SCHIZOMEGA: Zombies Made in the U.S.A. (Ian McDermott Paranormal Investigator series Book 3)

by David Aslin

  Upon completing the recording of his thoughts, Ian switched the recorder off. He then slapped both hands on his knees and rose from sitting on the edge of his hotel bed and walked over to the bathroom. After turning on the faucet at the sink, he splashed water on his face, as he began toweling off, he gazed at himself in the mirror above the sink as another thought crossed his mind. He returned to the main room and snatched up his voice actuated recorder and switched it back on.

  RECORDING: “Additionally, I am, or rather, Scout and I, are staying probably less than a mile, as the crow flies, from Bourbon Street in the French Quarter, at the Château LaRiviere. It is as the name might suggest, an architecturally beautiful, French-style brick and mortar mansion. One that I’m told was built nearly two hundred years ago; as the private residence of, Samuel J. Morris - the owner of the largest bank and cotton and tobacco exchange’s, in Louisiana. But less than ten years after the mansion was built; a fire of unknown origin broke out in the mansion, killing Samuel Morris, along with his entire family. The fire nearly completely gutted the mansion; but years later it was purchased by a locally famous Madame - and served for years as one of the more infamous New Orleans brothels. The Château LaRiviere has over its long life, undergone many modification’s and restoration’s. And has for the last eighty years or so, served as a fine boarding house, a bed and no breakfast, so to speak, hotel of sorts. The room’s here are in the fashion, as well as are rented more on the order of an apartment. Except generally, they are rented by the week, or the month, rather than for years. Though I’ve been told that in addition to the owner, a Ms. Ruth LaRiviere - an elderly black women, who speaks with a distinct Creole accent, there are a couple of elderly ladies, white women, who I’m told have lived here for many years. In our case, Scout and I have pre-paid our room for two weeks, as a start. Scout is my police trained, large, German shepherd, my best friend. Perhaps more on Scout, later. Like I said before, I hate talking into these things. But this digital voice recorder could prove itself to be a useful tool. It’s small, thin, can be easily concealed in my pocket. The guy at Office Depot, said it can record for over two-thousand hours. And, that it will pick-up with excellent clarity all voices and sounds for a good distance around. All of which should be perfect for my purpose, as I am notoriously bad about taking, or typing notes. My purposes not withstanding; this device should also help me document, my activities on behalf of my benefactor, Clayton Collins - the noted author of horror fiction. It is he who has funded this little investigation. I’ve promised him that should I turn-up anything interesting enough to write about, I will grant him exclusive rights to all the relevant material’s. Material’s including my notes, whether written or, in this case, recorded. So he may exploit them for his literary purposes as he will. I have been told by Clayton that he will share in any royalties that may come from any stories related to my investigations. Due to his friendship and generosity; I have no reason to believe otherwise. Anyway it’s now around nine-thirty, I’ve just returned to my room. This evening I dined at a very nice seafood house, located just a couple blocks from where I’m staying. The Cajun Cookery. Okay, well that isn’t relevant, but it was good, back to the topic at hand. The following three things are on top of tomorrows agenda to accomplish:

  One - visit occult shops on Bourbon Street. I’ve been told they are numerous. Primarily Voodoo and Witchcraft. See if besides Googling the basics; If I can gain some deeper insight, some education on the subject of, Zombie-ism, and Africanized Louisiana Creole culture.

  Two - check the locale papers online - regarding archives on murders of unusual nature. Ones that could in anyway, fit the general profile of practices of which I seek answers to.

  Three - attempt to ascertain information regarding: Where are the most popular spots that voodoo practitioner might uh, gather to hang out and do their thing?” Ian switched-off the recorder.

  CHAPTER 2

  BEST LAID PLANS

  Upon completing the task of brushing his teeth, Ian spit a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink. He then smiled and looked down at Scout who was patiently laying at his feet.

  “With your new service dog harness, you’ll be able to go with me pretty much anywhere. Remind me to thank Clayton. The vest was probably a no biggie. But I swear, I don’t know how he pulls the strings to get his hands on some of the stuff he does. Probably best I don’t know, right fella?” Scout barked twice and wagged his tail.

  After returning from completing their morning routines, including a nice dog walk on the backyard grounds, Ian attached a leash to Scout’s harness. They then proceeded to leave the hotel and began walking in the general direction of Bourbon Street. Ian put the special service dog harness on Scout the night before, which he’d found in the trunk of his new, at least to him, car. Ian’s recently acquired gift, a new ride; a beautiful late model black Mercedes four door sedan, formerly owned by his equally newly acquired benefactor, Clayton Collins.

  Ian wasn’t a bit surprised when he discovered the harness in the trunk. Upon seeing it for the first time Ian simply mused to himself, Clayton, that guy, if that’s what you call him, thinks of everything.

  Ian retrieved his voice recorder from his denim jackets inner breast pocket. RECORDING: “Today’s agenda. I am hoping that perhaps a local, someone can give me at least the name of a local voodoo Queen. Louisiana’s voodoo as opposed to Haitian voodoo has some subtle, and less than subtle, differences. I’ve read that what differentiates it from that of African or Haitian voodoo (spelled ending with a… u); that have primarily male houngan or priests, for lack of a better word… known as, Bokor. It is the Bokor which has become a generic term and can in fact be used regarding voodoo Queens; especially the ones that are best known for practicing the black sorcery arts required to create so called, zombies! From what I’ve read on the subject. Most experts agree that if true, if zombification on any tangible level indeed exists, it is the result of the introduction to a subject of a compound. Likely a powder that can be aerosolized. One consisting of various specifically formulated and dosed chemical compounds. This powder of which I speak is generally thought to be primarily comprised of the following four essential components:

  One - A neurotoxin called, tetrodotoxin, an extract from the, puffer fish.

  Two - A toxic substance derived from the marine toad, Bufo marinus.

  Three - Secretions from the, hyla tree frog, Osteopilus domincensis.

  Four - human bones, it’s said that likely, that is the key.

  Human bones combined in precise dosage. In combination with the other toxins that effectively render the subject into a deathlike state. The bone, the key element of the skilled Bokor’s powdered cocktail are collected after a corpse lay in the grave for a certain amount of time. I’ve read that time is something like six days. The reason for the wait is, it supposedly takes that amount of time in the grave for the bones to become infected with some specific kind bacteria, or virus, or maybe even spores. Or, just as likely some combination thereof; which I believe is primarily responsible for the more distasteful, possibly even cannibalistic side-effects of the state commonly referred to as zombie-ism, if there is any truth to the myth.”

  Mid-morning

  “Well, Scout it’s time to set out on our days adventure. Let’s put that service dog harness and leash back on ya, that way you can go wherever I do.” Ian bent down and fastened the dog harness on Scout.

  “Okay then, let’s get out of here and start snooping around. I’m guessing that Bourbon Streets about as good a place to start as any. According to what Mister Google tells me, there’s all sorts of weirdly interesting shops around there. So let’s get crack’n.”

  Ian and Scout began heading down the stairs that lead to the front desk. A third of the way down the stairway Ian spotted a very attractive middle aged black woman at the front desk. Ian hadn’t seen her either the day or night before. Upon noticing Ian and Scout coming down the stairs, the woman immediately smiled as she spoke in a
thick Cajun Creole accent.

  “Good morn’ to you suhr. And how is you and dat hansome friend a yowrz, on dis fine day?”

  Ian smiled back. He then noticed the woman was wearing a name-badge that identified her position as, Manager, as well as showed her name to be, Lucille.

  Ian smiled large as he replied, “Good morning to you, Lucille. Scout, say hello to Lucille.” Scout’s head lifted and as his ears rolled back a little as he panted then barked twice.

  Lucille was impressed. “My, what a smart feller you got dare.” Lucille glanced down at her guest registry for a second before completing her sentence. “Mistah, Ian.”

  Ian reached down and petted Scout on the side of his head as he replied, “Yeah, Scout here, he’s pretty darn smart for sure.”

  “Suhr, can I be some assistance?” Ian once again smiled large. “Why yes, Lucille, I believe you can. Could I trouble you to call a taxi for me? I don’t think I want to try and drive around downtown and ...” Lucille immediately interjected, “No-suhr, I know’d wha-chu mean. I be glad to. You just go on out front’n I’ll have one fer-ya’n no time.”

  Ian pulled gently on Scouts leash. The two of them then exited the beautiful southern-style mansion turned hotel, and waited for a few minutes out in front of the place next to the curb. Ian reflected, Lucille was right, it is a beautiful day. The calm between the storms!

  Within five minutes a cab pulled in front of where Ian and Scout were standing. Ian motioned at the cab driver that indeed the cab was for him. The cabbie, a very dark complexioned black man smiled, nodded his head and motioned for them to come aboard.

  Ian opened the back door of the cab. Scout jumped right in, then moved himself over to make room for Ian.

  “Where ya be head’n sir.” The cab driver asked Ian still with a smile on his face. Ian quickly replied, “Well, how about dropping us off at the beginning of, Bourbon Street? I know it’s not far, but, well, without a street atlas, I, we want to take in all the sights that, that area has to offer.”

  After what Ian thought was less than fifteen minutes they were getting very near their destination. If the traffic hadn’t been as heavy as it was, they would have made it even quicker. One moment later, the cab driver did as Ian had requested; he pulled his taxi over to the side of the curb, they were less than a half block from the beginning of Bourbon Street.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Sights Part I

  After exiting the cab, and paying for their ride plus a healthy tip to the driver, Ian and Scout began making their way to what was obviously the ingress to one of the most famous streets in the world. Ian immediately began marveling at the architectural flavor that the French Quarter boasted. He’d never before been to New Orleans, but he’d seen Bourbon Street hundreds of times, in pictures, television, and movies. As well as he’d seen many times on television the aftermath of the devastation and later the expansive rebuilding efforts in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.

  Ian was eager as he’d said to the cab driver, to ‘take in the sites’ but he didn’t want to deviate too far from his very specific agenda.

  As they walked, Ian held firm to Scouts’ leash. The last thing he wanted was to lose his best friend and body guard. “Scout you stay close to me boy. I’ve heard lots of stories about this place. Pick-pockets are supposed to be thick around here. But, they’d think twice about trying their crafty ways on me with you by my side.” Scout barked twice as if he understood every word.

  Scout walked alongside Ian’s right side, keeping perfect pace with every step, pause, and stop that Ian made. They were nearing the end of the first block when Ian spotted a potential target for beginning his inquiries.

  “Look over there, Scout, see that place? It’s called, Zulie’s Voodoo, Magic and Psychic Readings. I think we should start by checking it out, what-da-ya-say?” Scout panted, he looked to Ian as if he was smiling, as they both began making a beeline straight for the shop.

  Once again, Ian thought how useful Scout wearing a service dog vest will be; it should make them welcome to almost any business Ian wanted to check out.

  In just moments Ian and Scout stood looking into the front windows of Zulie’s. The shops windows displayed all manner of intriguing, if not creepy, occult related paraphernalia.

  Ian opened the door to the shop and without hesitation he and Scout crossed over the threshold to look around. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of patchouli-oil incense, and pungently fragrant, burning candles. There was the faint sound of what Ian recognized to be reggae music, being played from a small boom box located on a table that had painted on its top an inverted pentagram; along with all sorts of strange looking symbols apparently strategically fixed at its geometric intersections, and five star-points. All about the table were tarot cards. Everywhere Ian looked, he spotted the typical satanic goat-faced pentangles, and witchcraft talismans, as well as even some references to, Wicca, white witchcraft. He also noticed that there was some Celtic druid artisan crafted figurines, books, and the like. But the obvious focus of the shop by abundance was its cheap tourist trap generic gris gris voodoo magic bags, necklaces, and various amulets and talismans. As well as painted small glass tube candle holders depicting Saints and deities relevant to Catholicism, and related hybrid offshoot religions stemming from Africa, Haiti, Jamaica, and other various Islands of the Caribbean. Ian recognized this much when it came to African and Caribbean derived religions, primarily voodoo to this day, was alive and well, and commonly practiced right here in, New Orleans.

  Ian silently reflected, as he fixated on all of the Christian based religious paraphernalia standing on shelves alongside iconic occult symbols and dolls, Hail Mary, full of grace… and canvas covered wax dolls full of pins and needles.

  Some of the more bizarre animal or other… sacrifices, and perhaps even zombification rites of such religions, Ian could only surmise, would be closely held secrets of the practitioners, under the watchful eyes of Voodoo Bokor, Queens and Priests. And would likely be practiced primarily in secluded locations up and down the Mississippi delta. Those religions, primarily Voodoo and Hoodoo, and much of what he was presently looking at now are items used in the practice of Santeria. Ian, having been a field Zoologist that had worked in the Caribbean more than once had, albeit cursory, knowledge of the practices and items relating to at least the more commonly known religions of those regions.

  The strong scents had posed an almost instantaneous assault to Ian’s olfactory senses. And the thin cloud of swirling candle-smoke which encircled the shop was beginning to irritate his eyes as well. Scout sneezed twice in rapid succession, but seemed to rapidly adjust to the overly fragrant smoky environment.

  After nearly getting halfway through the small shop Ian spotted the keeper who was sitting on a tall stool in the back, smoking a thin cigar. She was a middle aged, albino Afro-American woman, who had thick sandy blond hair, which she wore braided into hemp-rope like, heavy dreadlocks. The lady wore a bright mixed colored kaftan style frock that looked to Ian, reminiscent of traditional African attire. She sported small round framed, yellow-gold, John Lennon style, dark tinted glasses. She wore them poised low on her nose. She sat peering from above her dark glasses, with piercing nearly rabbit red eyes, and after a protracted, uncomfortable silence, the women spoke.

  “You look like a man who ‘bout to get into a heap a trouble poke’n him nose in tings him should be leaven be.”

  Ian was a little surprised but more taken aback by what the women said, than frightened on any level as he replied, “What? I… I don’t… that is I’m sure that I don’t really understand what you mean?”

  The lady suddenly got wide-eyed and began laughing almost hysterically as she fired back in a very loud voice. “I’m sure you don’t, No suhr, I’m sure you don’t! I be talk’n ‘bout fock-king voodoo mahgic mahn. You come see me for gris gris one day for sure. My gris gris has da best juju, and from looks of you, you go’n-ta need it!” The lady started laughing again this ti
me almost maniacally. Ian looked down at Scout as he spoke, “Come on boy; let’s get a move on.” Ian quickly turned an about face and he and Scout started heading to the front of the store to leave. He couldn’t explain it, but suddenly his chest was tight and it wasn’t just because of the perfume and smoke filled air. He needed to get out of the place, and fast. The lady nearly shouted at Ian as he opened the door to leave. “We’ll be meet’n one-nother again very soon I s’pect, but no Scout dog!” She once again commenced laughing wildly as she slapped her knees with the palms of her pasty pale hands. Hearing loud and clear the last words she spoke Ian felt an icy chill run up and down his spine as the very hairs on the back of his neck stood fully erect.