by Gar Wilson
Manning thrust the muzzle of the shotgun under the zombie's chin and squeezed the trigger. Buckshot exploded from the barrel, and the zombie's head burst into a spectacular nova of blood. Just then, as if on cue, another opponent swung a machete at the Canadian's head.
Combat-honed reflexes saved Gary Manning. Metal rang against metal as he whipped the barrel of the shotgun into the advancing blade and blocked the machete stroke. He quickly executed a butt-stroke with the walnut stock of the riot gun. Wood crashed into the side of the zombie's skull. A hairline fracture rendered the "walking dead man" unconscious. The zombie dropped silently to the ground.
Manning was about to load another shell into the breech of his shotgun. A zombie interrupted him by rudely swinging a sickle in a wild overhead stroke. Manning raised the riot gun, holding the barrel in one fist and the stock in the other. The steel frame formed a solid bar that blocked the sickle blade.
The zombie's demented facial features reflected an expression similar to surprise. The Canadian pushed the frame of his weapon against the sickle blade to shove the weapon-tool away. Stepping forward and dropping to one knee, Manning slashed the barrel of the Winchester at the zombie's bony ankles, sweeping the creature off its feet. Manning jumped up. He quickly stamped the butt of the shotgun into the forehead of the horrid opponent, caving in the frontal bone of the humanoid's skull.
Katz and James had also joined the battle, rushing from the sugarcane to assist their companions. The two had seen enough to realize threatening the zombies or shooting over their heads would be as useless as attempting such tactics against a volcano spewing hot lava. Neither would torso shots effectively stop the zombies. The only sure way of dealing with these creatures was to attack the brain.
Rifles with night scopes might have allowed them to deal with the zombies from a distance, but Katz and James were armed with relatively unfamiliar submachine guns designed for close-quarter rapid-fire fighting rather than for distance and accuracy. They had to get closer. Much closer.
Two zombies turned toward James and Katz as they darted into the open. One of the creatures had been the victim of Garner's panicky shotgun blast; half its face was ripped open, with an eyeball hanging from a torn socket. James raised his FMK-3 subgun and destroyed what remained of the mutilated face. The corpse slumped to the ground. Katz fired his Sterling a microsecond later, and the second zombie fell across the first.
Four humanoids staggered toward Garner in the sugarcane, attracted by the booming report of his shotgun. The terrified cop was once again peppering the creatures with pellets before they were within killing range. Torn and bloodied, the zombies would eventually collapse from the shotgun blasts, but the damage was not forceful or abrupt enough to bring them down.
Sergeant Bristol yelled at Garner to hold his fire. The patrolman didn't pay attention. He was trapped in the nightmare that had marched from the laborers' quarters. Bristol glanced around and discovered that one of the three policemen in his charge had apparently bolted in terror and abandoned the team, retreating deeper into the cane fields.
The remaining man under Bristol's command waited tensely for the walking terror to close in. Officer Thompson's face dripped with sweat, and his eyes seemed ready to burst from their sockets, but he hadn't panicked. Bristol certainly didn't blame the man for being afraid. Thompson looked about as frightened as Bristol felt. The sergeant was glad he could not see his own face at that moment, for he was certain it would also be a mask of utter fear.
"Now!" Bristol shouted, and fired his riot gun point-blank at the face of the closest zombie.
The creature's head mushroomed in a spray of red and gray. Thompson fired his shotgun a split second later, and another decapitated zombie collapsed. Only one human robot eventually fell from all the buckshot fired by the frenzied Garner. The last of the four figures, a machete clenched in its fists, lumbered directly for Garner.
Garner worked the pump of his riot gun, aimed and pulled the trigger. A dull click was the only response. He had burned up all his shells. Screaming he spun around to escape — and ran headlong into a pair of eight-foot-high cane stalks.
Dazed and terrified, he staggered away and turned to see the zombie raise its machete. Garner screamed once more before the sharp steel blade split his face open, then he fell lifelessly. The zombie repeatedly swung the jungle knife, chopping the unresisting flesh.
"My God!" Bristol exclaimed, charging to the spot.
The zombie continued to hack away at the bloodied lump that formerly had been Officer Garner, and didn't notice Bristol. It didn't turn when the sergeant raised his riot gun. A burst of buckshot dispatched the creature, ending the horrible sight.
Bristol backed away, his stomach convulsing with pure repulsion. He heard an ugly choking sound and liquid poured onto the ground. Officer Thompson was vomiting. Bristol resisted the urge to follow his example and turned to see how Phoenix Force was faring.
Katz and James helped their partners finish off the last of the voodoo horror-story creatures. The clearing was covered with a grisly carpet of mangled, gory flesh. Yet the five commandos seemed to pay little attention to the grotesque debris. McCarter yanked the pin from his SAS flash-bang grenade and tossed it into the building. They stood clear of the doorway until the concussion blast exploded. Then McCarter and Manning rushed inside while the others covered them from the doorway. The British and Canadian warriors emerged less than a minute later, weapons canted on their shoulders.
"Empty," McCarter announced as he leaned against the doorway and removed a pack of Player's from his pocket. His fingers shook slightly as he withdrew a cigarette, but his hands were steady by the time he held the flame of his lighter to the tip of the Player's. "Guess we got them all."
"Don't bet on it," Calvin James replied grimly. "This mission ain't over yet."
12
"Zombies?" Colonel Wells glared disbelievingly at Katz, James and Bristol as if he thought they had all gone mad. "Carlos de Madrid had an army of zombies at his plantation?"
"If I hadn't seen it myself," Bristol said, "I don't think I'd believe it, either, sir."
"We knew about the graveyard ghoulie the cops shot at the hotel a couple of days ago," James remarked, sprawled in a chair in Lieutenant Smith's office. "Not really surprising to discover there were more of them around. Sure as hell was scary to come up against more than twenty of those things in the cane fields."
"What were they doing there?" Wells demanded, spreading his hands in an exaggerated gesture of helplessness. "De Madrid was a sugarcane plantation owner, not a voodoo witch doctor."
"Well, Cercueil had to hide his zombies somewhere until he needed them for hit jobs," Yakov Katzenelenbogen began, sipping lukewarm tea from a cup. "The plantation was really an ideal location. Few witnesses, and most of those would be Penn's hired thugs. How many other people would be curious about laborers in the cane fields? Who would suspect the scrawny poor devils chopping down sugarcane were zombies?"
"Cercueil had a safe house for his zombies, and de Madrid got free slave labor," James muttered in disgust. "Those two bastards probably figured it was a perfect arrangement."
"There have been stories about this sort of thing for almost a hundred years in Haiti," Delia Walkins added as she sat in a chair next to James. "Tales of wealthy plantation owners and farmers using zombies to work their fields. Of course, these stories were generally regarded as myths because the idea of walking dead men turned into slaves by voodoo magic is simply too absurd to consider."
"Maybe some of those stories were true," James declared. "Herbal medicine, knowing how to grind up roots, minerals, plant stems, leaves, animal matter and stuff like that for ointments and potions has always been a part of so-called occult skills. Alchemists, early physicians and witch doctors all studied herbs and chemicals. Voodoo bocors may have learned how to make drugs to destroy willpower. A lot of poisons and narcotics are found in plants. Zombies may have been around for decades, but nobody has taken t
hem seriously because legends claimed they were reanimated corpses."
"Fascinating theory," Colonel Wells said without much enthusiasm. "But I'm more concerned about our present problems. The police caught a number of de Madrid's party guests, but they didn't get Montgomery Penn or this Haitian gangster. Cercueil?"
"He's not a gangster," Katz warned. "He doesn't think like a hoodlum. Cercueil was probably a high-ranking officer in the Ton Ton Macoute. Men who belong to secret police organizations always consider themselves to be patriots and justify their vicious behavior as necessary for national security."
"Whatever he is or thinks himself to be," Wells said in exasperation, "the Haitian got away last night. You had him and he slipped through your fingers, Mr. Gray. All you and your group have accomplished since you arrived has been to increase the number of dead bodies in Jamaica."
"Gee," James snorted. "I didn't really notice anybody cryin' their eyes out because a bunch of low-life gangsters and two-bit buttonmen got wasted."
"Do you forget that a police officer was killed?" Wells demanded. "He was hacked to pieces by one of those supposed zombies."
"We all knew the raid would be dangerous, Colonel," Bristol declared. "Officer Garner knew it, too."
"I'm surprised that you're defending these people, Sergeant," Wells remarked. "Garner was one of your men. According to your report on his death, Garner was a bloody hero."
"True," Bristol said with a nod. "He was killed when he came to rescue me. Garner should be buried with full honors, and his family should know how very proud we were to have him on the force."
Calvin James pretended to scratch his mustache to conceal a smile. He did not find Bristol's remark amusing, although the sergeant was less than accurate about Garner's "heroism." James smiled with a sense of warm satisfaction because he understood why Bristol had lied about Garner. The Kingston cop had displayed a part of his personality none of Phoenix Force had seen before. A part that compelled Bristol to sacrifice a bit of personal glory in order to protect the reputation of one of his men. Sergeant Bristol might just be a good guy, after all.
"I don't think Garner would want us to quit now, Colonel," Bristol continued. "Let's not allow his sacrifice to be in vain."
"Sorry, Sergeant." Wells shook his head. "I still feel I must contact the governor-general and advise him to tell the President of the United States to recall Mr. Gray and his team. The body count since they arrived is extraordinary. Almost forty people were killed at de Madrid's estate last night... including the men you all claim were zombies. Let me remind you, gentlemen: whatever you choose to call them, they were still human beings."
"They really didn't leave us much choice of action," Katz remarked, finishing his tea and lighting up a Camel cigarette. "If we leave, Colonel, what do you intend to do? Pretend Cercueil doesn't exist? Hope he decides to give up his plans and quits killing American tourists and innocent Jamaicans?"
"He has a point, sir," Bristol added. "We can criticize some of their tactics, but Mr. Gray and his group have been more successful than either the police or your office, Colonel. We didn't learn about Cercueil or Perm. They did."
"So you think they should stay?" Wells inquired.
"I don't really like admitting they've handled this better than my own police department," Bristol said with a sigh. "Yet what matters is solving this mess once and for all."
"What do you think, Sergeant Walkins?" Wells asked the lady cop.
"I agree with Sergeant Bristol," Delia answered, glancing at James. "I think we can accomplish a lot more with their assistance than without it."
"Very well," the colonel said, frowning. "I'll advise the governor-general to grant you fellows another forty-eight hours. You'd damn well better have some positive results by then or I'll see to it you're out of Jamaica on the next plane if I have to escort you to the airport at gunpoint."
Bristol nearly scoffed at that remark. Wells had never seen the mysterious five commandos in action. They handled weapons as if they had been born with guns and knives in their fists. Wells attempting to threaten them with a firearm would probably frighten the five fighting machines about as much as a barking poodle would intimidate a Bengal tiger.
"Forty-eight hours." Katz nodded in agreement. "With a bit of luck, we can wrap this up in two days. Providing we can locate Cercueil again."
"Any idea where to start looking?" Bristol inquired.
"Our partners are working on that right now," the Israeli answered, gingerly scratching his right cheek with a curved point of the three-hook prosthesis. "They're checking on several possible leads." "Such as?" Wells asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"Questioning the guests from de Madrid's party," Calvin James explained. "Pretty standard cop stuff. It's sort of a long shot, but there's a possibility some of de Madrid's friends might know some details about Cercueil or Perm."
"We suspect we'll be more apt to find more information about Penn than Cercueil," Katz added. "He's been here much longer than the Haitians. It's logical people would know more about Penn's activities. Several of de Madrid's visitors appeared to be accustomed to cocaine and expensive ladies of the evening. Both were probably supplied by Penn. Perhaps one or more of these individuals will be willing to give us information about the gangster to avoid the embarrassment and the unpleasant publicity of a trial for their involvement at de Madrid's party."
"Not to mention avoiding prison if enough charges can be made to send 'em to the big house," James commented. "Might be kinda hard to convince some of those dudes that they won't be able to weasel outta this. They've got money and influence. Folks like that are used to doing pretty much what they please."
"Carlos de Madrid was a wealthy man with a lot of influence, too," Welis said grimly. "My office is going to get a lot of flak when news of his death becomes public. He had friends in the export trade and in government. There's bound to be some heat when they learn he was killed during a raid on his home."
"I don't think you need to worry about that," Katz stated. "Not when all the details are known. I doubt anyone will want to admit they were friends with a man who was involved in everything from black-marketeering and narcotics to conspiracy to commit murder and possibly even an attempt to overthrow the Jamaican government."
"What?" Wells glared at Katz as if he thought the Israeli might be making some sort of sick joke.
"That may very well be part of Cercueil's plan," Katz explained. "Murdering American tourists was just part of the conspiracy. We've encountered ex-Ton Ton Macoute terrorist leaders before. They don't go to this sort of trouble to kill people just for entertainment. They have something much bigger in mind."
"But a government takeover?" Wells shook his head.
"Look," Katz began, "Jamaica needs a strong tourist trade for a sound economy. If Cercueil can ruin American tourism to Jamaica it will virtually destroy the trade. If he can ruin relations between the United States and Jamaica, your country will be in even worse shape. Next, you'll have increased internal violence with leftists blaming right-wingers and vice versa."
"Meantime, Cercueil is building a secret empire made up of criminals and obeah cults," James added. "While everyone else is fighting among themselves, Cercueil waits for an opportunity to move in and take over."
"That's a pretty farfetched theory," Wells said with a frown.
"Not when you consider the fact we're dealing with the Ton Ton Macoute," Katz declared. "Cercueil is a veteran of a totalitarian system that worked successfully for almost thirty years in Haiti. One reason it worked was because the criminal elements in Haiti were often connected with the government. That's not really so incredible. Governments make deals with gangsters all the time. Police in every country operate in this manner. Don't forget, the Ton Ton Macoute was a type of national police force in Haiti."
"Cercueil is also trying to gain support among the obeah voodoo cults," James added. "That's another page from Papa Doc's book on how to be supreme dictator. Old Francois Duvalier
was far better at using the voodoo tricks than his son. Maybe that's why Baby Doc didn't stay in power nearly as long as his daddy."
"Cal's right," Delia said with a nod, giving James a brief smile. "The ruling powers in Haiti always took advantage of the population's belief in voodoo."
"I thought most Haitians had been converted to Catholicism," Wells remarked. "Voodoo is supposed to be a thing of the past."
"Voodoo is a hybrid religion," Delia explained. "It's a combination of animist beliefs from Africa and Christianity, with a lot of European witchcraft practices thrown in. A Haitian might call himself a Catholic, yet still believe in voodoo. Catholic saints may also represent voodooistic gods to a Haitian. Most people are apt to dismiss voodoo as just a superstitious cult, but it is really a religion with more in common with Christianity than one might think."
"But Duvalier manipulated his people," Wells insisted. "He preyed on their superstitions and fears." He seemed uneasy at this comparison of Christianity and voodooism.
"Just as the Catholic church did in Spain during the Inquisition," Delia said with a shrug. "Or as the ayatollah does with his Shiite Moslem followers in Iran. Aren't there a number of American evangelists on television, mostly Protestants, who are always warning about the last days and the coming of the Antichrist?"
"They talk about other stuff, too," James answered. "Mostly how they need more money to keep their shows on the air."
"You're not seriously comparing Duvalier to a TV evangelist, Sergeant Walkins?" Wells demanded.
"Of course not," she answered. "The goals and motives are entirely different, but the method of manipulating people by appealing to the fears built into their belief system is similar."
"I think the sergeant has a good point," Katz stated. "Cercueil's methods are not unlike those of Duvalier or hundreds of other political or religious leaders who have succeeded in conquests in the past. Farfetched or not, Cercueil's plan could succeed if events unfold in his favor. Even if he fails, a lot of innocent people will suffer if he isn't stopped."