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Rick stormed down to the bar. After tangling with that stubborn, stubborn woman, he needed a drink.

He bumped into an old friend, a British pilot who was more or less stranded here, drunk nearly all the time, but a good guy. Winston had helped Rick out on more than one occasion when he needed to be vouched for or have drinks bought for him—or given a convenient alibi.

Some dim sober part of Winston's memory recognized Rick as someone who was often good for a drink when he was flush, so he turned and followed Rick to the bar. "You know, O'Connell, ever since the end of the Great War, there hasn't been a—a single challenge worthy of a man like me."

Jonathan was perched at the bar, and Rick poked him, drawing his attention to Winston. Taking a seat, Rick said, "Yeah? Well, we've all got our little problems today, don't we, Winston?"

"I just wish I could have chucked it in with the others and gone down in flame and glory instead of sitting around here rotting of boredom and booze."

As Winston gave his refrain, so familiar Rick was able to say it along with him, Jonathan poured them both shots.

"Cheers," Winston said, plucking the shot glass from Jonathan's hand and draining it. "Oh, well. Back to the airfield." The airfield, where Winston would sit, playing records and reliving his glory days, next to his plane—which he kept in spit and polish condition. Some things old soldiers never forgot.

Shot still poised in front of him, Rick asked, "Tell me, has your sister always been—"

He didn't even need to finish before Jonathan was nodding. "Oh, yes. Always."

Henderson and Daniels appeared next to them. "Well, we're all packed up, but the damn boat doesn't leave until tomorrow morning."

"Tails set firmly between your legs, I see?" Jonathan gibed. Given what had happened to Burns, Rick might not have taunted the Americans, but Jonathan did like to live dangerously.

"Yeah, you can talk," Henderson said. "You don't have some sacred walking corpse after you."

"So, uh, how's your friend?"

Daniels replied bitterly, "He had his eyes and his tongue ripped out. How would you be?" He left the bar, drink in hand. Rick could hardly blame him.

Evelyn waited a few moments for O'Connell to come back and apologize, and was infuriated when he did no such thing. Well, fine, then. If he was going to go off and run away like some … man, she was going to solve this problem.

She put on her coat and left the room, heading for the safety and familiarity of the books. Surely somewhere in all that collected knowledge, she would find the answers she sought—and would forget about the moment where Rick O'Connell had referred to her as a "contract". Who would have thought a small word like that could so easily break a heart?

Rick and Jonathan and Henderson kept drinking. What else was there to do, really? With Evelyn insisting on trying to solve the unsolvable problem of the cursed mummy, and poor Burns sitting up in his room with his life effectively ended, and no way out of Egypt until tomorrow … making their way through the bottle seemed to be by far the most sensible thing to do.

"Good luck, boys," Rick said, and they toasted each other, pretending their bravado was bravery. But this time the booze was off, and they spat it out. And at the same time, everyone else in the bar who had taken a drink spat theirs out as well.

"Sweet Jesus!" Henderson exclaimed. "Tasted just like—"

"Blood," Rick finished, dropping his glass as he got up and looked at the fountain in the middle of the room—a fountain whose waters were suddenly red.

"'And the rivers and waters of Egypt ran red, and were as blood,'" Jonathan quoted.

"He's here." Suddenly, the only thing Rick could think of was Evelyn. Finding her, and keeping her safe from whatever was coming. "Jonathan. Let's go."

"But why—"

"We have to find your sister."

Evelyn found several books that looked like they could help. She was deep in the middle of one, translating in her head as she walked. Above her head she heard thunder rumble, and she paused to look up at the darkening sky, but she was in the middle of a tricky passage, and her attention soon turned back to the book. She was a master at walking while reading, so she kept on, hoping to find some answers before she returned to her room and had to deal with either her brother or O'Connell.

She had no sooner thought the name than she heard him behind her. "Oh, Evelyn!"

He was the first person to call her that in years. Jonathan preferred 'Evie' and everyone else went with 'Miss Carnahan'. But she was annoyed with O'Connell, she reminded herself, pasting an irritated expression on her face even as her heart leaped. "Oh, so you're still here."

"We've got problems," he said as he reached her.

Above their heads, thunder rolled loudly. Both of them turned to look as fireballs shot from the sky.

The twelve plagues of Egypt. The ones the mummy was supposed to bring back if someone awakened him. As she had, by foolishly reading aloud from the Book of the Dead. Evelyn shrank back against O'Connell's shoulder, only mildly comforted by its solid warmth.

He took her arm and started running, even as fireballs landed in the courtyard in front of them and people screamed. This was her fault, Evelyn thought, letting O'Connell pull her along. All her fault.