Diablero

by Toby Tate

  Hunter resisted the urge to lunge for his ex-friend and rip his heart from his chest. Instead, he tried to focus on Jason‘s words. “You’re saying that the Death Defier is one of the Great Old Ones?”

  “Most people just call them demons, which they are, essentially. But yes, Blackbeard is possessed by what is known in some cultures as the Death Defier, a spirit that usually walks the earth in human form, but also has power to move animate or inanimate objects, transform into an animal, or even raise the dead. But you already know all that. Cthulhu lore also calls him the Haunter of Dreams or the Nightmare Walker. The name is unpronounceable. He is the key, the one who will beckon the others to return from their exile.”

  “I guess I have to ask this next question then, because this whole thing seems illogical to me. Why now? And how could you betray the entire human race, your own family, and your own friends?”

  “Do you really think things are going well on planet earth? Even in the chaos of their time, the Old Ones ruled a world unaffected by war and hatred, for nothing was as important as the fulfillment of one’s every whim. The Death Defier has been content to walk the earth alone until now, but with the other demons by his side, he will literally rule the universe. And I intend to rule with him.”

  Hunter barked out a humorless laugh. “Do you really think they’re going to let you do that? A human? You’ll be lucky if all they do is kill you, Jason. Have you ever asked yourself why no one, including the Death Defier, has tried to bring back these Great Old Ones? There’s probably a good reason for that. Like maybe they knew something. Something Teach has obviously forgotten.”

  Jason raised the flashlight and tapped it against his temple. “It’s all in what you know, my friend, it’s all in what you know.”

  Blackbeard suddenly bellowed in the small chamber. “Enough! It’s time to begin the ritual.”

  Sixty-nine

  Everyone in the chamber watched anxiously as Blackbeard shifted his focus from Hunter and Jason’s conversation to Caesar. Stepping directly in front of him, he handed Caesar the book. “The time has come, Caesar, for you to unlock the powers that will allow me to free the Old Ones from their bondage, so they may once again take their rightful place upon the earth.”

  Caesar took the book with a mixture of dread and reverence. He stared down at its grotesque cover, thinking that the eyes might suddenly flash open, bright red orbs insane with agony and infinite hatred. He thought back to the day when he had first been given the book by the Teacher, before he himself had presented it to Blackbeard as a gift. At that time, there had been no fear, only excitement at the prospect of what one could obtain from casting its spells. But in the years to follow, Caesar found that there was often a vast disparity between fantasy and reality.

  Now, he stood at another threshold.

  Caesar looked up at the pirate who had once been his friend, who had offered him a life free from the bondage of slavery. But in those eyes that burned with fire, he saw the demon, and knew that Edward Teach was no more. “I cannot do what you ask. I want no part of any spell that would bring other creatures such as you into the world.”

  Before anyone in the chamber had time to react, Blackbeard suddenly disappeared and reappeared where Jonathan stood, grabbed him by the throat in one huge hand and hoisted him a foot off the ground. Jonathan’s legs dangled uselessly as he struggled to breathe, wrapping his hands around an arm that might as well have been a tree trunk.

  Caesar saw Hunter start to make a move toward the pirate, but the sight of Aiden’s Glock seemed to change his mind.

  Blackbeard turned to Caesar. “Those whom I destroy do not merely die, but are taken mind and spirit. Their soul becomes a part of me, experiencing every aspect of my existence. I suppose you could call it Hell, because it is utter torment for the victim. And they are powerless to stop me. Their release can only be gained through my death, and death is the one thing I intend to cheat. So, what shall it be, Caesar?”

  Tears stung Caesar’s eyes as he watched his grandson’s life slowly drain out of him, and knew there was only one thing he could do.

  He prayed that God would forgive his soul. “All right, damn you!”

  Immediately, the demon dropped Jonathan, who fell to the dirt floor, coughing and gasping for breath. Hunter and Lisa ran to his side, helping him to his feet.

  Lisa glared at Blackbeard, who watched impassively.

  Hunter slapped Jonathan on the back, brushing off dust and dirt. “Hey, big guy, you okay?”

  Jonathan, his hands on his knees and still unable to speak, nodded in reply.

  Hunter stood with a hand on Jonathan’s arm. “I guess I owe you an apology. Nowadays it’s just getting harder to figure out who your friends are.”

  Jonathan straightened himself, testing his strength. He looked over at Hunter. “Don’t worry about it. We all make mistakes.” He rubbed his neck, still feeling a bit sore. “I guess I know how you felt, now.”

  Blackbeard turned to Caesar and Caesar knew there was no putting off the inevitable.

  Seventy

  The two-hundred-and-seventy-foot medium endurance Coast Guard cutter Mohawk, on patrol out of Key West, Florida, slowly glided up alongside the drifting speedboat. The deck hands made quick work of securing lines overboard and fastened a ladder over the side, down to the boat’s deck. Focused and on high alert, the gunner’s mate kept the fifty-caliber machine-gun trained on the speedboat, ready for anything.

  The ops boss, Lieutenant Corey Wilson, stared down over the starboard railing and wondered what in God’s name could have caused the carnage on board the small boat. The men had obviously been pirates. AK-47s and Bowie knives lay scattered across the deck, as if they had been utterly useless against whatever had attacked them. Sharks circled the boat, though a little farther away than before, wary of the new arrivals. Dried blood stained the side of the hull where it had dripped down in rivulets.

  This happened recently, possibly just hours ago, Wilson thought. If that were so, then the killer or killers would not have gone far, though he knew the chances of finding them were practically zero.

  Wilson looked over at Boatswain’s Mate First Class Simmons. “Simmons, get a hold of Enderly and have him suit up in a HAZMAT suit. Get one for yourself and one for me, as well. We’re going aboard to take a look around. Maybe we can at least figure out where these guys came from.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Wilson knew Simmons was a little squeamish about dead bodies, but he was also extremely good at detective work. He was always Wilson’s first choice when mysteries needed solving, and this looked to be one hell of a mystery.

  Wilson removed his cap and ran a hand through his disappearing brown hair. He noticed the sun inching ever closer to the horizon. Only a few more hours and they would be working in the dark.

  Simmons eventually returned with two HAZMAT suits and the medic Enderly in tow. The three men pulled on their splash suits and gloves, fitted their filtered face masks in place, and climbed over the side, one at a time.

  Wilson turned to Simmons and Enderly. “Search their pockets and see if you can find any ID. Also, Enderly, try to figure out exactly what killed them. We’ll take a look below deck, as well, and see if there are any survivors.”

  The two men nodded, and then everyone went about their morbid tasks.

  Enderly went directly to the port side of the boat, where a man lay with an arm hanging over the side. He turned the body over. The man’s throat had a huge chunk missing. It still looked fresh, and the flesh around the hole was ragged and torn, as if something had taken a big bite out of him. The man also had a deep abdominal wound, which looked like it had been caused by some sort of four-clawed device, or a huge claw, like that of a lion. But who the hell would have a lion on board their boat? Maybe the drug smugglers were getting more creative with their methods of eliminating the competition. Somehow, though, Enderly didn’t think that was the case. Something very bizarre happened here, and it gave him th
e willies.

  Wilson was not having much luck finding IDs on any of the men. Pirates probably wouldn’t have much use for it, anyway, he thought. The bodies, likely Haitians, were torn and mangled in a way he had seen only once before, when he had been stationed in Kodiak, Alaska. A buddy he had been camping with had been attacked and killed in his tent by a polar bear before the rest of the party managed to bring the huge beast down with rifles. Wilson had not only lost his lunch when he saw what remained of his friend, but went into shock and had required months of therapy to recover. This excursion was bringing back a lot of very bad memories.

  As he came upon the next body, Wilson heard Simmons shouting from below deck. He and Enderly looked at each other, and then scrambled to locate the sound. They found an open hatch inside the pilothouse, and saw Simmons crouched down under the deck plates in the engine room. He looked up at the lieutenant.

  “You’re not gonna believe this, sir. We’ve got a live one.”

  As he spoke these words, one of the pirates crawled into view, and stared up from below, his eyes wide with fear and shock.

  Seventy-one

  “Kijan ou rele?” Simmons asked the man in Haitian Creole, trying to find out his name.

  Simmons’ grandparents had migrated from Haiti to the US, and Creole was still spoken at family gatherings. Simmons had heard the language most of his life and eventually, after conversing with his grandparents for many years, became fluent in it. In the Coast Guard, being multi-lingual often came in handy.

  The pirate sat on the edge of an examination table in the Mohawk’s sick bay, wearing camouflage pants, green T-shirt, and combat boots, all of which were stained with blood. His hair was braided in tight corn-rows and he wore a goatee, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and fear. Simmons handed him a cup of coffee as Lieutenant Wilson looked on, arms folded across his chest. The Haitian took a drink of the strong brew and made a face at it. He refused to make eye contact with either of the men.

  “Kijan ou rele?” Simmons asked again, hoping to prod the man into answering. So far, it didn’t seem to be working.

  Without looking up, the man answered. “Kite mwen.”

  Wilson uncrossed his arms and gestured at the man. “What did he say?”

  “He told me to leave him alone,” Simmons said.

  Wilson turned his gaze on the Haitian, but spoke to Simmons. “Tell him we know he’s a pirate, and things will go easier if he’ll just tell us what happened. There are a lot of dead bodies on board that boat that need explaining, and so far, he’s the only one available. That could make him a murder suspect.”

  As if he understood the Lieutenant’s meaning, the man slowly looked up at Wilson, then glanced away. “Yon batay,” he said. The man took a moment to think, and then continued to speak. He raised his hands, trying to outline a large shape. “Yon zonbi...yon...yon lougawou.” The Haitian suddenly dropped his hands, as if this small gesture had sapped all of his energy, and then took another sip of coffee.

  Wilson glanced over at Simmons. “Well, what did he say?”

  Simmons shook his head, took off his hat and scratched his scalp, looking like a man who had just been told a great riddle. “It doesn‘t make sense. His words are kind of stilted, but he just said, a battle, and then, a ghost, a werewolf. I think this guy might be a little loopy, sir. We might not be able to get much out of him.”

  Wilson thought about the wounds they had seen on the man’s comrades and wondered if the Haitian was really crazy at all. Wilson called to the medic, who appeared from an adjacent compartment. “Enderly, look after our guest. I’ll have MK2 Sykes take charge and post a detainee watch when you’re all done with him.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  As Wilson and Simmons left the sick bay, Simmons asked. “Sir, what do you think he really saw on that boat? I mean, the words he spoke were words Haitian people only use to describe dark magic or evil beings, and to tell you the truth, he really didn’t look like he was lying.”

  Wilson responded with a look of surprise. “Don’t tell me you believed all that shit he was spouting.”

  “Don’t tell me you did, sir.”

  “I guess there are a lot of things in this world that don’t always add up, but I’m not ready to believe in werewolves and vampires just yet.”

  Simmons said, “So, what do we do now?”

  “Well, we talk to the captain, then get on the SATCOM and call District Seven in Miami for orders. We’re going to need a fast patrol boat to take the Haitian boat in tow. DC will probably want to contact the Haitian consulate and let them know what we found.”

  “What did we find?”

  Wilson stopped in the passageway “Just between you and me Simmons? Something mighty fucking strange.”

  Seventy-two

  Everyone watched in awed silence as Caesar used a large piece of white sidewalk chalk to draw the last point of a pentagram on the stony floor. A pure-white candle had been placed at each point. It reminded Hunter of a gothic horror movie he had seen on late night television as a teenager, when life was less complicated and monsters only lived in his imagination. But he knew this was real, that the pentagram was no joke.

  He glanced behind him and saw that Aiden remained vigilant, his Glock aimed at Hunter. No chance for escape, Hunter thought, even if he had a plan, which he didn’t. He watched Caesar, feeling his strength slowly draining from him, his stomach knotted with anger and frustration.

  A line from Dante’s Inferno came into his mind unbidden: “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”

  At last, Caesar stood and walked toward the altar where Oya had placed a caged white rabbit. Caesar reached in and grabbed the animal and carefully cradled it in one arm. He held out his other hand, and Oya placed a large dagger in it. Before Caesar could think about what he was doing, he laid the animal down on its side upon the stone altar and, with one deft swipe of the blade, hacked off the animal’s head. Its legs twitched momentarily, as if trying to run away, and then were still.

  Clutching the rabbit by its front legs, Caesar moved to Blackbeard, grabbed an arm and led the demon pirate to the pentagram, standing him exactly in the center. He turned the rabbit upside down, letting the blood spill over the ground within the pentagram, and then laid the carcass inside it. He gestured for the book, which Oya handed to him.

  Caesar turned it over and removed a seal from its back. The loose, leathery flesh sagged and Caesar pulled the book out.

  Hunter could see the cover of the book from his vantage point, and marveled at it. It was deeply etched in crimson with words of an ancient language. Below it was something like the running skeleton Hunter had seen on Jason’s computer—the Death Defier.

  When Caesar opened the book, Hunter could see the pages were yellowed and ancient, and the writing and symbols written there looked indecipherable, like hundreds of jumbled pictograms. To Hunter it resembled a mix of Chinese and hieroglyphics. He was in awe that Caesar could actually make any sense out of it at all.

  The sounds emanating from Caesar were words, but Hunter couldn’t tell if they were benign or malignant. It was in a language he had never heard, probably no one had ever heard.

  “Tanè sala te daka nolo soptomna…”

  Obviously, the Teacher, whom Caesar had followed centuries before, had taught him the language of the book, written in code and deciphered only by those of the true faith. The words were like music, mesmerizing and haunting in their eloquence, echoing off the chamber walls and filling Hunter’s mind with strange visions of shapeless, ephemeral beings.

  “Dalæ mon laptre te daka nolo saptomna…”

  Hunter found himself entranced by the spell, unable to break free of its power, swaying to an unheard rhythm. His body felt as if he was under the influence of a powerful hallucinogenic, and he thought he could hear drums, like those used in Voodoo rituals, pounding furiously, inviting the spirits to join them, to inhabit them. Earlier, Hunter had wondered why there were no other cult members, why Oya was
alone in the cave. Now he realized that the old priest was likely shunned by practitioners of Vodun. His was dark magic, crossing forbidden lines, delving into areas considered taboo by most.

  “Sapta somo monlané te dankstra, sapta somo dela te djuna, mana, mana, mana…”

  Hunter’s mind filled with thoughts of brutality, of killing and maiming, of sexual wantonness and lust: things that sickened and disgusted him physically and spiritually. He thought of Aiden, impaled on a stalagmite, intestines gushing like dark red ribbons across the dirt floor. He imagined Oya, savagely beheaded, lying in a pool of his own blood, and Jason Summerfield...Jason, his so-called friend, tied to a stake and screaming from within a wall of flames. And Lisa...

  “Kjunta sula te daka nolo soptamna…”

  Hunter realized that the visions were the influence of the Great Old Ones, sending out psychic messages, letting the humans have a taste of things to come

  With all the power he could muster, Hunter cleared his mind and opened his eyes, glancing to his side where Blackbeard stood within the pentagram.

  Caesar’s voice began to grow more frantic, increasing in its volume, its intensity. “Jelanda, kafora, salanta, te daka nolo soptamna, te daka nolo soptamna!”

  Blackbeard‘s body was surrounded by an aura, shimmering with colors Hunter had never imagined, spectrums he had never seen. Blackbeard stood perfectly still, unaffected by the psychological madness that had overtaken the rest of the group. Then, his eyes shot open and Hunter saw that they were not only bright red, but filled with light. Caesar had also noticed this and stopped his incantation. Almost immediately, Hunter felt his sanity return, and reality came back into focus.

  That’s when he heard the sounds from within the cave. Blackbeard, with eyes like twin balls of fire, walked toward it.