Macumba Killer

by Lou Cameron

  He said, “Big island or not, I can see why the natives could get sort of truculent about such fertile soil as there might be on this slab of rock. How many natives are there, Sergeant?”

  “In God’s truth, señor, nobody knows. There were only a few Cristanos holding land here when the company came. They have, of course not, been deprived of their holdings, since they have legal title from Spanish times. They are most contented. They have done well selling produce to us. There are also some charcoal burners. What you call beachcombers? They too, have been getting rich since the island began to be civilized.”

  “Then who in the hell are the rebels you’re having trouble with?”

  “Like their numbers, señor, that is a mystery.”

  Gordo said, “They are Black Caribs. Slaves who ran away to join the Indians many years ago. They are pagans and cannibals. Have you heard about the zombies?”

  Sergeant Montalban looked pained and said, “The open mouth catches flies. I told you I wanted to hear no more nonsense about zombies, Gordo.”

  Gordo shrugged and said, “I was there when they raided milpa three. They looked like zombies to me.”

  “I spit on your zombies, you idiot! You and the others ran away from men who knew how to fight.”

  “You were not there, my Sergeant. They were not all men. Some were women. They all looked like they’d just climbed out of their graves. I shot this one fat woman at least three times, and I am a good shot.”

  “And then you ran, eh?”

  “You were not there,” said Gordo stubbornly.

  The rain was coming down harder, hissing on the boiler-plates ahead like spit on a hot stove. The track was winding through a thick cover of Crown Of Thorns and manchineel. Captain Gringo said, “I’d have that brush cleared away if I was running this railroad, Sergeant.”

  Montalban said, “I suggested as much to Captain Burton. He said as long as they don’t seem to have sense enough to attack the work trains, the labor is better spent on the crops. They only clear where the soil is rich.”

  Captain Gringo nodded, wondering what he’d gotten into this time. He knew the perils of fighting with the underdog’s lost cause all too well by now, and the underdogs on this island didn’t sound too nice. But it still seemed sort of shitty to grab the little fertile soil and leave the natives shifting for themselves on the leftovers.

  He knew little about the so-called Black Carib culture, if they had any. But he’d spent some time with jungle Indians and knew it wasn’t as easy to live off the country down here as romantic whites assumed. Most hunting and food gathering tribes grew at least some roots and manioc or bananas, and even the sparse game depended on the wild plants growing on the richer patches of soil.

  They passed a clump of beheaded palmetto and he knew someone back in town had enjoyed a small salad at the cost of a dead tree more than once. He didn’t say anything. He knew how his own kind had gutted a continent in the name of progress and he knew it probably couldn’t be helped. If it was a choice between having wheat fields or buffalo and Sioux, the smart money didn’t bet on the buffalo and Sioux. The natives here had the same rights everyone else had. If they could drive the whites off the island they’d keep it. If they couldn’t, they wouldn’t. It was that kind of a world and only a fool tried to change it. Gaston had told him that more than once and this time he was going to try and pay attention.

  They chugged into a forty-acre clearing and he shut off the steam. The irregular sugar field was immature cane and some workers were weeding between the rows under the watchful eyes of a three-man guard detail near the tracks.

  As he and Montalban climbed down, Captain Gringo saw he was going to get wet. The gun crew and their copy of a maxim were already wet. But the gun was well-covered with oil and the water beaded and ran off. Montalban introduced him to the crew and as they stood respectfully aside he opened the breech and checked the weapon out. It was clean and in perfect firing condition. He said as much to Montalban, but added, “You only have one gun. Who positioned it like this?”

  Montalban looked puzzled and said, “Captain Burton did, Señor. What is the matter? From here we have a full sweep across the milpa, no?”

  “That’s not how you set up machine guns, Sergeant. There should be at least two to each field. Three would be better.”

  He picked up a sliver of old cane and drew lines in the damp dust as he added, “You set up a killing zone like so. Two guns fixed on their tripods to fire a steady V or L at a common crossfire point. You hose the third gun back and forth to drive people into the steady fire.”

  “You mean this machine gun your company sold us is no good?”

  “I mean, it’s set up wrong. It’s a perfectly good gun. But it’s not a magic wand. Were the overrun guard units set up like this?”

  “Of course, señor. That is why they sent for you. The machine guns didn’t stop the … the attackers.”

  One of the gunners frowned down at the hasty diagram and said, “I see it! If a gun was shooting a steady stream in one place nobody could pass through it. But when you are hosing to the right, people can get at you from the left!”

  Captain Gringo said, “Exactly. I’ll talk to Burton and see if we can’t work things out. We sold you people a warehouse full of these things. Where the hell are they?”

  Montalban looked abashed and said, “In the warehouse, Señor. Captain Burton said one to a milpa was enough, and we have not cleared all the land they intend to plant yet.”

  Captain Gringo nodded, but waited until they were back aboard the train and moving on before he asked the sergeant, “Do you know where they got this captain of yours?”

  Montalban shrugged and replied, “I am not certain, but I think he is related to Colonel Gage by marriage, señor.”

  It figured. He’d thought Webster was the idiot of the bunch. He owed poor Webster a silent apology. At least Webster tried to think with the few brains they’d issued him. Things were looking up. The problem here was simply incompetent leadership versus some determined native guerrilla fighters.

  It was really starting to rain now and he’d seen enough, but he decided as long as they’d come this far he might as well complete his tour and get the layout fixed in his mind. Montalban said there were about thirty-odd fields scattered along the track in various stages of growth, not counting the ones that had been burned out.

  They passed a freshly ploughed field with nobody guarding it. Then they rode through a mile of thick brush and came to a field of charred stubble. He knew before Montalban told him what had happened there.

  As they rolled through more dripping greenery, the sergeant explained, “We are trying to get a steady state of production with each milpa coming to maturity in turn. But every time a crop seems ripe for harvest …”

  “Gotcha. Somebody on the other side is a wise ass. Instead of hitting wild here and there, they concentrate their attacks where they’ll hurt the company the most.”

  Montalban nodded and said, “The next milpa up the line is almost ready to cut. As you shall see, I posted extra guards there to protect the workers.”

  “Are they cutting cane right now?”

  “No, señor. They start Monday, but I thought it best to guard the sugar over the approaching weekend.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t ask if he’d cleared the idea with his officer. He knew good noncoms seldom did, when the officer was an obvious idiot.

  They rounded a bend in the rain and heard the sudden woodpecker sound of a machine gun up ahead! Captain Gringo opened the throttle wider and drew his gun while Montalban did the same and shouted, “¡Madre de Dios! It’s happening again!”

  The Shay swayed dangerously around another curve and then Captain Gringo hit the brakes when he saw a big rosewood tree down across the tracks ahead. They slid to a stop with the cowcatcher buried in the green leaves of the felled timber. Captain Gringo shouted, “Watch out, guys! That tree was cut down to stop us. Follow me!”

  He jumped out
the wrong side and started legging it back along the track as a bullet spanged off the steel sill where his elbow had just been resting!

  He led the other two about fifty yards before he cut to his right and plunged into the brush to circle back toward the sound of the fire-fight. Montalban said, “Ah, I; see what we are doing. For a moment I thought I had misjudged you, señor.”

  The tall American said, “Keep it down to a roar. Gordo, you drop back a bit and stay covered as we work in behind the gun crew. If things go sour, run like hell and tell my friend, Gaston, what I did wrong.”

  Up ahead, the machine gun hammered again and fell silent. Captain Gringo cursed and said, “Montalban, take the lead. You know where the fuck we are, which is more than I can say. Can do?”

  “Si, señor. I know where the gun and my men are.”

  The smaller but tough noncom bulled ahead through the wet shrubbery with Captain Gringo behind him and the nervous Gordo bringing up the rear. The machine gun failed to repeat its position and Captain Gringo said, “Careful. It looks like they’ve broken. The next guy we meet could be one of ours.”

  Above them the sky was ripped open by a flash of lightning and it began to rain cats and dogs. This covered the sounds of their own progress, but it meant they couldn’t hear the other side either.

  Montalban moved around the bole of a big balsa and as the lightning flashed again, Captain Gringo shouted his warning a split second too late. A bear-like black man stepped in Montalban’s path with upraised machete and brought it down, splitting the sergeant like a banana from the top of his head to the belt buckle!

  Captain Gringo fired into the gory red V of the sergeant’s falling mangled body and the machete wielder grunted as the bullet took him in the chest. Then, as the American fired again, he raised the machete and kept coming!

  Captain Gringo muttered, “Aw shit,” and emptied his revolver into the looming Negro at point-blank range. He started to really worry when the hammer clicked on an empty chamber and the big black figure stepped over Montalban’s body, machete still raised and dark face twisted in a ghastly grin!

  Behind him, Captain Gringo heard Gordo shout, “For God’s sake, run!” The sound of crashing branches told him he faced the zombie, or whatever, alone. Captain Gringo moved backwards, fumbling for the ammo in a side pocket and found himself saying inanely, “Take it easy, fella.”

  His attacker didn’t act like he’d heard. He was naked save for a cotton breech clout and his eyes, above the ghastly grin, were glazed and devoid of expression, but he seemed to know what he was doing. As the American turned, walking backwards, the zombie followed. A root snagged Captain Gringo’s heel and he swore as he fell backwards into a tree trunk. The zombie bored in and swung the machete while the American ducked by sliding down the wet bark. The blade thunked into the tree as Captain Gringo braced himself and kicked hard, driving his heel into his attacker’s groin. Captain Gringo was a big man and he had a tree bracing his back, so a kick like that should have been more than enough to stop a grizzly. But while the zombie staggered back a few paces, he remained on his feet and, recovering his balance, came back for more—empty-handed!

  Captain Gringo grabbed the hilt of the machete stuck in the bark above him, slid upright, and swung with all his might. There was a ghastly twang, and the sound and feel of cutting through a head of cabbage, and that did it. The zombie, or whatever, stood there, headless, for what seemed a long undecided moment. Then it collapsed at Captain Gringo’s feet.

  Swiftly, sobbing for breath, the American reloaded. Then he heard someone coming, tensed, and saw it was two uniformed guards running like hell. It seemed like a very sensible move even before one of them passed, yelling, “Save yourself, señor! There’s no stopping them now!”

  As they vanished he nodded, holstered the gun, and bent down to pick up the headless black corpse. The man, or thing, he’d beheaded was heavy, but there had to be some answers to this nightmare. Captain Gringo staggered out of the jungle with the body on one shoulder and the gun in his free hand. He just made it. The train was spinning its wheels in reverse on the wet tracks but starting to move, and he heaved the body aboard a sugar hopper then hauled himself aboard.

  Leaving his victim with a silent prayer it would stay put; Captain Gringo made his way across the cars to the engine, where a very pale and frightened Gordo introduced him to the other survivors. They were scared shitless too. Gordo crossed himself and said, “I lost my gun, but this time an Anglo saw it! Will you tell them we were not cowards, señor? No mortal man should be expected to stand up to the forces of hell!”

  The guard at the throttle said, “They walked right over the man on the gun. I did not run until they had our machine gun. After that it would have been pointless to stay, no?”

  Captain Gringo said, “Take it easy, muchachos. I ran, too.”

  Gordo asked, “Do you believe in zombies now, señor?”

  Captain Gringo said, “I don’t know what the fuck that thing I’m taking back with us is, but I sure aim to find out!”

  Utopiaton was quiet in the rain as they chugged backwards into the siding behind the guardhouse. But it didn’t stay that way long, when Gordo and the others fanned out, shouting like Hispanic Paul Reveres in the tropic rain.

  Webster and another Northern European met Captain Gringo on the wet grass of the green and Webster introduced his companion as Captain Burton, Commandant of the Guard. Burton was a good-looking but rather flabby guy, who had an unexpected American accent. He asked what the hell all the noise was about.

  Captain Gringo said, “I was out in the bush with Montalban. He’s dead. They overran another of your guard units. I think you just lost some sugar, too.”

  Webster gasped, “Oh God! Did you get a look at any of the blighters, Captain?”

  “Better than that. I cut off his fucking head. I’ve got him over on the train. I was about to suggest an autopsy.”

  Webster looked puzzled and asked, “Whatever for? You just said you killed him by chopping his ruddy head off, what?”

  Burton, despite his bush-league ideas on military tactics, had more brains than Webster after all, which only seemed reasonable once you thought about it. He said, “Right. I’ll get some of my men to carry it over to the infirmary.” He suited actions to his words by heading off a running guard to shout, “You there, what’s your name, get a four-man litter detail together and meet me behind the guardhouse, chop-chop.”

  Webster stared after him, bemused, and offered, “I still don’t understand. Even if the blighter’s cause of death eludes you, who in blazes do we have that can perform an autopsy? Doctor Lloyd is dead and we’re still waiting for his replacement, eh what?”

  Captain Gringo said, “Let’s get out of this rain before we’re all dead and drowned. Nurse O’Shay can give us some educated guesses about the son of a bitch.”

  They legged it through the rain toward the infirmary and Captain Gringo explained how hard his attacker had been to stop. He said, “I could have missed hulling his vitals with five rounds, but the shock alone should have made him lose at least a little interest in what he was doing. He didn’t mind a good kick in the balls either. I want nurse O’Shay to tell me why.”

  “Oh, do you think he was on drugs or something?”

  “He sure wasn’t born that tough.”

  “Well, at least we know they can be stopped by cutting their heads off, eh what?”

  “Oh, for Chrissake, there’s got to be an easier way. I’m not up to stakes through the heart either.”

  They’d been spotted crossing the green and Mab O’Shay met them at the door. Captain Gringo asked how Gaston was, and Mab said, “He’s going to be all right, Dick. But what’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  He said, “I might have. Are you up to performing an autopsy, Mab?”

  The Irish girl looked surprised. Then she shrugged and said, “Well, I know my basic surgery.”

  She led them inside and down
a corridor to the one small operating theater. He filled her in and asked, “Do you know how to test for drugs and such in a cadaver, Mab?”

  “I think so, if it’s not something too unusual. I mean, there are standard tests for the standard drugs and poisons, but I’m no expert. I’ll have to consult the books in poor Doctor Lloyd’s office.”

  Burton called down the corridor, “Hello, all. Where do you want this big buck?”

  Captain Gringo called back and saw Burton leading a litter party. There was a bit of confusion but soon they had the headless black corpse on the operating table.

  Mab looked sort of green around the gills as she stared down on the wet, muscular mess, and Burton said, “Built like a damned bull. What did his face look like, Walker?”

  Captain Gringo said, “Like a dead man’s. I mean, before I killed him. What’s the procedure, Mab? I’m sort of in a hurry for some answers.”

  The redhead rolled up the sleeves of her white uniform and licked her lips before she said, “Well, I can see he’s been shot and beheaded. I suppose we start with blood samples.”

  They all found themselves looking at the pink circle of wet raw meat where the corpse had once had a head. It was curiously clean, probably from the rain. The machete had been razor sharp and there’d been little tearing of the flesh. It looked sort of like someone had sliced salami instead of a man’s neck.

  Mab went over to a cabinet and got a lancet and some test tubes. She took a deep breath and cut into a vein on one arm. Nothing much happened. She frowned and asked, “How long has he been dead, Dick?”

  “Not more than an hour or so, why?”

  “He doesn’t seem to want to bleed. Wait a minute.”

  She got a hypodermic and tried that. She looked relieved when she drew dark-red fluid and began to squirt it into her test tubes, saying, “I’ve never seen anyone with their head off before. I guess they bleed pretty dry. How did you manage without getting blood all over yourself, Dick?”