Tortured Spirits

by Gregory Lamberson

  “Humphrey once had a chance to go to America as part of an artist exchange program. He would have been able to escape and live a free life, but he cared about me too much, cared about this country. I wish he’d gone when he had the chance. Now I’m glad you’re leaving early.”

  “If I thought staying would accomplish anything …”

  “You’re too hot now. You’d only be killed.”

  “God, I’m so tired.” Leaning her head back against the seat, Maria covered her eyes with one hand.

  A voice spoke Jorge’s name through a burst of static, and he raised his hand radio, which was not unlike the devices used by NYPD.

  “Go ahead,” Jorge said.

  “Your cousin called,” the voice said in French.

  “Which one?”

  “Florence Nightingale.” A nurse, Maria thought.

  “She says she treated an unusual patient today, who was escorted out a couple of hours ago.”

  Maria saw the news in Jorge’s eyes when he turned to her.

  “Jake’s alive,” she said.

  “My cousin Ramona is a nurse at a clinic not far from our military base. Your novio was treated there, then taken away by soldiers.”

  “And I know where they took him.”

  “Even if he’s still alive, it’s too late to save him. Please just get on that ship.”

  Maria flicked her cigarette out the window. “I came here with Jake. He sacrificed himself so I could get away.”

  “Then honor his wishes. If you’re caught, you’ll both die for nothing. Worse than death—you’ll both become zonbies in Malvado’s fields.”

  She didn’t blink. “I’m not leaving without Jake.”

  After taking a long, hot shower, Sivelia dried off and rubbed oils into her flesh, then blow-dried her hair and applied makeup. Crossing her spacious air-conditioned apartment in the Church of the Black Snake, she entered her bedroom and selected a sheer black nightgown from her walk-in closet. The second bedroom housed her library, where she kept her totems and herbs and practiced her rituals.

  In the living room, she lit several candles and played an American jazz CD she had bought on the black market. Life was good, but she intended to make it better.

  A key turning in the lock on her front door caused her to smile. Her visitor was always on time.

  Najac entered the apartment and closed the door behind him. Sivelia strode forward in high heels, swaying her hips to the jazz beat. Najac glared at her, which she knew meant he approved of her attire.

  She ran her painted nails up his chest and over the shirt he left unbuttoned to reveal a triangle of black skin. “Did anyone see you?”

  “What difference would it make if they did?”

  Even though Sivelia knew he feared their relationship being discovered as much as she did, she allowed him to play the role of the macho alpha male, which was what she wanted him to be one day.

  Pressing her lips against his, she slid her tongue inside his mouth. Najac wrapped one arm around her back, crushing her against him, and she felt him growing hard even as she turned wet between her legs. Careful not to offend him, she eased him away. His playful smile contained the hint of a sneer, and she saw danger in his beady eyes, which he had inherited from his father.

  “You’re going to make me burst, woman.”

  Now Sivelia smiled. “Would you sacrifice everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve for one night of pleasure when we’re so close to realizing our dreams?”

  Najac grunted. “I might.”

  “And I’d make you feel like a king. But in the morning you’d still be a prince and my body would be worthless.”

  Najac took in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “How much longer?”

  “The old woman’s taught me everything she’s willing to while she remains head Mambo. But I’ve learned quite a bit on my own, and this week I figured out something else. She made me draw a circle on the church floor and give her a jar of my sang menstruel. Both were used to summon Kalfu; I know it. All I need to do is get my hands on her book, learn the incantation, and I could summon him myself.”

  Najac caressed her face. “It isn’t fair. I should have you before that demon does.”

  “We both have to make sacrifices, my lord.” Sivelia rubbed his wrist. “That’s what it will take for you to be king and me to be your high priestess. It’s time for a new generation to rule Pavot Island.”

  Najac locked his hands behind the small of her back and stared down his nose at her. “When you become pregnant, Mambo Catoute will suspect Kalfu, won’t she?”

  Sivelia nodded. “You have to kill her immediately after Kalfu takes me—even before you kill your father.”

  “It’s my brother who worries me. He has to suspect I want Pavot for myself.”

  “We’ll kill him together.”

  Najac smiled. “I like the way you think.”

  “That’s why I’ll make the perfect queen.” She had it all figured out: she and Najac would have a much closer relationship and a more equal partnership than her grandmother currently enjoyed with Malvado.

  Clenching his teeth, Najac unzipped his pants and freed his erection. “Work some of that magic on me.”

  Sivelia reached down and grasped his shaft. Kneeling, she took him into her mouth and gazed up at him.

  Najac grimaced, his snarl becoming more pronounced.

  She knew he was capable of cruelty, but his crude actions paled in comparison to what Kalfu would do to her when she finally summoned him.

  The metal gate powered open, and Jorge pulled into the driveway of a one-story house and parked beneath the carport. When they got out, the gate had already closed. Maria put on her baseball cap.

  Jorge pointed at the backyard. “This way.”

  Following him around the house, she saw the wide doors of a barn standing wide open, spilling light onto the lawn. Caribbean music drifted out of the interior. As they approached the barn, she saw no other houses around. A black four-door Dodge Ram occupied the lawn.

  Inside the cluttered barn, which had been converted into a garage, two men puttered around with greasy engine parts. The taller one seemed more familiar with the space and more concerned with the task before him. He wore brown leather cowboy boots and jeans. The other man had a generous beer belly. He tapped his friend, who turned.

  The tall man moved forward. “Comment allez-vous?” How are you?

  Jorge embraced him. “Je suis vide.” I am empty.

  The man patted Jorge on the back. “He was a good man.”

  Jorge didn’t bother to wipe the tears from his eyes as he gestured to Maria. “Maria Vasquez, my brother, Armand.”

  “Comment allez-vous?” Maria said.

  “C’est la vie.” This is life.

  Jorge motioned to the heavyset black man. “Our friend Stephane.”

  “Como estas?” Stephane said.

  “Je suis vivant.” I’m alive.

  Stephane nodded. “Would you like a beer?”

  Maria eyed the can. “When we’re done.”

  “Can you shoot?” Armand said.

  Maria raised her T-shirt, revealing the Walther. “I’m a New York City cop.”

  Armand raised his eyebrows. “Oui?”

  “Si,” Maria said. “How about we stick to English?”

  “How much ammo do you have for that?”

  “Not enough.”

  Armand opened one of the trunks, and Maria saw it was eighteen inches deep with handguns.

  Moving forward, she reached past Armand and grasped a Glock. “This is more like it.” She pulled back the slide. “But I’ll still take ammo for the Walther.”

  Armand handed her a silencer and two magazines. “For the Glock.” He handed her another silencer and two more magazines. “And for the Walther.”

  Maria screwed a silencer into the barrel of each gun.

  “Take this, too.” He gave her a sheathed hunting knife.

  Jorge selected a Beretta
. “One’s enough for me.”

  “My brother’s so conservative,” Armand said as he and Stephane armed themselves.

  Maria clipped the sheath to her belt. “What are you doing with all these guns, and why are we loading up with those doors open?”

  “We’ve been preparing for revolution for years,” Armand said.

  “And there’s no one out there to see us,” Stephane said.

  Maria watched Jorge attach a holster to his belt. “Guns. Tunnels. I don’t know why you haven’t already overthrown Malvado.”

  “We need a trigger,” Jorge said. “It hasn’t happened yet.”

  Armand passed out rifles. “But it will. Now let’s go get your friend.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Maria sat next to Jorge in the backseat of the black Dodge Ram while Armand drove and Stephane rode shotgun. The truck prowled the highway and exited onto a side road with no streetlights.

  “Thank you for doing this,” Maria said.

  Armand didn’t even glance at the rearview mirror to see her. “You came to Pavot Island to free Le Père. You didn’t have to do that.”

  I did, Maria thought. “We failed. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “No, we don’t. But any enemy of Malvado’s is a friend of ours. Even if you didn’t accomplish what you set out to do, you’ll do more good back in the USA, where you can help La Mère spread the word about the atrocities you’ve seen here, than you’ll do as a martyr lying dead in a ditch or working in Le Monstre’s fields as a zonbie. You’re too beautiful for that anyway.”

  She rubbed the scratches on her arms. “I don’t feel very beautiful right now.”

  Armand turned onto a two-lane road that rose and dropped, each side flanked by tall trees. Maria shuddered. Even in the dark, with no discernible landmarks, she recognized the woods on her left.

  “We’re getting close,” Stephane said.

  Maria turned to Jorge. “I don’t want anything to happen to any of you. We have to make this fast, in and out.”

  “I don’t plan to wait around and introduce myself,” Jorge said.

  In the front seat, Armand and Stephane said nothing. The headlights illuminated the trees ahead, and two metal signs on the left glowed white. Armand slowed the truck, and Maria saw a side road between the signs. The truck stopped at the first sign, which repeated the same message in French, English, and Spanish.

  STAY OUT. RESTRICTED FEDERAL PROPERTY.ALL TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.

  Armand made the turn. “There will be two armed guards at the gate. Stephane and I will handle them.”

  They proceeded along the bumpy single lane, the trees around them growing denser, darker. Armand slowed to follow the twists and turns, and light appeared between the trees. A chain-link fence topped with coiled razor wire came into view, a security booth beside it. Maria saw a bridge beyond the fence and knew it spanned the piranha-populated river.

  Two soldiers holding machine guns emerged from the booth and stood before the fence. The truck stopped and Armand lowered his window. One soldier hurried over to the open window, while the other ran around to the passenger side, where Stephane lowered his window.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the first soldier said in French. The truck was so high he had to look up at Armand. “Didn’t you see the signs?”

  Armand feigned innocence. “I’m sorry but we’re lost. Can you help us with directions?”

  Before the soldier could answer, Armand raised the Glock from between his legs, aimed it out the open window, and fired it twice. The silencer muffled the shots, but the muzzle flashes caused Maria to blink. At the same time, Stephane fired his gun twice. The soldiers’ bodies jerked, their faces disintegrating into bloodshed, and they toppled to the ground. Armand and Stephane leapt out of the truck, straddled their victims, and fired one more round into the head of each man.

  Two more soldiers appeared from behind the booth, their machine guns readied for action.

  Realizing unsuppressed machine gun fire would alarm anyone in earshot, Maria jerked her door open and jumped out. “Look out!” Her feet slammed onto the ground, and she aimed her Glock with both hands and squeezed the trigger.

  Her shots stopped both soldiers in their tracks, and before either man could fire or fall, gunshots from Maria’s right tore into their torsos. Their bodies collapsed in unison, punctured with bullets.

  Maria glanced at Armand as Stephane circled the front of the truck and Jorge hopped out behind her.

  “Nice work,” Armand said. He pulled on a green ski mask. “A little late but follow my lead.”

  They each pulled on a different colored mask: Maria’s was brown; Stephane’s was blue; and Jorge’s camouflage. Jorge seized the wrists of the soldier Armand had shot and dragged the corpse into the woods, while Stephane did the same with the man he had killed. They proceeded to strip the men.

  Armand gestured to the last two men killed. “We can’t save their shirts, but everything else is good.” He grabbed one corpse by the wrists and dragged it in Jorge’s direction.

  Maria did the same with the remaining soldier, who moaned as she struggled with his weight. His eyes locked on hers, then fluttered. The dying body left a trail of blood. Maria dropped the still figure beside the one Jorge had left.

  “Get his pants, boots, and weapons,” Jorge said as he stripped the corpse at his feet.

  Maria unlaced her corpse’s boots and pulled them off, then unbuckled the military belt around the pants. Once she had removed them, she returned to where he had fallen and collected his machine gun.

  Armand walked out of the security booth carrying a case of ammunition. The four of them tossed their booty into the back of the truck, then resumed their positions inside.

  “Seat belts,” Armand said.

  Maria pulled her shoulder strap across her torso and buckled it.

  Armand backed up the truck, then floored it. The Ram raced forward and smashed through the gates. The truck sped onto the bridge, and she glanced over its railing at the dark water below. They reentered the woods.

  “If you come into contact with any zonbies, shoot them in the head,” Maria said. “Only in the head.”

  Jorge looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “Because that’s the only thing that will stop them. Anywhere else will be a waste of ammo.”

  A second checkpoint loomed ahead: a security booth but no fence or gate. Two soldiers armed with rifles stood at attention in the middle of the road.

  “What’s with those guys?” Stephane said.

  Maria studied the soldiers. They had waxy skin and didn’t blink as the truck’s headlights lit up their faces. “Those aren’t soldiers. At least not living ones.”

  “What are you talking about? They’re wearing uniforms. They look normal.”

  “They’re wearing makeup. Someone wanted to make them appear alive.”

  Armand stopped the truck and rolled down his window.

  One of the zonbie sentries came over to his door and peered inside.

  “Oh, shit,” Armand said, gazing at the man’s undead features.

  The zonbie stared at Armand long enough to register his presence, then raised his rifle’s stock to his shoulder.

  “Look out!” Jorge said.

  Armand threw his door open, slamming it into the zonbie before the dead thing could fire. Then he hopped out and stepped around the door, so Maria saw only his head. Two muzzle flashes accompanied by high-pitched whistles told her he had killed the zonbie.

  The second zonbie aimed his rifle at the windshield. Stephane fired two shots from his open window. Neither shot hit the zonbie in the head, but one sent him spinning to the ground. Armand ran around the front of the truck, aimed his Glock, and fired. The zonbie’s brain fluid spurted out of his skull, fully illuminated by the headlights, and the reanimated soldier dropped out of view.

  Armand gathered the dead soldiers’ guns and climbed into the truck. “Screw their clothes.” He passed the weap
ons to Maria and Jorge, who stashed them on the floor.

  “Were those really … zonbies?” Jorge said.

  “They were dead.” Armand closed his door and resumed their course. “Call them what you want.”

  Stephane wiped his forehead. “Ay Dios mio.”

  “You were right,” Armand said to Maria. “Only shots to the head work.”

  Jorge said, “Zonbies foutus.” Fucking zonbies.

  “Something other than blood came out of their wounds. Powder or—”

  “Sawdust,” Maria said. “Packing material. Filler.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Jake put down scores of them in New York.”

  The road turned again, and within a moment the trees cleared, providing a clear view of the stars in the sky and the compound of buildings below.

  “It’s the first building,” Maria said.

  Armand killed the headlights, allowing the fog lights to provide the only illumination. He slowed as well, cutting down on the engine noise. Maria doubted that would make a difference. The work lights around the compound cast a glow on the buildings, and the door to the drug den became visible as they drew closer.

  Armand stopped ten feet from the structure, and all four of them poured out. Armand and Stephane clutched two rifles with mounted laser scopes.

  Stephane looked at the fields to their right. “Holy mother of God …”

  The others turned in the same direction. Silhouetted figures worked in the distance, overseers on horseback supervising them.

  “There must be hundreds of them,” Armand said.

  Clutching a flashlight in one hand and her Glock in the other, Maria sprinted into the shooting gallery, followed by Jorge. Inside, gagging on the stench of human sweat and waste, she thumbed on the flashlight and passed it over the faces of the scarecrows on the floor.

  They blinked at her, some of them looking barely human.

  “Oh, mon Dieu,” Jorge said, his words obscured by his mask. He stared at the wretched addicts before him. “These are my people. Malvado’s got to pay for this.”

  Maria strode forward, stepping around the bodies curled on the floor. “Jake?”