1987 - November 13th - 22:09 PM

Ladies and gentlemen, may we have your attention for the following announcement: Flight 327 to Madrid, originally scheduled for 22:46 p.m. from Gate C12, has been delayed due to technical problems. The new departure time is expected to be 23:46 p.m. We ask all passengers to remain near the gate and thank you for your understanding.

The announcement faded into the noise of voices, footsteps, and rolling suitcases that filled the large hall of Terminal 2.

Morris stood off to the side, cigarette burning low between his fingers. 

He checked the clock, then his watch.

“Where the fuck is that son of a bitch…” he muttered, dragging deep one last time before flicking the butt to the floor and grinding it under his heel.

A few minutes later Sonny pushed through the crowd. 

Hair a mess, coat open, sweat on his forehead. 

He looked strung-out, sniffing and glancing around until he spotted Morris.

“Let’s go already!” he panted.

Morris just stared at him, deadpan, for a few long seconds.

“Are you nuts? We’re supposed to keep a low profile, and you come walking in here looking like some strung-out junkie. And late, on top of it.”

“Fuck off, it was traffic!” Sonny snapped. “Let’s just do this.”

Without another word Morris started walking, and together they left the busy terminal area, following a narrow corridor to a secluded side door.

Behind it the noise of the crowds faded.

They continued until they stood before a heavy door marked No Entrance - Staff Only. 

Morris knocked on it three times.

A short time later a man in a customs uniform opened it, a folder under his arm, his expression nervous.

As soon as he saw them, he snapped, whispering sharply:

“About damn time! Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?!”

“Well, now we’re here,” Morris muttered dryly.

The customs officer narrowed his eyes, opened the folder, and pulled out a few documents.

"Stamped and cleared. Cargo 3. Now get out before anyone sees us."

The door slammed shut behind them.

Sonny spat on the floor. 

"Asshole thinks the uniform makes him tough. Should’ve broken his nose."

"Shut it," Morris growled. "We gotta let Frankie and Paulie know where to roll up with the car."

---

The cargo hall stank of jet fuel and oil.

Down at the far end, rows of wooden crates sat strapped in steel, numbers stenciled on the sides.

Morris and Sonny slid up to the counter. 

Another customs guy grabbed their papers, flipped through, frowned.

“Human remains, Rangoon… You boys the funeral home?”

Morris nodded. “…Hearse waiting outside.”

The officer grunted and jerked his chin at a big crate sitting ready.

“Seventeen-B. On the dolly.” 

Sonny was already pushing at it when the guy’s radio squawked.

He listened, face tightening, then barked: “East Wing, backup. Move it!”

Every uniform in sight bolted and one of them called over his shoulder:

“Nobody touches the box till we’re back!”

Twenty minutes later they were still waiting.

Sonny leaned against the crate, restless, sniffing, foot tapping against the dolly.

“Jesus Christ, man. We got the shit right here. Why we sittin’ on our hands? Let’s just ghost.”

Morris lit up, smoke curling from his nostrils. “…We walk now, some asshole nails us on paperwork. I ain’t spending twenty years over forms.”

Before Sonny could answer, the door opened again and two other customs officers entered, unfamiliar faces.

One of them, stern expression, hands on his hips.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded sharply. “Human remains from Rangoon? You the family? You don’t look it.”

“…We’re handling it for the relatives,” Morris said, calmly.

The officer leaned over the crate.

“Open it.”

Neither moved.

Morris’s hand slipped slowly into his coat pocket, fingers curling around the grip of his pistol.

Beside him Sonny did the same, looking almost relieved to finally have an excuse to draw.

“I said open it!” the officer barked, stepping closer.

The moment stretched, like in slow motion.

Then footsteps echoed, the door burst open again, and the customs man from before rushed in, breathing hard.

“…It’s fine! They’re already cleared. Everything’s in order.”

The others froze, exchanged confused looks.

Finally, with a shrug, they turned and left.

Morris and Sonny slowly let their hands fall away from their weapons.

Sonny leaned toward Morris, whispering:

“Another second and I’d have wasted that clown.”

They shoved the dolly forward, the heavy crate rattling over the concrete.

The rolling gate groaned upward, spilling in a slice of rain-soaked night.

Paulie sat at the wheel, Frankie beside him. Both wore black suits, ties loosely knotted.

“About damn time,” Paulie muttered as Morris and Sonny loaded the crate. “Thought you’d blown it.”

“Shut the fuck up and drive,” Sonny growled, jumping into the back seat.

---

The car pulled away, out of the airport grounds and into the rain-slick streets of the suburbs.

Paulie drove in silence, Frankie beside him, the others in the back. 

No one spoke until the car pulled into a deserted lot and slowed in front of an abandoned warehouse.

The gate creaked open and Paulie eased the car inside. 

Dust hung in the air beneath the flickering neon tubes, stirred by the hum of the engine.

“All right, let’s move it,” Morris said, stepping out.

They hauled the crate off the rig, dropped it heavy on the concrete.

Morris jammed a crowbar in, Frankie on the other side.

With a splintering crack the lid gave way, and a cloud of dust and a putrid stench billowed out.

They staggered back, coughing.

“Christ,” Frankie gagged, holding his jacket over his mouth.

Sonny leaned against the car, cigarette in hand, laughing.

“What the fuck you expect, huh? Ain’t roses in there. Dead meat smells like dead meat.”

The others stepped closer.

Morris squinted into the crate, voice low. “…The hell is this?”

As the dust settled, something emerged.

A long, dark, ornate sarcophagus, ancient, covered in markings barely visible beneath the dirt.

The coffin lay heavy and alien under the flickering neon light.

Suddenly Sonny surged forward, shoving Morris aside, bending over the crate.

“What the fuck?! Where’s the coke?!” He slammed his fist against the wood, splinters breaking loose.

Paulie frowned, stepping closer. “That don’t look like any shipment I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe…” Frankie muttered, “…it’s inside.”

They heaved at the lid together until it toppled off and crashed onto the floor. 

Dust rained down again.

Inside lay a mummy, shriveled and leathery, its skin yellow and cracked, its eye sockets black and empty. 

The head was bound with a narrow strip, and in the middle of its forehead clung a long slip of paper, painted with dark Asian characters.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

“Holy shit,” Frankie whispered. “This ain’t our shipment.”

“Bullshit!” Sonny roared, grabbing the corpse by the shoulders, yanking it out of the coffin and tossing it to the floor.

Bones cracked, the body hit with a dull thud. 

The paper talisman slipped from its forehead and fluttered to the ground.

Paulie immediately bent down, picked it up, tried pressing it back in place, but it kept falling off.

“Looks like some kind of seal,” he muttered. “Maybe it’s supposed to...”

“Quit fuckin’ around with that thing!” Sonny snapped. “And you!” he jabbed a finger at Frankie, “...figure out what went wrong!”

Frankie rifled through the documents, Morris leaning over his shoulder.

“…Shit,” Morris muttered. “They swapped the shipments. This crate’s for a museum. Also from Rangoon. Papers got crossed.”

“Fuck!” Sonny screamed, hurling the papers down and knocking a rusty tool from the table, the crash echoing through the hall.

Suddenly the neon lights flickered madly.

Paulie, still crouched beside the mummy, didn’t notice the body shifting beneath his hands.

Only when a strangled gasp escaped him did the others look up in shock.

A withered, bony hand ripped straight through his chest, claws jutting out the other side. 

Blood sprayed across the floor in dark arcs, dripping down the yellow fingers.

Paulie’s eyes went wide. 

He tried to speak but only a wet gurgle came out.

For a second he just hung there, impaled, staring at them in shock.

“Dear mother of Jesus…” Frankie whispered, voice shaking.

Sonny staggered back a step, cigarette falling from his hand, reaching for his gun.

Morris didn’t move. He just stared, jaw tight, as if his brain refused to catch up with what his eyes saw.

The hand withdrew slow from his body, as Paulie collapsed to the floor with a dull thud, blood spreading under him.

And for a moment, no one dared to breath.