Chapter Text
"So what's your group's little problem got to do with the People's Protective French Air Force?"
They eight of them—because apparently Javert wouldn't be coming with them, the bastard—all stood huddled around General Lamarque. Grantaire had just finished relaying the entire story to the old man, who looked excited at the thrill of the adventure. He grinned; he knew Lamarque wouldn't be able to resist the allure of danger.
Shrugging his shoulders, he replied "Honestly? Not a goddamn thing."
While this answer should have disinterested the old man, it instead did quite the opposite. Intrigued, he sat forward in his chair.
"Is it dangerous?"
Bahorel clicked his tongue. "You probably won't live to see another day."
Lamarque's eyes sparkled. "By God, do you really think so?"
"Everyone else we've bumped into has died. Why wouldn't you?" muttered Joly.
Lamarque nodded excitedly. "So what's the mission then?" Grantaire grinned.
"To save the real gold of Hamunaptra, kill the bad guy, steal his treasure, and maybe seal it all with a kiss at the end."
Lamarque jumped out of his seat in enthusiasm, giving them a dramatic salute. "General Lamarque, here at your service!"
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Enjolras was tired.
He had no idea how long he had been walking through this godforsaken desert. In the sweltering heat, with the exception of one water break, Imhotep had kept them moving the entire time. His feet throbbed mercilessly, and the wrist which the mummy had grabbed him by had turned out to be the one he had injured, so not only was his throat parched from thirst, his body aching from exhaustion, and his feet dead, but his wrist was also constantly making him spot faint, dancing stars.
Once, the mummy had offered to carry him, if it would make the trip go faster, but Enjolras had steadfastly denied, his mind flashing back to memories of a different man picking him up and carrying him, holding him in close and warm and safe…
He was jerked out of his memories when he suddenly found himself airborne. He screamed as he went soaring through the air, landing in a dune, sprawled flat next to Thenardier. Panting, he watched as Imhotep solidified once more, no doubt the sandstorm that swept him and Thenardier up in the air. The mummy looked to be in deep concentration.
"What just happened?" he asked as he shook the sand from his hair. Thenardier sat there looking dazed.
"All I remember is him turning into a blast of sand… and then I remember nothing."
WHIRRRR…
Above them, Enjolras was able to make out the faint sound of a spinning blade.
What?
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The eight of them—plus Lamarque of course—had to squeeze to fit into the tiny plane. At first, Grantaire had suggested that only he and Courfeyrac, go to save Enjolras, but of course Combeferre had to argue that Enjolras was like a little brother to him, and then Bahorel said he wasn't going to lounge around while the "Chief" was in danger, and Feuilly reminded him that he was his senior officer and could thereby order him to let him come, and Joly told them that it was necessary they have a doctor present in case things went awry, and Bossuet said he was undeterred by his apparent "bad luck" and that the "lad" needed to be rescued, and Jehan claimed they would all be completely lost without their knowledge of Egyptology—and in short?
They all ended up coming.
So, in the present moment, the eight of them sat tight in the plane, screaming as Lamarque whipped through the air, flying the plane in the most unsafe fashion Grantaire would ever go through. He fought to keep his nausea down as Lamarque laughed merrily.
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Squinting his eyes, Enjolras spotted what he thought—no, scratch that—knew was a plane. Soaring through the air, it seemed to be making its way over to where they were.
Wait, who is that?
Upon better inspection, Enjolras could make out eight, plus the pilot, figures all squished together, faces fixed in expressions of permanent screams. He laughed a little when he realized who the people in the plane were.
They came for me!
Grantaire came for me!
His momentary joy was cut short, however when his ears rang with a shrill shriek. Wincing, he rushed to cover his ears as he turned to watch in horror as the mummy unhinged his jaw and, screaming, erected a giant wall of sand in the air set up straight in the path of the plane. His heart dropped.
No.
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Holy shit.
Mentally deciding that this would be the last time he ever stepped foot on a plane again, Grantaire looked on in impending panic as the wall of sand rose up in front of them. Behind him, the rest of the crew screamed.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"
"OH MY GOD!"
"WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!"
"I HAVEN'T EVEN TOLD YOU HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU!"
"WELL I LOVE YOU TOO!"
"NONONONONONO!"
"THIS IS JUST MY LUCK!"
Meanwhile, Grantaire was trying his best to ignore the game of dominance his guts were playing down in his body. He did not need any ill- fated vomit fests. Beside him, Lamarque cackled in unrestrained joy.
"Squeeze tight boys! It's about to get… sandy!"
“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”
That is the worst joke I’ve ever heard would have been something Grantaire would have said if he wasn’t too busy screaming and gripping onto his seat.
They shot through the air at speeds which he had previously thought impossible, careening right and left as the sandstorm behind them gave chase to their tiny plane.
“Left!” called Lamarque as he suddenly sent the plane rolling through the sky left.
“NO STOP STOP STOP!”
Turning back around. Grantaire spotted the sandstorm quickly take shape—the shape of the grinning head of the mummy.
“Right!”
“WAIT, NO DON’T— AAAAHHHH!”
As they tumbled through the sky, Grantaire watched in the rearview mirror as the sandy head of Imhotep unhinged his jaw, surged forwards—
And engulfed their plane.
“Hold on boys!”
They all screamed for mercy as the sandstorm surrounded the plane and began to rock them dangerously in the air.
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“NO!” Enjolras jumped to his feet and grabbed the mummy’s arm, shaking it violently. “Stop it! You’ll kill them!” Imhotep looked at him and laughed, closing his eyes and flexing his fingers, strengthening the force of the storm. In the air, the sound of eight shrill screams sliced through the air like a scythe. He watched in terror as the giant head of sand took over the plane, sending it spinning out of control through the air, sand so thick around it the plane was almost invisible from view.
Think, Enjolras, think!
With a hesitant look at the concentrated face of the mummy, and a last desperate glance at the tumbling plane, he flung his arms around Imhotep’s neck and kissed him hard on the lips. The mummy made a noise of surprise in the back of his throat, ripping his eyes open to peer down at Enjolras. Using his momentary distraction to his advantage, Enjolras turned the man around, facing away from the storm. The mummy wrapped his arms around his waist and brought him closer, kissing him back fiercely. Trying his best not to squirm, Enjolras watched as the storm ceased immediately, the mummy’s concentration effectively broken. He pulled himself away, grinning as he watched the plane fight its way out of the remaining sand.
“Yes!” His victory was short-lived, however, when he noticed the plane had lost all control over itself from the force of the sandstorm. He watched in horror as the plane hurtled towards the ground, heading towards its inevitable crash.
“NO!”
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Inside the sandstorm, the plane lost all virtual control over itself; the General was trying in vain to gain back control of the plane as the storm tossed them through the air, sending them spinning, tumbling, crashing.
Behind him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had their arms around each other, hanging onto one another for dear life, Feuilly was furiously muttering a prayer, Bossuet was crying that this was just his bad luck, Bahorel had wrapped his enormous arms around Jehan and Joly, who was yelling something about the sort of illnesses that may be present in the dust and sand. Grantaire himself was ready to give out as he felt the plane tip and his own body dangerously teeter to the side. He screamed.
“I’ve got you boy!” Lamarque used his free hand to grip onto his shirt sleeve.
As the plane rolled through the sky, the sand surrounding them suddenly dropped to the ground, leaving the plane that had so far been carried by the force of the storm, alone with nothing to propel them.
“We’re going down men!” Lamarque laughed maniacally.
“YOU’RE INSANE!”
“AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!”
The plane went into a free fall as it plunged towards the Earth. The wind slapped at his face as he braced himself for impact, screaming like he had never before.
“Here we go laddies!”
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“ AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”
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CRASH!
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BOOM!
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The wind was knocked out of his lungs as they smashed into a sand dune. Screaming, his vision did a complete 360 as he felt the plane roll and roll until eventually their momentum came to a halt and Grantaire came crashing down onto the sandy ground. He groaned.
I’m never getting on another one of those deathtraps again. It was for Enjolras. Only for Enjolras.
“Excuse me, but can we get some help here? Please? GRANTAIRE!”
Shaking out of his trance, he forced himself on his shaky legs, staggering over to where the rest of his friends hung upside down. Pale, shaking, and muttering nonsensically, it seemed the rest of the group shared Grantaire’s sentiments regarding plane rides. Whoever fashioned the airplane must be very disappointed; to have spent so long creating a mode of transportation no one in the future would want to use! Grantaire pitied them. No sir, the future was simply ships and perhaps better cars.
Rifling through the seats, they all staggered away with whatever weapons and ammo had survived the journey. Glancing back at the pilot’s cockpit, Grantaire realized with a slight jolt that General Lamarque was dead. With a peaceful smile on his face, the life he had for so long grown bored of had at last left his body.
“Poor General…” Jehan murmured as they looked upon his body. They jerked back when the sand around them started to shift and give away.
“GET TO HIGHER GROUND!” Combeferre yelled, latching onto Courfeyrac’s hand, tugging him away to more solid sand. Grantaire himself tried to make his legs move, but found he lacked the strength. Quickly, Bahorel hauled him up by the waist, dragging him away (huh—so this is how Enjolras felt when he would pick him up) just as the sand lurched and swallowed the plane—Lamarque included—whole. They stared.
“Well, at least he went out with a final bang,” Grantaire remarked. He grinned and gave a hearty salute. “So long, General.”
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Great. Back at the start of the entire mess.
Climbing down the ravine, Grantaire paused to look over the familiar ruins of Hamunaptra. Twisting his mouth, he shook his head in contempt. There was nothing special about the place anymore; he admitted, the first time he had arrived on the grounds of the ancient city, excitement had coursed through his veins and he had been left breathless, but that had been at the thought of the gold supposedly hidden inside. His memories of the place now left him wearied and tired; there just wasn’t anything worth dwelling here for.
But Grantaire, think about the history! It’s not about the treasure! Do you know how many Pharaohs have roamed these lands? They entrusted these lands with the secrets of death, would come only to perform the most dangerous of rituals, it’s the whole reason why the place is known as the City of the Dead! Grantaire did you know —
He smiled. Maybe he didn’t care much for Hamunaptra anymore, but Enjolras did. And even after this whole hellish adventure, if he wanted to come back, then Grantaire would be damned if he didn’t come along, letting himself be dragged around by Enjolras' little hand so delicate in his own, listening and laughing as Enjolras rambled on and on about the history of Egypt. He would watch as his eyes would come alive, passionate and bright and glowing, until Enjolras would look up and see the way Grantaire would be looking at him, so, so gone. And then Grantaire would watch as Enjolras would blush and smile shyly, closing his eyes and hitching his breath when Grantaire would back him up against the wall, bracing one hand beside Enjolras’ head of curly hair, leaning down towards his lips and—
“So what the hell does this Horus guy even look like?” Bahorel’s voice jerked him out of his daydream. Shaking his head, he took a deep breath. One step at a time. What he needed to focus on was first getting Enjolras back; the rest, if it ever came to be, came later.
Jehan opened their mouth to answer, but was beaten to speech by Courfeyrac.
“He’s a big fellow with pointy ears and a face like a falcon,” he declared. Jehan shook their head and rolled their eyes.
"Idiots.”
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The recent turn of events had forced Enjolras to reconsider quite a lot of his beliefs. Too much of what he strongly thought had been shaken to prove he was wrong in many instances. In times like these, he wasn't quite so sure about anything anymore.
However, one thing he was quite sure of was that he hated this Thenardier man. How Grantaire managed to stand him during his days in the French Foreign Legion was beyond him.
As he stood, disgusted with the sight of the rotting underground cemetery before him, he felt another prod at his back, and he closed his eyes in frustration.
"Keep moving."
Snapping his eyes open, he turned suddenly to glare at the rat-like man.
"You know, Thenardier, nasty fellows such as yourself always get their comeuppance," he said coldly. For a moment, Thenardier laughed, but when Enjolras continued to let his frigid silence stretch on, he stopped, a worried expression gracing his face. He bit at his lip.
"They… they do?" he asked hesitantly. Enjolras leaned in closer, his eyes full of cold fury.
"Oh yes," he reaffirmed, "always." With that, he walked on ahead, leaving behind a very nervous Thenardier.
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The passageway inside the pyramid looked quite the same as before, softly lit aglow in by the torches some of their members were carrying, dust clouding up with each footstep taken.
It wasn't as if Grantaire resented anyone, no that certainly wasn't the case at all. In fact, Grantaire would say he's made much more genuine friends with these people he's met on this trip than he's ever before (especially with Joly and Bossuet--he really must sit down and simply have a drink with those two.) It's just that, logically as anyone would be able to tell, it takes quite a bit of time for eight people to move together and time was running out and he still didn't know about what Enjolras was going through and that just wasn't okay and they needed to HURRY UP.
"Damn." Bossuet's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. "You guys, take a look at this."
Grantaire whipped around to snap at Bossuet that they didn't have time to take a look at anything, but the words died in horror as he caught sight of what exactly it was that Bossuet wanted them to look at.
In his hand he held a beetle—the same type that had chased him, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac out of the pyramid when the first plague came down upon them, except this one seemed to have had a sort of outer shell that Bossuet was clutching in his other hand, a shiny jewelry.
A shell they had seen litter the ground near where the warden had been standing when he had gone insane.
The realization slammed him and he cried, "Bossuet no, don't!" at the same time the beetle came to life, and in the blink of an eye, burrowed underneath Bossuet's skin.
"What the fuck! WHAT THE FUCK!" Bossuet started screaming as the visible outline of the beetle scurried its way fast up his arm, covered by his shirt sleeve. Madly, Grantaire bolted to where he was panicking and thrashing, ripping open Bossuet' shirtsleeve to better see where the bug had gotten up to. In a flash, Joly was there too by his side, pulling out a knife as Grantaire already grimly knew what had to be done.
"Sorry, Boss, this may sting a little," Joly said absentmindedly.
"Wait what are you—" he cut off into a scream as Joly dug the tip of the knife into his skin in a way that was by no means gentle, slicing his shoulder open as Grantaire latched onto Bossuet's other arm in an attempt to keep him still as he thrashed about. With the skin now tore open, the beetle came scuttling into view, and with the tip of his knife, Joly flung the beetle far from the rest of the group as Bossuet continued to scream, clutching at his bloody shoulder, then jumping back as the beetle then immediately turned and tried to scurry back towards the three. Grantaire hurried to draw his pistol, and with a single bullet he fired and blew the hellbeast to pieces.
The silence that followed was deafening, everyone's breathing heavy in shock, but in the midst of it, Feuilly weakly spoke up.
"As if your luck couldn't get any worse, Bossuet."
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The walls reverberated with the sound of a gunshot that had Enjolras gasping and turning to try and seek out the source. Apart from himself, Thenardier, and Imhotep, there was no one else he could think of inside the pyramid. No one else except eight rather remarkable individuals who he didn't think could have cared so much about him. And within those eight, one very special individual who seemed to be following through on his promise not to abandon him again.
They came, he thought with a small smile.
Beside him, it seemed Imhotep didn't agree with his sentiments, scowling as he rifled through the Book of the Dead. Uneasily, Enjolras wondered what incantation he could possibly be searching for.
Whatever it was, he seemed to have found it, for he started to move his lips in a gentle murmur, soft enough that Enjolras, to his utter frustration, could not hear, and he bent down to gather a handful of sand, throwing it at the wall behind Enjolras.
The wall was decorated with the rather beautiful engravings of four soldiers, all wielding beautifully carved spears. Briefly, he wondered how old the drawings must be.
But any sort of calculations he had begun mentally all flew out of his head as he gasped and tripped backwards over himself in a bid to try and get away from the wall because— dear God those drawings weren’t just drawings anymore why in the world were they moving?
The soldiers seemed to melt right off the wall—whatever it was that Imhotep must have incanted, it brought the drawings to life, and suddenly, Enjolras didn’t think their spears looked so beautiful anymore, and neither did Thenardier, judging by the way he seemed to turn tail and duck behind Imhotep’s form for cover. And by the way the entire passage--the entire pyramid, in fact--seemed to shake, it seemed that these priests weren’t the only ones out there.
As he scurried to move back, he crashed into the solid chest of the mummy, who clamped his hands down on his shoulders in an iron grip that seemed to hold him captive more than offer a reassurance of safety from the advancing soldiers, though, at Imhotep’s action, they stopped.
Enjolras waited with baited breath; clearly the soldiers were awaiting instruction. But no—now that he had the chance to look at them better, Enjolras could see that the figures weren’t really soldiers, more like priests. Still, they were priests wielding spears and evidently looked to be trained, too.
Behind him, Imhotep rumbled off, “ Kill them. Kill them all.”
His stomach dropped. No.
With a nod of his head, the priests marched off opposite the direction they had arrived—and Enjolras whirled around in Imhotep’s grip, furious.
“What?” he yelled. “No! Don’t!” He banged his fists against Imhotep’s chest. “No, call them off! I’m coming with you willingly! Call them off!” He continued banging his fists in anger. What the fuck? What the fuck? He was doing everything the way he wanted him to, he was marching willingly to his doom—or, well, at least, he let Imhotep think he was marching him to his doom—he was following him willingly, why couldn’t he just leave his friends alone? “Call them off! Please! Please?” His voice softened on the last plea. Maybe if he tried a gentler, calmer and more imploring approach, he would listen.
The mummy continued to peer down at him, and Enjolras was wondering whether he should maybe just try and knock him out, grab the book, and make a run for it, when suddenly, he cracked a smile. Cautiously, Enjolras gave him a small smile back.
Then, suddenly tightening his grip, Imhotep raised his right hand high, striking Enjolras across the face and plunging his world into a quiet darkness.
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Grantaire watched as Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Alright, from now on, perhaps we should simply refrain from touching—"
"Anything," Grantaire finished roughly. "Just don't touch anything."
Combeferre pursed his lips as he watched Joly fret over a traumatized Bossuet. "Are you sure you two are… up to continue with us?" he asked concernedly.
Bossuet opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything, Joly beat him to the chase. "I believe it's in all our best interests if both stay behind."
"Wait, I can handle it, we can go—"
"Joly's right, Boss," Feuilly interjected. "You should probably take care of that arm. The last thing you want to deal with is an infection."
Bossuet frowned, but eventually conceded. "Fine. But we'll stay right outside the pyramid, just in case—”
He cut off with a yelp as the earth beneath them began them seemed to come to life, shaking with a series of tremors that nearly knocked them all of their feet. Above them, the ceiling crumbled as dirt and small bits of debris dusted their shoulders.
“Fuck this place scares the shit out of me.” Bahorel muttered when the shaking finally stopped.
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Thenardier hung back in the shadows as he watched the mummy gather the body of the unconscious boy up against his chest and carry him off for whatever the hell ritual he was talking about, leaving him completely alone.
Now was his chance.
Turning tail, Thenardier ran to try and seek out the exit.
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Even in the dark, as Grantaire and the rest all squeezed through the crevice-like pathways and entered a room they had not seen the last time, he could make out a glint.
Above him, he noticed a small crack in the ceiling where a tiny stream of light filtered through the otherwise dark room.
Okay. So what are the mirrors for?
Bit of an ancient Egyptian trick. You'll see.
Turning his gaze once more towards the glint in front of his eyes, he drew his pistol and fired.
All at once, the room flooded with light as what he knew was a mirror turned and projected the beam of light onto another reflective surface which in turn projected onto another mirror which in turn reflected onto another mirror and so on and so forth until eventually the entire room was filled with light, much like Enjolras had shown them the first time they had ventured into the pyramid, before this whole mess started.
Huh. That is a neat trick.
He shook his head.
You know what else would be a neat trick? his mind asked gruffly. Getting Enj back. Focus.
“Holy shit.”
Grantaire shook himself out of his thoughts to see what the matter was with Bahorel, when he caught sight of what lay in front of them--and he himself had to admit, the sight really did take up his attention for a moment.
“The rumours are all real then,” Courfeyrac whispered, “the wealth of Egypt does reside in the city of gold.”
Gold and brightly coloured jewelry—albeit a bit rusted--laid in piles all throughout the room, lending the room a golden glow to it.
No one seemed to be able to form any words. The wealth of Egypt… all the gold of the civilization… Just one handful of this, Grantaire realized, and every single one of their fates could change… Courfeyrac would never have to work his boring-ass law job at the embassy again, Combeferre wouldn’t have to beg for funds for research, Feuilly would be able to step away from the Legion, Bahorel, Joly, and Bossuet wouldn’t have to do… well, whatever the hell it was they did, Grantaire could live without having to worry over where the money would come from--live quite comfortably in fact, and Enjolras…
He jolted out of his gold-induced lust. Enjolras . What was he doing, standing here while Enjolras was God knows where?
The gold could come later. Right now, he needed to focus on getting the real gold of his life back.
Turning around to the rest, he opened his mouth to say just about as much when he felt a hand on his shoulder . He turned to snap at the person demanding his attention.
Instead, he screamed, “HOLY FUCKING SHIT!”
What was that? What was that? What was that?
He staggered backwards as a mummy, much like Imhotep himself save for the fact that this one was a lot smaller, ambled towards him, another close behind. Combeferre drew his gun and fired, one at each, the rest watching as the mummies collapsed, their entire middles blown clean off. “Uh, what exactly were those?” he asked uncertainly as he slid his pistol back in his holster.
Jehan looked grim. “When Imhotep was mummified, his priests were given the same treatment. I suppose that with his new life comes the priests, too.”
“So a package deal, huh?” Courfeyrac muttered.
Jehan rolled their eyes. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“I’ve never killed a priest before,” Combeferre confessed, looking troubled.
Jehan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t look so remorseful, my friend. They’re evil and cursed. They don’t really matter.”
Bahorel winced. “Jesus, I would’ve thought you would be the last person to say something like that.”
Jehan gave them all a mystifying smile. “The more you know about Egyptology…” they shrugged.
Feuilly looked unnerved. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Grantaire heaved an exasperated sigh. “Can we please focus here?” he asked, glaring at the rest. It seemed, however, Courfeyrac hadn’t heard him; instead, his eyes were transfixed behind Grantaire, his expression both incredulous and uncertain.
“Hold on,” he said. “If the priests are like… him… doesn’t that mean they won’t, won’t uh—”
Won’t die.
Whirling on his feet, he watched in a mix of horror and exasperation as the legs of the mummies tried crawling towards them, the torsos not too far behind.
“Come on, give me a break,” he sighed.
They all backed away into a run, heading for the nearest passageway. If this was anything like Imhotep, this would not end well, and unfortunately for Grantaire, Enjolras’ cat—who Enjolras had named Bastet, by the way, what an adorable nerd—was nowhere nearby.
Left!
They all turned—and crashed when Bahorel abruptly stopped and steered them all towards the corridor to the east.
“Not here not here not here!” he yelled frantically. Grantaire was about to yell back and ask why, but decided it would be better to keep his mouth shut when he saw three more skeletal priests head his way.
Okay fine, run east! His mind rushed to give the rest of his body instructions.
“No not that way!” Jehan cried as this time they halted and pushed the rest to run for the western corridor away from where five more mummies seemed to be melting off the walls and coming for them.
His heart pounded as he kept running, changing direction every which way because the place seemed to be crawling with mummies. Soon enough, his surroundings all blurred into one long corridor as his mind failed to keep track of which way they fled.
“This whole place is coming alive!” Feuilly yelled.
At the other end of their current hallway, a crew of six mummies all came to life right in front of their eyes. Grantaire struggled to catch his breath as they all raised their weapons to aim blow after blow—but nothing seemed to be working. All it ever seemed to do was buy them the slightest bit of time before the mummies rejoined themselves again and began to make their way towards them once more.
Gunshots rang out as they all decided it was futile and ran the other way, back where they knew more rejoined mummies were likely waiting.
And yet, he pushed himself on.
Where are you Enjolras? And where’s that goddamn book of yours?
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Thenardier had had enough of this nonsense. As he kept running, desperately seeking out where the goddamnit exit from this hellhole was, he couldn’t help but think that there were so many better people to scam back at Cairo, he would make a much better fortune there, what even was the need to come on the trip, he hadn’t even made a single bit of--
He stopped abruptly in his tracks as he entered a new room, one glowing with a glorious light, a room filled entirely with beautifully glittering—
Gold.
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My wrist. Why does it throb so? Groaning, Enjolras blinked his eyes open, his blurry vision clearing to reveal a vast ceiling above him. Confused, he realized he was laid face up on something hard, something like a…
Panic seized his body.
He was lying atop a preparation table.
A table for the preparation of mummies.
Oh shit.
Struggling, he tried to pull himself up, only to find his arms wouldn’t budge.
No.
Tugging hard, he strained his arms and struggled against the chains he glanced up to realize were tightly locked over his wrists, digging hard into the flesh of his injured left.
No no no no no no no.
Panicking, he tossed his head from side to side and pulled at the chains shackling his wrists, desperately trying to escape from his bonds. On his left he noticed the five sacred jars lined up. When he turned to his right, his heart stopped in his chest. Lying next to him was the crumbling body of a mummy, head turned to face him. The chamber echoed with the sound of his scream.
WHERE THE HELL IS EVERYONE?
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BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
“WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL THESE THINGS COMING FROM?” Courfeyrac screamed as they all rounded yet another corner.
“DOES IT LOOK LIKE I KNOW?” Grantaire roared back as he blasted once more from his gun and urged the rest to all change direction once more.
“These things just won’t quit!” Feuilly exclaimed. They turned the corner once more and—
Oh.
Suddenly there weren’t any more corners to turn. None except the one guarded heavily by eight mummy priests all with wickedly glinting spears.
At this point, Grantaire felt as if he was going to throw up if he had to run any longer.
From their left, rushed in a horde of mummies. On the right, the same sight greeted them. Boxed in, they had nowhere to go and nothing to do but fire and fire and fire and suddenly they were all firing every-which-way, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac—GOD BLESS THEM—had the sense to fire rapidly into the horde guarding the next corner, and they all pulled the next person behind them through the crowd as they continued to blast away and oh shit here we go —
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All around him, mummified priests chanted and drew closer, bowing as he strained in vain against his bonds. His heart pounded in his chest and breathing turned shallow as he spotted Imhotep in his peripheral approach him, black Book of the Dead in hand. The mummy reached a hand out and reverently passed a hand over the face of the body next to him.
“Metjen…”
With his star key, he clicked the book open to a seemingly hidden page, one Enjolras had not seen when he had first looked upon the book. Head spinning, he realized the page the mummy had turned to had been locked away, and could only be accessed if the key had been used.
But why was it locked away?
He has chosen you to be the body needed to regenerate Metjen.
As the realization dawned on him, he screamed and renewed his struggle against the chains that held him in place.
“GRANTAIRE! COURFEYRAC! HELP!”
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“Come on come on come on, where the hell is the statue?” he yelled in frustration.
Running in front of him, Jehan turned around and snapped, “Be patient, Grantaire, it’s kind of hard to look everywhere while we’re running for our lives!”
He gave them an incredulous look. “Yeah? And it’s kind of hard to be patient when we’re running for our lives!”
They rounded the corner—and all screamed when three mummies appeared.
“GET THE HELL AWAY!” Bahorel screamed as he let out three loud gunshots.
Panting, they all pushed through the mummies all struggling to rejoin themselves. Their feet pounded on the ground of the pyramid, and when, when would they find it, when —
“There!” Courfeyrac wheezed. “There it is!”
They raced up to a black statue of a man with the head of a falcon.
“Ah, Horus old friend, how we’ve all missed you,” Courfeyrac panted as they staggered to a stop.
“How do we open it?” Combeferre hissed as Bahorel began to rummage through his pockets. He pulled out a stick of dynamite and a match. Feuilly looked at him as if he was insane.
“Do you always carry that around?” he asked incredulously.
Bahorel rolled his eyes. “I brought it here, I don’t carry around dynamite just for the hell of it, although after this I might—”
“Just give me the dynamite!” Grantaire snapped as he doubled over to catch his breath.
Bahorel shoved the stick in his hands, while Jehan nervously shot quick glances to the entrance behind them. “Do it now, hurry up!”
Taking the match and seeing no better alternative, Grantaire swiped it across Bahorel’s stubbled cheek to gain friction and light it up. Bahorel yelped indignantly, but before he had the chance to protest, Grantaire lit the fuse of the dynamite, threw it at the statue, and screamed, “Hit the floor!”
They all leaped away from the statue and crashed to the ground, their arms above their heads as smoke filled the room and a blast went off that was sure to take years off of Grantaire’s ability to hear properly.
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Imhotep’s chanting grew louder; Enjolras watched fearfully as a swirling black mist materialized around him, travelling past his body and immersing itself into the mummy lying next to him.
No no no no no no.
Every muscle in his body seized up in sheer terror as a shrill shriek pierced the air like a scythe.
“AAAAAAAAHHHHH!”
The body beside him jolted with life, twitching and convulsing. It seemed the spell had worked then.
________________________________________________
Grantaire had thought that with three of them all desperately digging at the seams of secret compartment that was apparently very real (Grantaire hadn't doubted Enjolras' words—he had not ) they would have breached it by now and gotten their hands on the Book of Amun-Ra , but whatever it is that the Egyptians back however many years ago Enjolras had said used, it wouldn't give away easily, and it frustrated Grantaire because goddammit they were running out of time they weren't working fast enough Enjolras still wasn't here, and it seemed the sentiment was echoed too in Combeferre and especially in Courfeyrac, who was clawing at the compartment with a viciousness Grantaire hadn't seen in him before.
The rest stood with their guns drawn, all shooting uneasy glances to the caved-in first entrance point they came into the room through, now thoroughly covered up by debris fallen from the ceiling as a result of the explosion. No one could seem to decide whether this was a good thing--on one hand, it meant there was no possibility of any mummies getting through from that side. On the other, it left them with only one way to go, into a dark corridor…
Well, if it was for Enjolras, then surely he could endure.
Focus!
A loud shriek in their only possible direction of exit forced the hairs on Grantaire’s neck to stand on end as it wormed its way through his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Glancing hurriedly in its direction, he felt his head forced down once more.
“You guys keep digging!” Feuilly yelled as he, Bahorel, and even Jehan drew their weapons. They headed off, guns blazing in the direction of where a horde of mummies were now trying to make their way through to them.
Grantaire shook his head. “These guys just don’t quit.”
“Combeferre I’ve almost got it!” Courfeyrac groaned. Grantaire whipped his head to see him pulling with all his strength at the last of the seams. Flocking to his side, Combeferre and Grantaire joined in his efforts, all sensing a foreboding sense of thrill when they felt something pull, something about to give--
The world around him suddenly spun in motion as he felt himself tugged away from the compartment and hauled to the ground, fear crawling its way up his spine because what the hell was that on his ankle.
“Shit shit shit!” He tried scurrying away, but was tugged back down with a surprising amount of force by a skeletal hand seemingly having popped up from the ground and latched itself around his ankle.
As he toppled once more to the ground, several more skeletal hands all burst from the ground, a few wrapping themselves around Combeferre’s wrists, dragging him away from the compartment, and one grabbing Courfeyrac by the throat.
Grantaire thrashed about with the hand, then released a shriek when a few more popped out--but then this time emerging in full as mummies. Straining his left hand for his pistol, he aimed a bullet for the hand around his ankle, and scurried back when it finally loosened, taking a moment to breathe.
BAM!
The world went rolling once more as a mummy slammed into his side. He choked and brought a hand up to defend himself when he felt its hands claw at his face. With as much force as he could muster, he threw it aside, leaping forwards for the compartment that was now seemingly abandoned as Combeferre and Courfeyrac grappled with the mummies thrashing with them. The breath knocked out of him as he felt himself yanked backwards before his hands could close once more over the seams of the flap holding the secret compartment shut. He fell with a groan hard on the ground, struggling to break free of the iron grasp the mummy standing over him had on his ankles. In horror, he watched as one of the mummies made its way towards the secret compartment, ready to take what they had fought so hard to get to.
Fuck, no!
Struggling, he couldn’t do much else but watch as the mummy closed its hands over the seam. On the floor near him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac still wrestled in the grips of the hellish beasts. The mummy heaved and gave a great tug--
BAM!
Four horrific shrill shrieks pierced the air as the flap tore off and a burst of some sort of a liquid sprayed all four of the mummies all up, effectively melting them.
Seems the second American expedition had a bit of a misadventure of their own today. Three of their diggers were killed.
How?
Salt acid. Pressurized salt acid. Some sort of ancient booby trap, apparently.
Instantly, he felt the grip around his ankles loosen, and over by the side, Courfeyrac gasped and coughed for air.
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Now this . This was a solid investment.
Well it seems at least some good came out of this disastrous trip. Thenardier wheezed as he staggered out of the pyramid and into broad daylight, his bag now jingling with items of precious gold and jewels. He collapsed against a camel, out of breath. This was it. This would make him a fortune. Just a handful of this, and he would never have to steal or con another man again… Well, he wouldn’t have to if he didn’t want to. That didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t want to.
Glancing down at his sack, he smiled gleefully at the fortune inside. Evidently this was enough. There was no need to journey back into the pyramid once more and fill a second bag with even more. Absolutely no need.
Right?
________________________________________________
Feuilly, Bahorel, and Jehan staggered back into the room, all panting, and Bahorel sporting a nasty gash across his arm.
Grantaire glanced up at them and panted out, “How long have we got?”
Jehan dropped to his side. “Not long enough. Hurry the hell up and get the book!”
With their help, Grantaire reached inside the compartment hidden beneath the statue and pulled out an ornately decorated jeweled chest. Courfeyrac ripped off the lid, and Grantaire reached inside.
With wide eyes, he pulled out a leather sack, and with even wider eyes, he reached inside the sack and pulled out a book—the heaviest book he had ever laid his hands on in his life-- and there was a reasonable explanation for why it was so, the book was made of--
“Sweet Jesus,” Bahorel whispered in awe. “It really is made of solid gold then.”
As the Book of Amun-Ra bathed the room in both wonder and a golden light alike, they all lost themselves for a second, just one, until a loud shriek brought reality crashing back on them.
“Shit!”
Feuilly groaned. “Not this again.”
Indeed. Not this again. Because Grantaire didn’t have time for this again. Not when he finally got his hands on the golden Book of Amun-Ra , not when he finally had what he needed to get Enjolras back.
They all stood and faced the entryway grimly. There was no way to go, and the horde of mummies kept growing until they finally all screamed and charged inside. Bahorel swore and let out a barrage of bullets. Grantaire drew his gun once more, but Jehan shoved him aside.
“You three!” they panted, their hair wild. “You three go get Enjolras!”
He shared a glance with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “What about you rest?”
“Oh we’ll manage!” Jehan exclaimed impatiently. “Now go!”
Grantaire opened his mouth to scream back, how? but stopped as the floor shook and a blast coming from Bahorel’s lit stick of dynamite knocked them all to the ground. The caved in entrance was blown back and cleared, now open once more. Courfeyrac gasped and scrambled to pick up the precious book now lying on the floor.
“Go help Enjolras!” Feuilly turned back briefly and yelled. “Go!”
Tripping over himself, he grabbed Courfeyrac by the hand, who in turn grabbed Combeferre’s hand, and together they all raced out the room, leaving behind Feuilly, Bahorel, and Jehan, who all continued to yell and fire, and now instead searching out the chamber in which Enjolras was being held.
________________________________________________
Screaming, he renewed his violent struggle against his bonds, writhing on the tabletop as he sent out a silent prayer.
Where is everyone? Why am I alone? Grantaire where are you? Please help me. You promised you wouldn’t leave me alone again.
“With your death, Metjen shall live, and I will be invincible!”
He tossed his head to the left to see Imhotep tower over him, blade in hand.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. His heart raced in his chest as his chest heaved with his rapid breaths.
You promised you wouldn’t leave me alone again.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Inside his chest, his heart jackhammered and his breathing elevated to the point of hyperventilation; vaguely, his stomach stirred with nausea. As he let out one last helpless scream, Imhotep raised his blade and plunged the tip towards Enjolras’ heart.
His rebellion against the chains that held him captive went slack. Enjolras’ body went limp on the table as his vision was consumed with an endless darkness.