Tombquest: Book of the Dead

The Hyena

Back in the museum, a new guard named Jonas held up a large leather bag. "It's okay," he said. "Just bringing something to one of the guys."

Oscar had been leaning against the wall next to the thick steel door of the security room. He pushed himself free and took a few steps forward. He looked closely at his fellow guard. They were wearing the same uniform but were separated by decades of experience. "Listen, I know you're new here," he said. "What's it been, a couple weeks? But this room is for authorized personnel only — and you ain't it."

Jonas didn't budge. Oscar cocked his head slightly, assessing the situation. He wasn't used to having his orders ignored by newbies. The two guards sized each other up: both big men, one younger, the other more experienced.

"Is there a problem?" said Oscar.

"No problem," said Jonas. "It's just, I think he'll want this."

He unzipped the bag and reached in with one hand. Then he let the bag fall to the floor.

"What is that?" said Oscar, his disgust evident in both his tone and his expression. "A dog's head or something?"

Jonas smiled. He raised the leathery brown object up and began slipping the mask on.

Oscar almost retched. It was a dog's head — or something like one, anyway. But the fur was long gone, and the skin seemed as close to beef jerky as leather.

"This isn't Halloween," he said, shaking off the initial shock. Oscar was a trained fighter and an ex-Marine. He even bore a certain resemblance to a middle-aged Muhammad Ali. To say he wasn't easily scared was an understatement. And today, he was guarding the security room. Inside were the controls and monitors for all the cameras in the museum, along with the mainframe controlling the alarms and time locks.

It was an important job. He stood his ground.

"Not Halloween," said Jonas, his face covered now and his voice distorted by the dry, hollow mask. "No holiday at all."

Oscar vaguely recognized the face as a hyena's from some long-ago nature show. The skin was very old, dried, and stretched. The expression was a grotesque leering smile. Oscar's eyes darted toward the alarm button on the wall.

He lunged for it.

The man in the mask raised his hand and Oscar felt his fingers crunch, jammed backward as if he'd thrust them into a concrete wall instead of empty air. Gasping from the pain, he tried to pull his hand back but couldn't. He tried to turn, tried to shout, tried to do anything, but he couldn't. He was frozen, pressed in place as if by the air itself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man in the mask slowly closing his outstretched hand. And as the fingers closed, Oscar felt the breath being squeezed from his lungs.

~~

Elsewhere in the museum — barely a strangled cry away — Alex's mom had just shut down the new exhibition. The curtains were back up. The signs on the front, still warm from the printer, read: CLOSED FOR REPAIRS: WILL REOPEN SOON! She wasn't sure either of those statements was true.

"Okay, walk me through it again, Cris," she said, turning to Ren's dad. "Everything so far."

They were standing in a small room, just off to the side of the one housing the Lost Spells.

Mr. Duran took a deep breath. "Well, the Book of the Dead basically looks like it was made last Tuesday. The cloth is way too supple and most of the discoloration is gone. Three of the four canopic jars have fallen over. That beetle encased in amber, in the jewelry display? Hector swears he saw its legs moving. And this ..." He trailed off.