“There’s no heaven, no afterlife at all . . . not for such as us. Only the gods—can taks, can tahs, can—”
But this whole conversation—not just the petitioning but the haughty, threatening tone of it—was so foreign to David’s memory of his mother that he began to walk forward again. Had to walk forward again. The mummy was behind him, and the mummy was slow, yes, but he reckoned that this was one of the ways in which the mummy caught up with his victims: by using his ancient Egyptian magic to put obstacles in their path.
“Stay away from me!” the rotting mother-thing screamed. “Stay away or I’ll turn you to stone in the mouth of a god! You’ll be can tah in can tak!”
“You can’t do that,” David said patiently, “and you’re not my mother. My mother’s with my sister, in heaven, with God.”
“What a joke!” the rotting thing cried indignantly. Its voice was gargly now, like the cop’s voice. It was spitting blood and teeth as it talked. “Heaven’s a joke, the kind of thing your Reverend Martin would spiel happily on about for hours, if you kept buying him shots and beers—it’s no more real than Tom Billingsley’s fishes and horses! You won’t tell me you swallowed it, will you? A smart boy like you? Did you? Oh Davey! I don’t know whether to laugh or cry!” What she did was smile furiously. “There’s no heaven, no afterlife at all . . . not for such as us. Only the gods—can taks, can tahs, can—”
