Free Mummy Madness by Andrew Cope Page A

frame was
     hauled along the museum’s polished floor. They reached the lift and Mr Big
     jabbed impatiently at the button. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered as the
     doors pinged open and they dragged the mummy inside.
    Mr Big eyed Ben as the lift descended.
     ‘I’ll do the talking,’ he warned. ‘You play
     along … or else,’ he said, running his finger across his throat.
    ‘Ground floor,’ announced
     the lift. ‘Doors opening.’ The silver doors parted and Ben and Mr Big
     stood either side of the mummified professor. The professor couldn’t see a
     thing, but he could hear the commotion. The fire alarm had finally been switched off
     and the
museum entrance was swarming
     with the emerg-ency services. Police were running here and there. The fire brigade
     were mob-handed.
    ‘Over here!’ yelled Mr Big
     to a paramedic in a green outfit. ‘Injured man. Get me a stretcher.’
     While the chaos continued, Professor Cortex was loaded on to a stretcher and carried
     to an ambulance.
    ‘Looks bad,’ said the medic.
     ‘What happened to him?’
    ‘Fire,’ blurted Ben, looking
     terrified as he remembered the finger across the throat.
    ‘Fell down the stairs,’ said
     Mr Big at the same time. ‘Er, there was a fire and then he sort of fell down
     the stairs,’ he said, glaring at Ben.
    ‘Sounds like he’s had some
     bad luck. Let’s get the poor fella into the ambulance and we’ll check
     him out on the way to the hospital.’ The professor was loaded aboard. The
     medic had trained to be one because he was a good man: trusting, kind and
     helpful.
    ‘There’s a kid too,’
     snarled Mr Big. ‘Third floor. He needs urgent assistance. I’ll wait with
     this one while you fetch the poor little wounded orphan,’ he said, overacting
     terribly.
    The medic nodded and was off, sprinting
back into the museum on a wild goose
     chase. Mr Big was delighted that the driver only required one punch. It was a matter
     of seconds before he’d secured Ben and the mummy in the back of the ambulance
     and himself in the front seat. He checked the controls, hit the siren button and
     screeched the vehicle on to London’s night streets.
     

15. A Very Slow Getaway
    Terror Thomas sat bolt upright in bed.
     His hair was as wild as his temper. Who on earth was ringing him at 2 a.m.? He
     fumbled for the light switch and his good eye blinked in the light. He put his
     mobile to his ear. ‘Yes?’ he barked. ‘This had better be
     good.’
    He listened intently. His
     second-in-command was jabbering about the fire alarm going off and the police
     arriving. ‘It’s not a fire. It’s intruders, sir,’ he said.
     ‘We think they’ve taken out the security team. They’ve smashed a
     load of priceless Ming vases and it seems likely that they’ve made off with
     one of the Egyptian mummies.’
    Terror Thomas didn’t need any more
     information. He’d spent fifteen years at the sharp end of the army, on duty in
     the desert. It had been a career full of action, fighting, suspense
and thrills. He’d lost his eye along the way and
     now his days were spent watching teenagers from the corner of his good eye or
     glaring at small children to make sure they didn’t steal sweets from the
     museum shop. His life was dull, dull and dull. And here he was, plunged into a
real
emergency. He put the phone on speaker so he could get dressed
     while he listened to the pandemonium. His pyjama trousers were off and one leg was
     in his pants before he realized both his feet were rammed into one hole.
     ‘Curses, curses,’ he said, having a second go.
Having one eye can
     sometimes be a real bummer.
    ‘And what’s happening
     now,’ he yelled, buttoning his shirt.
    ‘Ambulances have just turned
     up,’ yelled his assistant above the noise of a helicopter. ‘And the bomb
     squad. This is big, sir. Code red. Please hurry.’
    Thomas looked in the bedroom mirror.
Code red! How awesome!
He’d got dressed in less than