THE ZOMBIE GAME
A Dr. Scott James Thriller
GLENN SHEPARD
MYSTERY HOUSE
Copyright 2014 by Glenn Shepard. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the United States of America Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Mystery House Publishing, Inc.
www.mysteryhousepublishing.com
ISBN 0990589307
ISBN 978-0-9905893-0-3
Cover and interior design by Annie Biggs
Printed in the United States of America.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
EPILOGUE
Author’s Postscript
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
The Streets of Port-au-Prince, Haiti
June, 2014
10:01 p.m.
JAKJAK, THE CHAUFFEUR, PEERED through the windshield of the black Mercedes sedan, looking for danger. Haiti could be a bad place to be after dark. Killings, kidnappings, and armed robbery were common. Police protection was almost nonexistent in Port-au-Prince. Not only was Jakjak a driver, but he was also his employer’s bodyguard.
It had been more than four years since the terrible earthquake had destroyed the country, but massive piles of rubble remained. Jakjak dodged broken stones that had spilled onto the road from the high rows of demolished cement blocks lining the streets, and then suddenly a black cat jumped out in front of the Mercedes.
Jakjak stomped on the brakes but heard the thump of the animal striking the bottom of the car. Slamming to a halt, he looked back to see the dead cat lying in the middle of the road. His heart beat faster and he began to sweat. His mother had warned him of this. She was a Mambo, a Vodoun priestess with strong powers. According to Jakjak’s religion—Petro Vodou—the spirit embodied in black cats, Iwa, grew angry and vindictive to those who brought him harm.
Jakjak felt through his black suit coat to reassure himself that his .45 was in the holster strapped to his chest. He was a young thirty-eight, muscular from his daily workouts with heavy weights, and imposing at six-foot-two and 220 pounds.
But killing the cat had made his large hands shake.
Jakjak turned to the three men in the back seat. “Mal se nan lé a. Evil is in the air. We must turn back.”
Julien Duran answered, “No, Jakjak. Drive on.”
“Please, sir. Listen to me. No good will come of tonight’s meeting. I feel the spirit of the cat on me. We have angered him.”
Duran cleared his throat. At forty-eight, Duran was tall and thin, with prematurely gray hair. He wore a white suit, white tie with a diamond stickpin, and a heavily starched white shirt with gold cuff links and mother-of-pearl inlays. Jakjak had worked for him for twenty years, since Duran had returned from his economics studies at Yale, and law school at the University of Virginia. After only two years in a prestigious law firm in Port au Prince, Duran had been offered a government job as Assistant Minister of Finance, where his work gained him frequent promotions. In 2010, after the quake, he reached the top. He was made Minister of Finance.
Duran, sitting in the back of the Mercedes between his two assistant ministers, leaned toward his driver and said, “Jakjak, I respect your beliefs, but regardless of what your intuition tells you, I must go to this meeting. Charles Roche is a billionaire. I can’t keep him waiting.”
“Men lé a. But the hour ... Hooligans now rule the streets at night. The spirits say we are in danger.”
Duran folded his arms as he sat back. “Tonight, Roche is choosing between giving financial aid to Haiti or Chile for earthquake damages. I don’t want Chile to be the one to take his money.”
A few minutes later, the Mercedes cruised past the once opulent building of the Ministry of Finance. The white columns and mahogany doors had all been bulldozed after the great building had stood for months as an uninhabited ghost structure. The marble and white cement that was once a palace now lay in ruins.
Jakjak continued a short way and then parked in front of the temporary housing units that were still used from time to time as offices for the Ministry. Piles of debris covered most of the parking spaces, so Jakjak was forced to park the Mercedes a good distance away. In the aftermath of the quake, the Minister and his two assistants were used to this kind of thing. Jakjak got out, briskly opened the car doors for his passengers, and then he escorted Duran and his two assistants to the office.
The visiting group consisted of three officials and two bodyguards. They were waiting at the door of the main temporary building. Jakjak unlocked it and ushered them in.
One of the bodyguards saw Jakjak’s .45 bulging against his coat and stopped him at the door. “No guns.”
Jakjak placed his hand over his gun. “Non, Mesye. I won’t give up my gun.”
“Then no meeting.”
Duran went to Jakjak’s side. “Check these men for weapons and then wait outside.”
The five visitors raised their hands as Jakjak patted them down.
Jakjak turned to Duran. “I cannot leave you.”
“I’ll be fine. Stay in the car. I’ll be out shortly.”
As the other men made their way to the conference room, Jakjak returned to the Mercedes. But his hands began to shake. He closed his eyes. He saw the cat’s eyes; they were in the face of the devil.
The introductions were brief. The central figure was a lawyer Duran had known for years, Virgil Baccus. Baccus was the attorney for billionaire Charles Roche. He was a portly man who practiced law in St. John and often worked with foreign clients. After shaking Duran’s hand, Baccus took his seat. Duran’s heart beat fast as he thought about Baccus. He had a reputation for representing men who created their wealth by embezzling corporate funds.
To Baccus’ right was a six-foot
, muscular man dressed in black; to his left was another tall, muscular man, also dressed in a black suit. The two bodyguards stood by the door. Duran recognized all the men as being from St. John and St. Croix.
Baccus spoke up immediately. “Well, I have good news. Mr. Roche has already decided to give his money to your country. I bring a check from him for five hundred million dollars.”
Baccus removed a check from an envelope and handed it to Duran.
Duran looked at the check and smiled. At the conference table were his assistants, Antoine Gabriel and Hugon Cheval. Both were small and thin. Gabriel wore wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Both men were dressed in black suits and black ties.
Duran showed the check to Gabriel and Cheval. Both smiled and nodded their heads in appreciation.
Duran turned to Baccus. “Please extend my sincere thanks to Mr. Roche. This will be incredibly helpful in rebuilding Haiti.”
“Indeed.” As they stood and shook hands, Baccus said, “Mr. Roche would appreciate the check being deposited right away so we can begin to allot money for building projects here on your island.”
Duran withdrew his hand. “We?”
“Yes. My client of course expects to have a say in the distribution of his generous gift.”
Baccus handed a ten-page contract to Duran.
Duran put on reading glasses and spread the papers in front of his men. His smile turned to a frown. Cheval pointed to an item on page one and shook his head. Gabriel pointed to two lines and then a third. Duran put his finger on a paragraph on another page. The three men raised their heads and locked eyes with Baccus.
Duran, looking over his glasses, asked, “Is this some sort of joke? You’re proposing we have your client serve on the board, my board, and have veto powers over everything, including my authority?”
“That seems only fair. My client has good insights into the needs of your country. He pledges to restore Haiti to an even better state than it was before the quake. But he must be in charge of the relief effort.”
“We’ll gladly accept his money, but I’ll never agree to turning over control of the funds to outsiders,” Duran said.
“You have twenty-four hours to sign these papers, or else we will withdraw all our funds.”
“We don’t need more time. My associates and I are in agreement. The answer is no. This meeting is over.”
The two bodyguards moved quickly from the door, just as Baccus broke open his briefcase. Passing by, single file, the guards reached in and removed two, tiny, .22 caliber pistols, each fitted with a silencer as hefty as a beer can.
Baccus spoke. “That is unfortunate. However, there is still time to change your vote to our favor.” He looked coldly at Duran’s assistants. “Mr. Gabriel?”
Gabriel trembled as one of the guards raised his custom-fitted gun to the terrified man’s head.
But Gabriel’s answer was firm. “No.”
CHAPTER TWO
Aboard the Hospital Ship, Ana Brigette
One Mile off Léogâne, Haiti
June, 2014
10:56 p.m.
CLOUDS COVERED THE FULL moon and the ocean rippled for the first time all day. I sipped the last of my whiskey, snuffed out my cigarette, and looked over the railing along the stern of the ship. The Ana Brigette was a 220-foot fishing trawler that had been converted by its captain, Lars Paulissen, to a fully-functional surgery center. I’d been aboard the ship for a month.
I’d come to Haiti to do charity work, and I had enjoyed it. I’d done this kind of work before. Back before my life started to go to hell, I’d built my own mobile surgery center and had spent summers driving deep into the Appalachian Mountains, operating on children with facial deformities whose parents had no money. It’s what I do. I’m a craniofacial surgeon. I fix people’s faces.
But I’d come to Haiti to dry out, too. Two months earlier I’d been wrongfully accused of two murders. I’d lost my license to practice medicine for a few months, so I’d taken on the job of Chief Administrator of the Jackson City Hospital. The stress was enormous and I managed to pick up some habits, whiskey, mainly, and cigarettes. My wife had turned her back on me the moment I was accused of murder. My “friend,” Elizabeth Keyes, had taken me into an underworld I knew nothing about, and had given herself to me.
Elizabeth—blond, drop-dead beautiful, a maverick who’d trained with various organizations, including those of the terrorist variety—she’d taught me to kill people before they kill me.
But Elizabeth Keyes was no where near Haiti. God only knew where she was.
Over the previous month, I’d made some good friends here in this humid place. Chief among them was Dr. Tomas Duran, a Haitian physician whom I worked with or talked to everyday via the ship’s radio. I admired him greatly. He came from quite a prestigious family, one that was committed to rebuilding Haiti. His father was the brilliant Julien Duran, Minster of Finance. I had never met the Minister, personally, but his reputation was one of brains and integrity. It felt good to know that I was working with the right people.
So while I hadn’t exactly dried out, I’d been able to practice my first love, surgery. All in all, everything had gone alright in Haiti, until now.
At the railing, my eyes were instinctively drawn by movement close to the entry ramp of the boat. I heard an odd rustling sound, but I couldn’t see anything.
I heard the squeak of a shoe on the metal decking behind me. I turned, but before I could strike, they were on my arms and legs. There were at least four of them and I was suddenly squirming and kicking and trying to break free. One of my attackers threw his entire body on me, pinning me to the deck, and whispered in my ear, “Stop fighting or we kill you.”
I stopped struggling. “Okay. Stop twisting my arms. I’ll walk quietly with you.”
They loosened their grip on my arms, then let me stand so that I could walk beside them. There was a bell that hung from the eve of the pilothouse, and as we approached, I jumped forward and swiftly kicked it as hard as I could. The clapper slammed against the inside of the bell, clanging loudly.
Zack Abramson, the ship’s stout, red-bearded night guard, turned in the control room and saw the commotion. He sounded the alarm—five horn blasts. It was loud enough to be heard for miles around on that still night in Léogâne, Haiti.
The captain and four crewmen were asleep on the second level. Normally the Ana Brigette carried another seven crew members, as well as a hospital staff, but except for me, the medical personnel had left for the season, and most of the sailors had gone home on furlough. The timing of the attack had been chosen well.
Hearing the signal, the crew instantly knew that pirates had boarded the ship. Captain Paulissen began barking out orders. The sailors aboard the Ana Brigette were Danish, trained in Denmark. They knew the protocol for combating pirates, even though they had never needed to protect their ship before. They jumped from their bunks and stumbled to the ship’s gun case. The first mate and engineer grabbed Madsen light machine guns. The ship’s steward and the deckhand were issued Madsen bolt-action rifles, and holstered CZ 75 pistols.
In the control room, Zack grabbed his pistol and turned on the deck lights. Seeing me and the four men, he shouted, “Let him go or I’ll shoot!”
Five more pirates appeared. The men were small, about five-foot-eight, dark-skinned, and wore camouflage clothing. They quickly gathered at the pilothouse and began slamming their shoulders into the door. It was clear that they were trying to take over the ship quietly. The door was giving way and Zach was still inside, ready to shoot. Finally, they burst through the falling door and Zach let loose with his pistol.
The discharge exploded in the balmy silence of the bay. A man standing outside the pilothouse with an automatic rifle fell backwards, and then a second camouflaged man fired two quick rounds, ripping into Zach’s chest.
Below, the crew fanned out. T
hey responded to the danger in a precise manner. The two machine gunners each took a separate approach to the deck.
More boarders were climbing onto the ship from small boats. A total of thirty pirates now swarmed the Ana Brigette.
Captain Paulissen climbed a back stairway from his deck-level quarters and went directly to the pilothouse. As he opened the door, a boarder tried to jerk the CZ 75 pistol from his hand, but not before the captain pulled the trigger. There was a clumsy struggle for a moment and then the man fell to the floor, blood pooling around him. Meanwhile, the obvious leader—the same man who had whispered into my ear—swiftly placed a gun to Paulissen’s head. I could do nothing. My arms were held by four men. The Captain was a prisoner now.
Below, the first mate was quickly meeting the same fate. He’d crept down an inside corridor until a hand suddenly reached out and grabbed the barrel of the sub machine gun. The mate fired off a long burst, but it went nowhere. Five men in cammos and boots came out from hiding and tackled him in a pile.
The engineer, surrounded, outnumbered fifteen-to-one, surrendered, as did the deckhand and the steward.
We were assembled by our captors in the pilothouse. The leader, Alberte Juarez, was a tall, thin man with heavy scars on his face. Looking at us, he whispered instructions into the ear of one of his men, and then they led the engineer, steward, and deckhand away. A moment later, deep in the bowels of the ship, we heard three, muffled shots.
Juarez sized up Paulissen. Lars was only fifty years old, and his crew-cut blonde hair and square jaw would have made him look even younger if it hadn’t been for the fisherman’s heavily wrinkled, sun-damaged skin. The pirate commander looked at him and asked, “How many men do you have on board?”
Lars stepped forward, his head held high. “Everyone is dead, except what you see here. You killed them.”
“Are any of the hospital workers still aboard?”
I looked around to find a weapon, but my captor twisted my arm so hard that pain shot through my shoulder. I spoke up to Alberte, “Just me. I’m a one-man hospital show. This ship was just sold, and all the nurses and hospital attendants returned to Denmark yesterday.”
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