I attempted to explain myself, but the men became aggressive before I could finish my tale. One produced a pistol and pointed it in my direction. (Though I possessed a weapon of my own, I saw no reason to escalate the situation. I believed their anger was the result of some misunderstanding.) I raised my hands, palms outward, and began slowly backing away.
One of the large men leaned forward to investigate the burlap sack. When he had opened it enough to ascertain what was contained inside, he shouted in alarm. Then even more figures—I lost count, perhaps six or seven—emerged from the small house. All regarded the dead zombie in alarm. Their faces curled from confusion into rage, and several gestured in my direction. Sensing my options dwindling, I turned and ran into the nearest outcropping of underbrush, sprinting as fast as my legs would carry me. Some of the men followed, and at least one fired shots my way. Yet none of the bullets connected, and I evaded my pursuers by hiding in a tree until dawn.
This morning, I went directly to the university seeking to confront Mayonette. Not finding him on campus, I visited the registrar’s office to inquire about his academic schedule in hopes of intercepting the lad on his way to class. Imagine my shock, Obergruppenführer, when it was revealed to me that no student named Mayonette is enrolled at the university. I also visited with the faculty members of the biology department. Individually and to a man, they claimed ignorance of a student named Mayonette (or any well-spoken student with a striking harelip).
As you can imagine, aspects of this encounter have been profoundly upsetting to me. We have, however, learned more about zombies (specifically, their temperament and vulnerability) than we knew before. Whilst we did not end the day with a specimen fit for dissection, we have been able to observe important behaviors in the field. Thus, I cannot say it has been an entirely bootless endeavor.
When I made my report of these events to Inspector Knecht, he suggested that we should return to Mayonette’s house as a group and perform further reconnaissance. However, I pointed out that even with our entire squad present, we might still be outnumbered by hostile persons. Knecht eventually agreed with me, and I believe he is now considering alternative courses of action.
Yours respectfully,
Oswaldt Gehrin
Communication 20
May 18, 1940
From: Gunter Knecht
To: Reinhard Heydrich
Obergruppenführer,
I am pleased to report that I have witnessed a remarkable ritual that I believe sheds further light on our understanding of the Voodoo zombie. The unfortunate loss of Inspector Baedecker notwithstanding, we continue to make substantive progress here in the country. (I received your instructions not to bother myself with further searches for Baedecker’s whereabouts. You are right, of course. He is probably dead.)
My witnessing of the important ritual occurred thusly: Voicing my continued interest in his “cause” (e.g., preventing another anti-Voodoo uprising), I gradually inveigled my way into the further confidences of Father Gill. Insisting that additional knowledge of the subject would allow me to better assist him, I argued that I must be allowed to meet with a Bocor personally and, if possible, see the creation of a zombie firsthand. After much argument and hand wringing (on Gill’s part, obviously), he admitted that such a thing could be arranged, and an agreement between us was eventually struck. Yet even at high noon on the day appointed—as we walked from his residence to the secret location where this meeting would take place—Gill still seemed to harbor reservations.
“My dear Jesuit,” he asked with some hesitation, “as it may pertain to today’s proceedings, may I inquire into your degree of . . . worldly experience upon joining the order?”
Somewhat puzzled, I repeated the dossier of the fictional life of the Jesuit I am supposed to be.
“I see . . . ,” Gill said after I had concluded my lengthy autobiography. “I think I can say, then, that it is safe to assume that marriage to a woman was never in your past?”
Pretending to be shocked and astounded by his impertinence, I said, “Father Gill, I am shocked and astounded by your impertinence! Such a question! I have always lived my life in accordance to the wishes of the Lord and messages I received from the Holy Spirit.”
“Understood . . . understood . . . ,” said Gill, waving away my well-acted protestations. “And yet I hope you will not be offended if I divulge the fact that I cannot claim the same honor. For you see, I was married briefly to a girl in County Cork many years ago. She was tragically lost in an accident, and it was then that I took up the cloth.”
“My condolences,” I offered cautiously.
“The point being,” Gill said slowly, “I have found in my own life that certain things that I surrounded mentally with mystery, awe, fascination—including, in my case, the physical act of love with a woman—proved, upon consummation, to be less sensational than I had made them out to be.”
“Are you saying that you are concerned that zombies will somehow fail to live up to my expectations?” I asked.
Gill tapped his forehead with his fingers and considered.
“I am concerned,” Gill said, “because once the mystery is dispelled—and you have seen a zombie for the first time—you must then decide what to do with this information. Will it challenge your faith? Will you stay true to your commitments? Only time will tell. But if your presence in this country is maintained only by a fascination with the unworldly mystery of the zombie, I advise you to rethink this meeting. What you know of zombies will be forever changed a few minutes from now . . . unless you change your mind and walk away.”
Before I could answer Gill, and promptly dismiss the asinine “concerns” he had raised, we were distracted by a pair of men walking toward us. Or rather, I was distracted.
The men, who were elderly and of wizened demeanor (one leaned awkwardly with each step on an ancient crutch), wore thin shawls over their shoulders to shade themselves from the heat of the sun. Yet I noted instantly that one of the shawls seemed to be made of the original forest costume that once belonged to Inspector Baedecker. Gill noticed my distraction.
“These men approaching us are connected to the practice of Voodoo,” I said quietly to my companion. “Do not ask how it is that I know.”
“Yes,” Gill all but stammered. “My dear Jesuit, you continue to surprise me. Yes. Those men are not intimately known to me, but I have seen them in the company of the Bocor we are going to visit.”
I merely nodded.
“Your knowledge is so formidable,” Gill continued. “It is a wonder that you need me to teach you about zombies, and not the other way around.”
Onward we stalked through the warm Haitian day, the humidity soaking the both of us. The sun was fierce, and I was much relieved when Gill diverted us from the main road onto a path that took us under cover of foliage.
As I stopped in the shade to mop my brow, Gill said, “Do you see that house hidden down in the vale?”
He pointed to a place where the terrain sloped and a grove of trees sprouted in thick succession from the forest floor. Built into the edge of this grove was an old stone house with an empty doorway and no door.
“I see it,” I told him, noting the thick green smoke drifting up from its small chimney despite the heat of the summer day.
“When we enter,” Gill said, “I think it is best that you let me handle the conversation. I know that you speak the language as well as I, but you will be perceived as an outsider here. I have taken some risks in bringing you along. Our hosts will be wary of strangers, and I would hate for a miscommunication or misstep to undo any of the trusts that I have worked so hard to build with this community.”
Though I found his words patronizing, I agreed to be silent throughout the encounter.
I followed Gill as he stalked into the shallow valley and approached the doorless house. While from a distance, the only indicator that it might be inhabited was the rising plume of verdant smoke. As we walked closer to the house, addition
al signs of life revealed themselves. A powerful odor—not entirely unpleasant—of incense, fire, and cooked meat pervaded the place. One could also glimpse moving shapes within the dark shadows inside.
Five yards from the gaping doorway, a man stepped out to greet us. He was an imposing figure—tall, without a shirt on, and his waist wrapped in strange, colorful swaddles. The man regarded Gill only for a moment, seeming to recognize him; but he let his suspicious, iron stare linger upon me as I edged toward the tiny house.
“Grandmarnier, it is good to see you,” said Gill.
I raised my eyebrows as if to say, This man is named after the libation?
Gill glanced back at me to say, “Indeed, he is.” (Though this surprised me at the time, in retrospect, I should have known that a drunkard like Gill would naturally associate with people bearing a relationship to alcohol in one way or another.)
Without a word, Grandmarnier turned. We followed him inside the tiny house, which turned out to be quite crowded.
Six men—not counting Grandmarnier—were waiting for us. Five of them appeared to be native Haitians and bore none of the exotic Voodoo trappings I was expecting. Instead, they wore simple work clothes and muddy boots. Aside from hemp necklaces and the odd tattoo, there was nothing about them to indicate anything out of the ordinary. (I went as far as to wonder if they were participants in what was about to occur, or only hired workmen.) The final member of the sextet was attired like Grandmarnier—bare-chested and with many colorful fabrics wrapped around his waist. He also wore paint on his face, in a strange variety of red and white and green hues.
“This,” Gill said to me as he indicated the painted man, “is a Bocor.”
Gill did not give the man any other name.
In the fireplace, a fire was raging. Its smoke was green, and its flames licked up in a variety of strange colors. The odor it gave off was one part burning wood, while the other part was some unearthly smell I had never before known. Clearly, something more than logs had been added to the unusual blaze.
Chained next to the fireplace was a live goat. A large metal basin had been set next to it, and in the basin was a long, sharp knife. (Clearly, the poor beast was not long for the world. It seemed to know it too, and sat in grim resolve with its head hanging low.)
On the stone floor, a thin layer of cornmeal had been arranged in a series of intricate patterns like the walls of a labyrinth. On top of this labyrinth—reclining, with his hands over his heart—was a deceased man, still in his graveclothes.
“So that you are not alarmed, let me explain what will happen when the ceremony begins,” whispered Gill. “The Bocor’s first task is to summon a spirit—some would call it a force—into the room. This spirit will help us create the zombie. However, it is understood to be a bloodthirsty specter, and can turn murderous if its hunger is not sated. Thus, the goat will then be sacrificed, and its blood will be offered up to the spirit, which will keep us safe. It is traditional to eat the goat after the ritual, although you may find you have a less-than-hearty appetite by the time that we are done here.”
I regarded the condemned animal doubtfully, already feeling my appetite drain.
“Once the dangerous spirit is sated, the Bocor will direct it to reanimate the body of the dead man,” Gill continued. “This will be accomplished through mystical words, the playing of associated drums and chimes, and the application of powerful balms and potions.”
Gill indicated a leather pouch worn by the Bocor at his waist, which I assumed contained the magical mixtures.
“I see,” I said quickly. “And can you tell me the exact ingredients involved in these mixtures? Are they of native origin? Must they be imported to Haiti? I would be very curious to know the extracts involved and their exact apportionment. And of course, the nature of their application to the corpse.”
“Yes . . . perhaps later,” Gill said, dismissing me. “If we are lucky, after the ceremony, the Bocor may be willing to share that information with you. As for their application, once the ceremony begins, there should be no question as to how the mixtures are applied.”
Instantly, I regretted not having had the presence of mind to bring a camera, or at least some form of recording device. I resolved to take the most precise mental notes possible.
“Finally,” Gill continued, “the zombie will rise from the dead. As this happens, the Bocor will take steps to ensure the zombie is contained. As the dangerous spirit vanishes, the dangerous zombie will emerge.”
“And these containments?” I asked. “How are they effected?”
Gill again indicated that all would be revealed during the ceremony.
Moments later, Grandmarnier ushered the five workmen out of the small house. They departed obediently and seemed to disperse once they were outside.
“Be attentive,” Gill said to me quietly. “It begins.”
I followed Gill’s example and sat down on the dirt floor. Grandmarnier—who seemed to be acting as an assistant to the Bocor—fetched a staff leaning against the wall and handed it to the old man. Grandmarnier then took up a drum and began to play a thunderous, unnecessarily loud (it seemed to me) cadence. The Bocor closed his eyes and began to speak in low tones in time to the cadence. As he spoke, he thrummed his staff against the ground, also in time to the beat.
As they went about their magical work, I let my eyes drift down to the motionless corpse before us. I must admit, there was an almost-electric excitement in the air. I looked hard for any movement or reaction in the cadaver, but there was none. I decided it must, of course, be too early in the proceedings.
Then a very singular thing happened.
A loud commotion could be heard taking place just outside the little house. From out of nowhere, I heard scuffling, raised voices, and muffled cries. Though alarmed, I hesitated to rise from my seated position at the ritual. (Not only was I about to learn invaluable information, but I feared that if I interrupted, or “broke the spell” of the magic, I might be censured from, or even forbidden to be present in, future ceremonies.) I remained silent despite the strange noises outside. (I did hazard a glance over at Gill, but his placid ruddy face betrayed no indication that he heard the fracas above the Bocor’s rhythmic words.)
Moments later, I glimpsed distracting movement through the small house’s doorway. I turned, and at that moment a group of men—perhaps ten of them—descended on us. They were all native Haitians whom I had never seen before. They were agitated and sweaty. They carried sharp-edged weapons, which appeared—alarmingly—to be stained with blood. Shouting aggressively, they pointed in our direction and let us know that we were to be the subjects of impending violence.
Gill saw them too and cried out. The Bocor stopped reciting his words, and Grandmarnier ceased to drum.
I leaped to my feet and attempted to draw my Luger, but was overtaken by the mob before I could do so. From out of the angry throng, a younger Haitian man emerged. He was better dressed than his compatriots, and horribly disfigured through a grievously uncorrected cleft palate. (Could this, I wondered, be the same cleft-palated man who had posed as a university student and interacted with Inspector Gehrin? I hardly had time to consider it!)
“This one!” he barked as two of the men held me down and wrestled my weapon from me (before, alas, I could fire a single shot). As I struggled in their collective grasp, the young man produced what appeared to be a velvet pouch from his pocket. Then he approached me and opened it, and I understood with sudden terror that it was a hood.
“Gill!” I cried out. “What do they mean to do to us?”
But I could say no more, as a ball of fabric was rudely shoved into my mouth. Moments later, the young man placed the hood over my head, and the world went dark.
I know not what befell Father Gill and the others, for I was next rudely conducted out of the small house, my arms forced behind my back and my hands tied. I was beaten about the lower body until I fell to my knees, and then struck hard on the side of the head by wha
t I now believe was a repurposed cricket bat. The cessation of consciousness was instant.
Based on subsequent events, I can estimate with some accuracy that I was unconscious for approximately ten hours.
I awoke slowly. Even before I opened my eyes, I was aware that the velvet hood had been removed. I was, however, now tied around the waist in a standing position. Tied to what, I could not yet discern, though the ropes that bound me were clearly not tight, and I imagined I should easily be able to struggle free. I lifted my head. I could smell the salt of the sea and hear waves lapping in the distance. Upon opening my eyes, I found only more darkness at first. Yet as I raised my head and adjusted my eyes, my circumstances became clearer.
I was in a subterranean place. The air was thick with moisture. The floor was stone or rock. I gazed about, and wished that I had not. It seemed that several silhouetted figures hovered ominously in the cave around me. They were the size of large men; some of them stood close enough for me to touch them with an outstretched hand. Yet as I watched them in terror, it . . . seemed they moved not at all, not even to breathe.
Am I, I wondered, in a place with dead men? Am I to become one myself?
But no, these were not dead men at all, or even men. For when I summoned the resolve to brush my hand against the nearest one I encountered only rock.
I instantly guessed where I was and confirmed it by reaching behind me to explore the thing to which I was attached by a rope at my waist. When I felt not only hard rock but also a buckskin jacket, a top hat, and a set of carved features (accurate down to each single tooth inside a laughing mouth), I knew that I was inside the cave known as Papa Legba’s Mouth. More specifically, I stood tied to the statue of Legba himself (in a position that, upon closer inspection, may well have indicated an intentional insult). The shadowy “figures” around me were nothing more than carved stalagmites.
The Ultimate Book of Zombie Warfare and Survival Page 17