by Steve Perry
Boukman waved his hand as if he were shooing flies.
—Indy’s gun flared into a searing heat, as if it had suddenly turned into molten steel. He couldn’t hold on to it—the gun fell—
Indy squatted and reached for the gun again—okay, it would burn, but—
Boukman laughed. “Oh, no, Dr. Jones. That won’t do!”
—the gun shimmered, shivered, elongated, and in a moment transformed itself into a large, tongue-flickering, hissing, undulating—
—snake—!
Indy recoiled.
Boukman laughed again.
Indy had his whip. If he moved fast enough—
“Bide a moment—!” Boukman said. “If you do anything else stupid, your friend truly will die. Bring him!”
Boukman stared past Indy. Indy turned, to see Mac being dragged in their direction by a trio of Boukman’s slaves.
Ah, damn—!
Mac wasn’t making it easy for them, but he was outmatched.
Apparently Dame Fortune had shut off the good-luck tap.
Indy turned back to face Boukman.
“I have been around a long time, Dr. Jones. A very long time. I am adept in the ways of deception and deceit. I am not so easily fooled. You are mine now, and I will have the talisman.”
Indy waited until Mac arrived. The zombis—magic or chemical, he couldn’t tell—released Mac. He gave Indy a quick look, and Indy knew what he was thinking—he still had his little pistol.
“Don’t bother,” Indy said. “Gun isn’t gonna do it.”
Boukman laughed again, a sound that already grated on Indy’s nerves.
“The talisman!”
“You see it anywhere, Sparky?” Indy said.
Boukman frowned. “Where is it?”
“It’s in a safe place. Here’s the deal—you let Marie go, we’ll take you to where it is.”
Boukman shook his head. “I can get the information from you.”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, no ‘maybe’ to it. A sip of my potion, and you will tell me everything I want to know, from your first memories of crawling to this very moment. But . . . I would have to send one of my slaves to go and collect some of the potion, which is not nearby. I would rather not wait.”
“Let Marie go, I’ll take you there right now. You’ll have what you want in less than an hour.”
Boukman appeared to consider this. After a moment, he smiled and said, “Very well. She means nothing to me.” He said something to the three who’d brought Mac, in a language Indy didn’t know. One of them went and stood Marie up, untied her bonds, then followed her to where Indy stood.
“You okay?”
She rubbed at her wrist. “I am okay.”
“We’re doing a swap,” Indy said. “You for the pearl. He lets you go, we take him to where we hid it.”
“You cannot trust him, Indy!”
“Yeah, well, there’s not a lot of choice here.”
“No!”
Indy knew she was right, but what he’d said was true: There weren’t any good choices. A small chance was better than none. Not that he trusted Boukman as far as he could throw him one-handed.
Boukman said, “So, petite Marie, you are free to leave.”
“Indy, he can’t get the talisman—”
“Go on, Marie. Take off.”
“You can’t—”
“Just go, okay?”
She nodded. “All right.”
She turned and walked toward the jungle.
“Once she’s got a good head start,” Indy said, “we’ll take you to the pearl.”
“I expect no less.”
Boukman grinned yet again. How child-like these imen blan were! Did they really believe they could walk in here and force such a bargain on him? That he would just roll over like an old dog wishing to have its belly scratched?
His slaves would collect little Marie before she got five minutes away—Boukman needed her for the sacrifice, he could not just let her go. Once he had the talisman, the rituals would proceed. Within a few hours, he would be the most powerful bokor who had ever lived.
It was a thought to savor, like a fine meal or a vintage liquor. It was why he had let the imen blan live rather than just killing them and raising them to his bidding. For the pleasure of it.
After a few moments, Boukman said, “Shall we go?”
The one Marie had called Indy nodded. “Yes.”
THIRTY-FIVE
WITH A DOZEN assorted zombis carrying torches to light their way, Indy and Mac led Boukman to where they had hidden the artifact. They took their time, did it in as roundabout a way as they could, stalling for time. Which was pretty much all the plan they had. At least Marie could get away . . .
The priest was no fool. After nearly an hour of wandering, he said, “Enough of this. Either you take me directly to the talisman or I will kill one of you. If the other one continues to drag his feet, I will kill him, as well.”
“That won’t help you find it,” Indy said.
“Oh, but it will—for you see, you won’t stay dead. And while the True Risen do not have air to breathe and thus voices to speak, they obey my commands to the letter. Dead or alive, you will lead me to that which I seek. It matters not to me which it is, comprenez?”
Indy blew out a sigh. Yeah. He understood.
So, an hour and a half after they left the sisal plantation, they arrived at the hollow log where they had stashed the backpack earlier. The backpack—
—was gone!
Indy was certain this was the right spot—he had marked the log with his machete, and there was the cut, right there—
“My patience is no more, Dr. Jones.”
“It was here, I swear. Look, you can see the footprints!”
Boukman waved at one of the zombies, who held his torch down low. Sure enough, there were footprints in the soft earth.
Too many footprints.
Another of the zombis came over and stood in front of Boukman. “What?”
The zombi turned and shuffled away.
Boukman and the others followed.
A few yards away in the darkness, a cloud of flies buzzed around something on the ground . . .
Indy saw the two bodies there. One was a local, dark-skinned, and Indy recognized him as the crippled zombi who had followed them from the sea. The other man was Japanese.
Boukman said, “So. The yellow men were here. They found your hiding spot. They have what I want.”
He spoke rapidly to the dozen slaves with them. They scattered and melted into the forest.
“Back to the plantation,” Boukman said. “My slaves will find the little men from Japan and capture them.”
“If it is all the same to you, we’ll just be on our way,” Mac said.
“No, I think not. Our bargain was for you to deliver the talisman. Until I have it, you will stay with me.”
“Two of us, one of you,” Mac said. “And I have this!”
Mac pulled his little Italian pistol from his pocket.
Boukman laughed.
“How the bloody hell did he do that?” Mac asked. He was staring at his hand, looking for blisters.
The three of them walked through the jungle, Boukman in the lead, carrying a bright, flaming torch.
“I don’t know,” Indy said. “Some kind of illusion. Tactile hallucination, maybe. He did it to me earlier, and I would have expected to find third-degree burns on my fingers, but there’s not a mark on them. And it got worse when I tried to pick up the gun.”
“Worse? How?”
“Never mind.”
“We could just run.”
“In the dark? Not a good idea. Place is full of bogs, probably quicksand, and the jungle is crawling with zombis. If he catches the Japs and gets the pearl, maybe he’ll let us go.”
“You think so?”
Indy shook his head. “I wouldn’t bet on it. But at least there we can see what we’re doing. Maybe Marie can get help at the villag
e. Bunch of men with guns could come back to rescue us.”
Mac gave him a look.
“Well, it could happen. We’ll just have to wait for our chance.”
“I don’t fancy that idea much.”
“Me, neither. But I’m not seeing a lot of options here. If Boukman can make us think our guns are too hot to touch, what else can he do to our minds? We try to run, he could make us think we’re getting away clear and direct us off a cliff.”
Mac didn’t have anything to say about that.
THIRTY-SIX
YAMADA GAVE a good account of himself, but in the end there were too many of them. His last soldier fired his rifle empty and went down; Gruber’s final man also fell, mortally wounded.
Yamada’s sword dug deeply into one of the things—sheared off an upraised arm that deflected the blade slightly so that it sank into a collarbone and got stuck. By the time he managed to wrench the sword loose, a pair of the things hit him from behind and bore him down. He struggled. No good.
The thing with the chopped-off arm seemed largely unaffected by its loss.
Not men. Once, yes, but not now. Evil things. Gaki. Had the formula done this? Or was it something else?
Gruber shot his pistol until it clicked dry, then tried to run, but he was tripped by one of them on the ground and caught.
They didn’t kill them, which surprised Yamada. Instead, the remaining half a dozen half dragged and pushed them along.
Being captured by these things had not figured into Yamada’s plans. He had a short knife in his boot, and they hadn’t noticed it. If worse came to worst, he could take his own life. Knowing that, he resolved to stay alive a little longer, to see if he might salvage something from the situation. Things were not good, but all was not yet lost.
“Where are they taking us?” Gruber asked. His voice was full of fear.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Yamada said. But he reasoned that it was not a place that he would have chosen to go on his own. Certainly not without his sword.
THIRTY-SEVEN
WHEN THEY got back to the clearing, Indy got a rude surprise:
“Marie!”
“Did you really think I would just let her go, iman blan? I have a need for her. You, too.”
“Indy!”
He started for her, but half a dozen zombis grabbed him and held him fast. He couldn’t break loose—
Marie said, “The talisman is too powerful for even you, Boukman! It will destroy you!”
“He doesn’t have it!” Indy yelled.
Marie stared at him.
“The Japs were on our trail again! They found it and took it!”
“Good!” Marie called back.
But it wasn’t so good. As the zombis were tying the three of them, binding their arms and legs, another group of the things emerged from the forest. They had a couple of captives, and they dragged them to stand in front of Boukman.
Indy looked at the two. One of ’em was Japanese, sure enough, but the other was fair-haired and light-skinned. A German.
“So nice of you to drop by,” Boukman said. “And with a gift for Boukman!”
A zombi took the backpack the German carried and handed it to Boukman. He opened the pack, removed the wooden box. Opened it, took out the wooden jar within, dropped the box onto the wet ground. He held the jar up in the torchlight and looked at it. “Finally!” he said. “Finally!”
Come on, Jones! Now is the time to come up with something brilliant—!
Now that he had the talisman, there was no rush. A few more minutes would not matter. Preparations needed to be made properly, patterns laid out, an avatar constructed. Bowls for the blood, the ceremonial knife must be razor-sharp, all must be done before the spirits were called upon, all must be perfect.
Boukman smiled. All would be.
Indy looked at the two new arrivals, his first chance to see them, even though they had been dogging him since they got to this island. Maybe even since they’d left Port-au-Prince. Tied up, same as he was, they weren’t a threat anymore. No, they were all trussed together and in the same boat now, and given the way things looked it would be sinking to the bottom pretty soon . . .
Indy said, “Marie? What’s next?”
She sighed. “Boukman will ready his rituals. Things must be done a certain way when you speak with loa or gods; an error could be fatal. He has been doing this a long time, he doesn’t make those kinds of errors. He wants the power invested in the pearl. Whoever put it there is in the Other Realm. It seems too strong to be any of the loa I know about. Could be an unknown one. Could be several combined their energy to store it in the pearl. Might be one of the Maldye—the evil gods. I cannot say.
“It does not matter. Boukman will offer a petition. He will render sacrifices.”
“What kind of sacrifice?” Mac asked.
Indy noticed that the German and the Japanese were listening as intently as he was.
“For small favors, you make small offerings. For something this big, it must be more.”
“Are we talking human sacrifice?” Indy asked.
“Yes.”
“One of us?” Mac asked.
“More likely all of us,” she said. “I have some small power, and the loa enjoy the taste of that. You are white men, and not usually on their menu around here. The German and the Japanese are also rare in these lands. Boukman will offer us and as many of the locals as he believes necessary to attain his desire. If he can absorb and contain but half of the force in the black pearl, he will truly become a heart of darkness himself. More powerful than any bokor, as powerful as some loa, maybe even approaching some of the minor gods.”
She paused. “As evil as he is, such an infusion will be catastrophic for the world. He could raise thousands of zombis, an army of the dead, and woe to anybody who tries to stand against him.”
“I really don’t like the sound of that,” Indy said.
“It would seem as if we are cooked,” Mac said.
Marie hesitated a moment. “There is a small chance,” she said. “When he removes the pearl from the warded jar, the energy will spill out in all directions. I might be able to collect part of it. I have been somewhat . . . attuned to the talisman. If I can siphon off a bit before Boukman takes it all, it might be possible to use this to help you escape.”
“Us escape? What about you?”
“I am doomed, no matter what. Boukman cannot keep the power without feeding the loa—or the gods. If he cannot do it now, he might be able to put them off for a time, but he will come for me. He must. And I cannot allow him to obtain this magic and live if there is even the smallest chance to stop him. My life would be a small price to pay for that.”
“Not so small,” Indy said.
She smiled at him. “Would that things might have been different, Indy. That we could have had more time.”
The German, in good English, said, “This romantic moment is touching, but would it not be better to turn our attention to escape?”
Indy stared at him.
“I am Dr. Gruber, this is Dr. Yamada.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t say it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintances. My experiences with Nazi Germany and imperial Japan haven’t been among the highlights of my career so far.”
“Would you rather be sacrificed to some pagan god here in this tropical hothouse than work with us?”
Indy shrugged. Gruber had a point. Then again, he didn’t see what help they were going to be—they were as helpless as Indy was. He said, “You aren’t exactly bringing a lot to the table, are you?”
“I have a knife in my boot,” Yamada said, also in good, if accented English. “It might be useful at the right moment.”
“So would a Sikorsky R-4 helicopter. I don’t think a knife is gonna do us much good against a small army of zombis.”
“Well, it would be easier to run if we weren’t tied up,” Mac allowed. “If we could get to a boat and off this island . . .”
&nb
sp; “If Boukman gains the power held in the pearl, that won’t help,” Marie said. “His reach will be farther than we could run, swim, or fly.”
Indy shook his head. Whatever. He wasn’t going to let Marie die if he could possibly help it, no matter what she said.
Boukman worked, setting up more torches in the circle he would need to help ward the talisman’s power once he began the ritual. They must be placed precisely, else they would offer a way for the power to escape when he took it from the jar.
When the torches were done, he had to prepare himself. The magic smoke, the call to Papa Legba, the invitation for the creator of the talisman. Once invocations were done and the loa or god arrived, the blood would have to flow for him—or her—and the petition be offered with the proper prayers. The principle was the same, but the desire was bigger than any Boukman had ever sought.
Even so, it would succeed—else why had he been given the talisman? It had been delivered into his keeping, and there could only be one reason: The gods were now ready to transfer its benefits. He would step precisely, toe the line perfectly, observe the forms, that was necessary . . . but he would have his reward.
He did not doubt it for a moment. His time had come.
Gruber watched the witch doctor walking around inside a small circle of torches he had just erected, smoking something from a pipe that looked suspiciously like a human’s thighbone. The blue cloud wreathing Boukman was dense; even thirty meters away, he could smell the sharp and spicy odor of it.
Gruber didn’t believe in magic, but obviously this Boukman character did, and he was ramping himself up into some kind of trance to do whatever it was he was planning to do.
Gruber didn’t care about that. What he needed was that wooden box lying there on the damp ground, not ten meters away. If he could get loose, if he could snatch the box up and run, if he could attain the jungle and then a boat? All the rest of this would be a bad memory he would leave behind him.
He might need the wooden jar, too—that had more carved symbols on it, and those might be key—but if all Boukman wanted was the pearl, then let him have it. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. If Gruber returned home in triumph, he could find other ways to get rich.