Five thousand years later, in a traffic jam near London's Heathrow airport...
'Watch out!' Trueth screamed just in time for her driver to hit the brakes and avoid a collision with the boulder-sized taillights of the SUV ahead of them. Cascades of water flooded the windscreen of the tiny car, the wipers were losing their battle. One glance convinced Trueth that her driver was as ill-suited to the elements as their battered transport. Sammie's spectacles were steaming up, and he had his nose glued to the windscreen.
Trueth pushed her thumb under the seat-belt, to keep it off her sweaty T-shirt. Underneath, she must be covered in bruises. 'We'll never make it in time for my flight.'
'Sounds like you wouldn't mind?' Sammie polished first the windscreen, then his spectacles with a dubious looking handkerchief and squinted at her through glasses opaque with grease. She ripped them off his nose and used one of the sani-wipes she had bought for her trip to Egypt.
'I don't, actually. If mum had won two tickets at Bingo instead of one she would have taken my sister. Now she's annoyed because I didn't act all happy at her wonderful gift. She's never noticed I stopped being interested in pyramids, mummies and stuff back when I was a teenager.'
'So why are you going at all, then?' He asked.
Anger rose into her throat like acid lava and her left hand tingled. 'I need to relax!'
The traffic sloshed ahead again at a slow but steady pace. Thankfully, Sammie concentrated on driving and said nothing.
He was one of her new colleagues at the Call-Centre, shy but attached to her like a shadow. She had accepted him into the fringes of her life and was concerned about the closeness he was craving. The trip might solve that problem, not just through physical distance. With her luck she was likely to fall prey to the last crocodile in the whole of Egypt and the unfortunate reptile would then exit post haste due to a severe case of food poisoning once it had finished with her. Things might also get worse. She might lose control. Her stomach clenched and Trueth stared at her treacherous left hand.
It was just an ordinary sweaty hand.
Still, what a stupid idea of hers to embark on this adventure when she had freaked out twice in the recent past; under circumstances that had been a lot less stressful than a journey to a bug-riddled foreign country would be.
'Hey, traffic's getting better, you'll make it,' Sammie announced as he turned off the M25 onto the road leading towards Heathrow.
How she wished he were wrong.
Once Sammie had got her to Departures, hefted her suitcase from her car, and—after some obligatory fumbling and slobbering—had driven off, she learned with dismay that the flight to Cairo was late due to the weather. She spotted the long lines at security and her hopes soared. But they were smashed once more when the announcements board presented her with further slippage of the scheduled departure.
Trueth lurched to the gate.
A message from her mother pinged in, asking if she was enjoying the trip the same time they got the boarding call. She responded that the journey was about to start, even though she should have known better.
An hour later, they were still earthbound. Some idiot had checked in his luggage but did not show up for the flight. By now, the familiar sting had returned to her hand. Like an army of spiders the hairs on her nape and arms lifted in unison. Trueth shivered. She hated flying with a passion, but the last time she had boarded an aeroplane was a few years ago. Back then, her problems had not been quite that spectacular.
I must not lose control. I must not. The mantra was not working and Trueth unbuckled her seatbelt, ready to rise, when the cabin doors closed.
She tried to focus on the pre-flight routine and on her calm co-passengers flipping through newspapers or sending messages from their smart phones. The flight attendants of Scarab Air smiled and switched on a recorded voice reciting a prayer to Allah. This did not bode well, and she wondered whether the flight crew knew about her problems. Impossible, but still .... . Her fidgeting must have been visible, for the substantial lady oozing over from the adjoining seat inquired whether she was all right.
'No, I'm not—I hate flying, I hate this trip, and all I want to do is go home and close the door behind me.' Trueth wanted to scream. With all the calm she could muster, she explained the prayer had worried her.
'Oh, they always do that, I fly with them quite a lot, you know.' The woman smiled at her, crocodile-fashion. Trueth wondered whether she would be on the tour as well—if they all survived.
There were too many people in too small a space. Most of them were jabbering, like the two young Arabs seated in front of her. She only noticed them as the hair of the girl resembled the glossy locks she saw in shampoo commercials. Trueth broke out in a sweat, her left hand ceased its tingling and pulsated. A quick glimpse through the clenched fingers showed the telltale blue glow. She dug her fingers into her arm until the flesh went white. She would pay with second-degree burns later, but better her arm than her transport.
Trueth coiled in her seat as the plane gathered speed and jumped into the colourful evening skies.
***
It was one o'clock in the morning when their flight arrived at Cairo airport. Trueth dashed from the plane and shot into the nearest toilet, bowling over a little lady clad in black who appeared asleep one minute but was awake enough to bar her progress and demand baksheesh.
The expression on Trueth's face must have been so ferocious the toilet's guardian ceased pressing her case. Instead she retreated into the safety of her den, swearing in Arabic.
Trueth turned open the faucet and cool water flowed over her arm, easing the dull throb in her limb. A glimpse under the sleeve of her grey fleece jacket showed a hand-sized sunburn in angry red. Trueth kept the water running for a few minutes more until the pain had calmed down and she could face joining her fellow passengers again.
Most of them were trudging past the washroom to baggage reclaim and, when the luggage had arrived half an hour later, to the exit. They all flocked around a man wearing a brown suit, but no socks, with a cardboard sign saying 'Sakhmet Tours of Egypt'.
Out of sheer desperation Trueth had read her guidebook during the flight, filling her head with useless snippets of information. Sakhmet was the eye of Ra, he who could bring life, but also death. Death was what this goddess stood for, the fire of the sun in its zenith, the hot breath of the desert—with war thrown in for good measure. There was no way Trueth was getting onto another plane soon, so there was no escape. She pushed her thoughts aside and shuffled in the wake of the others towards a clapped-out tour bus waiting in front of the terminal.
The bus roared and belched its way through Africa's biggest capital, as the guidebook had stated. Without running over any of Cairo's inhabitants still roaming the streets, the vehicle eventually arrived at their hotel. The tour pamphlet labelled the place as comfortable middle class, which must have been the excuse why it smelled of too many dinners gone stale.
All this did not matter. Trueth only wanted a bed, one without many-legged companions. The thought jolted her, made her skin crawl and, wide awake now, she spent most of the remaining night checking the sheets. With the arrival of dawn, she sank into a troubled sleep.
The following days were equally restless. Their tour guide, Muhammad by name, seemed determined to imprint the Cairo area forever on their minds before they moved up the Nile.
The old bus rumpled through potholes towards the Sphinx, which was a lot smaller than Trueth had imagined. The Pyramids were high enough, but full of people crowding the overheated interior. Why anybody would consider these ramshackle piles one of the world's wonders was beyond her. The Egyptian Museum was worse. It reminded her of her grandmother's attic, dusty and full of discarded junk. For a moment she considered the Tutankhamen exhibition. When she saw the queue spilling all the way down the steps, Trueth gave up.
Instead, she strolled past a collection of faded ushabti. The inscriptions maintained that the small painted figures once had been part of a prince's tomb. They were meant to take the place of the deceased in case the deities wanted work done. Trueth smiled and for a few moments she felt a connection to the past through the whims of a dead people.
The hours passed, and palm trees, ruins and the infernal traffic all tumbled around in her head. It did not help that Mrs. Crocodile, who indeed was one of her fellow tourists, had adopted her and kept her awash with endless waffle.
On their final day, they were to sample the sights of the Saqqara necropolis. Amplified by microphone, Muhammad enthused over the 'Outstanding Wonders of the Ancients! The Step Pyramid of Pharaoh Djoser! The Bent Pyramid!' They got to see odd looking relics and more tombs. By now, Trueth was convinced the ancients had been a morbid lot, but the thought evaporated in her brain like everything else did in this heat.
The highlight of the day was yet to come.
'Authentic Excavation! Professor Al-Nour, Cairo University's finest, is looking for the lost tomb of Imhotep!' Muhammad boomed over the ubiquitous loudspeaker.
Trueth scowled at the ragged heap of stones that classified as step-pyramid while struggling through the blazing heat.
Most of the tourists were fascinated about seeing real-life archaeologists at work. At least they were until a spidery specimen of a professor turned up, covered in dust, old-fashioned glasses askew on his nose. He gave them a monotone rendering of the progress, or lack thereof, that was being made.
'Archaeology is not about unearthing your golden mummy, it's all about examining every scrap you find, it might contain important information.'
The archaeologist waved at a young Arab lounging in the shade of an ancient wall. He was clad in one of those nightshirts far too many of the local men insisted on wearing. 'My son Metjen will now take over, thank you for your interest,' the professor said and without a backward glance at the group he stalked off.
Their new guide strolled from his spot in the shadows, sporting aviators and a forced smile. When he opened his mouth, his baritone was pleasant enough, but he seemed to scan the group from behind his sunglasses. Like a bloodhound on the scent, his head was darting from left to right, until the reflecting glasses faced her way.
The buzzing in her head increased. As did the tingling in her hand. Suddenly it was all too much. The heat, that guy, the dust, the wind, the voices, the noise—they all crested in her brain, leaving her panting, a searing whiteness behind her eyes.
Her hand grew hotter by the second, matching the heat of her power as it rose again.
You must not show yourself, she thought, sweat trickling down her back. Showing meant certain death. She knew that, even if she did not know why. She had to get away—fast.
Sliding away from that robotic gaze, Trueth turned her back on the group. First, she limped around the various obstacles, then stumbled among the rocks where a cistern was ready to swallow her and finally streaked off as fast as she could.
She ran until she could continue no longer. Trueth stopped, supported herself on a boulder, gasping for air. Her throat was dry, spasms of coughing shook her exhausted body. After what felt like ages, she straightened again, one disk at a time. Her limbs felt as rigid as the stones around her and her power had drained away with her energy. Her hand had stopped prickling and, upon inspection, looked grimy but otherwise normal.
The next thought was a lot more unpleasant—she had left her bag with the water in the coach.
Where it sat next to the jacket she had not needed once so far.
Which contained her mobile phone.
Trueth slumped onto the sand.
She did not exercise enough, no way could she have run very far. The people from the tour company would surely find her. She crawled towards the helpful boulder that granted meager shelter from the sun, and desperation hit. The Crocodile would miss her—but she no longer believed her rescuers would know where to search.
Her mood sank further with the lengthening shadows until she almost embraced the thought of going to sleep and never waking again. A light current sprang up and cooled her skin. The sinking sun dabbed the desert in colours of gold, brown and ochre and something looking almost like purple.
How amazing, she thought. How lethal.
The thirst was torture and was getting worse. Trueth could only hope it would be over quickly.
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