Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

She heard a cry and saw, through the swirling mist, a woman nearby, lying on one side, being trampled by the crowd. Instinctively, she bent forward, grabbed an upraised hand, and hauled her to her feet. The woman’s face was bloody, one leg crooked and obviously broken-but she was still alive.

“My leg,” the woman groaned.

“Put your arm around my shoulder!” Nora yelled.

She forced herself into the stream of people and the two were borne along through the doorway into the Hall of the Chariots. A dreadful, growing pressure… and then suddenly there was space, people milling about, disoriented, their clothes torn and bloody, weeping, shrieking for help. The woman sagged on her shoulder like a dead weight, whimpering. At least here they would be rid of the murderous barrage…

And yet, strangely, they were not. She had not escaped the sound, or the fog, or the strobe lights. Nora looked around, disbelieving. The fog was still rising fast, and more lights flashed from the ceiling-relentless, blinding bursts that each seemed to cloud her brain a little further.

Viola’s right, she thought in a vague, confused way. This was no malfunction. The script didn’t call for strobes or fog in the Hall of the Chariots; only in the burial chamber itself.

This was something planned-deliberate.

She clutched her throbbing head with one hand, urging the woman along, plodding slowly forward toward the God’s Second Passage and the tomb exit that lay beyond. But once again, a seething mass blocked the narrow door at the far end.

“One at a time!” Nora screamed.

Directly ahead of her, a man was trying to beat his way through the crowd. With her free arm, she seized him by his tuxedo collar, yanking him off balance. He looked around wildly, took a swing at her.

“Bitch!” he yelled. “I’ll kill you!”

Nora backed off in horror and the man turned back, grabbing and tearing at the people before him. But it wasn’t just him: all around, people were screaming, boiling with rage, eyes rolling in their sockets-utter bedlam, a Boschean vision of hell.

She felt it even within herself: overwhelming agitation; a muddy, unfocused fury; an impending sense of doom. Yet nothing had actually happened. There was no fire, no mass murder-nothing to justify this kind of mass insanity…

Nora spotted the museum’s director, Frederick Watson Collopy. His face looked shattered and he was staggering forward toward the doorway, one dead-looking leg trailing behind him: Draaaag-thump! Draaaag-thump!

He spied her and his ravaged face grew bright and hungry. He staggered toward her through the crush. “Nora! Help me!”

He seized the injured woman. Nora was about to thank him for his help, when he tossed her roughly to the ground.

Nora looked at him in horror. “What the hell are you doing?” She stepped forward to help the woman but Collopy seized her with incredible force, his hands clawing and grasping at her like a drowning man. She tried to twist free, but his desperate strength was shocking. In his frenzy, he twisted one arm around her neck.

“Help me!” he screamed again. “I can’t walk!”

Nora jabbed him in the solar plexus with her elbow and he staggered, but still clung to her.

There was a sudden flash by her side and Nora saw Viola, kicking Collopy fiercely in the shins. With a shriek, Collopy released his grip and collapsed to the floor, writhing and spitting curses.

Nora grabbed Viola and together they backed away from the writhing crowd, staggered toward the rear wall of the Hall of the Chariots. There was a crash and the sound of shattering glass as a display case toppled over.

“My head, my head!” Viola groaned, pressing her hands to her eyes. “I can’t think straight.”

“It’s like everyone’s gone crazy.”

“I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“I think it’s the strobe lights,” Nora said, coughing. “And the sounds… or maybe some chemical in the fog.”

“What do you mean?”

And then a swirling image appeared above them-a huge three-dimensional spinning spiral. With a thudding groan of sound, it twisted slowly… and then a piercing tone sounded, and another a quarter tone away, and another, throbbing and beating in dissonance, as the spiral began to rotate faster. Nora stared at it, instantly mesmerized. It was a holographic projection, it had to be. And yet it was real… it was like nothing she had ever seen before. It drew her forward, sucking her in, pulling her down into a maelstrom of insanity.

With a huge effort, she tore her eyes away. “Don’t look at it, Viola!”

Viola trembled all over, her eyes still fixated on the swirling image.

“Stop it!” Nora slapped her across the face with her free hand.

Viola just shook her head to clear the blow, her eyes wild, still staring.

“The show!” Nora said, shaking her. “It’s doing something to our minds!”

“What…?” Viola’s voice sounded drugged. And when she looked at Nora, her eyes were bloodshot-just like Wicherly’s had been.

“The show. It’s affecting our minds. Don’t look at it, don’t listen!”

“I don’t… understand.” Viola’s eyes rolled backward in her head.

“Down on the floor! Cover your eyes and your ears!”

Nora tore a strip off her gown and blindfolded Viola. Just as she was about to blindfold herself, she caught a glimpse of a man standing in an alcove in the far corner, dressed in white tie and tails, utterly calm, an eye-mask over his face, head tilted up, hands clasped in front, standing stock-still, as if waiting. Menzies.

Another illusion?

“Fingers in your ears!” Nora cried, hunching down next to Viola.

They huddled in the corner, eyes squeezed shut, ears stopped, trying to shut out the hideous, grotesque show of death.

Smithback followed Pendergast at a dead run through the emptied museum halls, the beam from the agent’s flashlight licking its way along the velvet ropes. Within minutes, they had reached the rotunda, their footsteps clattering on the white marble, and seconds later, they emerged onto the grand, red-carpeted staircase before the museum. Police cars were arriving in force along Museum Drive now, sirens wailing and brakes screeching. Smithback could hear the thudding of helicopters overhead.

Many of the police were engaged in crowd control, trying to clear Museum Drive of the panicked guests, onlookers, and press. Numerous other police officers were clustered together at the foot of the great steps, where they were setting up a mobile command center. There was pushing and shoving, and a hubbub of shouting filled the air. The flashes of photographers exploded like a fireworks display.

Pendergast hesitated at the top of the stairs, then turned to Smithback. “That’s the subway entrance we need,” he said, pointing to the far end of Museum Drive. Their route was blocked by a seething mass of guests and onlookers.

“It’s going to take twenty minutes to force our way through that crowd,” Smithback said. “And for sure somebody’s going to knock that beaker out of your hands along the way.”

“That would be unacceptable.”

A hell of an understatement, Smithback thought. “What do you plan to do about it, then?”

“We shall simply have to part the crowds.”

“How?” But even as he asked the question, Smithback saw a gun appear in Pendergast’s hand. “Jesus, don’t tell me you’re going to use that.”

“I’m not going to use it. You are. I wouldn’t dare fire a gun while carrying this-the proximity of the discharge could set it off.”

“But I’m not going to-”

Smithback felt the gun placed in his hand. “Fire into the air, high up into the air. Aim out over Central Park.”