Deadly Loyalty Collection

by Bill Myers

  “He’s the local hungan. People say his father was a disciple of Marie Leveau. She’s called the Queen of Conjure. She was a powerful mambo who used to live in the French Quarter of New Orleans.”

  “And you’re afraid of him?” Becka asked.

  “Everybody’s afraid of Big Sweet.” John turned back to Becka. There was something about his look that caused a cold knot to form deep in her stomach. “Everybody’s afraid . . . and you’d better be too.”

  Suddenly a horn bellowed across the fields. John spun toward the sound, looking startled.

  “What’s that?” Scott asked.

  The other boy started moving away from them toward the sound. Becka and Scott exchanged concerned glances. John was clearly very nervous. “That’s Big Sweet’s horn,” he said. “It’s his conch shell. The meeting’s starting. I gotta go.”

  “What about showing us the farm?” Scott called as John moved away.

  “I can take you into the swamp tomorrow after chores. But I gotta go now.”

  “Yeah, but — ”

  “Look, I can’t be late. I gotta go.” With that he disappeared into the cane.

  “John!” Scott called. “Hey, John! Hold on a minute!”

  But there was no answer.

  Scott turned to Becka. She knew her expression held the same concern she saw in her brother’s face. The horn continued to bellow. Finally Becka cleared her throat. “I . . . uh . . . I guess we’d better head back.”

  “Yeah. I can’t wait to get the lowdown on all this stuff from Z tonight. I’ll bet he knows about this Big Sweet guy.”

  “And Sara Thomas,” Becka reminded him.

  “Right,” Scott said. “But the more we learn about Big Sweet, the faster we’ll be able to blow him away.”

  “Blow him away?” Becka felt herself growing impatient with her brother. “Come on, Scotty. You sound like a Schwarzenegger movie.”

  “That’s me!” Scott threw a few mock karate kicks. “Scott Williams, Demon Terminator.”

  “Scott, this isn’t a joke.”

  “What’s the matter? Afraid Big Sweet may slap a curse on you?”

  “Stop it!”

  “Afraid he might hatch a lizard in your ear or give you a monkey face? Hmmm, looks like somebody’s already done that.”

  “Scotty!”

  “Come on, Beck — lighten up!” Then, looking across the field, his face lit up with an idea. “Let’s save ourselves a little time and take a shortcut through the cane.”

  Becka began to protest, but her brother had already started out. And there was one thing about Scott — when he made up his mind to do something, there was no stopping him. With a heavy sigh, she followed.

  The stalks of cane towered over their heads. Becka knew that Scott was right about one thing. By taking this shortcut they’d get back to the house a lot faster. And with all the uneasiness she had been feeling out there, especially now that they were alone . . . well, the sooner they got home, the better.

  Unfortunately, “sooner” was way too long, now that Scott was in his teasing mode. He kept jumping around and darting between the stalks of cane like some ghoul.

  Brothers. What a pain, Becka thought.

  “Oogity-boogity! Me Big Sweet. Me cast a big curse on you.”

  “Knock it off!” Becka muttered between clenched teeth. She was going to bean him if he kept it up.

  “Big Sweet turn you into little mouse if you’re not careful.”

  “Scott, you know you’re not supposed to joke around with — ”

  “Oogity-boogity!” He leaped even higher into the air.

  “Scotty . . .”

  “Oogity-boogity! Oogity-boog — OW!”

  Suddenly he crumpled to the ground.

  Becka’s heart pounded as she raced to his side. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “I twisted my ankle!” he whined. “Owwww!”

  Becka knew it served him right. But since he was clearly in pain, now was not the time to bring it up. Instead, she reached out and carefully touched his ankle.

  “Ouch!” he yelped. “That hurts!”

  “Sorry. Here . . .” She tried to help him to his feet. “Lean against me and see if you can — ”

  “Oww!” he cried even louder. “I can’t. It hurts too much. You’ll have to get somebody to — ”

  Suddenly there was a low, distant growl. It sounded part animal and part . . . well, Becka couldn’t tell. It was mixed with another sound — a silent, whooshing noise.

  “What’s that?” Scott said, his eyes wide and suddenly alarmed.

  Becka wished she had a good answer. She didn’t. “I — I don’t know.” She rose to her feet and searched the field. “I can’t see anything but sugarcane.”

  The sound grew louder. Becka felt her pulse kick into high gear. Whatever it was, it was moving. And by the sound of things, it was moving toward them.

  Once again, Scott tried to stand, but it was no use. As soon as he put any weight on his ankle, it gave out. He toppled back to the ground.

  The noise grew closer.

  “Becka . . .” There was no missing the fear in her brother’s voice.

  Becka reached for him, fighting off the fear that swept over her. She had no idea what was coming at them, but she knew lying down, unable to move, was no way for her brother to meet it. She tried pulling him forward, but he was too heavy.

  The cane several yards in front of them suddenly splintered.

  “Becka!”

  All at once something exploded through the stalks. It was big and red.

  It headed directly for them.

  “What is it?!” Scott cried.

  “I don’t know!”

  “Becka!”

  She reached under his arms, trying to pull him to the side, to get him out of the way.

  And still the thing bore down on them, ripping cane just a few yards in front of them and devouring it with giant, red jaws.

  “Run!” Scott shouted at her. “Get out of here!”

  The afternoon sun caught a sharp, shiny blade coming directly toward them, slicing through cane only a few feet away.

  “Get out of here!” Scott yelled at her.

  She pulled harder, but it was no use.

  “Beck — ”

  She finally looked up. The giant blade hovered over her and was coming down fast. She screamed and gave one last tug, moving her brother only a foot before tumbling backward. The blade came down.

  “Your leg!” Becka screamed. “Your — ”

  Scott tucked and rolled just as the blade chomped down, missing his flesh by inches.

  The threshing machine roared past them, leaving a great swath of cut sugarcane in its path.

  Becka couldn’t see the driver, but as the machine passed, she could read a name crudely painted on the back. It was in big black letters. Originally, it had read BIG SWEET’S CANE KILLER. But over the years dirt and grime had covered some of the letters. Now it read BIG SWEET CAN KILL.

  2

  Sara sat in front of the cracked dresser mirror. Carefully she outlined her lips with dark lip liner before applying a deep burgundy lipstick. So far, she could have been any teenage girl applying any makeup.

  So far.

  Next she picked up a medium-sized paintbrush, dipped it in blood red paint, and drew a streak across her left cheek. She did the same with the right.

  Then came the blue. Jagged lines, like small lightning bolts, painted above each eye.

  And finally the green. This time she covered her entire chin and the lower part of her neck. At last Sara put down the brush and admired her handiwork. She was very pleased.

  An hour after their encounter with the threshing machine, Scott sat in his great-aunt’s best easy chair with his ankle packed in ice. He quietly watched a baseball game on television and poked at some potato chips on his plate.

  Becka sat nearby thinking how strange it was for her brother to be so silent. Normally he’d be milking his injury for all
it was worth, getting people to wait on him hand and foot. But he’d hardly said a word.

  Even Mom noticed. When Becka entered the kitchen to get a refill on her lemonade, Mom said, “Why don’t you talk to your brother? He seems so blue.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “It’s not so much what you say,” Mom replied. “It’s your attitude. Just be there for him. You’re a team now. If one of you is down, the other should try to help him up.”

  Becka shrugged, poured her lemonade, and strolled back into the living room. “So,” she said, trying to sound casual, “it’s almost nine. Think we should give Z a try?”

  Scott glanced at his watch. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Scotty?” She plopped down on the footrest directly between him and the TV. “What’s wrong?”

  “Hey, you’re blocking my view. Move.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s eating you.”

  “Becka . . .”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Beck.”

  “I mean it.”

  He let out a sigh of exasperation.

  “Is it the threshing machine with Big Sweet’s name on it?”

  He shook his head and glanced away. “That’s only part of it.” She continued to wait. After a moment, he continued. “I’m scared, Beck. This time I’m really nervous.”

  Becka bit her lip. It was one thing for her to be nervous. But Scott? As far as she knew, her little brother wasn’t afraid of anything. Normally his faith in God gave him confidence. She’d never seen him look this discouraged.

  “First, our plane almost crashes. Then, my ankle gets twisted. Then, we nearly get turned into hamburger by some crazed farm machinery. All this and we haven’t even talked to the girl yet.”

  Becka swallowed and tried to keep her voice even. “So, you think they’re all related?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Becka slowly answered, “I think someone or something doesn’t want us here — that’s for sure. And I think whatever it is, is very powerful.”

  Scott nodded in silent agreement.

  For a long moment, neither said a word. Finally, Scott reached for the laptop computer he’d borrowed from a friend and turned it on. He’d already plugged it into Aunt Myrna’s phone line. Now it was simply a matter of connecting with Z in an Internet chat room.

  Neither of them knew who Z was or why he had taken such an interest in them. They didn’t understand how he could know so many little things about their lives — personal things that no one else would know. Then there was his knowledge about the occult. On more than one occasion he had gotten them out of jams with knowledge only some kind of expert would have.

  Of course they’d tried to track Z down to find out who he was. But each time they tried, Z foiled their attempts somehow. Whoever this Z was, he was very clever — and very, very secretive.

  “Cool,” Scott said as he stared at the screen. “Z’s online, waiting for us.”

  Becka moved in closer to look.

  Good evening, Scott, Rebecca. Sorry about the scare on the airplane.

  Becka fought off a shudder. It was just that type of knowledge that unnerved her about Z.

  Scott was already typing his comeback:

  How did you know about the plane?

  Z didn’t answer his question. But that was no big surprise. He never explained how he knew what he knew. Instead, other words began to form on the screen.

  Before you contact Sara Thomas, you should be aware of the facts on voodoo.

  Scott and Becka threw each other a glance. It was typical of Z to get right to the heart of the matter.

  Like many superstitions, much of voodoo’s power comes from the belief people have about it. Often too much credit is given to it. It is blamed for every bad thing that happens.

  Scott typed back:

  Are you telling us it’s all just superstition?

  Z’s response came quickly:

  Not always. In many cases demonic activity can feed off the fear and superstition voodoo engenders. Regardless, it is important to remember that as Christians, the only power voodoo — or any evil — holds over you is the power you give it because of your fear. Do not forget this.

  Becka stared at the screen as Scott began typing another question:

  Where did voodoo come from?

  Voodoo is a combination of West African traditions and rituals from Catholic missionaries. The term comes from the West African word vodun and the creole French word vaudau, both of which mean “spirit.” Ceremonies consist of singing, drumming, and praying to the dead, whom they call the loa.

  Becka leaned over her brother. “Ask about Sara. Where is she? How do we find her?”

  But before Scott could type the words, Z answered the question:

  Sara Thomas works at the Sorrento library on Saturdays. Contact her there. It is a twenty-minute bus ride from your great-aunt’s house. Remember, people usually become part of voodoo to try to get control of their life. They use black magic and curses to seek protection from the supernatural or to get power over others. They are usually more deluded than evil. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. Be careful. Good night.

  Scott immediately began typing:

  Wait. Don’t go yet. We need to know more.

  At first they thought he’d logged off. But after a moment, the final comment appeared:

  I must go. You’ve been trained. You have the Word, and you have your Lord. The only power voodoo has over you is the power you give it through your fear. Your tools are prayer and faith. If you remember these, you will be victorious. Should trouble arise, seek help from the local pastor. Good-bye.

  Z

  “Good-bye?!” Scott turned to his sister in panic. “What does he mean ‘good-bye’?”

  “I guess — ” Becka took a deep breath. “I guess he means we’re on our own.”

  Scott spun back to the computer. “No way! Not this time! Not here!”

  Z . . . Z, are you there? Z, answer me . . .

  The two waited silently for an answer. But there was none. Z had left the chat room.

  “Great!” Scott said. “Just great! He sends us all the way out here, then just leaves us on our own!” He angrily snapped off the computer.

  Becka ventured a thought. “If Z says we can do it, then maybe — ”

  “We can’t do this!” Scott interrupted. “Not on our own! You know what we’ve been through. We haven’t even met this . . . this Sara chick. We’re going to need some help. Lots of it.”

  Becka agreed. “He said if we get into trouble we should contact a local pastor.”

  “A local pastor?” Scott repeated. “What local pastor? We’re out here in the middle of Hicksville! What would any pastor out here know?”

  “Excuse me?” It was Aunt Myrna poking her head in from the kitchen. “Did you kids say you were looking for a pastor?”

  Scott and Becka exchanged glances.

  “I go to the church over in Sorrento. Maybe you’d like to meet my pastor? Our church is the little one right next to a park.”

  “Uh, yeah, well . . . thanks, Aunt Myrna,” Scott said, doing his best to sound polite. “We’ll sure give that some thought.”

  “That would be nice. I’m sure Pastor Barchett would be able to help you,” she said with a smile as she disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Sorrento?” Becka repeated. “Did she say ‘Sorrento’?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Isn’t that where Z — ”

  Scott finished the sentence, “ — said Sara was working.”

  The two traded nervous looks. Was it just coincidence, or had the mysterious Z given them more information than they’d thought?

  “We’ll try again tomorrow night,” Scott ventured. “Maybe he’ll be back online.”

  Becka nodded, but she had her doubts. Even now she suspected this encounter was going to be different from the others. Different and far more dangerous.

  In the
darkness, the drums pounded.

  Doomba-doomba-doom. Doomba-doomba-doom.

  Sara pushed her way through the branches toward the sound. For the hundredth time she wondered if she should go back home. She had a nagging feeling that this was wrong. Very wrong. But each time she thought of turning back, she remembered Ronnie Fitzgerald and John Noey. Their voices, their merciless taunts. No. It had been going on too long. It was time to stop it.

  Now.

  Doomba-doomba-doom. Doomba-doomba-doom.

  The drums grew louder. She was getting closer.

  Sara had been to voodoo ceremonies before, but only the public ones — never the secret rites. These secret ceremonies were held in secluded places and known only to members of the cult . . . and to those about to be initiated.

  That last phrase stuck in her mind. Those about to be initiated. Sara felt her heart beating harder, almost in rhythm with the drums.

  Doomba-doomba-doom. Doomba-doomba-doom.

  Through the leaves, she could see the glimmer of a fire. She had found them. They had not given her directions — just simply told her to follow the sound of the drums.

  Doomba-doomba-doom. Doomba-doomba-doom.

  She forced herself to go forward, her legs weak and trembling with fear. She knew the stories. She knew what voodoo could do to you. But she also knew what it could do for you. How it could protect you from the others, from the Ronnie Fitzgeralds and John Noeys of the world.

  She continued through the brush.

  Now she was close enough to see the people dancing about the fire. Some moved in perfect rhythm to the drums. Others darted about, convulsing and writhing like wild animals.

  She reached the edge of the clearing. This was her last chance to turn back.

  She took a deep, unsteady breath, clutched the small cloth doll hanging around her neck, and entered the clearing.

  “Scott. Scotty, wake up!”

  It was his sister’s voice, but it sounded like it was coming from a long, long way away.

  “Scotty, you’re dreaming! Scotty, wake up!”