The Tomb (Repairman Jack)

Abe's dark blue panel truck was parked outside the Isher Sports Shop. The iron gate had been rolled back. At Jack's knock, the door opened. Abe's white shirt was wrinkled and his jowls were stubbly. For the first time in Jack's memory, he wasn't wearing his black tie.

'What?' he said, scrutinizing Jack. 'You run into trouble since you left me at the apartment?'

'What makes you ask?'

'Bandage on your hand and you're walking funny.'

'Had a lengthy and strenuous argument with a very disagreeable lady.'

He rotated his left shoulder gingerly; it was nowhere near as stiff and painful as it had been back at the apartment.

'Lady?”

'It's stretching the definition, but yeah—lady.'

Abe led Jack toward the rear of the darkened store. The lights were on in the basement, as was the neon sign. Abe hefted a wooden crate two feet long and a foot wide and deep. The top had already been pried open and he lifted it off.

'Here are the bombs. Twelve of them, magnesium compound, all with twenty-four-hour timers.'

Jack nodded. 'Fine. But I really needed the incendiary bullets. Otherwise I may never get a chance to set these.'

Abe shook his head. 'I don't know what you think you're going up against, but here's the best I could do.'

He pulled a cloth off a card table to reveal a circular, donut-shaped metal tank with a second tank, canteen- sized, set in its middle; both were attached by a short hose to what looked like a two-handed ray gun.

Jack was baffled. 'What the hell—?'

'It's an old No.5 Mk-l flamethrower, affectionately known as the Lifebuoy. I don't know if it'll suit your purposes. I mean, it hasn't got much range and—'

'It's great!' Jack said. He grabbed Abe's hand and pumped it. 'Abe, you're beautiful! It's perfect!'

Elated, Jack ran his hands over the tanks. Why hadn't the thought of it? Especially after all the times he’d seen Them?

'How does it work?'

'This is a World War II model—the best I could do on such short notice. It's got CO₂ at 2000 pounds per square inch in the little spherical tank, and eighteen liters of napalm in the big lifebuoy-shaped one— hence the name. A discharge tube with igniters at the end and an adjustable nozzle. Range is up to ninety feet. You open the tanks, point the tube, pull the trigger in the rear grip, and foom!'

'Any helpful hints?'

'Yeah. Always check your nozzle adjustment before your first discharge. It's like a firehose and will tend to rise during a prolonged tight stream. Otherwise, think of it as spitting: Don't do it into the wind or where you live.'

'Sounds easy enough. Help me get into the harness.'

The tanks were heavier than Jack would have wished, but did not cause the anticipated burst of pain from the left side of his back; only a dull ache. As Jack adjusted the straps to a comfortable fit, Abe looked at his neck questioningly.

'Since when the jewelry, Jack?'

'Since tonight...for good luck.'

'Strange looking thing. Iron, isn't it? And those stones...almost look like—'

'Two eyes? I know.'

“And the inscription looks like Sanskrit. Is it?'

Jack shrugged, uncomfortable. He didn't like the necklace and knew nothing about its origins.

'Could be. I don't know. A friend...lent it to me for the night. Do you know what the inscriptions say?'

Abe shook his head. 'I've seen Sanskrit before, but if my life depended on it I couldn't translate a single word.' He looked closer. 'Come to think of it, that's not really Sanskrit. Where was it made?'

'India.'

'Really? Then it's probably Vedic, one of the ProtoAryan languages that was a precursor of Sanskrit.' Abe tossed off the information in a casual tone, then turned away and busied himself with gently tapping the nails halfway back into the corners of the crate of incendiary bombs.

Jack didn't know if he was being put-on or not, but he didn't want to rob Abe of his moment. 'How the hell do you know all that?'

'You think I majored in guns in college? I have a BA from Columbia in Anthropology with a minor in languages.'

'And this is inscribed in Vedic, huh? Is that supposed to mean something?'

'It means it's old, Jack...O-L-D.'

Jack fingered the iron links around his neck. 'I figured that.'

Abe finished tapping down the crate top, then turned to Jack.