Dead Men (and Women) Walking (21 page)

“
Silence!” Carnan’s father
knocked over his chair as he stood up. “Enough, damn
you!”

Tears streamed down Carnan’s
cheeks. “…something that would once and for all erase all doubts
regarding his loyalty and dedication…”

“
I command you!”

“…
something that would
ensure his place as leader.”

“
Carnan!”

“
My mother!” Carnan
screamed. He pointed an accusing finger at the vampire leader.
“That bastard murdered her!”

His father bowed his head in
defeat or shame. Perhaps both. A hush descended on the room and its
occupants.

“
We call ourselves a
glorious race, but we are nothing but filth! Nothing more than a
society of murderers. Where is the glory in that?”

The council was
speechless.

Carnan picked up the cloth
pouch on the table and stared at it. “My mother’s murder was my
father’s offering to the council. Here’s mine.”

He tossed the pouch to the
other end of the table. It fell short but continued to slide. His
father caught it before it could fall off the edge. With trembling
hands, he fumbled with the drawstring. When he had finally managed
to loosen it, he held out his palm and emptied the bag onto it.
Suddenly, he jerked his hand back and something clattered onto the
table.

The council leaned forward
to get a closer look.

Teeth!

One member wailed; and
another jumped back, tripped on his chair, and fell on the
floor.

Carnan threw his head back
in laughter. Even in the scarce light, the council could finally
see that which they had failed to notice.

Carnan’s canines were
gone.

“
Disgrace!” one of the
twelve heads cried.

His father was in anguish.
The vampire leader, son of the great Dracul, held out his hand
pathetically, as if he could reach out to his son from across the
table. “My son, what have you done?”

Carnan never stopped
laughing, even as tears rolled down his face. He opened the last
item – the leather box – and drew out a knife. The council watched
in horror as Carnan raised the blade up high and drove it through
his heart.

Carnan wasn’t sure whether
there was a heaven or a hell. But if there was, indeed, life after
death, he hoped that no matter where he was headed, Mina would be
there to welcome him.

By Michael A.
Kechula

“
Do you believe in
zombies?” Winston Dithers asked the moment he sat.

 “
About as much as the
Tooth Fairy,” I said.

 “
My friend, Dr. Rolf
Harlow, believes they exist. In fact, he took a sabbatical from the
university and went to Haiti to find one.”

 
I chuckled at
Harlow’s stupidity. “A zombie hunter, eh? What’s he gonna do if he
finds one?”

 “
Bring it back here
to Chicago. To conduct experiments. Problem is, I haven’t heard
from him for several months. I’ve inquired with the US Embassy and
Haitian government, but their replies have been ambiguous. I’ll pay
you twenty thousand plus expenses to find him. Ten thousand in cash
right now, and the balance when you deliver him.”

 
Sounded like easy
money. I agreed to find Harlow.

 
Two days later, I
arrived in Port Au Prince. I’ve been a lot of weird places in the
world, but none have ever made me feel so creepy. Something about
the atmosphere seemed unholy. Ethereal sounds of jungle drums rode
on humid breezes, fading in and out. Wretches meandered aimlessly,
looking stupefied. Weird voodoo symbols festered on
graffiti-covered walls. For the first time since I was a kid, I
found myself getting the willies.

 
Nevertheless, I got
to work immediately. I showed Harlow’s photo to taxi drivers and
street vendors. Everyone shrugged indifferently.

 
Harlow’s letters to
Dithers had mentioned Hotel Balzac and Bahody, a middle-aged
chambermaid who’d befriended and mothered him. I headed for the
hotel to find her.

 “
And if you find Dr.
Harlow, will you arrest him?” the rotund woman asked when told her
that I was a detective.

 “
I’m not a police
detective anymore,” I said. “I retired and opened my own detective
agency in Chicago. One of Harlow’s friends hired me to find him and
take him home. His friends miss him.”

 “
I miss him too,”
Bahody said, eyes filling with tears. “Every full moon, I sacrifice
a chicken, begging the gods to bring him back, even if it be from
the dead.”

 “
Don’t worry. You’ll
see him again. I promise I’ll find him.”

 “
You’ll never find
him. My sister speaks to voodoo gods. They say he’s lost forever.
Zombies stole him.”

 “
Nonsense,” I said.
“Zombies don’t exist.”

 “
Is that what they
taught you in Chicago?” she asked. “If so, they teach
lies.”

 “
Zombies are nothing
more than characters from overactive imaginations. They were
invented to scare people into complying with laws, especially in
remote villages where police are nonexistent. Chances are, people
won’t molest kids, rape women, or kidnap if they think they’ll be
turned into zombies when caught. Haiti isn’t the only place in the
world where phony tales control the population through fear. I
could name a dozen other nations that have legends just as goofy.
Hey, it works. I’m all for law and order. Call them zombies,
vampires, werewolves, or whatever. Keeps people home at night and
off the streets. The more scared they are, the less likely they are
to commit crimes.”

 “
That’s not what Dr.
Harlow, believes. He’s a very intelligent man who knows the truth
about zombies.”

 “
He may be highly
intelligent, but he was a fool to come here to search for something
that doesn’t exist.”

 “
Don’t you dare call
my white son a fool!” She folded her arms and added, “I have
nothing more to say.”

 
I pulled a twenty
from my wallet and laid it on the table. “Tell me what happened the
last night you saw him.”

 
Grabbing the money,
she said, “It was the night of the full moon. The air was foul. The
drums spoke of doom. I begged him not to walk to Café Blanc alone.
He wouldn’t listen.”

 “
Why did he go
there?”

 “
I don’t
know.”

 “
Where is
it?”

 “
Don’t go there,” she
said. “You’ll lose your soul.”

“
My soul? When will all
this lunacy end? Zombies. Souls. Stop talking nonsense and tell me
how to get to Café Blanc!”

 “
No. It’s an unholy
place. Even rats die when they get too close.”

 “
Then I’ll get
directions from the concierge.”

 “
If you must go,” she
said, “take this for protection.” She tried to push a small, black,
red-eyed statue into my hand.

 
I called her a
stupid, superstitious woman and stormed out.

 
A waiter at Café
Blanc remembered Harlow. “He drank much rum with a voodoo priest, a
dangerous man from Destrudo. They left together.”

 “
Where’s
Destrudo?”

 “
In the jungle. They
say it’s a terrible place with zombies and terrifying voodoo
ceremonies.”

 
I couldn’t find
anyone who’d risk driving me anywhere near Destrudo.

 “
Perhaps Mulu will
take you,” someone whispered. “They say she’s from Destrudo. A
strange woman who talks slowly like a zombie. Some say she’s wife
of a white zombie. There she is now.”

 
I approached her
battered jeep. “Take me to the white man who lives in Destrudo,” I
said, waving twenty dollars.

“
You…do…not…fear…to…ride…at…night…with…a…zom-bie?” she asked.
Her breath reeked of jungle rot.

 “
Save the baloney for
gullible tourists,” I said boarding the jeep.

 “
You…do…not…believe?”

 “
Nope. Let’s go. I
don’t have all night.”

 “
Foolish…American,”
she mumbled.

 
I snickered at her
ludicrous words and slow speech. Ten minutes later, I was on the
verge of screaming. While driving manically through jungle paths,
her skin took on a greenish glow. Before I could jump from the
jeep, she slammed the brakes.

 “
There’s…the…white…man,” she said, pointing to a jungle
clearing.

 
Something with a
greenish glow approached. It had Harlow’s face!

 “
Dr. Harlow,” I
called. “I’m Oscar Brown. From Chicago. I’m a friend of Winston
Dithers.”

 
Moaning, he
approached and touched my face. His fingers were icy. The
stench sickened me.

 
As I tried to grab
and cuff him, putrid teeth ripped flesh from my cheek. The pain was
horrendous. I tried to get away, but tripped. Suddenly, both were
biting my face like mad dogs.

 
I don’t know how I
got away. I raced through the jungle like a madman until I blacked
out. I don’t know how I got back to the city.

* * * *

 
Since that horrible
night in Haiti, my cheeks have dripped pus continuously. Modern
medicines can’t stop the flow.

 
Many shamans have
exorcised me. I’ve sacrificed countless chickens to voodoo gods.
I’ve consumed putrid, hoodoo potions. But nothing heals my wounds,
or stops Harlow and Mulu from invading my dreams and feasting while
I sleep.

 
Yesterday, I woke up
hemorrhaging. My entire right arm was gone!  

I don’t wanna die. Please
help me. I’ll pay anything.

By Brian
Rosenberger

Come forth

thundered heaven

the summons heard

they did

what better way

to plague man

than with man

neither locust nor
flies

nor darkness would
suffice

some called it

the Year of the
Toad

as certain
amphibians

lie dormant
during

dry seasons
returning

with the rains just
as

they returned
casting

off their shrouds of
Earth

no longer
captives

to the ground

others, less
poetic,

named it

the Year Without
End

they came

   
some
crawling

   
some on
rotted stumps

   
shambling mounds of decayed flesh

   
skeletons of their former selves

they saw

   
at least
the ones still in possession

   
of
theirs eyes did

   
others,
victim to the worm and time,

   
made
their way on instinct

   
even a
blind predator

   
will
find prey

they digested

   
as much
as toothless jaws

   
jawless
faces and

   
bloodless organs would allow

It was a resurrection
parade

like no other

recycled citizens emptying
from

their necropolitic cities
to

make room for new
occupants

the unliving
embodiment

of consumerism with
the

emphasis on
consume

and they did

The meek lost

their inheritance