Tortured Spirits

by Gregory Lamberson

  “They’re just … standing there,” Andre said.

  “They’re waiting for instructions.”

  “All units report success,” Alejandro said over Jorge’s hand radio.

  Pharah stopped chanting, a look of surprised satisfaction on her face.

  Jorge spoke into his radio. “Copy that. We’re commencing phase two.”

  “Roger that,” Alejandro said.

  Pharah moved closer to a section of candles and altered her chant.

  “What’s she doing now?” Maria said.

  “She gave a general order to the zonbies to stand down. Now she needs to propose a specific attack plan to each division.”

  Unbelievable, Maria thought, glancing at Catoute, who squirmed in her summoning circle.

  Fingers opened and closed. Heads turned on cracking necks. Bodies shifted.

  “Jake?”

  “I see them.”

  A handful of zonbies detached themselves from the crowd and moved closer to Jake and Andre.

  “Should we get in the truck?” Andre said.

  “No.”

  A male zonbie wearing a dirty suede vest, blue jeans, and motorcycle boots stood before them. Long, matted hair hung over broad shoulders and arms that must have been muscular before atrophying. He seemed to focus on Jake and Andre, and cracked lips separated as his jaw moved up and down.

  “He’s trying to talk,” Andre said with wonder in his voice.

  “They don’t have any vocal cords left.” Jake felt a powerful sense of sympathy for the creature. “But he’s sentient.” He glanced at the miserable faces around him. “They all are. Before they were like machines or cult members—brainwashed, with no will of their own, doing only as they were commanded.”

  “And now they’re fully conscious,” Andre said. “But trapped inside their dead bodies. Souls do exist. Malvado will burn in hell for what he’s done to these people.”

  ”Your people.”

  The zonbie pointed at Andre.

  “He recognizes you,” Jake said. The mass of corpses pressed in around them. “They all do.”

  The zonbie brought his hand to his forehead, forming a salute.

  Blinking, Andre returned the salute and held it.

  Almost in unison, two hundred leathery hands saluted as well.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Pharah stopped chanting and stepped back from the last section of candles. She turned to Jorge and nodded.

  Jorge raised the hand radio to his mouth. “What’s the status on our draft choices?”

  “All players are reporting to the field,” Alejandro said.

  Maria laughed. “It worked? Son of a bitch, it worked! What now?”

  “All we’ve done is increase our ranks. We still have a war to fight.”

  Jake reached for the handle of the driver’s side door.

  “I’m pretty sure it will be easier for me to drive stick than you,” Andre said.

  “Good point.” Jake rounded the truck and climbed in on the passenger side.

  Andre started the engine and switched on the headlights. “Onward, Christian soldiers.”

  The truck surged forward. Andre twisted the steering wheel and turned into the poppy field, the bumpy terrain rocking them from side to side.

  Andre glanced at his side mirror. “They’re running.”

  Jake looked at his mirror and saw scores of zonbies with ATAC machine guns chasing the truck. “They’ll keep up. They don’t tire, they don’t run out of breath, and they don’t need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Just like machines,” Andre said.

  “With souls.”

  Poppy flowers surrounded them, bloodred in the moonlight. Half a mile later, Andre drove the truck uphill and stopped. As he and Jake climbed out, the zonbie army passed them without stopping or seeming to notice them. To Jake, it felt like watching the New York City marathon being run by dead people. They watched the army trample poppies and disappear over the hill’s opposite crest.

  Jake scrambled into the back of the truck and handed a gasoline container to Andre, who unscrewed its cap, pulled out its nozzle, and crossed the hill’s surface with gasoline trailing him and soaking the poppies.

  “Got a match?” Andre said.

  “Nope.”

  Laughing, Andre tossed the gas container aside. They got into the truck and drove away.

  Fifty yards later, Andre stopped again and they got out. Jake watched the man raise the ATAC to his shoulder and activate its laser scope.

  Jake lifted the hand radio to his mouth. “Le Père to base.”

  “This is base. Go ahead.”

  “We’re in position.”

  “Go for the gold.”

  “Copy that.”

  Andre squinted. “A little red, glowing dot. The wonders of modern technology.”

  “Wait until you discover Facebook,” Jake said.

  Andre squeezed the trigger, and the grenade rocketed forward, detonating the gas can and igniting the hillside. Orange flames shot twenty feet into the air, then blew sideways, consuming a hundred yards’ worth of poppies before it even spread.

  “We’re roasting marshmallows here,” Jake said into the hand radio, which he hitched onto his belt.

  Far in the distance beyond the compound, thunderous explosions shook the night.

  “You just fired the shot heard round the island,” Jake said.

  Malvado stood on the third-story balcony of his study with his arms folded behind his back. Dressed in a black silk robe, he had heard what sounded like thunder in the distance and had gone out to investigate. No signs of lightning, yet the thunderous percussions continued.

  “Ernesto?”

  He turned at the sound of his mistress’s voice. Inmola was a model from the UK, tall and slender, with dark brown skin, like his. She wore an identical silk robe, though she left hers open, revealing the contours of her body.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Malvado returned his gaze to the jungle around the palace. “I don’t know.”

  Inmola slid her arms around his waist. “Come back to bed.”

  “I have too much on my mind. There’s something in the air, something electric. I can feel it.”

  “Let me take care of you. I promise I’ll make you forget your worries.”

  He offered her a serious smile. “I don’t want to forget them.”

  His cell phone rang. Detaching her arms from around his waist, he answered it.

  “This is General Buteau. We have a crisis. Make that crises. You’ll want to come to the command center right away.”

  Malvado switched the power off. “Help me get dressed.”

  Ten minutes after the truck had passed the zonbies again and after entering a strip of woods, the headlights shone on the surface of a narrow river.

  Andre killed the engine but left the headlights on. They got out, and Jake heard distant explosions in all directions. Lowering the truck’s gate, Jake climbed up and dropped the ramp, then led the two horses out one at a time. A large, heavy sack rested on each horse’s back. Jake carried out four more sacks.

  “Supposedly, this is where the river is shallowest,” he said, “with the least current. It’s almost stagnant.”

  “So? I’m told the water’s stocked with piranhas.”

  “Not piranhas. Something else. Watch.” Taking a knife, Jake slit one of the sacks open, and grainular white powder whispered out.

  Andre furrowed one brow. “Sugar?”

  “Salt.” Jake hurled a fistful of salt at the water’s surface.

  The water rippled, then churned, foaming. A creature the size of an eel leapt out of the water, steam and smoke hissing from its smoldering body. The water seemed to explode in two or three places at once, blood and scaly chunks of flesh rising to the surface.

  “What the hell?” Andre said.

  “Biogens: biogenetically engineered weapons. My old boss Nicholas Tower financed their creation. Bill Russel was in the process of selling
them to President Seguera to deal with rebels in the Philippines when I fouled up their plans. Since Russel brought Seguera here, I figured he sold a supply of Biogens to Malvado as well. If a man’s willing to turn his own subjects into zonbies, why wouldn’t he purchase some genetic hybrids capable of devouring a human being?”

  “Incredible. But you stopped those”—he gestured at the water—”with salt?”

  “Tower designed dozens of different Biogens, each with its own Achilles’ heel as a control factor. For this breed it was salt to prevent them from escaping into the sea and causing damage to the ecosystem.”

  “But human beings have salt in their bodies. How can these creatures eat them?”

  “Other minerals in our bodies neutralize the salt’s effects on the Biogens, making us tasty morsels.” Jake threw handfuls of salt at the water. “Come on. Help me out.”

  Biogens flapped around on the water’s surface, shrieking and writhing in the moonlight, their red eyes filled with hatred. Seeing them again unsettled Jake; his past continued to chase him.

  When he and Andre had emptied the entire sack, Jake opened another and started rubbing salt on his arms and legs. Then he and Andre rubbed salt on the legs of their horses. They each grabbed one end of another sack, swung it, and let it soar into the air, splashing into the river.

  “Ready?” Jake said.

  “No.”

  The sky above them lit up, and they heard helicopters. Climbing onto the saddles of their horses, they guided the animals to the water’s edge.

  “It should be only four or five feet deep. Keep that sack on your saddle, and you should be fine.” Jake punctured each corner of his sack, then handed his knife to Andre, who did the same.

  Jake guided his horse into the water and felt the animal resisting the current. The horse moved deeper into the water, which covered Jake’s boots, then rose to his knees, then his thighs.

  At least my balls are safe.

  Around him, the water stirred, then foamed and writhed. Silvery Biogens, ruptured and bleeding, broke the surface.

  His horse whinnied and tried to rear up.

  “Easy, boy,” Jake said.

  The horse continued forward. The water rose to Jake’s ass, then his waist.

  So much for my balls.

  The water continued to bleed around him.

  Christ, how many of these things are there?

  The water receded, slipping away from his thighs and then his shins, and his horse clopped onto the embankment. The animal didn’t need Jake to spur it faster. Turning his beast to face the river, Jake saw Andre emerging from the river on his horse.

  “That was a little too close,” Andre said.

  The zonbies appeared on the other side of the river and stopped on its bank.

  “Are they afraid?” Andre said.

  “No. They’re not alive so the Biogens wouldn’t eat them. But they were programmed never to cross the river, and now they have to disobey that order.”

  The zonbie with the long hair waded into the river, then another, then a dozen. Soon the entire foot brigade crossed with their machine guns held above their heads, the headlights from the truck illuminating them.

  The roar of a helicopter grew louder. Trees shook and bowed, the river grew choppy, and the horses reared up. The helicopter descended, its spotlight targeting dozens of zonbies.

  The creatures looked up at the aircraft with helpless expressions.

  No sooner had Jake wrestled his horse under control than he heard a loud whining beside him, and it reared up, giving him a perfect view of the helicopter as its interior exploded.

  A soldier fell out, screaming and burning, and crash-dived into the river, which carried him away. With smoke billowing out of its side, the helicopter went into a tailspin and disappeared behind the trees. Jake heard the sounds of metal groaning and twisting and glass shattering. Then the fuel tank ignited, and a fireball rose into the sky.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Andre loading another grenade onto his ATAC.

  “I fight for all the people,” Andre said.

  This isn’t possible, Russel thought as images of destruction filled the monitors in the command center. Burning buildings, overturned vehicles, civilians with machine guns running for cover.

  He and Maxime huddled around Buteau, while uniformed aides crisscrossed the room from terminal to terminal and telephones rang.

  “What the hell is going on?” Malvado said as he stormed into the room like a force of nature. He wore his complete uniform, including medals and a sheathed sword.

  “We’re under attack,” Buteau said. “Armed forces have assaulted the airport and central military base. There are reports of explosions all across the island. Two of our helicopters have been shot down, two more are missing, and our fighter planes never made it off the runway.”

  Malvado’s face trembled. “Santiago and Helman are behind this!”

  “This is the work of more than two men,” Buteau said. “As far as we can tell, a dozen different operations involving thousands of personnel are under way at the same time. Except for the Ministry of Defense, Pavot City has already fallen.”

  “Pavot City? The capital? Then what are you doing here, General?”

  “Commanding the troops.”

  “Get out there and lead the troops! William and my son can monitor the situation here.”

  Buteau rose. “Yes, Mr. President. Which troops would you like me to lead?”

  “How about the forces outside the palace? Make certain I’m safe!”

  Buteau bowed and exited, and Russel slipped into his chair.

  “I think you’d better see what’s being broadcast on your TV network,” Russel said. He tapped some keys, and a familiar face filled the screen and spoke in French.

  “Hello. I’m Andre Santiago. I’ve spent the last thirty years incarcerated in El Miedo prison, while all of you watching this have lived under the crushing oppression of a dictator Ernesto Malvado. Tonight all of that changes. I’m free and soon you will be, too. A coalition consisting of the People for Pavot, Pavot for the People, the Church of St. Anthony’s, and citizens across our nation have banded together to overthrow this illegal government. Spread the word. Arm yourselves. Take the fight to the streets. This will be your only chance to stand up to Le Monstre. Libération de I’île Pavot.”

  “This message was recorded earlier. He repeats it in English, then Spanish, in a continuous loop.”

  Malvado’s beady eyes grew wide. “How?”

  “They seized control of the network. Control the media and you control the message.”

  “Bomb the TV station!”

  “With what? You have no air force.” Russel glimpsed a flashing icon in one corner of the monitor. “Here’s an incoming message from Solaine at the Ministry of Defense.”

  Solaine appeared sweaty and distraught in the webcam image.

  “What’s your situation, Colonel?” Malvado said.

  “Grim,” Solaine said. “They’ve broken through our defense perimeter on the ground floor, and we don’t have any helicopters on the roof.”

  “You have guns, don’t you? Shoot them!”

  “I don’t think that will do much good, Mr. President.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s difficult to kill men who are already dead. We’re being attacked by your zonbies, and they’re armed.”

  Russel blinked at the screen. Zonbies? He looked over his shoulder at Maxime, then at Malvado, whose face turned several shades lighter, his mouth hanging open.

  “Destroy their heads,” Malvado said.

  “Bondye, forgive us for what we’ve done,” Solaine said. “But I think instead he’s punishing us.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Are we just going to stand here until the war’s over?” Maria said.

  “We have to protect Pharah and these candles,” Jorge said.

  A burst of static came over his hand radio, followed by Alejandro’s voice. “T
his is base, making a general announcement. The Ministry of Defense has fallen. Pavot City, including the television network, is ours. So is the airport. Malvado’s plantations and businesses have fallen. Bienvenida City is in play. I fear this will be my last update.”

  Maria looked at Jorge, then at Pharah.

  Over the hand radio, they heard shouting.

  “Libération de I’île Pavot!” Alejandro said.

  Machine gun fire erupted, then silence.

  Maria felt numb. “Shit.”

  “Your plantations are all abandoned and on fire,” Russel said. “There’s no communication at your sugarcane fields or rum factory, but it’s safe to believe they’ve fallen as well. Other than your personal fortune and the treasury, you’ve been wiped out.”

  Malvado stared at Russel. “How did this happen?”

  Russel mulled over his response. It would do no good to remind Malvado he had warned him about Helman. “We failed to recognize that the different elements on the fringe of society could overcome their differences to unite against you. Now they’ve provided a backbone to the general population. We’re outnumbered, but even with your air force shut down, we aren’t outgunned. We can still come out of this in control.”

  “But we’ll be broke,” Malvado said.

  “The country may be broke but you won’t be. The men at the top always manage to prosper.”

  “We’ll need to use the treasury’s coffers to repair all this damage. If we kill the rebels and the zonbies, there will be no one left to replant my poppies. It will take years for things to return to normal.”

  Russel held back his laughter. Normal, he says.

  Maxime set both hands down on the console. “Where can we go? Let’s empty the treasury and run.”

  Malvado made a fist and struck Maxime in the face. “Don’t speak to me of fleeing! We’re not cowards; we’re Malvados. We’ll stay and fight for what’s ours. I refuse to believe these peasants can overthrow my army. William, tell Buteau to order all troops to surround the palace. We have to hold our ground.”