The Book of the Dead by Gail Carriger, Will Hill, Jesse Bullington, Paul Cornell, Maria Dahvana Headley, Molly Tanzer Read Free Book Online

Englishwomen, lest they fall under the sultry spell of the Arabs?
    “Uh…”
    “Kinda racist, innit?”
    “No! I mean…” The Mummy is even less comfortable than if she had tried to put the moves on him. The R-word always makes gives him the fidgets. “The monster always loses, even your Count Deep-voice. That’s just how it works, and then they come back. And Egyptians aren’t Arabs. Well, I mean, a lot of us are, of course, but mummies aren’t Arabs. They’re Egyptians. I mean…”
    What the Mummy means is that this was the first film he ever saw where an Egyptian, albeit one played by an Englishman, was the whole point of the movie. The first time he could look at a scratchy picture and see himself, or some part of himself, anyway. Certainly not the best part, but anything is better than absence.
    Then there is that delicious allusion to Karloff’s Imhotep spending a full decade living a mortal life in Cairo, in between when he is raised from the dead by an English archeologist and when he is undone by Isis herself; in the end, it is the good of Egypt that puts down the bad, but before that, before his ambitions undo him, the Mummy has ten precious years to himself, free from those who ruin him.
    But the Mummy cannot articulate any of this; not yet, anyway, in the cluttered bedroom of one of his only friends. Years later, when he’s studying Postcolonialism at Cambridge, well, maybe then he will learn to untangle the way this film has taken root in his heart, and also incorporate the Vampire’s sleepy critique. Even now, though, her complaint strikes him as so obvious as to be embarrassing, and he leaves before she can make him feel any worse for liking a stupid film. Age will bring wisdom, as it sometimes does, but even when it does the Mummy will only be able to parse through Edward Said’s Orientalism with one eye, for the other is about to be bottled out.
    As the Mummy leaves the Vampire’s flat, the Wolfman leaps from the shadows with a howl of “Paki!” He swings the bottle that transformed his misguided jealousy into a violent rage. It doesn’t sound like breaking bottles do in the movies when it shatters against its target. The Mummy doesn’t fall back, but sways in place, limbs stiff as any of his cinematic ilk. His first thought is that the bottle was full and he is soaked in cheap alcohol, alcohol that his parents will think he has been drinking. This terrifies the Mummy, and so it is something of a relief when he realizes the warm liquid is his own blood.
    “Fucking hell!” Smith crows from behind the Wolfman, the rest of the gang clustered close for a better look under the flickering streetlight. “That’s killing the Arab, bruv!”
    “I’m sorry,” the Mummy says, or tries to, anyway. He is concussed, and his sliced lip opens up as he mouths the words at the only other friend he has in the world besides the Vampire. “Just… a film.”
    Then the Mummy collapses, the Wolfman screams, his pack flees, and lights flick on in the block of flats.
    The Mummy smiles as he feels the bandages on his face, but the Vampire looks like she’s about to cry again. He asked his parents to wait outside while he talks to her, and while they frowned about it they obliged. Despite his protests they still hold the innocent Vampire accountable, but the Mummy knows this is entirely his fault, not hers.
    “We’ll fix them,” she assures him, leaning close. “Got it all sussed how to fix the lot, especially Rich.”
    “Nah,” says the Mummy, annoyed that with the stitches in his lip and cheek he cannot do a proper Karloff. “I’m okay. It’s fine.”
    “The fuck it is,” she hisses, furious. “We’re coming for those ASBO cunts.”
    “Silver bullets.” The Mummy giggles, still a little high from the painkillers.
    “The normal kind,” says the Vampire, leaning in even closer. “You ask around your mosque and get some guns, I’ll take care of the rest.”
    The Mummy is stunned.