All the Dead Are Here

by Pete Bevan

  “No, not really,” I said, for if truth be told, I failed to see how anything could affect the Empire.

  “The way it appears to me is that the Europeans will require a fair wage. That will require more expense for the simple tasks one requires which will inflate the economy, which in turn will bankrupt us all. What we need is a way of creating a labour force that requires no wages and little or no costs to maintain.”

  “Well surely that would be slaves, and I don’t think your grasp of economics is quite accurate.”

  “Nevertheless, a free labour source would allow the Empire to flourish, would it not?” I nodded, now thoroughly lost to the man’s point. “Come with me,” he said.

  We went outside and walked through an overgrown path, deeper into the undergrowth of the jungle. The light was fading into darkness and I was already struggling to keep my footing in the dense underbrush. Eventually, we came to a reed hut built in a small clearing. Outside, there were a variety of glass bottles and canisters, smashed and broken, and an ungodly smell of rotting meat. I was also shocked to see a crudely made coffin lying on the ground by the entrance to the hut. Resting one foot on the coffin stood a black man of tiny stature, dressed in rags that smelt of fish and once may have resembled a black suit as he smoked a tiny hand rolled cigarette. Around his neck was a garland of what appeared to be bones, hair, ribbons and carved wooden effigies. His rheumy eyes looked me up and down and he smiled at me with rotten teeth. I realised the fish smell was most probably his breath.

  Baker and this man had a short conversation, in a language I didn’t recognise, where my name was mentioned and ‘The Times’ newspaper. The gentleman raised his eyes and shook my hand.

  “This is Papa Badalou, the Bokor I mentioned previously,” said Baker.

  “Charmed, sir,” I said, perhaps a little ungraciously. I tried to smile but I’m afraid it would have been false, for the sense of foreboding in my soul had risen to a crescendo of fear. I did not like this gentleman one bit.

  They had a further conversation before Baker turned to me and said, “Bear in mind that what I am about to show you is an automaton, nothing more than a shell, equipped to do one's bidding: lifting, carrying and such like, but without complaint nor rest. It is, to all intents and purposes, the perfect employee.”

  As Baker lit a rough torch that had been left on the ground at his feet, Papa Badalou shouted something at the hut. From inside I heard a terrible, low moan. A huge hulking figure stooped through the doorway before emerging into the evening gloom. Unconsciously, I stepped back in fright and as Baker raised the torch I saw the full countenance of the creature that emerged. It was a man. ‘Was’ being the operative word. It was a corpse. Its eyes were grey as its skin, no blood coloured its lips and it appeared to have a hole in its chest. It... he had been buried a time for there was mould on his suit which had the shirt unbuttoned. It must have been his burial suit.

  “Good God!” I exclaimed.

  “God has nothing to do with it dear boy. This is pure science, with perhaps a little touch of Voodou,” said Baker, apparently rather pleased with himself.

  “But it’s inhuman,” I continued, barely able to form the words. “Did you kill him?” I asked.

  “No, no, no. Nothing unnatural happened. He was in an accident, a boat’s oar punctured his thorax.” With this he put his fist into the hole in the creature’s chest. I felt the humours rise in my stomach.

  “He was buried a good Christian burial, I am merely using the chemical components of his body before they are absorbed into the earth. Can you imagine Sir, cleaned up and perhaps with some sort of mask to make their countenance more pleasing, one in every house in the Empire, a servant for every home?” He looked the creature up and down. I stood agog. The full horror seemed to reflect off me, I couldn’t speak; I just stared at this thing.

  “Let me demonstrate,” he continued, now clearly excited. “Jacob!” he said in a loud clear voice. The thing turned and gazed at him. “Take the body from the coffin and place it on the workbench, please.” The creature stared at him for a second then bent and opened the coffin. The smell was horrendous as the creature reached inside and hoisted the black suited corpse onto his shoulder. Baker wrinkled his nose.

  “Fresh, Papa Badalou, they must always be fresh! How many times must I tell you?” The tiny Negro shrugged his shoulders and muttered something.

  “Yes, yes,” said Baker. “It’s always the heat, isn’t it? See how obedient he is Mr Smith, quite pliable to all but the most complex requests.”

  I did not answer but just stared as Jacob entered the hut and placed the corpse on the workbench. Baker lit several more torches inside the hut and I could see flasks and rubber tubing, oil burners and a small cooking stove, it looked like a small laboratory or pharmacy. Baker busied himself lighting oil burners and checking chemicals. As he worked he ushered me in. Morbid curiosity carried my legs forward but my mind reeled.

  As he readied the process he continued, “Now Jacob there was made with a mixture of chemicals, and Voodou. What I intend to do now is the same process but without the mumbo jumbo. If the Zombification can be easily achieved I intend to set up a factory in the North of England where the weather will be kinder to the materials involved until reanimation is complete. At that point, Mr Smith, their decomposition ceases and one can eliminate the smell. What do you think? I was toying with ‘Bakers Zombie Automatons Ltd’ as a name. What do you think? Eh?”

  I wanted to call him a madman and run, flee this place and return to England forthwith but I just stood there, unable to process the macabre scene before me. Papa Badalou obviously understood some English because he began to query Baker. I do not understand what was said but it quickly became an argument. Jacob and I stood there as they raged at each other, until Papa Badalou stormed out of the hut back towards the village.

  “Oh dear,” he said as he continued to run around, placing tubes into the corpse and removing stoppers from flasks.

  “It appears the good Bokor is convinced that his ritual is as important as the chemical processes. I’ve tried to persuade him that it is just science but he is not convinced. Apparently the spirits must be appeased.”

  Baker paused, and waved his hands in a mock expression of a magician doing a trick.

  “We better get this done quickly so I can prove him wrong, before he returns with his colleagues.” This cryptic answer unnerved me further.

  “Jacob, be a dear and pass me the sulphur.” The corpse reached over and passed Baker a small dish. “No Jacob. The sulphur. There. There!” exclaimed Baker, pointing, as Jacob replaced the dish and passed him another.

  Finally, he stopped.

  “Now, Mr Smith, prepare to be amazed,” he exclaimed, more showman now than scientist.

  Several stoppers were removed from flasks and taps turned in tubes. Coloured liquids drained into the corpse through tubes placed at various points in the body. Baker just stood there, a wild look in his eyes, with his hands on his hips. Presently, he removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat and tapped it impatiently.

  Minutes passed and he checked his watch repeatedly. “Odd,” he murmured. “How very odd,” he muttered again before leaning into the corpse to look at the face.

  The corpse’s hand shot up and grabbed him around the throat. I jumped in shock and I am ashamed to say at that point I may have soiled my undergarments slightly. The corpse bit deep into Baker's neck and the little man screamed a gurgling scream. Blood gushed from his neck like a stream, covering the table and workbench as it flowed. Baker gazed incredulously at the amount of blood and removed his hand from his neck to inspect it, whereby the blood jetted from the open wound and Baker looked up, pleading at me before gurgling something, bubbles of blood obscuring his words as it dripped from his mouth.

  The corpse sat up and proceeded to feast on Dr Baker. In that moment I became painfully aware that I was the only living thing in that hut and feeling the weight of my service revolver, I remove
d it from my waistcoat and took aim at the head of the creature. The Zombie took the Doctor and laid the stricken man in its lap before tearing gobs of meat from Baker's neck and devouring them greedily. Through all this Jacob stood impassive, and Baker merely stared at me in panic. Slowly, Baker's eyes grew dim and the blood ceased to flow from the wounds. The only sound remaining was the grisly chewing of the Zombies’ foetid jaw.

  As the creature turned its attention away from its meal, I fired and the noise rang out through the jungle. The blast briefly illuminated the hut and I saw blood and whatnot splatter the far side of the room. The creature barely reacted and sat up with its eyes locked firmly in mine. Then I saw the corpse of Baker twitch and rise from the workbench.

  It turned and both creatures eyed me lustily. Almost casually and without any emotion in my voice, (after all I am an Englishman), I said to the impassive giant, “Jacob, be a good boy and stop these two creatures killing me would you?”

  As he stepped between the creatures and myself, I turned tail and ran. Sprinting through the dark bush, I could hear the sounds of combat behind me and as I got further away from the hut I could also hear shouts in front of me. I looked and saw torches heading my way and the voice of Papa Badalou shouting in the distance. Unwilling to meet the villagers of the island, or the creatures behind, I cut directly left and stumbled through the undergrowth in the growing dark.

  I dived over a log and peered back towards the path whence I came. I saw the two Zombies lurch from Baker's hut and stumble towards the din of the party of villagers who were coming the other way with torches and spears, shouting with bravado. Baker and his ally fell upon the villagers grabbing one each like wolves and using their hands and teeth to gouge the hapless victims as they screamed. Badalou and the other villagers pierced the bodies of the Zombies with spears to no effect and, as the panic rose, they moved from villager to villager tearing eyes and throats, biting legs and torsos until all that remained were the dead and the moans of the dying as the two gorged themselves on the last two villagers they had encountered.

  It was then, as I watched the grizzly scene unfold, when the first two victims rose from death and fell upon the injured, that I realised that Baker's vision had been wrong in its entirety: rather than the pastoral scene of dutiful, bemasked Zombie servants attending the great stately homes of London that he envisaged, or the vision of the chaotic, noisy mills of Lancashire in their never ending toil. I saw waves of these monsters sweeping first through the slums of the East End, the poor too weak to defend themselves as the dead feasted in the maze-like back alleys and tenements until the sewers ran red with blood, before this new army did what no nation could: to stand triumphant at the gates of Buckingham Palace, the British army impotent to defend the beloved Monarchy. Then across the Empire and the world they would spread, until the Empire was no more and nothing living remained: Both the highest Lord and lowest thief standing together, in death, against the survivors of this End of Days.

  As the last of the corpses rose, more villagers arrived, intrigued by the screams coming from the village and as the group shambled off towards their fresh victims I ran as fast and as hard as I could, all the time thinking that I must survive and prevent this apocalypse.

  Driven by pure fear I carried on for an indeterminate time, until I saw a hut in front of me. My foot caught on something unseen in the night and I fell heavily onto some rocks hidden by a large bush. I must have hit my head for I was enveloped by blackness.

  When I came to, I was aware that it was day. I had no clue as to how long I had been unconscious but I was sure I was being watched. As my vision cleared, I saw, sat no more than a few feet away from me, a woman. She was not a Negro like the others but a white woman, her dress was tattered, her hair matted and her skin unwashed for many weeks. Barefoot and covered in bruises as she was, I realised this was the figure I had seen being taken into the jungle upon my arrival. In her eyes a wildness hid behind the striking blue. Around her leg a locked iron band had caused red sores around her brazenly naked ankle and the chain it was attached to led to another band locked around a sturdy palm tree. More aware of my surroundings now, I could hear distant crashing in the undergrowth. Suddenly I was hit by recognition.

  “Mrs Baker?” I said incredulously. She nodded glumly. “He told me you died of a fever,” I said.

  “More lies to assuage his guilt at trading me like common cattle,” she spat, her voice cracked and ragged.

  “Trading you?”

  “Yes, he gave me to Papa Badalou for the secrets of the Dead.”

  “Well, it has been his undoing ma’am, I’m afraid your husband is dead.” I regretted immediately speaking so bluntly, after all this was his wife. Her reaction showed no emotion.

  “Good. He deserves nothing less for messing in the black arts,” she said.

  “Well, his experiments have gone wrong and we are in danger. For the Dead he has raised are murderous in their intent.” I spoke quickly of the night's events, realising the crashes in the jungle were nearing our position. With rising desperation we pulled and tugged at the chain to no effect. I looked round for tools to perhaps jemmy the irons free but found nothing. As the cacophony, now accompanied by low moans, came closer, we became increasingly fervent in our effort. I bade her cover her eyes and without thinking used my service revolver to shoot at the lock on the palm, to no effect. As the ringing of the gunshots faded, I realised we had unwittingly given away our position and the sound of the dead closing on us increased in frequency. Try as we might I could not free the lady and as panic gripped us, I stopped. I realised there was but one course of action remaining. She looked up at me, in wonderment as to why I had ceased to free her. Recognition slid across her face and the wildness I had first seen faded into calm resignation.

  “Sir, I realise I do not even know your name, yet you must do for me a service. As an Englishman and, as I can see, a Gentlemen.” Her voice was placid now. We both knew what was required. She stood tall, taller than I, flattened her dress against her body and returned the strap of the dress to her shoulder. I bowed low to her, as the sounds of the Dead grew closer and more frantic.

  “Madam Baker. You are a woman of bravery and grace unbefitting of your husband and this island. It would be an honour to do this last service for you.” Then she smiled the most radiant smile. I remember it to this day and it was as if the sun itself illuminated the dark undergrowth of this hell. She closed her eyes. I raised the revolver and shot her squarely through the heart. She fell to the ground and I was filled with remorse as I realised I did not know her full name, nor the names of her family, and I could not inform those who loved her of her demise. Since that day I have prayed, every day, that when I stand before the Lord on Judgement Day he will see this act as mercy and not murder.

  The undergrowth exploded behind me and as numerous dead shambled towards me, I raised the revolver, which clicked empty as I fired. I turned and ran as more of the figures entered the clearing. It seemed the whole village had succumbed to the raging experimentation of Dr Baker.

  As I ran, I could see light blue through the underbrush. I headed for it at full pelt and exploded onto the beach, shielding my eyes from the bright sunshine. My eyes adjusted slowly for I was still groggy from my fall, yet I could hear my relentless pursuers behind. Frantically, I looked for a boat, a means off this wretched place but could find none. As I ran up and down the surf I looked back to see many figures emerging front the jungle, eyes fixed on me, their next meal.

  Perhaps a hundred yards or so up the beach I saw some flotsam and jetsam brought in by the low tide. In particular, a log jutted from the rubbish. I ran to it as more of the shambling figures emerged from the jungle. With the last of my strength I hauled it into the sea, pushing it out into the breaking surf. As I got out of my depth, I clambered aboard my impromptu raft and paddled for my life. As luck would have it, the tide was retreating else I would have been pulled back to the shore. I paddled until my strength faltered
and only then did I look back to see the whole village's lifeless inhabitants crowded at the shore. They did not seem willing to enter the surf but just shuffled listlessly around.

  Now I feel I must go fetch myself a whiskey, for it is late but I know I will not sleep until this tale is written. I am perturbed at the memory but driven to finish this story.