Crossfire

by Dale Lucas

  Doc stared. He knew that some lwa had terrible true forms. He also knew that those true forms were often more terrible when viewed up close, on a crossover plane like this one, as opposed to viewing via visions, dreams, or ceremonial possession. But this thing that towered above him now, that slouched and lurched from its shadowy hiding place between the looming brownstones of this half-dead otherworld, that held the frightened, struggling Reverend Barnabus Farnes in its big skeletal hands like a child … this thing was more frightening and malign than anything that Dub Corveaux could have ever imagined.

  And worse: there was a deep, malign vitality to it. This was no mindless beast of sulfur and smoke like the hellhounds, no meandering whisp of cold and memory like the ghosts that haunted this other Harlem's streets… this thing, this Kalfou, was alive and intent and sneering and eager to end him—after torturing him and seeing his hopes first utterly dashed.

  Kalfou smiled. It had pickets of rotten, misaligned teeth in a wide scar of a mouth hiding a serpentine purple tongue behind them. The smile was a sign of its evil intent. It held up the Reverend Farnes.

  Lose something, horse? the Haunter of the Crossroads asked. Its voice was like a night wind howling through the eves of a haunted old house.

  Terrified, Doc rolled Debbs off his shoulders and dropped him on the pavement. I'm here to offer a trade, he said, my prisoner for yours.

  He whistled and the Serpent d'Ogou scarf uncoiled from Debbs and slithered back across the pavement to climb Doc's staunch form and settle once more on his shoulders. Free at last, Debbs got a look at Kalfou and his eyes grew big as saucers. His mouth fell open, he screamed to wake the dead, then he turned and ran off deeper into the phantom city around them.

  For just a moment, Doc felt sorry for the fat demagogue and the fate that awaited him here.

  But only for a moment.

  He ain't nothing to me, Kalfou said. I got me a holy man.

  Draw the Machette d'Ogou, Ogou said in Doc's mind. Let me take over.

  But—

  Now!

  The Dread Baron drew the blade. The Machette d'Ogou flared, the flames that dressed its blade roiling and brightening in intensity as if dipped in petrol.

  Doc wasn't sure he wanted to defer to Ogou entirely. True, the lwa was his patron and protector and was always, in some sense, with him. But to totally surrender his body to the lwa—to become a vessel for an in-dwelling instead of a mere horse—it was a terrible risk.

  For one thing, Ogou might decide he liked having a body, and refuse to give it up. If Dub Corveaux willingly surrendered his body to Ogou, even Reverand Brown might not drive the lwa back out of him.

  We don't have time for this, Ogou snarled. You've got to trust me!

  Doc wasn't sure he trusted any creature of the aether—even his own patrons—with his own body. But what choice did he have? Staring down Kalfou filled him with a fear he hadn't known since fighting in the trenches of the Great War. If he didn't take the strength that Ogou offered, what else did he have to fight with?

  Kalfou took a step toward him.

  I'm all yours, Dub Corveaux said, his fear of the beast before him overcoming his distrust of a full-on possession.

  He felt Ogou step forward. What had been a vague presence just over his shoulder became part of his own consciousness, his body, his spirit. All of the sudden, in a mad, roaring, rush, Dr. Dub Corveaux's fear fled. He felt Ogou's fire fill him from top to toe, from his tingling fingers down to his trembling toes. In that instant, he became righteous rage, fearless indignation, the strength that came from purpose and the surety that came with passion.

  In answer to his newfound power and the dissolution of his fear, the Machette d'Ogou flared up in his grip, the flames billowing forth brighter and hotter than before, as though its thirst had been quenched with white hot magnesium.

  Now! Ogou snarled. Let's take this bastard's feet right out from under him!

  They charged Kalfou and brought the Machette d'Ogou sweeping round in a wide flaming arc. Kalfou saw the lunge and the blade and took a single step backward in anticipation of it.

  But Ogou closed the distance between them in a breath and his blade bit deep. He chopped right through the rotten, corded meat that covered Kalfou's bones and the beast above him howled and shuddered, rocking against the pain. As it threw its arms out in fury and terror, the Reverend Farnes braced himself, apparently sure that he was about to be thrown.

  Ogou didn't waste another moment. Seeing how deeply his blade bit, the agony that it caused Kalfou, however fleeting, he spun on his heels, letting the force of his strike carry his whole body round, and struck again at Kalfou's opposite calf. Once more, the lwa's rotten flesh sizzled when kissed by the flames and the iron. The giant rocked and roared.

  This time, the Reverend Farnes fell free. He tumbled through the air and hit the pavement hard, but managed to roll himself sideward out of Kalfou's reach. Seeing this little piece of fortune, Ogou wove around Kalfou's bare and shifting feet and charged. As Kalfou bent to snap up the reverend again, Ogou brought his flaming machete down once more. He sliced off two of the dread lord's fingers. The bony protrusions turned to ash and cinder the moment they were separated from Kalfou's body and disappeared on a skirl of wind.

  Run! Ogou shouted at the reverend, though the strange acoustics on this plane still made his voice sound faint and far away, like someone else's voice, spoken in some other room beyond a wall.

  The Reverend Barnabus Farnes scrambled to his feet, and scurried for freedom, out beyond Kalfou's reach.

  They turned just in time to see the big lwa bending toward them, both enormous skeletal hands spreading above him and falling like striking spiders. They hacked and slashed with his flaming machete, taking pieces of Kalfou with every savage swipe of the flame-licked blade, but Kalfou still managed to get them in his grip. The big lwa yanked them up off the pavement and drew them toward his rotten mouth, like a giant from a child's fairy tale. Drawn toward that terrible, shriveled face, those burning, deep-set eyes and that yawning, rotten-toothed mouth, Dub knew fear again.

  Trespasser! Kalfou snarled as he drew him near, then shook him. Burglar! Thief! I'll toss you into the hell of my own gut and let you roast and roil for all eternity in the brimstone fires that fill my belly! Even your precious patrons won't be able to save you once I've made a meal of you!

  He lifted them right up to his mouth and opened wide. His rotten jaw seemed to come unhinged and his maw yawned deep and wide like the mouth of some enormous snake. A great black gulf rife with the stench of rot and hellfires yawned beneath them as they were up-ended in preparation for being tossed down the hungry god's hatch.

  Kalfou's hands crammed him into his rotten mouth.

  Ogou shoved his flaming machete right into Kalfou's gaping maw. He slashed the lwa's throat, its whipping tongue, its rotten, worm-ridden gums. Smoke bellowed up and out of the open mouth and rotten flesh sizzled and popped and blistered.

  Kalfou screamed and dropped his morsel.

  Doc landed hard on the warped pavement and rolled clear. The Machette d'Ogou clattered on the pavement beside him, its fires doused. Doc felt weaker, less potent and less fearless than he had when Ogou had been in control of him.

  That's it, Ogou said in the center of Doc's brain. That's all I've got to give. Run for it.

  Doc looked to the Reverend Barnabus Farnes. The old man already had a good head start. He was still looking back over his shoulder, waiting for the Cemetery Man to follow, amazed at Kalfou's apparent agony as it bent and spat black blood and brimstone smoke from its slashed and ruined gullet. The Dread Baron shouted at the old man again.

  Run! he commanded. I'm right behind you!

  The reverend ran. Doc snatched up the flamed-out Machette d 'Ogou and followed.

  In moments, he had reached the reverend's side. For just a moment, he marveled at how quickly the old man moved—how spry and healthy he seemed for a man of seventy. Then he remembered that this wasn't r
eally the reverend at all: it was the reverend's living soul, separated from its body and isolated here on the Guinee plane. No doubt, this shadow of the reverend—this shuttle for his consciousness and intellect—could do a great many things that the real, fleshly reverend could not.

  Where are we running to? the reverend asked, his voice having that same faraway, muffled quality as Doc's own.

  Behind them, Kalfou came stomping down the street, roaring like a summer storm, howling like a hurricane wind, his long, skeletal legs taking impossible strides that closed the distance between he and his quarry with terrifying speed. As he cried out, all the looming brownstones seemed to alternately quail and loom closer, as though they were minions of the Haunter of the Crossroads, felt his pain and his fury, and sought to harry and slow Doc's escape. Worse, his fury seemed to be empowering him somehow. Doc thought at first it might just be a trick of perspective, but soon enough saw the truth: as Kalfou stomped after them, he grew larger and larger.

  He rage was making him more powerful.

  Doc ran faster. He clamped one hand on the reverend's arm and drew him along. The street warped and wobbled beneath them, like a barrel bridge floating on unquiet waters. The whole of the spectral world around them trembled and rearranged itself in answer to Kalfou's fury. The distance ahead of them stretched out, further and further with each sprinting stride they took. Behind them, Kalfou seemed to close without even straining.

  Have you forgot what you learned already? Legba said in the center of Doc's mind.

  Forgotten what? Doc asked, still running, still dragging the reverend along beside him. He threw a glance back and saw Kalfou gaining, his long strides carrying him closer and closer by the moment.

  Running will get you nowhere on this side, Erzulie said.

  Close your eyes, Legba urged. Picture where you're going.

  He's right behind us! Doc snapped in answer.

  A moment's peace and concentration is all that'll get you out of this, Erzulie countered. Do it! And tell the reverend to do the same!

  They were right and he knew it. It had worked before. It should work again.

  I want you to think of One Hundred and Thirty-Sixth Street, Doc shouted at the reverend. Right at the corner of Seventh Avenue! Can you?

  What do you mean, think of—

  Picture it in your mind! Doc commanded. Think of the buildings. Think of the view. Most of all, think of those two street signs, one mounted atop the other on the corner street light.

  The reverend nodded. He was still keeping pace. No matter—the faster they ran, the farther their destination seemed to be from them, and the closer Kalfou seemed to get.

  Just do it! Paint that picture! Tell me when you've got it!

  The reverend looked perplexed for a moment, then seemed to concentrate.

  I think I've got it, he said.

  Close your eyes, Doc said.

  The reverend looked at him like he was insane. I won't be able to see—

  Paint the picture and close your goddamned eyes! Doc roared.

  The reverend did as he was told.

  Doc did the same.

  A moment later, their blind flight took them right into a brick wall. Each man slammed into the barrier with incredible force. Nonetheless, there was no pain, no lost breath or dazed collapse. There was just the sudden shock of realizing that they had hit an impenetrable barrier, and the recoil from it.

  As they stumbled backward from the wall, each opened their eyes. They stood on the corner of 136th Street and 7th Avenue. They had run into a brownstone that stood on the northwest corner. There were spirits swarming the streets, and Kalfou was nowhere in sight.

  Come on, Doc urged, dragging the reverend bodily toward the alley that ran behind the building. We're almost there.

  Where are you taking me? the reverend demanded.

  Doc ushered him on into the long, deep, dark alley that ran parallel to 136th Street. It was even more shadowy and isolated than its real world counterpart. Shadows in the shape of stray cats skulked at the edge of his vision and drifting ghosts wheeled above steaming sewer grates like pillars of smoke. Doc pointed toward a fire escape that ran up the backside of the second building along.

  Climb, he said. Fast.

  Before the reverend could open his mouth to ask just where they were going, something large and vaguely human appeared at the far end of the alley, off toward 8th Avenue.

  It was Kalfou.

  Move! Doc shouted, and all but threw the reverend up onto the lowest rung of the fire escape ladder. The old man climbed steadily and surely, as nimbly as a child. Nonetheless, he still seemed to move too slowly.

  At the far end of the alley, Kalfou bounded nearer, his long, skeletal legs dancing crazily, his tall, gnarled form seeming to fill the alley from side to side like some bizarre, upright spider.

  Doc clambored up the ladder beneath the reverend. All the way to the top! he shouted. Climb into one of those attic windows when you reach them! You should see the door just inside!

  What door? The reverend called back down.

  The door that'll take you home! Doc answered. He looked toward Kalfou. The lwa was nearly upon them, rotten-toothed grin looming in Doc's vision like an oncoming nightmare.

  Doc stopped on the second landing of the fire escape, reached into his coat, and drew out his pistols. He blasted away, centering his fire right on Kalfou's shriveled, rotten face. The dead flesh and rotten skull beneath crumbled under the weight of that onslaught of pummeling, hammering, white hot lead… but Kalfou didn't stop. He was only slowed, stunned, momentarily blinded. He reeled back, ambling crazily from side to side in the alley as he tried to shake off the weight of the gunfire.

  Doc kept climbing.

  Up above, the Reverend had almost reached the top landing. He stopped, glancing back down at Doc as if to ask directions.

  Don't stop! Doc roared. You're almost there! Through that window!

  The window won't open! the reverend answered.

  Then break it! Doc answered. That's where we're going.

  Then the whole fire escape seemed to shudder beneath Doc and he swiveled his gaze. Kalfou was just beneath him, climbing up the building, using the fire escape for hand and foot-holds. The rotten head beneath its floppy, wide-brimmed hat leered up at them.

  The Dread Baron reached into his coat, drew out a pair of govi grenades, and dropped them right into Kalfou's grinning face. They shattered on impact. A storm of red and blue spectral flames engulfed Kalfou's terrifying countenance and once again, the lwa roared and shook with rage—yet another annoyance in the path to his prey.

  Doc climbed.

  Above, the reverend had done as told and shattered the window. His shoes were just disappearing over the sill as Doc clambered onto the highest landing, launched himself upward, caught the lip of the sill with his gloved hands, and scrambled up and over the brick of the building's outer walls.

  Below, Kalfou climbed, hand over hand, the last of the govi flames trailing off of him like the last drops of rain falling from a clearing sky.

  The Dread Baron was helped through the window by the reverend, whose apparent strength once more reminded Doc that they weren't on the material plane anymore. When Doc had wriggled through the window and collapsed on the earthen floor of the big, wide attic, the reverend took a moment to study their surroundings. He didn't seem pleased by the vodou accouterments and sandy veves painted on the earthen floor.

  What is this place? he asked.

  Never mind, Doc said, scurrying to his feet and shoving the reverend so hard he almost knocked the old man off his. Over there! That door in the outer wall!

  The reverend saw it but couldn't believe it—a door made of bricks opening right out of a wall that, by rights, should have had nothing but empty air and a four story drop on the other side. But looking through that strange portal, what the reverend saw on the other side was… a mirror image of the attic chamber they stood in.

  Where will this tak
e me? he asked.

  Home, Doc said, and shoved him through.

  He didn't wait to see if the reverend seemed to arrive in the peristyle on the far side, or if he simply disappeared upon crossing the barrier. Instead, Doc spun round, once more drawing his pistols from beneath his coat.

  Kalfou's enormous, demonic face filled the window, his skeletal fingers creeping through on either side. He was trying to wriggle his entire enormous bulk through the window like a huge, misshapen baby trying to force its way into an unwelcoming world.

  Then, Kalfou seemed to compose himself. His snarl turned to a sly grin. His head and body started to shudder… and shrink. In moments, he'd be able to scurry right through that window, and then there would be nothing keeping his hands from Doc's throat.

  Doc opened fire, once more pumping round after round right into Kalfou's huge, hideous face and the gaping maw of his mouth.

  Kalfou's head and shoulders wriggled through the open window. One long, skeletal arm reached out toward Doc.

  Doc threw himself backward, hoping he was aligned with the open Guinee Door.

  When he hit the earthen floor of his peristyle flat on his back and saw nothing but a brick wall above him, he knew that he'd made it.

  25

  His patrons assured him that Kalfou could not follow him back through the Guinee Door. Mortals who ventured through could return, and lost souls with living bodies awaiting them could do so as well, but the creatures that dwelt on the far side had to remain there, and could only take their vengeance or follow their quarry if someone on this side opened another door for them, invited them through, and gave them a horse to ride to see their reckoning accomplished.