Chapter Fifteen

That night, a fierce wind blew in, shaking Storage Tent 2. It whipped the canvas, blowing sand in through the front slit. The gritty taste in Private Joe Dunlap’s mouth was a constant reminder he worked in purgatory.

He always got the shit jobs. That was his lot in life. He came from the poorest suburb in Liverpool, where generations of Dunlap men suffered for meager wages. Runt of the litter in a family of ten kids, “Little Joe” Dunlap had always been at the bottom of the pecking order, gotten the smallest pork chop at supper, and carried out the most dreadful chores. That curse followed him when he signed on to work as part of Captain Gosswick’s crew. Ever since Dunlap had gotten here, he’d been stuck working the graveyard shift.

At least he wasn’t pulling cave duty. For once, the fates had shown him mercy when he won a bet in a poker game – three lovely queens trumping a fool’s bluff – and got to switch duties with Private Bigsby.

An hour into his shift, Nigel Bigsby stopped by Storage Tent 2 to bring Dunlap tea and biscuits, another perk from winning the bet. Bigsby was dusted from head to toe in sand. “It’s a bloody tempest out there.” He pushed his goggles up to his forehead and spoke in a mock old English voice. “‘Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gabardine; there is no other shelter hereabouts.’”

“What’s that from?” Dunlap asked, not understanding a single word of it.

“Shakespeare’s The Tempest, of course.” Bigsby was always quoting from his books. At supper he’d spouted off lines from Don Quixote. Now he gazed at Dunlap with eyes full of envy. “That chair looks mighty comfortable.”

Dunlap leaned back. “It’s heavenly.”

Bigsby dug a hand in his pocket and pulled out some pound notes. “I’ll pay you fifty quid to switch back to cave duty.”

“You could offer me all the gold in Egypt, mate, and I wouldn’t switch places.” Dunlap poured a cup of tea from the thermos, dipped a biscuit in the steaming cup, happy to be away from the tomb.

Bigsby sighed. “I guess it’s me and the cave ghosts then. ‘Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.’”

“The only bedfellows I want tonight are these ladies.” Dunlap held up a pinup magazine.

“Better not get too carried away with that. Gosswick is lurking about.” Bigsby pulled down his sand goggles and quoted Shakespeare again. “‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends. Once more.’”

* * *

Nigel Bigsby made the harrowing march through the sandstorm to the cave. It was going to be a bugger of a night. He passed bleary-eyed workers as he descended the dirt ramp to the tomb’s doorway.

Rex Sykes, who’d been guarding the entrance during the day shift, looked down at his watch. “’Bout damned time, Bigsby.”

“Sorry, I was just—”

“Save your story, I’m off to bed.” Sykes hurried up the ramp, leaving Bigsby alone at the gate. Twenty feet underground, at least he was out of the sandstorm.

An Egyptian worker singing in Arabic rolled a wheelbarrow past him and vanished in the gloom of the cave. The laborers were working deep in the tomb tonight, one level down. He could just make out the sound of their picks striking the stone walls.

Nothing to do now but pass the time till the bright eye of dawn winked in the morning. Bigsby flicked on an electric torch and opened a book that he’d brought. The Lair of the White Worm. He’d be spending the night with Bram Stoker. Talk about a strange bedfellow. Stoker’s gothic writing got under Bigsby’s skin and festered there – like a nest of white worms. He chuckled at the pun. Stoker was perfect reading to keep Bigsby awake all night.

He barely read half a page when he heard a scraping noise behind him. A stench of foul body odor caused his nose to twitch. The workers sweated all day and rarely bathed. Many stunk as bad as the camels. He turned, expecting another group of workers to emerge from the cave’s bowels. No one came.

The scraping sounded again a moment later. Bigsby stepped a few feet into the cave, swishing his torch beam. A body pressed up against him from behind. Before he could cry out, a hand clamped around his mouth.