boy's father wasn't off the hook. He hung in the air as before, from which point he could see his son in a battle with the Angel of Death.

"I'll give the punishment you deserve, child of a rat," said the Essence. "Here! Look into these eyes! You little piece of nothing, I'll split you into atoms!"

Slaiker, unable to tear free of the demon's energy beam, beat at the air with his fists. He saw his son levitate and drift forward. The demon, housed in the woman's body, caught him by that blue dress and hissed: "Turn back into your body, little rat!"

A dry cracking sound, similar to the breakage of a dead branch, told Jeff that he was in body again, like gin in a bottle.

"S-s-slaik-e-er!" A terrible grimace contorted the face of the flight attendant. "Take one last look at your little rat. Happy landing to you!"

The Beast's laughter, like the victory howl of a hellhound, went to every corner of the cargo bay. Slaiker, though, wasn't conquered because, as the spiritual essence in direct opposition to evil, he remained untouched.

The Boeing 747 was down to thirteen thousand feet. At this point the outside temperature was minus five degrees Centigrade, and the atmosphere had oxygen sufficient for human survival.

The stewardess, with a free hand, made a magic pass to the side of the luggage hatch. It opened, inducing a vacuum. Immediately, anything that wasn't fastened down--garbage, extra boxes, brushes and tarpaulin sacks--flew out of the hold.

The flight attendant pushed Slaiker out of the energy beam, and he too was sucked from the hold. As he fell into darkness, neither icy cold nor cries of despair could alleviate the pain of a world that had gone insane.

The air within the pilot's cabin beat and reverberated as Captain Garrett let forth a volcanic yell.

"Aaaarrrrgh! Damn it! The automatic system doesn't work! Everything is out of order!"

Wesson, the copilot, increased his pressure on the wheel.

"Ah . . . ah . . . ah! We're going to crash. Lord, help us!

"Shut up, freak! Praying won't help you."

"Then, what do you suggest!?" he shrieked in reply.

Suddenly, Garrett remembered the message he had perceived in those strange coffee balls, and it gave him confidence.

"I know what to do."

Wesson could sense the firmness in the captain's voice, and he understood. His lips began to move.

"Coffee balls . . . some sort of message . . . ."

The plane had to land in Cambodia at Phnom Penh. If anything was done to the contrary, it would crash.

The captain struggled with the wheel and, with a mighty effort, maneuvered the jet into an arc right alongside the Maldives. Soon the controls returned to normal. Using all his strength, he pulled the wheel toward himself. The system functioned as expected. The nose of the plane began to rise, and at the height of eight thousand feet the plane settled into its new course.

The 747 had plummeted through the air for two minutes and thirty seconds, at the rate of six thousand feet per minute.

If John could have seen himself from an outside perspective, he would have fully testified that old age and gray hair were diametrically opposite. The gray strands that had peppered his dark hair now smoldered as if they had been torched. Certainly it was a night that he would related to his wives till the end of his days.

The aircraft reached an altitude of thirteen thousand feet, whereupon Garrett decided that he would conduct a little experiment. He tried it at twenty-five thousand feet, but any attempt to direct the plane to the Maldives produced a decidedly negative result. Either the undercarriage opened spontaneously or one of the engines refused to cooperate.

The experiment was a failure. Saving the life of one old woman could cost them all dearly. The chances were high that all three hundred and fifty aboard--including the old woman--would be lost.

Garrett flew the 747 with the certainty that he would land the plane only at Phnom Penh, Cambodia. He didn't believe in supernatural forces, though. More likely, it was the work of terrorists who had command of the automated systems via remote control. The navigator didn't support that assessment, but he tried not to push his view of things. He remembered the captain's anger and understood that it was Rita Amesbury's last flight as an attendant.

John would grind stone with his teeth if it was the only way to disqualify Rita. To achieve that purpose, nothing would be considered off-limits.

Rita wept quietly, tending to her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. She momentarily realized the plane was falling. The drastic change in pressure produced a sickening sensation as the blood surged toward her brain. However, having considered death amid sleep to be at least a bit more humane, she decided not to wake the passengers.

Two minutes later, Rita thanked God for the miracle of salvation, and for the next ten minutes she tried to calm herself. Inhaling air greedily and swallowing tears, she didn't guess that very soon she would endure something even more disgusting.

She hadn't immediately remembered the sick woman for whose sake the plane had to choose a new destination. She entered the economy-class cabin and found the woman in an unnatural pose. Her pale hands were drawn out with the palms turned upward. One could read the emptiness in her deep-set eyes, and her thin wrinkled lips were pursed as if to kiss. She looked like the evil witch from an animated fairy tale.

The stewardess felt for a pulse, but the old woman was dead. Rita crossed her arms and closed the eyelids with a pass of her palm. Distressed about the death, she turned to leave but was interrupted by a sudden squeaking sound:

"Rita!"

Rita turned back toward the woman. She sat there in the same position as before, with eyes open and hands extended. Trying not to analyze anything, Rita again crossed the arms and closed eyelids. This time, however, she didn't attempt to leave. She watched the old face in order to see what might happen.

Did she honestly think the deceased woman might suddenly spring to life? Bah! It was foolish to expect something like that, and it was crazy to wait for it.

The eyelids on the old face began to quiver, and the lips parted ever so slightly. Rita's heart cringed into a lump, and then it was as if her soul had been plunged into boiling oil.

The deep-set eyes opened, the mouth spread into a wicked grin, and raw-boned hands, so thinly clad in jaundiced skin, seized Rita's forearm in a steely grip.

"Thank you, Rita, for such care," whispered the voice. "You're simply a dear . . . and I'll be you taste nice too!"

Rita retreated immediately, shrieking as she wrested her arm from the grip of the living corpse. A bolt of energy blasted forth from the old woman's palm and knocked Rita to the floor. She attempted to get up, but she could only get onto her elbows. Sharp nails held her neck like talons, threatening to eviscerate her in front of the passengers, who froze in disbelief.

The old woman bounded onto the chest of the victim and, having pressed her neck to the carpet, howled to the moon like a she-wolf. Rita flailed frantically with her legs, trying to dislodge the assailant. The corpse thing, however, was possessed of strength far beyond what she could have expected. The grip on Rita's neck grew tighter, and she could scarcely breathe.

Rita bid a gasping farewell to life when the old woman, with eyes rolled back to the whites, drew in her lips and made a deep inhalation, sucking out Rita's life energy in a thin, silvery stream. A stream of thought--a filigreed cloth of recollections, experience and aspirations--met the lips of that living corpse and was taken in.

Rita felt the world around her darken, as if a charcoal-gray sheet had been drawn over everything. Sounds sank into a glutinous mass, and tactile sensations dissolved into a vague tingling, like windblown sand upon dry skin.

The last three breaths were free and full. It was useless to call for help. It was simply her last desire to feel the flow of air into her lungs, but she knew that wasn't to be. Then, quite unexpectedly, came the sensation of blood flow into her face. The feeling of dry creaking, like the opening of a door long ignored, led her to understand that she was again in her own body.

The flesh of the corpse woman suddenly loosened as the clench of those bony hands relaxed, giving the stewardess the chance at freedom. She wriggled to the side aside. The witch lay on the floor, writhing like a headless snake. Blood was purging from her heart and every orifice. From her back projected the handle of a knife, which had been driven in with such force that the hilt of it had punctured the woman's jacket. There stood the short man in a monastic cassock. His hair was gray, and a wide scarlet scar was visible on the right side of his face.

The old woman looked at the person in cassock and whispered:

"You will not live long. When the new moon rises, the Beast will open the Gates of Set and then I'll be back. We are many . . . ." Her last sounds were swallowed by eternity. Right before Rita's eyes, the body decomposed and burned into tiny ashen shreds.

Tears poured forth from her eyes. She had never put much stock in deliverance, and the monk could read the suspicion in her eyes. The monk removed the blade, put it into the white-stone scabbard, and placed it back around his neck. He then approached the young woman and helped her to her feet. She could now see his terrible scar up close. It was frightening, but her inherent distrust was melted away by the warmth that radiated from his obsidian eyes.

"We need to get away," said the monk as he took the woman by the hand. Rita acquiesced.

"It'd be stupid not to trust this man," thought the attendant as she followed Father Sohn up the aisle through the cabin.

Rita caught a flash of bright light in her periphery. Her curls, picked up by a stream of air, lifted a little and closed around her face as she walked. Something led her to turn around, though, and this led Krepfol to do the same. A fiery wormhole funnel had opened in front of them. It was distinct from the one the pilgrim had seen in Paris: It didn't draw in particles from the surrounding space but instead pushed outward.

The pilgrim felt a wave, like a pang of anxiety, emanate from the book under his robe, and a second later a horde of ominous shadows spewed forth from the wormhole. They careened along the rows and seized upon their victims, penetrating deeply into the somnolent bodies. Here and there in the darkness someone's eyes would flash, like emerald fireflies.

"Leave here, immediately!" shouted the pilgrim, whereupon Rita came to her senses. "Otherwise, it will be too late!" Even as he spoke, Rita rushed ahead, away from the fiery funnel. She quickened her steps, but she could feel a demonic energy at her back. Sohn had nearly caught up with her when Brett abruptly emerged from the darkness. It was a surprise to Rita, who retreated to the safety of his guardianship.

"Quiet," said the monk, whispering into her ear. "He's one of ours." Rita's heart pounded so insistently that the monk could hear it.

The commissioner nodded toward the wormhole.

"Jeff was down below, in the hold, while his father fought the Beast," said Brett. "We need you there."

"It's too late," replied the monk. "Your friend is gone. Our task now is to survive and kill the creature."

"Where's Jeanette?" asked Brett.

"I wasn't able to stop her," said Father Sohn. "She went to find Jeff."

"We have to save them!" Brett couldn't help but feel frantic in his urgency.

"I am truly sorry for your friend," said Father Sohn, "but at least the boy and Jeanette will be alive until the Beast finds the stone." With his head he indicated the forest of green lights that moved back and forth amid the darkness of the cabin.

"The Beast has prepared a trap for us. He has looked into Rita's eyes. So, we need a secret place." Rita gave a sigh and then said, "Come on."

The trio ascended the staircase, whereupon they entered a quiet room and locked the door. It was a luxury cabin reserved for the elite. In front of the leather divan, curving along the wall, there was a small table, and opposite it was a large flat-screen video monitor. Fortunately, the place had no other occupant.

"Can you please tell me what is happening aboard this plane!?" cried Rita to the two men. She was almost too frightened to be hysterical.

"This is only a general rehearsal," the monk answered. "Now, I need to tell you this: Demons can penetrate into the bodies of sleeping people, but only at night." Then, however, he offered something more, which came with a sudden realization: "Tomorrow, they'll be able to do so in the daytime and with any person, whether asleep or awake."

"But why is that?" Rita asked.