Outside I heard the clamor of voices—mostly those getting used to using their voice box again, and the sound was strange, like that of a hundred cows being gutted alive—and they were getting closer.
Even amid all the noise, the master must’ve heard me, or maybe he sensed my dark presence, for he turned from the window and his face opened up with fear. “Devil,” he breathed, the gun in his hand trembling by his side. “Devil, get away from me!”
I snarled and felt the vilest hatred for the man standing about ten feet in front of me. “You,” I said. Talking again felt strange.
“The devil speaks,” the master said and it seemed he remembered he was armed, for he shook his head, looked down at his right hand and then raised the revolver. “You’re not going to take me,” he said. “None of you are. You’re not going to win, devil.” The master closed his eyes, muttered a prayer, and then stuck the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
“No!” I cried as the master slumped to the floor, leaving a splatter of blood and brain on the wall behind him.
I was furious. I wanted to feel the master’s life slip away as I ripped his eyes out of his head and then stripped away all flesh as he screamed to the heavens. But he had deprived me of that.
The raging bloodlust in me was suddenly vanquished. Still, I sauntered over to the master’s body, looking like a bloody rag doll, and spat on him. “Rot in hell, demon,” I said, still getting used to my vocal chords again—the muscles hurt.
I stepped up to the window, wiped away some of the blood splashed there, and peered out into the night. The moon was full and it lit the scene outside in a nightmarish glow. Then I realized it wasn’t the moon, it was one of the huts; it was on fire. And all of the slaves that had been shuffling up to the main house to exact their revenge, machetes and hoes in hand, were now stumbling around, howling to the sky in anger. Like me, they wanted payback, but they all knew the master was dead—they would never get that small satisfaction of killing him.
I looked for Marc, but there was no sign of him.
Just then three horses appeared, galloping in from behind the house. Gunshots rang out as the men on the horses opened fire. One of them was Raoul; the other two were new to me.
The gunshots continued as two of the men stayed on their horses, firing at the slaves, while Raoul jumped down and dashed towards the house.
I reached down and pulled the gun from the master’s hand. I had it up and pointed at the door by the time Raoul burst in. He stopped at the sight of the master lying dead on the floor, then his eyes went to me, then to the gun.
Raoul, gun by his side, seemed to be mulling things over—I guess deciding whether, as they say, to fight or flight. “You freak,” he said, voice unusually soft. “This was supposed to be mine. Well you’re not going to take it from me. Damn Marc, I’m gonna cut off his balls and shove ‘em down his throat!”
I pulled the trigger.
It seemed my aim was off, because the bullet smacked into the doorframe, narrowly missing Raoul’s head by inches.
Raoul shrieked and ducked back outside.
I stepped forward, meaning to go after him, but when I looked out, he was already among the throng of slaves, shooting alongside his two friends, and I figured, those slaves probably had more desire to seek their revenge against him than I did—they had put up with his abuses for a lot longer than me.
So I turned and started for the back door—the master’s dog, continually barking, made me think of the poor zombi out back.
I walked through the house and out the back door. The dog, barking like a madman, was chained up, choking itself against the chain. I wasn’t sure whether it was acting so crazy because it knew its master was dead, or because it was scared and wanted to run away. Either way, it knew the unnatural things had suddenly become even more unnatural, and when it saw me, it stopped trying to break free and it hunched back, baring its teeth.
I raised the gun and fired once at the dog, hitting it in the chest. The dog yelped and fell to the ground. It was still alive, so I went up to it and put it out of its misery.
Next I looked for the mangled zombi; found it groaning near one corner of the yard. Unlike its fellow zombi slaves, this poor specimen hadn’t eaten salt, therefore hadn’t awoken from its trance—it was still an unthinking slab of meat. And a slab of meat it resembled: its lower half was completely severed, leaving only a mash of shredded skin, flesh, meat and bone. Its upper portion and some of its head had clearly been chewed on; it was such a pitiful sight that I had absolutely no qualms about aiming the gun at its head and pulling the trigger. “You are free, now,” I said, and then headed back inside.
Walking towards the front door, I passed the forbidden room. I stopped, turned towards it. I had to know what was behind that locked door. I tried the doorknob, just in case, but it held steady, so I shuffled into the kitchen where I grabbed a meat cleaver. I headed back to the forbidden room, slipped the gun into one of my pockets, and then raised the cleaver, bringing the hatchet down against the edge of the door. After three chops, the doorknob broke off, the area around it was splintered, and the door was ajar. I tossed the cleaver to the floor and pushed open the door.
Inside was dark. The room was windowless, so I wandered over to one of the lanterns in the dining area, reached up and took it down from its perch. Then I walked back to the forbidden room and entered.
The room was small, about half the size of the master’s bedroom, and almost vacant. I expected perhaps a vodou altar room, or maybe a place for the master to stash all his money. But what was contained in this sparsely populated room was much more chilling than anything I could have anticipated.
There was a stone table, and sitting atop this table were around twenty jars—govis. These terracotta pots were unadorned, not like the usual govis which were sacred to the vodou religion, wrapped in colored cloth to symbolize whichever loa was housed within. No, these govis were naked. Clustered on the table, these clay pots looked old, some were chipped, all were dusty.
I knew what they were, and I admit, I was scared to walk over to the table and be near them. Inside those clay pots were the souls of twenty men. Not vodou gods, but simple men—farmers, servants, husbands, fathers.
I stood just inside the room until I was able to gather up the nerve to venture forward. Setting the lantern on the floor, I walked to the table, stopping and looking down upon the master’s collection of souls. Here were the lives of twenty men, destroyed by greed, revenge, and bought for a price by a man who saw only cheap labor and greater profit.
I reached down and with hands shaking, took one of the govis in my hands. It was weighty, its surface was rough, and I wondered—was this my soul I had in my hands?
I knew one of these govis contained my soul—but which one?
I quickly decided it didn’t matter. Nothing could be done about it now. My soul could never be free, not unless the bocor who had cursed me set it free himself. And that was never likely to happen.
But, I could at least stop anyone else from taking control of these souls, taking them to another bocor and paying their way for the souls to again be in the power of some other greedy plantation owner.
I threw down the govi I was holding. The clay shattered, and a gust of wind slapped me in the face. I heard a ghostly cry, and then it departed. The soul would remain on this earth, roaming, but at least it would be free—as free as a zombi’s soul could ever possibly hope to be.
I picked up the next govi and smashed it to the floor, releasing the soul within. With an increasing sense of liberation, I threw each govi to the floor; and each time just after the terracotta burst into a hundred pieces, I felt a brief gust of wind, heard the ethereal howl of a tormented soul pass by my ears.
I threw the pots down fast, one after the other, pausing only once when the cry that came after the breaking of just another old pot screamed louder, the wind was more forceful, and for just a moment, I felt a chill as the soul passed right throug
h me.
I was left shocked, for a second my brain felt like it was being squeezed, memories of my past life flashed before my eyes like a movie on fast forward, followed by strange visions, of distant lands and men with dark hats and glasses, blood and pain, and death. Then all pain and flashes of memory went away.
I continued releasing the souls, and by the time I had smashed all of the govis, there was a heap of broken terracotta on the floor, and dust was thick in the air.
I turned and left the forbidden room.
Before I stepped out into the battle outside, I checked the gun—I had two bullets left.
I expected death and mayhem—after all, I had heard plenty of shooting while I was tending to the dog and zombi out back—and though there was a fair amount of death, there wasn’t the anarchy I was expecting.
Ex-slaves lay scattered about the ground—all with their heads exploded—though I counted only half the total number. The rest were nowhere to be seen. So there wasn’t much action going on when I surveyed the area. All the huts were now ablaze, their straw roofs and wooden walls flaming. I knew it wouldn’t be long before the fire spread to the main house and the entire plantation would be up in smoke. Also, I could hear the horses and mules in their nearby pens, crying and kicking; it seemed they, too, knew the imminent fire danger.
Then I noticed something going on by one of the large trees near the huts—the one the young zombi had been hanging from. I saw Raoul and one of his friends attempting to truss up a few more zombis.
Fire raged through me. I remembered how scared I was at the sight of the young zombi slowly being strangled—that even as a zombi, the knowledge of how horrible a torture it must’ve been for that young slave filled me with dread. And now, as a savane, as a thinking, feeling, awakened zombi, I knew I couldn’t let such a thing happen again to any of my fellow zombis.
I started forward, working my way through the maze of dead zombis, their brains plastering the ground around them. I felt sorry for them, but also relief, for at least now they were at peace.
I was twenty feet from Raoul when I noticed Marc sprawled on the ground. I stopped and looked down at his ruined body. I shook my head. He had been shot in the head, as well as split down the middle, his guts spilling out like a bunch of pink snakes had been dumped inside his torso. I wasn’t sure who was responsible for his death—the zombi slaves, seeking their revenge against the people who had oppressed them, or Raoul and his friends.
I left Marc and continued towards the tree.
As I got near, I heard Raoul talking. “You will hang there like your zombi friend until you agree to work for me, like you did Silva.”
The two zombis they were tying with the ropes struggled and begged to be let go.
“I’m not about to lose all my slaves,” Raoul was saying, voice quivering with anger and loss. “You will learn to obey me, even if you have been awakened.”
Raoul and his friend had gotten the ropes around the two zombi’s necks and were starting to pull on the ropes, raising their bodies off the ground.
One of the zombis was my old roommate; the other looked vaguely familiar.
I didn’t know if Raoul and the other man had any bullets left in their guns, but I didn’t care. I stopped about five feet from them. I was lucky they were too busy trying to hang the zombis to notice me. I took careful aim. I fired at Raoul’s head and immediately the older zombi crashed to the ground. As the other man let go of the rope, and the second zombi crashed to the ground, I moved the gun and tore off Raoul’s friend’s scalp.
And with that, it was over. Half the slaves were dead, the other half would be scattered all over the north come morning.
“Thank you,” the older zombi said, pulling the rope from around his neck and getting to his feet. “I didn’t fancy...” he glanced down at the younger zombi, whose bloated black head now lay a few feet from his emaciated body. The rope which had held him for so long still hung from the tree.
I nodded. I thought about throwing the gun away, but I thought better of it, even though it was out of bullets. I figured I could get some more if I ever needed to. So I tucked the revolver into the pocket of my pants.
The other zombi, now on his feet and free of the rope, looked at me with wide, fearful eyes. “People will come,” he said. “The Americans, they will see the fires and come and when they find us, we’ll be tortured worse than what Raoul was fitting to do.” He took off, his legs stumbling, but still he continued, until finally the night sucked him into her bosom and he was gone.
“I think he was half-crazy to begin with, before he became a zombi,” the older zombi said. “But he’s right. We should go. Maybe not the Americans, but someone will be here soon. That other friend of Raoul’s rode away. Soon half the country will be looking for escaped zombis.”
I nodded. “Okay. But where should we go?”
“Do you have any idea where we are?” the older zombi asked.
“Well, I know we’re in the north, I vaguely recall heading north from where I used to live to get here, and I think we’re near the coast—I remember seeing the ocean on the trip here with Silva. And I heard Silva, Raoul and Marc talk often of the towns of Limbé and Port Margo during my time as personal slave.”
“That means nothing to me, I’m afraid. I come from St. Marc, I’ve never been this far north before. I am Jean-Philippe Donnez, by the way.”
“Jacques Joseph.” We nodded, neither of us smiled—we both knew the shame in each other’s dead hearts, though it was good to at least be with someone who seemed friendly.
“So where to? The zombis that weren’t destroyed took off in all directions.”
“I guess the mountains in front of us are the safest bet,” I said. “The marines find it harder to navigate and traverse the mountains.”
“Why the ones in front? There are mountains behind us, too. And they’re closer.”
“I remember crossing a river to get to the plantation. I heard Marc and Raoul talk about Port Margot a lot, and by the way they spoke of it, and the way they used to come and go, I would say the town’s behind us, and easier to reach. So if the marines or the Gendarmerie were to come, I’m thinking it would be from behind.”
“So you’re saying we should go forward and cross the river and head into the mountains ahead of us?” Though the mountains were steeped in darkness, Jean-Philippe still pointed towards the cane field.
“Seems the sensible plan to me—if there is indeed any sense left in our world.”
“Sounds okay with me. Lead the way.”
Before we left, I asked Jean-Philippe to help me unlock the pens, and together we watched the mules and horses take off.
“You’re an old softy,” Jean-Philippe said as we shuffled towards the cane field. With the night aflame, we stalked through the tall sugarcane, Jean-Philippe remarking that he hoped he never saw sugarcane ever again.
Once we were past the field, we...”
The phone jangled.
The sudden noise was jarring, especially in Mr. Joseph’s house—it was usually so quiet.
“I hardly get calls,” Mr. Joseph remarked. “When I do, it’s always people trying to sell me things, or wrong numbers.” The old man hopped up and shuffled over to the wall phone perched near the back door. He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
Toby saw the old man’s face drop immediately. “Who is this?” he said. “Listen, I...” He shook his head. “You’re disgusting. How could you even...?” He gripped the phone tight, his nostrils flared. “Is this Dwayne?” he growled. “One of his goons? Well if it is, let me tell you something, you had better watch your back, got me? You’ll pay, you little bastard.” Mr. Joseph slammed the receiver on the cradle.
When he turned and looked over at Toby, his expression was still troubled. “Sorry about that,” he said.
“Prank call?”
Mr. Joseph nodded. “I’m afraid so, yes.”
“You think it was Dwayne?”
“Maybe.
I guess it could’ve been anyone.” Mr. Joseph walked over to the cupboard, took out the bottle of rum. Without bothering with a glass, he brought the rum with him back to the table. He placed the bottle down, was about to sit, when the phone rang again.
“Want me to...?”
“No,” Mr. Joseph said and he sauntered over to the phone, lifted the receiver, pressed the button to hang up, and then left the receiver resting on the countertop. “Why won’t they just leave me alone,” Mr. Joseph muttered. He sat down at the table.
“You’ve been getting many prank calls?”
Mr. Joseph took a swig of rum. “At least ten a day, more at night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, I can handle the prank calls. I’ve been tempted to just unplug the phone for good.”
“Why haven’t you?”
Mr. Joseph shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He took another, longer drink. “Shall we continue with my story?”
Toby nodded. “Sure.”
Mr. Joseph raised the bottle of rum, was about to take another swig, but stopped. “Where are my manners? Would you like another drink of Coke?”
“I’d love one.”
Mr. Joseph started to rise.
“I’ll get it,” Toby said. Taking his empty glass, Toby wandered over to the fridge, where he took out the bottle of Coke. He filled his glass and as he placed the bottle back, noticed how empty, how white the inside of Mr. Joseph’s fridge was. He closed the refrigerator door, sat back down and said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
“As I was saying, once we were past the cane field, we soon came to the river. It was wide and muddy, its depth unknown. “This is the river we crossed coming here,” I said. “But that was on mule-back.” I stepped forward into the water. I waded out till I was in the middle, and the water went only up to my waist. So Jean-Philippe followed me in and together we crossed.
Once on the other side, our clothes dripping, we started across the wide open farmland. Only once did I stop to turn around. I saw flames and thick acrid smoke rising into the night sky. I nodded, and then we continued towards the mountains.
The Awakening Page 38