Midnight Diner 3

by Edoardo Albert

  Solemnly, Jon declared, "All right. Let’s do it."

  ~

  That night, Zabuto patrolled the streets of the nearby village, while Jon took a position in the surrounding tall grass. The kid wasn’t wired with a mike and that made Jon uneasy. He didn’t like not being in contact with his point man, but he had only come prepared for two, not three. And besides, Zabuto insisted he go out alone in radio silence. He thought it would be easier to blend in that way, to not spook the spook they were chasing.

  Jon marveled at his friend’s condition. Zabuto was usually so together, never flinching in the face of anything. Sure, he wasn’t Spencer. Spencer was like a machine when it came to the hunt, but Zabuto kept his cool all the same. He had a quiet confidence that kept him rock solid no matter what they faced.

  But this hunt was changing him. Now the young hunter’s shoulders sagged, slowing him down as he walked through the shantytown, as though an invisible weight had been draped across his back. Even his face was pale, his cheeks sunken. Jon made a mental note to make sure Zabuto got some food in his stomach later.

  Now, despite the fact that Zabuto was supposed to be tracking a spook, he seemed languid and distracted. That’s what happened when family got involved. Jon supposed he didn’t have that problem anymore. Not after what happened to Beth and Brian…

  His wife and boy were long gone, now. It was his fault, he was convinced. A car wreck had claimed their lives, but they were only in that car because Beth was leaving him. He’d sacrificed his marriage because he couldn’t give up the hunt. Little did he realize he’d be sacrificing his eight- year-old son’s life right along with it.

  Now Jon just had Spencer. That would have to be enough. Tapping his ear mike, Jon whispered, "Spence, you read?" "Copy that," she replied, her voice even and cold.

  Jon knew the set-up. He looked up into the small hills on the other side of the village, assured that Spencer was up there somewhere with her sniper rifle, keeping vigilant watch over the whole playing field. She was fire support, as always, while Jon waited closer to the potential action, ready to spring in should Zabuto need backup on the ground. It was a tense waiting game and

  Jon didn’t like to wait.

  Seeking to fill the unnerving silence, he asked Spencer, "See anything?" "If I had, don’t you think I would have reported in?"

  He could almost hear her smirking on the other end of the comm. "Yeah, okay. Sure." "You’re worried about him, huh?"

  "Zabuto’s had a rough life." "Yeah?" Spencer perked up.

  Jon nodded to himself, deeming this as good a time as any to reveal the whole story. "When he was three, he was with his dad in a gas station hold-up. His father tried to be a hero and got himself shot. After that Zabuto went to live with his Grandma Hattie down in New Orleans. I used to visit Hattie whenever I was in town. She helped me out on a couple jobs. She knew her hoodoo, too, just like her ma. Zabuto was kind of a punk back then. Boostin’ cars, getting into trouble. Stupid stuff, you know?"

  Jon leveled his eyes, watching Zabuto, feeling sad all over again for the kid. "A couple years back, Hattie was killed. Way Zabuto tells it, it was some ‘thing’. After that, he started asking me a lot of questions about hunting. About the things we go after. Soon, he started taking his own jobs. What happened to Hattie really lit a fire under him."

  "I didn’t know," Spencer said.

  "Guess this is full circle for him. Man’s lost his whole family." "Haven’t we all?" Spencer asked, pain in her voice.

  Jon reddened. "Which means we just gotta hang on tighter to what we’ve got." "Jon, about that…"

  He tensed, watching Zabuto round a corner. The young hunter was getting out of sight and

  Jon moved in the tall grass to keep up. Spencer’s voice crackled softly in his ear. "Moccus."

  "What about him?" Jon grunted, shifting into a better position, scanning the areas left in

  Zabuto’s wake. He was determined not to let the hunter fall into a surprise attack from behind. "Some lore says Moccus is a psychopomp. A ferryman."

  "What’s your point?" Jon hunkered down, keeping his gun ready, feeling his hackles rise.

  "My point," Spencer snapped back, "is that if he is a ferryman, there’s not a whole lot of good we can do here. You can’t kill a Reaper. It’s tragic, but maybe it’s just these people’s time."

  "That doesn’t mean the old crone’s gotta die for their superstitions, though."

  "No," Spencer agreed."It doesn’t. But what do you think you’re going to accomplish here? You looking to kill Death?"

  Jon hesitated. If that were possible, he would have done it long ago. Then Beth and Brian

  would still be here. Angered by his impotence, he snarled. "What does anyone know about Moccus, huh? All this Vodou, it’s just a mish-mash of religions and cultures and old wives’ tales that changes with every region. How can you trust any of it?"

  "Why, Jon, I never figured you for a proponent of organized religion."

  Jon rolled his eyes. "I’m not. I’m just saying that behind all of these talks of God and gods, you’re gonna find just some creature built up by people’s hokey beliefs."

  "Come on, you don’t believe in God? At all? After everything we’ve been through." Jon paused. "Especially after everything we’ve been through."

  Zabuto rounded another alleyway and disappeared from Jon’s sight. The older hunter spat out a curse, stood with creaking bones, and moved through the brush once more, trying to keep his visual.

  When Jon reached his new position, though, Zabuto was nowhere to be seen. He tapped his mike. "Spencer, you got eyes on Z?"

  "I don’t see him."

  Jon cursed again. "Well, find him! He’s not in any shape to—" A shrill cry split the night.

  Jon froze.

  Then he sprang into action.

  He raced through the tall grass, clomping through mud, nearly tripping in the mire. Simultaneously, he brought out his Desert Eagle and held it aimed and ready. "I’m moving in, Spence!" he roared.

  "No spook spotted," she reported back, her breath hurried. Another cry. A woman’s cry, wailing. The sounds of struggle.

  Jon pushed his way in between the small shacks and the impoverished faces that stared back at the graying white man with the gun. They shrank in fear, retreating into their homes. Jon helped them along by waving them back with his gun. "Get inside! Get down!"

  He absently realized that they had no idea what he was saying, but he hoped the urgency in his foreign-tongued command would suffice.

  Emerging into the alleyway where he last spotted Zabuto, he heard a crash and a gunshot. "Spence, where is he, for God’s sake?!"

  "I don’t know! I—"

  The sound of another gunshot echoed in the hovel to Jon’s right. With a burst of speed, he hurled his foot into the door in a storm of splinters and leveled his pistol, prepared for anything.

  Anything but what he saw.

  A young mother clutched a small child as the two huddled in the corner of the room. Zabuto hung upside down in the grip of a shadowed thing, his Colt discarded on the floor below. And the thing that held him ...

  It was huge.

  The beast stood at least seven feet tall and looked equal parts bone and raw meat, slicked down with blood and mud. Its head was undeniably that of a black Creole pig. The eyes were lifeless, and for a moment Jon thought the intruder was simply wearing a pig head for a mask- of-sorts. But when the pig-monster hurled Zabuto across the room, jettisoning him through the wall of the house and into the street outside, Jon knew no man could be that strong.

  "Hold it!" Jon shouted, though in hindsight he wondered why. He never intended to capture any of his quarry. Only to kill. He fired twice. Two solid iron rounds dug deep into the thing’s chest, no doubt penetrating its heart.

  If it had a heart.

  The thing bent forward and squealed, it’s dumb jowls jiggling with rage. Jon roared right back, balled his hand into a tight gloved fist, and slugged the cr
eature right in the snout.

  The thing snorted and backed away, leveling its dead pig eyes on Jon. The hunter spotted a marking on the beast’s head. A brand of some sort, burned into the pork, but before he had a chance to process what it might mean, the pig-man leapt out of the house, bounding into the night.

  Jon breathed deep and turned to mother and child. "You okay?"

  She wailed something in French, waving a string of rosary beads as if in defense. He hurried outside, where Zabuto rolled on the ground, trying to get his bearings. Jon hooked an arm under the younger hunter and helped him into a seated position. "You all right?"

  Zabuto did not look all right. He looked as though he were about to die from exhaustion. "It…"

  "It was huge, wasn’t it?" Jon chuckled. "Biggest damn skinwalker I’ve ever seen. Had to be a skinwalker, right? Wearing pigskin like that?"

  "Jon!" Spencer hollered, racing towards them, awkwardly gripping her rifle. "Are you okay? Where is it?"

  "Gone," Jon wheezed, still catching his breath. "It was a skinwalker. Iron didn’t work. We’re gonna have to switch to silver rounds, I reckon. Or if it’s not total transformation, we’ll have to try and separate the man from his magic skin and torch the blasted thing."

  "No," Zabuto interrupted, his eyes darkening. "No, it wasn’t a skinwalker."

  Jon swiveled to Zabuto in surprise and aggravation at being contradicted. " Wanna fill me in then?"

  "It’s a Rawhead." Zabuto coughed, standing up. He winced and gripped his side as though a rib were broken somewhere in there. "It was made."

  "How can you be sure?" Spencer’s brow furrowed.

  Zabuto stared at her, his skin waxy and his color paling. "That brand on its forehead…I’ve seen it before."

  ~

  Creole black pigs squealed and snorted in the back yard pen, running every which way. Zabuto led the other two hunters to the wire fence, a sad frown marring his otherwise handsome face.

  "Look." He pointed to the backside of a scurrying pig. "There."

  Sure enough, branded on the flesh of the pig—on all of them—Jon saw the same brand as he’d seen on the Rawhead.

  "She offers them as sacrifices to the Black Madonna," Zabuto explained sorrowfully. "I…I

  should have seen it."

  With deliberate effort, the young man looked to the back door of the house. His great-grandma’s house.

  "It’s hoodoo," Zabuto said." Taking leftover hog parts, using blood, spit, and mud to put them together. Throw in some country magic and you’ve got a Rawhead."

  "Like a flesh golem," Jon added, knowing full well what a Rawhead was. He’d just never heard of one in Vodou before. "Ready to do your bidding."

  Zabuto pulled out his pistol and cocked it. "She’s gotta be in there now. Waiting for it to report in."

  "Unless we’re too late," Spencer offered gently, the betrayal that Zabuto was feeling not lost on her either. After all, Jon reckoned, if this was the same kind of creature that killed Hattie back in New Orleans, then ...

  Zabuto nodded, took aim, and advanced on the shack. "We’d better hurry, while we’ve got the shot."

  Jon watched the young hunter take off for the house and shot Spencer a worried glance. She frowned in reply, before following Zabuto. Jon cursed under his breath, readied his firearm, and headed in.

  Zabuto took point, crouching low under the shack’s window, peeking in, but careful to remain unseen. Inside he spotted his great-grandma huddled around an altar, lighting incense and white candles. Jon peered inside, too, and whispered to Zabuto. "All right, Zabuto, we hit the front on your mark."

  The three hunters advanced on the front door. Jon and Spencer instinctively pressed their backs to either side of the entrance, prepping their sidearms, ready for any surprises the old woman might have in there. Jon gave the nod to Zabuto, telling him they were all-set, but the young hunter just stood there, frozen, his brow furrowed in worry.

  In fear.

  But not the fear of facing a monster. No, Jon knew what that looked like. He’d seen it in the faces of many greenhorn hunters. Zabuto was afraid, all right, but what he feared was the terrible truth that lay beyond the door.

  Finally accepting the path before him, Zabuto reached out and boldly opened the door. Inside, the old woman craned her head a quarter-inch and mumbled something in French.

  More French. Jon rolled his eyes.

  Zabuto said something back to her, equally foreign to Jon, and raised his voice. The crone replied and Zabuto now crossed the threshold of the house, shouting. Jon and Spencer stayed outside, biding their time and keeping a lookout for the Rawhead that was sure to return home at any second. Jon whispered across the gap to Spencer.

  "You gettin’ any of this?"

  Spencer leaned her head towards the opening and closed one eye in concentration. "I think… she says she used to make offerings to…Ezili Dantor—The Black Madonna. She’s the loa of motherhood. A giver of life and protection. The Creole pig is her favored offering."

  Zabuto raged more, slurring out a volley of French, and Jon fought hard to shut out the noise and focus on Spencer’s translation.

  "But she says Ezili stopped answering her prayers…" Spencer trailed off, listening some more. "She…she fears death. Now she says she’s found a new god who will answer her prayers. One who has…recently returned to the mortal plane…"

  The old woman grumbled inside, calm and unbothered, while Zabuto cursed and hurled a jar across the room, shattering the glass.

  Spencer relayed, "The Rawhead is a vessel for Moccus’ essence. She’s been offering souls to him, in exchange for long life. Not a lot, though, for fear she’d be discovered. Just a…" more listening, "…just every couple years, a couple stillborn babies here, a sick child there…each one bartered for another year or two."

  Jon scrunched his face, mulling over his thoughts. "What d’you suppose pig-god’s gonna do now that we’ve interrupted his supper?"

  Spencer glanced at Jon, caught by his words. "Oh." "Yeah," Jon replied in a huff.

  "Well, we’d better—"

  Jon’s eyes widened ever so slightly. " Too late."

  Spencer followed his gaze, turned around, and beheld the Rawhead at the edge of the yard, snorting furiously.

  "Inside!" Jon shouted.

  Spencer ducked inside and Jon covered her, stepping backwards with his pistol aimed. The Rawhead twitched its floppy ears, squealed, and stomped forward. Jon slammed the door shut as Zabuto whirled on his friends.

  "What—?"

  "Gonna have to cut the family discussion short, Z. Your granny’s pig-headed friend is back." Spencer was already rummaging around on the bookshelf, shuffling through the old woman’s

  candles, trinkets, and jars of powder, on a mission.

  "Spence!" Jon hollered over his shoulder, watching through the window as the Rawhead marched closer. "Could use a hand!"

  "I’m giving one!" she shouted back, undeterred in her pursuit.

  The old crone said something in a resigned voice that caused Zabuto to retort heatedly. Spencer "ha’d" in accomplishment and grabbed a glass jar full of a white sand-like substance. She screwed off the top, stuck in a finger to scoop up a few grains, and stuck them to her tongue. Her eyes brightened. She raced to the door, dropped to her knees, and poured a thick line of the stuff along the crack in the doorway.

  "Salt!" she shouted in exhilaration. " Trust me."

  As soon as the last of the line was formed, there came a terrible crash from the other side of the door as the Rawhead threw its weight against the wooden obstacle. Spencer yelped and fell backwards on her butt, but quickly regained her cool, pouring out small lines of salt on the windowsills, too, until the jar was all but empty. "This’ll hold," she said with certainty.

  When she finished, she joined Jon and Zabuto at the front window. The Rawhead stepped back, spread his arms wide and roared.

  "That’a’way, Spence!" Jon laughed, clapping a hand of approval on Spenc
er’s shoulder.

  "Like iron, salt has a negative effect on spiritual energies. That’ll buy us some time, but how are we supposed to stop a Rawhead?" Spencer asked.

  Jon grew quiet and Spencer bit her lip. She looked to Zabuto, as if hoping that a lifetime spent with a Vodou-practicing grandma would give him special insight. Jon joined her in watching the man. Zabuto stared out the window without a word, his eyes dulled and reddening around the edges as he faced the Rawhead. Jon gripped his arm, firm. "Hey. You in this?"

  He turned to face Jon’s piercing eyes and muttered, "Jon, that’s the thing that killed my grandma." Zabuto stared accusingly at his great-grandma. "She sent it. She killed her own daughter…just to hide what she was doing."

  Spencer shot a scornful look at the old mambo with them. Jon’s weathered face sagged. "Fight now," he told Zabuto, sharing his hurt, thinking of a time when he had to carry on after he’d lost everything he cared about. "Cry later."

  Zabuto stiffened, all emotion vanishing from his face. "What do we do?"

  Outside, the Rawhead snorted and squealed. Then stomped. And stomped. Louder and louder, until finally the three hunters pressed their faces to the dirtied windowpane in confusion. The beast nearly marched just outside, kicking up plumes of dust that slipped beneath the crookedly hung door.

  Each of the Rawhead’s thunderous steps further disturbed Spencer’s carefully poured line of salt inside the doorway.

  They hadn’t outsmarted the pork chop, after all.

  Jon cursed, then switched to auto-pilot. "Spence, you and Z hold the fort," he ordered, racing towards the back of the house.

  "Where are you going?" Spencer shouted after him.

  "I got a plan!" he barked over his shoulder, disappearing out the back door.

  As soon as he was out of sight, the Rawhead let loose a shrill cry and rammed the door, exploding into the house in a torrent of wooden shrapnel. Zabuto and Spencer shielded their eyes, then immediately fired their pistols into the monster. They knew there was little hope that their iron rounds would undo the beast, but prayed they might be enough to repel it until Jon filled them in on his brilliant Plan B.