Zombies

by Otto Penzler

  “Certainly. The child is mine.” He paused. “How many months?”

  “I am told eight.”

  Burnett nodded, almost with relief. “The child is mine.”

  “Good,” said Kam Jalan.

  Burnett stood up and walked towards the window.

  “Not good, Jalan. Not good at all. You see, I come from a family . . . not wealthy, but very respectable. Do you understand?” He turned to receive an answering nod, then his attention was on the bright redness of the flamboyant trees that cushioned the balcony from beneath and around. “They would not approve of . . . such a child. Fortunately my wife is a very understanding woman. Of course, she did not endorse the liaison, but that’s over. She is willing . . . no, she is desirous of raising the child. We realize, too, that Siana Nath will want to visit, to see the baby from time to time—I understand that. Money does not quench a mother’s natural yearning for her child. But there will be complications . . . ”

  Kam Jalan nodded again. “Yes,” he said, “she will have the same problem. This is why she ran away from Singapore—then from Kuala Lumpur. The village where she has gone is not her home. Merely the home of a sympathetic friend.”

  Burnett was completely taken aback. That he would be unacceptable . . . the thought had not even crossed his mind. He hoped his surprise had not been recognized for what it was. Without turning around, he said, “We shall have to live in Singapore, probably for the rest of our lives.”

  “That is a long time. Things change.”

  “Not in my world. But don’t let me give you the idea that this life doesn’t appeal to me. I love it.” He paused, then added, “Very much. I am a born colonial, you see.” He did not add that the attraction was in the relatively small number of expatriates and exiles. He felt secure amongst a small band of people. It was like being in a little English village, without the disadvantages of geographical isolation. He was part of a community, an island of whites, in a sea of natives.

  Kam Jalan coughed politely. Burnett reluctantly turned away from the cloud of blossom before his eyes and said, “Will tomorrow at six o’clock be too early to start?”

  “No, sir. That will be fine. Shall I hire a Land Rover? It will be necessary to have four-wheel drive. The monsoons . . .”

  “Jalan, thank you. I do appreciate this.”

  “You are very welcome, sir.”

  Kam Jalan gave an abrupt bow before opening the door.

  • • •

  THAT NIGHT, UNDER the mosquito net, Burnett listened to the whining of his small enemies and the scuttle of cockroaches across the floor. I suppose, he thought, people like Jalan would be angry if I killed a mosquito. And how they could believe a soul was trapped inside such a disgusting creature as a cockroach was beyond him. Primitives! He fell asleep with the jungles of Rousseau crawling into his bed, the loathsome waxy leaves finding out his mouth and ears and nose.

  From the moment he entered the rain forest Burnett had the feeling that he was being watched.

  Had the real rain forest been less frightening it would not have surprised Burnett. The following morning, however, his nightmare became tangible, and for the first time in his life he compromised his fears. Nothing would have induced him to step from the Land Rover into the thick undergrowth on the side of the track. There were eyes . . . creatures, everywhere, half-hidden by the leaves and tall ferns.

  Silently, knowingly, it seemed, they watched him travel through their domain. He was uncomfortable in the extreme. The feeling of gross insecurity mingled with that strange sense of being manipulated. Had he come of his own free will? Of course he had, he decided. This mood would soon pass. He looked upwards, as the trees closed in overhead and he recalled stories of things that fell from branches.

  Burnett gripped his shotgun until his fingers began to hurt.

  At the end of the track, some seven miles into the forest, the sky suddenly opened up before them and they were in the kampong, the Malay village. He was safe, relatively safe, for a time. Children, and one or two women, came running up to the vehicle shouting and laughing, but soon a lean man with a regal bearing appeared and called them away. Kam Jalan climbed from the Land Rover and went to hold a long conversation with him. Burnett kept his eyes moving over the scene. He was uneasy in these alien surroundings.

  One of the tributaries of the Panang River flowed by the kampong, and Burnett stared into its grey waters from his perch on the Land Rover. Finally, Kam Jalan finished speaking with the headman and returned to the vehicle. His wrinkled forehead gleamed as he looked into Burnett’s face.

  “I am afraid, sir, that there is some bad news.”

  “She’s gone?”

  Kam Jalan shook his head. “Much, much worse. I am sorry to say she has died.” He gestured at the growth behind them. “There are many illnesses one can catch in this place. The doctor tried to save her and failed. It is a sad thing. They buried her last week.”

  The girl was dead. That was not such a terrible thing if one considered it inevitable. He was not unfeeling, but early death was a common occurrence amongst the natives.

  “The doctor . . . did he save the child?”

  Kam Jalan seemed to hesitate, just for an instant, then he shook his head again. “He is not the doctor you think. A native. He uses magic, not medicine.”

  “A witchdoctor?”

  Kam Jalan seemed confused. “Not for witches, sir, for people. But the magic is bad. It comes from evil spirits.”

  Burnett felt hollow inside. All this way. And now this. The child was dead. He was an ordinary man again.

  “I see.” Black magic. They had tried to save her life with the help of the devil. Kam Jalan was obviously thinking of the same thing, for he muttered in a disturbed tone: “It is not religious.”

  “I’m afraid it is,” said Burnett, “but not the sort of religion you and I practise. Well, we’d better get back to K.L.”

  “The headman has asked that we stay. He is anxious that you avail yourself of his hospitality.” Kam Jalan’s voice was apologetic.

  Burnett frowned. “For how long?”

  “One or two days.”

  “Impossible,” said Burnett. “I have to get back to Singapore.”

  “He was insistent, sir, that you stay. You are the father of the unborn child. It is a decent thing to do, to pay your respects. Their law is very strict on such things.”

  “Tribal laws, surely?” said Burnett stiffly. Suddenly the atmosphere of the village had become very oppressive. He felt entangled and helpless. Something was not right.

  “But for them it is important. There is to be a ceremony. They would be very angry if we left before that.”

  Burnett thought, uncomfortably, of the local murders he had read about in the Straits Times. Bodies mutilated by knives. Every one of these natives carried a parang, the Malayan equivalent of a machete. Then there was this black magic business. Even some of the expatriates, those who had lived in the jungle, would not state, emphatically, that it was so much bunk, and none of them ever laughed about it. Burnett remembered tales of men who vomited live fish, or spiders, or snakes, until they collapsed and died, simply because they had upset a local sorcerer.

  “We’ll stay, then,” he said. “But just until the ceremony is over. Then we leave.”

  “Yes, Mr. Burnett. The headman has asked that we stay at his house. He does not sleep in an attap hut like the others, but in a solid wooden structure. It is a great honour.”

  “Well, I’d rather we weren’t so honoured, but I don’t want to appear ill-mannered or unfriendly.”

  Burnett inspected the village, accompanied by the solemn headman, with Kam Jalan to interpret for them. He even met the witchdoctor (if that is what the man was) who seemed quite an ordinary youth. Burnett had expected a wizened old sage, with—well, frankly, with the trappings of such people: skulls, rags and lank, smelly hair. Instead, he was presented with this young man, hardly out of his adolescence, wearing a colourful kain sarong a
nd smiling like an idiot.

  The villagers themselves seemed a sullen lot, which was unusual for Malays. They regarded him steadily as he passed, and then they returned to their chores, but he noticed that even then their attention was not with their tasks. They were watchful, their brown eyes darting this way and that, as if they were waiting for something to appear.

  IN THE EVENING he retired to the headman’s hut and sat in the light of an oil lamp to discuss Siana. In the prison of the yellow glow the mood of the conversation began, perceptibly, to change. Burnett could hear the forest moving, hear its multitude of creatures calling. It came home to him forcibly that this was not Kuala Lumpur. Nor was it a hotel. Instead of cockroaches, the floor might be crawling with spiders the size of soup plates. What was there to keep them out? Out of politeness he had left the unloaded shotgun in the Land Rover.

  The headman’s voice lowered to a serious murmur which later fell even further to a mesmerizing drone, and Burnett had to fight to keep his eyes open. Also the smell of the burning oil, thick in his nostrils, was pulling at the wild pig they had eaten for lunch. It had been a long day and he was exhausted. He rocked slowly on his buttocks, listening, listening. Kam Jalan’s softly-voiced translation crept in between him and complete unconsciousness.

  “ . . . when a woman dies in late pregnancy,” Kam Jalan was whispering, “the sorcerer waits until three days after the burial, then exhumes the corpse by night. The dead mother offers her unborn child to him, that he might use his magic to make it live again. He takes the child and seals it in a jar of fluid, a potion, until it takes on the squat form of a logi and develops the strength of several men . . . ”

  Burnett’s eyes were suddenly wide. He gripped Kam Jalan’s arm.

  “What are you saying? That Siana’s baby is . . . has been stolen?”

  “Not stolen, sir, for the mother is said to have offered the child after her death.”

  “How, if she was dead? How?”

  Kam Jalan shrugged in the light of the lamp.

  “I am not the sorcerer. I do not know the ways. These are just tales, sir, to impress us. I regret the translation. It was stupid of me not to remember we were talking of Siana, your lover. Stupid of me . . .” But Burnett could see by his expression that it had been deliberate. Still, he was shaken.

  He was revolted but he could do nothing. The headman’s eyes were on him, staring intently. This is insane, he thought. To remove the foetus and bottle it was a disgusting practice, even for primitives.

  “Where is the . . . object now?” he managed to ask.

  “Why ‘object,’ if it is alive? It is now the property of the sorcerer. He uses it as a slave, to rob from other villages, sending it into their huts at night . . . ”

  “My child? He uses my dead child to do that?” cried Burnett.

  Kam Jalan held up his hand. “Please, do not shout. These people are most sensitive. You do not need to believe all this. It is a story told to us by the headman. Often these people do not know the difference between the fantastic and what is real. You and I are civilized men. These people are superstitious . . . ”

  “This is ridiculous . . . ”

  “Of course it is ridiculous. You must not mind what I say . . . ”

  When the lamp was finally extinguished, Burnett’s thoughts were a turmoil of distrust and anguish. Later, in the middle of the night, he awoke from a fitful sleep to hear someone dragging a heavy weight around inside the hut. Then there was silence, and he knew he was being watched. For a long time he lay there unable to move, until sleep overtook him.

  The following morning Burnett woke abruptly to find himself alone. An unnatural peace had descended upon the village. With a thick head he staggered to the doorway and looked out. The rains had fallen during the night, leaving the river swollen and congested with flotsam. The village looked deserted. Then he saw them, crowded around the chicken coops on the far side of the open ground.

  He made his way to where they stood, gesticulating grimly at something lying on the ground. On reaching them he looked for Kam Jalan and attracted the man’s attention. No one was talking much, but there was something very wrong—he could see it in their faces.

  “What’s the problem, Jalan?” he asked.

  Kam Jalan pointed towards a heap of brown and red lumps by the wire: the bodies of the chickens. Then Burnett saw the smaller pile. He felt uneasy.

  “Something has torn the heads from the chickens,” said Kam Jalan. He picked one up and flicked at the wattle.

  “What kind of animal would do that?”

  “No animal,” replied Kam Jalan enigmatically.

  Burnett looked quickly at his face, but it was impassive.

  Kam Jalan asked: “Did you hear the noise? In the hut last night?”

  “Yes, was that you?”

  “No, it was the same creature that did this.” He looked directly into Burnett’s eyes. “The logi.”

  “Logi? I don’t understand,” said Burnett.

  Kam Jalan answered with a nod of his head.

  “You do. You do. You understand. The logi is the baby of Siana. The time for pretending between us is past. You should face the truth.”

  Nearby, the river gurgled through tangled branches of natural dams.

  “It was in our room? My child?”

  “Your son.”

  Burnett tried to arrange his thoughts in perspective. His problem was in finding a motive. What did Kam Jalan and these villagers want from him? The scenario was elaborate and costly. They must have set it up with a definite purpose in mind. He knew he was to be the victim—but why? His fears, he was aware, were necessary if he were to save himself. He needed to be alert, primed for action. That meant humouring them and waiting until the opportunity arose for escape. He carefully resisted the strong temptation to look towards the Land Rover. Was it still there? Was the shotgun still on the seat?

  He said, “Whoever was in our room, it must have been adult. That was no child moving around.”

  “You don’t understand, sir. The logi is small, but very, very heavy. Compressed. It has the weight of a fully grown man.”

  Burnett looked towards the edge of the jungle, thinking he saw something move. “Where is it now? In there?”

  “It hides during the day.”

  Kam Jalan was silent for a moment. Then he said, “They want you to do something for them.”

  Was this it? The whole village was present, watching him. He looked around at the faces, the expectant expressions.

  “Yes?”

  “They want you to shoot the logi, tonight.” The words came out in a rush now. “You have a shotgun. It will be easy for you. Something went wrong, you see—with the magic. The sorcerer is young and a little inexperienced, and the logi runs wild. It should be the slave but it does not respond to commands. The whole village is in fear of it . . .”

  “Why . . . ?” The thought was repulsive. To murder. A baby? A pink-skinned little boy? Even if it was smaller than usual. “Why don’t they kill it themselves?”

  Kam Jalan’s answer filled Burnett with apprehension.

  “We cannot catch it. Now you have arrived it will come to you. It knows you . . . ”

  Burnett felt weak, and his head was beginning to spin from too much sun and too little food. “It can’t know me.”

  Kam Jalan smiled. “You are forgetting, sir, they have taught it who you are. They have taught it your name. It knows how to call you. Last night it came to you. Watched you fall asleep. It sees. It hears. Darkness is no barrier to the eyes of a logi.”

  “Why didn’t you kill it? Last night.”

  “I?” Kam Jalan looked affronted. “I take the life of nothing. Not even the smallest fly. It is against my religion. You must kill it.” He paused. “The ceremony today is for you, not Siana. It is the dance of the hunter’s moon.”

  So, he would stay, it seemed. But one thing was certain. He would not kill—certainly not his own child. What sort of man did these people t
ake him for?

  The ceremony was indeed no solemn occasion. They laughed, they performed acrobatics, they showered praises on Burnett’s head. At least, Kam Jalan interpreted their shouting and prancing as honouring Burnett’s prowess as a hunter. They stalked imaginary beasts and slew them with a gusto and bravado probably never displayed beyond the village clearing. The feasting and dancing lasted until evening, then, when the rain came down as a wall of water, they slunk away to their huts, exhausted.

  AS DARKNESS FELL, Burnett walked across the kampong to the edge of the jungle. If his child was there he wanted to see it. Nothing. Not even the stirrings of animals or birds. But on the slow walk back to the huts he knew he was being accompanied.

  Burnett went to the headman’s hut. There the occupants made him sit in the centre of the wooden floor, and the polished leather case containing his shotgun was brought to him. Kam Jalan refused to touch the weapon, but the headman’s son was eager to remove it from its nest of red felt and hold it in his thin arms. Reluctantly, it seemed, reverently, he parted with it, placing it carefully in Burnett’s hands. Burnett removed two cartridges from his breast pocket and, aware of the seriousness of the occasion, broke the breech of the Smithfield and loaded it. They left him alone, with the gun across his knees.

  Light left the hut swiftly, as if it had been sucked up into the atmosphere by a suddenly created vacuum. With the darkness came the uneasy suspicion that perhaps, just perhaps, he was being tricked.

  A board creaked in the doorway.

  Burnett slowly raised the shotgun until the barrels were pointing through the open doorway into the night. He could see the stars, but all else was blackness. Then came a shuffling sound and heavy breathing, like a man labouring during a climb.

  “Who’s there?” said Burnett.

  There was no answer, except the loud croaking of a frog. His finger tightened on the trigger. Something was in the hut, crouched in a corner. Burnett relaxed and stood up. He walked slowly to the door, then out into the night, inviting the visitor to follow him back to the Land Rover. He sat in the vehicle for a few minutes until he felt it move with the weight of someone climbing into the rear. He was afraid, but it was a controlled fear. The supernatural was a terrifying abstract if dwelt upon, but this was his own flesh and blood, not some strange monster conjured up by evil forces.