Gloria was silent for a moment. “What do you think he was going to say?”
“I dunno. It was probably nothing. You’re right, he probably just feels weird around me. So anyway, I’ve got some news to tell you.”
Gloria sat up. A smile threatened to burst across her face. “This better be good news.”
“I guess it is. I finally went over and thanked Mr. Joseph.”
The smile exploded. She leaned over and hugged him. Toby’s heart-rate quickened at the feel of her slender body against his and her smell washed over him. All too soon she pulled away. “That’s great news. I’m proud of you, Toby. So when did this happen?”
“A few days ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“Slipped my mind, I guess.”
“So, what was he like?”
Toby took some deep breaths. “Not like what I expected.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve been spending some time with him these past few days, so I’ve sort of gotten to know him a little.”
He didn’t mind telling Gloria. He knew she would understand.
Still, she looked taken aback. “You have?”
“He’s been telling me all about his life back in Haiti. It’s really very interesting. He’s a nice guy, Gloria. I think you’d like him. He’s smart, funny...”
...a zombi.
“Sounds like you don’t need me anymore.”
Toby smiled. “Nah, he’s not as good a kisser as you.”
Gloria laughed.
Toby relaxed. He knew she’d understand.
“Well I’m happy for you. I guess he’s not the big bad boogeyman everyone thinks he is.”
“No, I guess not. He even has this cool vodou temple in his shed—it’s called a hou...hounfor. And did you know he used to be married, and that he had a kid and a grandchild?”
Gloria shook her head.
“Yeah, they’re all dead now. The old man’s been through a lot. I feel sorry for him. All those times I played pranks on him, laughed about him at school. And then the guy goes and saves my life...” Toby looked to the coffee table.
Gloria took hold of his hand. She gave it a gentle squeeze. “Say, you mind if we watch the rest of Heat?”
Toby shook his head. “That’s fine.”
“You seen it?
“Nope.”
“I haven’t watched too much of it, so I’ll fill you in as we go. Want something to eat? Some popcorn?”
“You got butter-flavored?”
“Of course.”
Toby smiled and Gloria hopped up from the sofa and walked towards the door leading into the kitchen. Before she reached it, she stopped, turned around. “You sure you don’t want another drink? We could go down to Barb’s and get some real Coke if you’d like.”
“I’m fine,” Toby said and then Gloria headed into the kitchen.
While she was gone, Toby heard the murmur of people talking. A few minutes later Gloria came back carrying a large bowl overflowing with yellow popcorn.
She sat back down, offered the mountain of popcorn to Toby.
“I hope your mom was okay with us staying in here and watching a movie?” Toby mumbled through a mouthful of popcorn.
“Huh?” Gloria said, scooping a handful for herself.
“Isn’t that who you were talking to in the kitchen? Your mom?”
“Oh, no, that was just Deb. When she’s fighting with Dwayne, she hangs around here like a bad smell.”
“Oh,” Toby said, and settling back to enjoy the movie (as well as the company), shoveled another mouthful of butter-flavored popcorn into his mouth.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“You’re up early,” his mom said as Toby shuffled over to the cupboard and took out the box of Cheerios. He’d had a decent night’s sleep, his first since the attack, and it was nice to be up before noon for a change. Toby plucked the milk from the fridge and taking both the milk and the Cheerios over to the table, prepared his bowl of cereal.
“So what’s on for today? Seeing Gloria?” His mom was dressed and ready for work.
“Uh-huh,” Toby said.
“Your vocabulary astounds me sometimes.”
Toby started munching on his Cheerios.
“Well I’m off. Have fun today, but take it easy, okay?” She kissed him on the cheek as she walked past.
“Bye,” Toby said.
“See you tonight.”
His mom left, and Toby sat eating his cereal, thinking how to kill time before seeing Gloria.
He was meeting her for lunch at Patterson’s at around one. Just a little over four hours until he saw Gloria again—this time without the burden of being watched by Ma Mayfour.
He guessed he could always hang around at home, watching bland day-time TV; or he could kill time walking around town, enjoying the sunshine.
But he didn’t want to do either of those things.
He wanted to hear more about Mr. Joseph’s life back in Haiti—the old man’s story was as good as any book he’d read, just as exciting and scary as any movie.
He’d spent most of the weekend thinking about what he’d heard so far, and imagining what else was to come. He found he was getting used to the old man, with his odd features and high, nasally voice. Unable to visit due to his parents being home, he found he even missed his company. But a few times he caught himself wondering whether he was doing the right thing in not telling anyone about Mr. Joseph.
He had told Mr. Joseph he wouldn’t tell anybody about his secret; he felt in his heart he was doing the right thing—but what if he wasn’t? What if he was letting his emotions get the better of him and cloud his judgment? After all, behind the pale yellow curtains of that bland house lived an actual zombi.
How can I not let my emotions play a part in this? he had thought. He saved my life. I owe him.
Besides, zombi or not, he seemed like a perfectly harmless old man.
And how much does anyone know about zombis, anyway? Toby had wondered. For all we know, there could be thousands of zombis like Mr. Joseph living in this country. All over the world. Living seemingly normal lives, nobody the wiser.
The thought had intrigued Toby.
And it continued to intrigue him as he ate his breakfast.
“Drink?”
“No thanks. Maybe later.”
The old man eased himself into the chair.
“I didn’t think you grew older?” Toby said.
Mr. Joseph frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well you seem to have trouble getting in and out of chairs, like my grandparents.”
He smiled. “I was old when I died, remember? Considering that was over ninety years ago, I think I’m holding up pretty well, don’t you think?”
Toby nodded.
“But to answer your question, no, I’m not getting older. My body is not deteriorating like a living person’s. I’m pretty much the same now as when I died. Perhaps a little stiffer, and of course... this.” He pointed to his head. “But that wasn’t my fault, as you know.”
“So, how old are you?”
“Well, I was in my early seventies when I died, so if you count the time I’ve been a zombi, I guess you could say I’ve been alive—so to speak—for around one hundred and sixty years.”
“My God,” Toby breathed.
“And I don’t feel a day over a hundred and twenty.” Mr. Joseph smiled.
“One hundred and sixty,” Toby repeated.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink?”
Toby shook his head. “I’m fine, really.”
“Okay. So, where was I?”
“Sorry?” Toby said.
“Had I just been buried?”
It took Toby a moment to understand what Mr. Joseph was talking about. “You had been brought back and were just about to start the long journey.”
“That’s right. Say, you don’t mind if I help to calm myself before we continue, do you?�
�
“No,” Toby said.
Mr. Joseph got up from the table and grabbed the bottle of rum from off the kitchen bench.
Toby wondered—did Mr. Joseph always drink in the mornings?
Toby thought about Suzie. She certainly drank in the mornings.
Mr. Joseph’s not like that. He’s different. He’s not a drunk—at least, I don’t think he is.
Maybe stirring up all these memories wasn’t such a good idea, Toby thought. He hadn’t considered how reliving the past would affect Mr. Joseph.
Mr. Joseph sat back down with a glass and the bottle of Barbancourt rum. He poured half a glass and downed it in one go. “Better,” he said. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“I won’t bore you with the details of that journey to the plantation. Other than it was long, it seemed like weeks, but was probably really only days, and nothing much of interest occurred. Besides, to me, it was all one long dream. Hazy, almost surreal when I look back on it. I was conscious, but not aware. Mostly I remember lots of trees, miles of narrow winding paths, and me having to constantly hop down from the mule to lead the animal through streams and up and down deep ravines—I guess luxury for a zombi only extended so far. We stopped during the day to rest, in out of the way places where there were no huts or small villages around. Nights were spent traveling and when we passed villages or lonely mountain huts, it was either too late at night for the inhabitants to be of any concern, or, if we did see peasants, they paid us no mind. If they were aware of what was sitting blankly behind the plantation owner, Silva, they knew not to ask questions or even say hello to the passing strangers. I remember hearing lots of drumming, too, but I couldn’t tell you if it was a vodou ceremony, a Congo celebration or even the call of a secret society. To me, it was simply drumming.
As I recall, we only passed one gendarme patrol. They were on horses, but they must’ve thought we were no threat, because they passed right on by. It was nighttime, so they mustn’t have been able to see my face clearly. For I think if they had, their suspicions would surely have been aroused.
Finally, we came out of the mountains. We had been following a river for a long while, later I was to realize it was the Limbé. The mountains grew gradually smaller, we seemed to be going downhill for a long time, and eventually the mountains thinned out completely and the world leveled out—well, not completely for me, but for Silva and his mule.
It was dark, and I had seen distant lights as we were coming down the mountain. I had also seen the ocean further in the distance, moonlight glinting off the water, but that soon vanished when we reached the flatland of some northern plain.
“Almost there,” the master said, though I wasn’t sure who he was talking to—me or his mule.
The master left the river and we headed away from the scattered lights of some nearby town. We edged slowly along, passing the town over on our left. I felt the master’s muscles tighten as we crossed over a road, one of those newly built ones. I guess he was worried about marines or the Gendarmerie stopping us.
But they didn’t. We didn’t see any patrols, and the master’s body relaxed when we were back on farmland, leaving the town behind us.
We soon joined up with a river—whether it was the same one we had followed through the mountains I didn’t know at the time. We followed its banks, passing dark huts and silent villages along the way.
We crossed the river at a particularly narrow bend, the water was a little deeper than the river near Saint-Raphael, but the mule made it through.
We rode some more, through more lush fields, finally coming to a stop at a group of huts. There were half a dozen mud and straw-thatched cailles, all plunged in darkness. Stretching before them was a large field of sugarcane.
“We’re here, slave. Welcome to your new home.”
Silva hopped down off the mule and ordered me to do the same.
“Okay, follow me.”
I was led over to one of the huts. He opened the door. He drew a knife from his belt, slipped the blade under the rope around my neck and sawed. The rope dropped away.
“We won’t be needing that anymore,” he said with a sly grin and then ordered me inside. I stepped into the hut, the door closed, and soon I heard Silva’s mule trotting away.
The only sound I now heard was groaning, but I gave no thought as to who was in there with me. I sat down and stared at the door until, hours later, the sun allowed enough light in for me to see my surroundings.
I saw two zombis, one young and strong looking, the other old; about the same age as me, hair turning white, body leathery. Both wore soiled, ratty clothing. I only looked at them out of some innate curiosity. But beyond that, they didn’t interest me.
It seemed the feeling was mutual.
The young one was sitting with his back against a wall, picking at a nasty looking wound on his left arm. Gore and skin dropped onto the earthen floor and onto a machete lying beside him.
The older one was sitting closer to me. His eyes were glassy and his skin was tinged gray and looked paper thin. He was staring at nothing in particular, face expressionless, and he was moaning. A hoe was resting next to him.
Bored with looking at them, I continued watching the door. It seemed the right thing to do. I was hungry, but I wasn’t tired and since I had no real conscious thought, I knew no better.
It was sometime early morning when the door of the hut opened and a man came in. He was young, probably early twenties and was thin. He had the same features as the master, except they were less obvious and less defined.
“Okay get up,” he said. He remained at the doorway. “Time for work.”
The other two got to their feet. I remained on the floor. For some reason I didn’t feel compelled to follow his orders.
The young man sighed and entered the hut. “Always happens with the new ones,” he muttered. “I said get up. On your feet.”
I didn’t obey.
The man turned his attention from me to the young zombi clawing at his wound. “Stop that! You stop that right now!”
He didn’t.
“Hell!” the young man said. “I’m sick of you. You’re causing us nothing but trouble. Stop it!”
The young zombi growled. A deep, animal-like growl.
The man shook his head. “I’ll get the master if you two don’t obey me. Now, you stand up and you stop scratching yourself.”
When neither of us complied, the young man huffed, said, “Stupid zombis,” then stormed out of the hut.
I gazed around, unsure of what to do. The young zombi continued to pick at his open wound, while the older zombi just stood still, doing nothing.
Soon the young man came back with our master. He was holding a long whip and looked angry.
“I’m in no mood for trouble,” he said. “I’m tired and want to sleep.” He turned to me. “You are to obey this man as well as me. He is your second master. If you don’t obey him, you’ll be punished. Now, stand up.” He raised the whip and brought it down across my back.
I was shocked to find that it hurt. A sharp, stinging sensation cut across my skin and I let out a small cry. I stood.
“That’s more like it,” the master said, and then turned to the young zombi. “Look at you,” he said. “You keep picking at your arm and there’ll be nothing left and you won’t be able to work.” The zombi stopped picking at his wound and looked up at the master.
“He’s been nothing but trouble,” the young man said from the door. “I told you he’d be a problem. The moment he arrived last week I told you.”
“Be quiet, Marc,” the master said. “He just needs some discipline. I’ve been dealing with these things for thirty years. I’ve seen all kinds. Ones that act up, ones that sit in the corner and shiver like a baby. I’ve even seen ones that like to eat their own shit. Hell, this one ain’t much better, but with each and every one I’ve made them obey me. They all obey, eventually.” The master lifted the whip and cracked it across the young zombi’s face. The zomb
i screeched and cowered against the wall. The master whipped him again, this time across his back. “You’ll obey us at all times.” He brought the leather strap down a few more times; each time the zombi cried out.
Sweating and puffing, the master lowered the whip. He turned to Marc. “You need to be more firm with them, like Raoul. You’re too soft, that’s your problem.”
“Yes papa,” Marc said, lowering his head.
“This slave gets no food for a few days,” the master said, pointing the whip at the younger zombi. “He must learn there are consequences for disobeying.” The master turned and looked at us. “I want no more problems from either of you. Now get to work!” He left.
Marc entered the hut. He was holding a stick. It was long and broad. “Okay, out,” he said and started hitting me on the backside. I would’ve obeyed him without the stick, since the master told me I had to. But the small, sharp pain that accompanied each whack served as a reminder to do whatever the young master said.
It was sunny outside. If I was still in the land of the living, I’m sure I would’ve thought how lovely the sun beating down on my face was. But other than simply being aware it was sunny, I didn’t think much beyond that. It was like being in a dream, one in which I couldn’t think for myself, only act. Nothing seemed or felt real, yet at the same time I knew it was. In some strange way I knew what was happening to me, but I had neither the intelligence nor the will to do anything about it.
Me and the other two zombis were led to the large sugarcane field, where the tall reeds seemed to stretch to the horizon and beyond, all the way to the mountains in the distance.
As we got closer I could see other zombis already at work in the field.
“You, stop here,” Marc told me.
I stopped just short of where the cane field began. The reeds were over twice my height.
My two roommates ambled off into the field. Soon they blended in with the other workers, methodically chopping down the cane and plowing the soil.
The Awakening Page 31