The Ultimate Book of Zombie Warfare and Survival

by Scott Kenemore

  Please find enclosed the spool of tape featuring my singing, as well as a request for a new shipment of munitions to the address provided.

  Yours respectfully,

  Oswaldt Gehrin

  Communication 27

  June 29, 1940

  From: Oswaldt Gehrin

  To: Reinhard Heydrich

  My Obergruppenführer,

  Since taking up residence with Inspector Baedecker in the Voodooist settlement, I have witnessed many strange and exotic rituals—the majority of which I have not the time or space to limn here. However, I have twice witnessed the Song of the Jeje used to raise zombies. It has proven itself to be the same song that I sang in the presence of the Mambo.

  The village is a small one, though its character varies greatly depending on the time of day. Any traveler discovering it during daylight hours will see a modest collection of fifteen or so homes and a population apparently engaged in subsistence farming. By night, however, the encampment comes alive with bonfires, singing, drumming, and dancing. The population seems to triple or quadruple; and men, women, and children engage in all manners of rituals, cavorting, and worship—often until the dawn’s first light. In this dark nocturnal carnival, I have seen things that I never would have credited as possible.

  I have seen a wild pig emerge from the forest walking on two legs and seemingly converse with humans who knew it as a friend. I have seen ghostly apparitions with human forms appear at the edges of the Voodoo gatherings and then melt back into nothing. (They leave behind a strange, ethereal mucus on the trees.) I have seen a circle of Voodooists seem to levitate six feet off the ground as they chanted and sang—seemingly unaware that this was an unusual consequence of chanting.

  If anything, dear Obergruppenführer, the wonders and powers of the Voodooists have been underreported in the Western world.

  There is a hierarchy to the structure of the Voodoo practitioners here, and it is more complicated (and involves more subtlety) than a casual observer might give it credit. Yet there can be no question that it is an ancient, wizened Bocor who occupies the central position in the group’s power structure. The man—his name is Grandmarnier—is reputed to be 102 years old (though he looks perhaps sixty). He is also said to be able to change his appearance through sheer force of will and sometimes appears older or younger. I have not yet seen this feat accomplished, though I have seen the man raise zombies.

  (In connection to this presumed agelessness of Grandmarnier, Inspector Baedecker remains convinced that the ultimate value of our discoveries may be a means of preserving life indefinitely. It is his hope that through scientific refinement, the Reich will be able to reanimate its members as fully sentient zombies, with little or no taste for flesh. I do not disagree that this is an admirable goal, however lofty, yet I continue to see a more immediate value in the creation of murderous zombies for use in the European conflict.)

  Grandmarnier appears to have taken a particular shine to Inspector Baedecker. I do not know what actions—taken prior to my arrival—fostered such a wealth of good feeling between the two men, but it cannot be denied. And upon Baedecker’s vouching for me, I have also been accepted, though somewhat more hesitantly, into a circle of trust. The Voodooists seem completely unaware that we intend to use their rituals for military purposes. Neither Baedecker nor I have given them any impression that this is the case. (Following Baedecker’s lead, I have presented myself as a European with a wanderlust, keen to find a more “authentic” and “natural” way of living. I give no hint that I am aware of the practical applications for their technologies.)

  Grandmarnier, like the rest of the Voodooists in this cloistered village, does not seem to regard his powers as supernatural and exotic—or even as unusual. Great secrets for controlling the natural world are tossed about as though they were mere trifles or magician’s tricks. (Further, he is keen to share them with willing acolytes.)

  Thus, the most exciting news: Grandmarnier has agreed to teach us the second voice in the Song of the Jeje. (I am relearning the part I sang that ominous evening with the Mambo, and Baedecker is learning the Mambo’s part.) Obviously, this is momentous, because it will allow us to create zombies on our own. Though the song is onerous and complicated, I believe we will have it mastered within hours of Grandmarnier delivering the lesson. At such time, the correct course of action will probably be to connect with one of our U-boat teams and return to Germany (where the song can be recorded, analyzed, and utilized as our glorious leaders see fit).

  I feel we are close to success, my Obergruppenführer, and your helpful guidance has been the force behind our accomplishments here. Upon our return to Germany, we shall make clear to everyone that you are the one who deserves credit for this valuable discovery that shall so greatly strengthen the Reich.

  Yours respectfully,

  Oswaldt Gehrin

  Communication 30

  July 1, 1940

  From: Oswaldt Gehrin

  To: Reinhard Heydrich

  My Obergruppenführer,

  Our successes compound!

  Under the tutelage of Grandmarnier, the Song of the Jeje is now perfected! Inspector Baedecker and I have mastered the ritual. How it works is still largely unknown to me, but I can attest that it does work. And with the permission of Grandmarnier, Baedecker and I have raised a zombie! (Baedecker has jocularly christened him Hans, after a primary school classmate he apparently resembles.)

  Using a corpse procured from a burial ground several miles away, we performed the song on a starless night in a clearing lit only with torches. At my own suggestion, we sought to use this ritual to distill the Voodoo down to its most essential (and functional) elements. Thus, we commenced the song with none of the decoration or affectation of the traditional Voodooist. Only the song was used. The corpse was placed on the bare ground before us. Drums, feathers, and ceremonial garb were not employed.

  Yet much to our delight, it was still effective! When the song was through, the fingers of the corpse began to twitch. Moments later, the thing sat up and looked at us. There was comprehension in its eyes as its gaze met our own. Baedecker and I were jubilant.

  “We have done it!” Baedecker cried and began to dance a happy jig, right there on the jungle floor.

  The result was near disaster.

  For in the midst of his dance of joy, Baedecker—you will remember that he is an awkward and overweight man—slipped on a root and hit his head on the side of a tree, falling unconscious.

  Zombies, as I hope I have made clear at this point, are slavering and innately violent creatures. They want nothing more than to eat human brains. They can, however, be controlled and rendered relatively docile through the use of certain powerful (dare I say magical?) words. (Other things, too, seem to have this ability. Certain drums can attract zombies like a homing beacon. Certain signals and markings do not divest a zombie of its aggressive aspect, but they nonetheless protect the wearer from the zombie. We are learning much. It is fascinating!)

  It was these very magical words (already taught to Baedecker by Grandmarnier) that he intended to share with me after our animation of the zombie.

  As Baedecker lay prostrate on the ground beside me, Hans rose to his feet with a murderous look in his rolling yellow eyes. His teeth began to grind, and he extended his arms like a blind man feeling his way forward.

  “Baedecker!” I cried, but my colleague was surely unconscious.

  The murderous zombie began to stumble forward.

  “Stop!” I cried, a great fear coursing through me. “I am the one who has created you. You must respect me!”

  Yet alas, Hans did no such thing. Onward he came, his hands—they seemed more like claws—snatching violently at the air.

  As our ritual was to be a scientific exercise conducted in relative safety, I had not brought my Luger. As Hans drew nearer—his grave breath cold and stinking—I prepared to flee. But of course that would mean disaster! While I might easily elude the stumbling zomb
ie, it should surely then turn its attention to Baedecker. Both my colleague and the valuable knowledge he carried would be lost.

  Suddenly, as the zombie’s yawning mouth drew near, I heard a strange voice deliver a familiar-sounding utterance of the Voodooists. The zombie collapsed unmoving at my feet.

  I looked over at Baedecker. But no! He was still unconscious—his breathing visible, but only just. Someone else had spoken!

  Looking around wildly, I detected a shadowy figure half concealed by the darkness. He stood at the clearing’s edge opposite me. I could not make out his features in the flickering torchlight, but he wore the black clothes and collar of a man of the cloth.

  It is Knecht, come to kill us! I thought to myself, and my blood ran cold anew.

  But then the figure edged forward into the torchlight, and I beheld a visage entirely unknown to me. He was an older man with silver hair. He bore the ruddy signs of drink upon his cheeks. In addition to his clerical collar, he wore the clanking ebon necklaces of a Voodooist (nearly concealed—black on black—against his dark clothes).

  “Who are you?” I asked anxiously.

  “A loyal servant of the Voudun,” the man answered in a thick Irish brogue. “You, my friend, cannot say the same.”

  “What?” I responded, but the man put up his hand to stay me.

  “Let me save you some time,” he continued. “My name is Father Gill. Your colleague—who I sincerely hope is now dead or back in Germany—would likely have spoken to you about me.”

  “Oh . . . ,” I said, genuinely baffled. “He did speak of you. But . . . but . . .”

  “Let me save you some more time,” said Gill, again raising his hand. “You are German operatives, sent here to learn the secrets of Voodoo—like the French before you, and the many, many others before them.”

  “And you are a supporter of that gangster Churchill, I suppose,” I answered defensively. “I fail to see why you people insist on meddling in Continental affairs! My nation has only ever acted defensively!”

  “Save your patriotic speeches, for I care not a whit for Churchill or Chamberlain,” seethed my guest. (His tone was aggressive and curt.) “It matters not from what nation you people come. The fact that you are here to steal as your spoils the secrets of the Voodoo religion is the only matter of consequence. I offer you one choice, and one alone: Leave here this instant, return to your homeland, and speak nothing of what you have learned.”

  “You cannot be serious,” I answered. “You are a man of the cloth. Knecht, before his insanity, told me of your mission to convert those away from the Voodoo faith toward the religions of Europe!”

  “A necessary ruse,” replied Gill. “It is true that I came here as a servant of the Catholic Church to convert the heathens, but it was I who was converted. Now I use my position under the Pope only to protect the country’s native religion from missionaries and other interests. I am a member of a sizable—though necessarily secret—confederacy, and we are committed to preventing the exploitation of Voodoo secrets by sniveling outsiders.”

  “So then . . . ,” I began.

  “I could tell right away that your colleague was not all that he seemed,” Gill continued. “Yes, he had researched his cover story well, but I have seen so many interlopers over the years that they have become easy to spot. At first, I tried to convince him that there was nothing to see. When he would not believe me (perhaps because of things he—or, come to think of it, you—observed), I tried to make it clear to him that investigating the Voodooists any further would be dangerous to his person. Perhaps he told you of the ritual I took him to—completely staged, of course—at which I fed him incorrect information about how zombies are created, and then gave him the impression that his own life was in danger.”

  “He did,” I said, thinking on it.

  “In retrospect, it would have been easier to have killed him,” Gill explained. “Of course, that would only have prompted your government to send others to take his place. The only satisfactory resolution is always to convince interlopers that there is nothing to find, or to send them in the wrong direction entirely. Of course, I did not know how much Knecht knew. Had he heard of Grandmarnier? Had he seen actual zombies? Based on my educated guesses, I think I did a very good job designing my charade.”

  “Did you know about us?” I stammered, pointing to myself and Baedecker.

  “Yes, I was made aware of Knecht’s colleagues, who I assume are the two of you,” Gill answered coolly. “I gave instructions that I thought would culminate in either your leaving the country or your outright deaths. And yet, I see that you are here, and still alive.”

  “Who are you to speak for the Voodooists?” I asked forcefully, my shock changing to rage. “Grandmarnier has personally invited us to become his acolytes and has freely shown us how to use his arts to raise zombies. Who are you to keep us from his secrets?”

  “Grandmarnier is as ignorant as he is powerful,” Gill declared. “He does not understand that Voodoo’s powers are in danger of exploitation by evil men. He has no experience of the world outside of this tiny country. Types such as yourselves would use his secrets for your own gain—perverting and distorting the magic he freely teaches. You are here because you dream of creating an army of invincible zombie soldiers to serve your leader with the ridiculous toothbrush mustache. Do you deny it, sir? I know it is the truth!”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

  “This is about more than who rules Europe for the next thirty years,” said Gill. “This is about the most ancient secrets men ever stole from gods. Yes, gods! And if you will not swear, this instant, to abandon your plundering and leave here forever, then we have nothing more to say to one another.”

  Here my anger became uncontainable. Not only did this man—whoever he truly was—stand in the way of our valuable mission, he had insulted the Führer’s mustache.

  It could not stand.

  “You are a damned fool if you think the secrets of zombie creation are for you alone!” I spat. “The Third Reich is the greatest entity ever known to man! It is for the Reich—and the Reich alone—to determine the best use for zombies.”

  “Then I see you have made your choice,” Gill responded coldly, and in the same instant drew a Colt revolver from his pocket and leveled it at me. “Like all men who have sought to steal the secrets of Voodoo, you shall meet the end that you deserve!”

  Before I could think, there was a deafening report . . . yet it was Gill who dropped to the ground dead!

  I looked over and saw the reclining Inspector Baedecker holding his Luger, the smoke from its barrel mixing with the omnipresent smoke from the torches.

  “Baedecker, you came to!” I stammered.

  “And just in time,” he replied, slowly rising to his feet. “That man was a fool, but a dangerous one. He shows how determined our enemies are to stop us.”

  In a few moments, Baedecker had recovered completely from his fall. Without further word about the interloping priest, Baedecker began his tutorial for me on the verbal control of a zombie.

  As I write this letter, Hans the zombie is sitting at my feet, as tame as a kitten. Yet were I to utter the right set of syllables, he would become as murderous as a homicidal maniac. It is a strange feeling to have such complete and utter power over so potentially deadly a thing. Imagine the feeling of a lion tamer . . . but no, that is inadequate. (Though lions can be tamed, the tamer must never let his guard down, lest he be surprised. Further, the lion must be carefully coached for months or years to respond correctly to a tamer’s whip.) Imagine the feeling of an inventor who has constructed the perfectly obedient and deadly automaton—yes, that is it precisely—and you have perhaps some notion of the sentiment that runs through my veins. I can loose the zombie on my enemies, and it will bite and claw until my foes’ brains are eaten and the zombie sated. I can rest it by the door to my hovel, where it will stand as a trusted sentry. Or I can command it to stand in the corner and stare at the
wall for hours on end if doing so should somehow benefit me. (And for all of these tasks, no training on the zombie’s part is required.) It is truly awe-inspiring to wield a power so complete, and I am firm in my belief that the Aryan is the only race capable and truly qualified.

  Baedecker and I have now mastered the commands enabling one to have control over a single zombie; however, as my colleague pointed out, we must learn how to control groups of them if we are to have any hope of marching a zombie army across Europe. Several other Bocors and Mambos in the encampment seem to have this ability, including Grandmarnier, who orders groups of zombies around with great ease and facility.

  After some discussion, Baedecker and I are agreed that it is worth it to remain here a little longer to learn these somewhat more complicated “group commands.” We shall then return to the Reich, carrying with us the momentous knowledge of how to create and command an army of zombies.

  A final thought before I end this transmission: Our encounter with the late Father Gill was, of course, deeply troubling. The fact that an outsider could penetrate our cover is unnerving. (Perhaps Inspector Knecht’s skills in deception are not as accomplished as he believes them to be.) After he was shot, we left Gill’s body where it was, on the forest floor. A few hours later, it was not there, yet I have no doubt that the man was completely dead. He claimed to speak for Grandmarnier, but neither Grandmarnier nor anyone else in the village has remarked upon him (and we, certainly, have not brought it up in conversation). Could there have been truth to Gill’s ravings that other European nations have previously attempted to learn and export zombie Voodoo technology? My own knowledge of Caribbean history suggests that it is possible. (Yet I am not surprised that representatives of the Third Reich are succeeding where those from lesser nations failed.) We must—in these final days in this country—insulate and protect ourselves from any others in Gill’s cadre. It seems impossible that he operated alone, and we know not with whom he may have been aligned in his mission.