“Well, it’s not attacking us,” I said, stating the obvious.
“What do we do now?” Baedecker asked, looking the zombie up and down.
“Can we take it with us?” I offered. “If we could safely transport the zombie back to our headquarters, I could take blood and tissue samples. We could then verify the claims of those who suggest the zombie is created through medical means, such as the introduction of a toxin to the living or the recently deceased. With the shaman dead, Baedecker, we have no way of extracting any secrets from him.”
“Yes, but . . . ,” Baedecker began, and paused.
“But what?” I asked.
“But he hasn’t got chains or a rope around his neck like some of the others did. How do we get him to follow us?”
“He looks light enough to carry,” I said. Baedecker blanched, and I must confess I shared his revulsion at the notion of carrying the stinking, desiccated thing for any length of time.
Then, as if magically sensing our conundrum, the zombie began to shuffle forward. It moved slowly at first, as if merely stepping to correct its balance. But other small corrections followed. Soon they expanded into steps. The zombie then shuffled past us and followed the dirt trail into the forest.
“What do we do now?” Baedecker asked. “It’s getting away.”
“Well . . . very slowly, I suppose,” I rejoined. “Let’s follow it. Maybe it will show us something.”
And so, Baedecker—still in the semblance of a small moving coppice—began to follow the zombie into the forest paths leading off from Bell’s Hill. I went with him. It was strange work, like following a sleepwalking person. The zombie seemed largely unaware of our presence, and we strove not to “break the spell” that now made it ambulatory.
We walked deep into the forest. At every turn, the zombie displayed that it knew just where it wanted to go. It never hesitated when called to choose this or that trail. With supreme confidence, it directed us off the main trails and conducted us along smaller and smaller paths running deeper into the jungle. Soon we found that we traversed a path that might have been too small for a horse. Being a wide man in a costume, Baedecker began having some difficulty fitting past the underbrush.
After perhaps an hour of walking—with no discernable discoveries—we stopped behind the zombie and considered how to proceed.
“We have seen nothing,” Baedecker pointed out. “I’ve changed my mind. Let us simply grab the zombie by force and take it back to our headquarters, as you originally suggested. It looks light enough.”
“Wait a moment,” I said. “Do you hear that?”
I cupped my ear. So did Baedecker. It seemed that on the edge of hearing, a deep and regular pounding echoed through the night. Who knew how long it had been there? Our own footsteps had drowned it out as we walked.
“It is a distant motor,” Baedecker declaimed. “It is that, or the operation of machines in a factory.”
“In the jungle . . . in the middle of the night?” I asked.
“Perhaps thunder, then, reverberating through the hills,” Baedecker offered.
“But look,” I said, pointing down at the zombie’s feet.
The shambling cadaver, now a few yards ahead of us, was moving in time to the distant beat. For each resounding note, the zombie took another careful step.
“No . . . ,” said Baedecker, doubting what we saw. “It is surely a coincidence of some kind.”
“It is not,” I countered. “He is no Kreutzberg or Wigman, but surely, this zombie dances to a beat!”
We regarded the zombie very closely. Its limbs moved in perfect time to the rhythm that resounded softly through the foliage around us. I soon saw from his face that Baedecker no longer doubted their connection.
“So what, then?” Baedecker said, after the zombie had danced forward a few more paces.
“Is he moving in the direction of the drums, drawn to them?” I wondered aloud. “Or do they command him to some other place, to some other task? I tell you, Baedecker, we will learn something valuable if we continue to follow him! If zombies are made into weapons for the purposes of the Reich, we will surely need to learn to control them. A drumbeat may be the very thing! Imagine giant radio speakers—perhaps mounted on airships or planes—beaming a beat to battalions of these creatures as they march across Belgium and France! What we learn tonight may be more valuable than what could be learned through the mere vivisection of a zombie.”
“You are resolved, then, that we follow it farther?” Baedecker said, sounding disappointed.
I indicated in the affirmative.
Then the remarkable thing!
The zombie, who had lumbered no more than twenty yards down the jungle path—and was moving at the speed of an arthritic pensioner—was suddenly gone. When we looked up from our conference, the thing had disappeared completely.
“What?” I cried. “Where did it go? The zombie was there not a moment before!”
“It must have veered into the underbrush,” declared Baedecker. My fellow inspector charged forward down the narrow trail to the point where we had last noticed our guide. There was nothing to see, but Baedecker continued to hunt madly for the zombie. I joined him, and we searched the woods as well as we could with our flashlights, yet our electric beams could never penetrate far into the dense Haitian undergrowth.
“There’s no sign of him,” my companion concluded.
“There is some mystery here, Baedecker,” I said.
“Unless the thing broke into a sprint when our heads were turned,” my companion rejoined.
“That seems unlikely,” I said. “It looked as if it would shake apart if it attempted more than a jog.”
“Should we continue down the path?” Baedecker asked.
I must here confess that despite the brave traditions from which I am wrought, I felt some trepidation at the thought of continuing farther into the dark jungle. I had only a general idea of where we were in relation to Bell’s Hill and did not want to become lost. It would be difficult to gauge our position exactly until dawn.
Even as I paused to consider our next move, the beat in the distance continued to reverberate across the jungle.
“We shall continue down the path,” I said to Baedecker. My confidence returned, and I reminded myself that a man of the Third Reich—the most advanced society in the world—could hardly have something to fear from a land of superstition.
“It is interesting to think,” I observed to Baedecker as we strolled onward, “how it is that a society as primitive as the Haitian has stumbled upon so profound a secret as that of bodily possession and reanimation.”
“Perhaps they are not as primitive as they look,” Baedecker replied, having little use, apparently, for our Führer’s wise opinions of the races.
“Nonsense,” I countered. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and even a fool sometimes hits upon an answer through sheer luck. Perhaps it is their proximity to the jungle itself that has given the Voodooists the luck of creating zombies first. This notion has always supported my hypothesis that it is a natural extract of some sort—derived from indigenous Haitian flora or fauna—that allows the Voodoo priests to create his zombies. Anyway, look at what the Haitians have done with it. By God! They have hit on the means of resurrecting the dead, and yet, have they used this power to assert their dominance in the region, or to extract a tribute from the Dominican Republic? No! They lack the intelligence and drive to use this power for any ambitious purpose.”
“I do not know . . . ,” replied Baedecker, his eyes downcast. “These Haitians may be wiser than you think. If we knew the secrets of zombies, perhaps we would not use them so freely either.”
And with this absurdity, I raised my hand. (Initially, I did so to silence my companion’s heretical speech, but in the space that ensued, we both discovered something.)
The noise was louder now. And there could be no doubt about what it was: the slow beating of many drums.
“What
can this mean?” I asked. “Drums in the middle of the jungle . . . in the middle of the night?”
“These are like none I ever heard,” Baedecker said. “No timpani or field drum has ever sounded thusly.”
Suddenly, I spied movement in the jungle ahead of us and turned on my electric torch.
“Look!” I cried. Baedecker looked, and we both had time to see our slow-moving zombie friend pass just out of view, perhaps forty yards down the path.
“That’s him,” Baedecker said. “And he is clearly drawn to the drums.”
I nervously extinguished my torch, and we continued after the zombie. It seemed now that the drumming grew louder—and more frequent?—with each step we took.
We fell silent. (Baedecker’s insubordinately high opinion of the Haitian people needed further correction, certainly, but we both sensed that it was no longer appropriate to chat.)
The zombie came back into view. He was—for a zombie—moving quickly now (at close to the gait of a normal living person).
We began to see the flicker of large fires through the trees ahead of us. There was motion too. It seemed almost that the trees themselves bent and danced in the firelight.
“Bonfires?” whispered Baedecker.
The drums were very loud now. Multiple hands (or drummer’s wands) clapped down with every beat, and the rhythms intensified. I estimated there were ten or fifteen drummers at least, all playing in perfect unison.
“And people,” I added. “There are people just ahead of us.”
I quickly understood that our project had once again changed. As the zombie danced ponderously toward the unseen drummers and conflagrations, I took Baedecker by the shoulder.
“It may not be safe to venture any farther,” I told him. “But surely, we have found a site of importance to our research. I think the most prudent course of action would be to return to headquarters—carefully noting our route, of course—and to then return during daylight to inspect the site further for evidence and information.”
Baedecker quickly indicated that my plan met with his approval.
“And yet,” I added after a moment’s reconsideration, “it might also be sensible to essay a glimpse of the proceedings, if we can do so safely.”
Here, Baedecker dissented.
“No,” I told him. “Having come this far, we must at least attempt an unobstructed view. Likely, some exciting ritual is taking place. Here, follow me into the underbrush.”
We stepped off of the narrow trail and into the wet, sultry underbrush. I fell to my hands and knees—Baedecker did the same—and we began a careful crawl in the direction of the lights and percussive noises. The sound of the pounding increased with each step. (I mentally revised my previous estimates. There were thirty drummers at least—if not forty or fifty.) Our view was obstructed because of our semi-prone positions, but it seemed to me that I saw figures dancing in the shadows of the flames before us. These shadows, I decided, were men in masks, for their heads seemed unnaturally large and resembled those of animals more than men. As we drew even closer to the gathering, I smelled smoke, incense, and the scent of many people.
Edging closer still, I realized that the way forward was now directly obstructed by a boulder.
“Come, Baedecker,” I said. “Secrets are ready to reveal themselves on the other side of this rock. Let us crawl around to the other side.”
There was no answer.
“Baedecker?” I tried.
I looked behind myself and saw that my companion had suddenly disappeared.
I scanned the woods for him but detected no trace of my colleague. (I did not wish to risk using my electric torch so close to the gathering.)
Obviously, Baedecker’s disappearance disconcerted me greatly, but I resolved that this journey should not be for naught. By hook or by crook, I would see what strangeness cavorted and drummed on the other side of the great boulder in my path! Edging my way around it, I began to detect bright flickering torchlight, the figures of dancing men, and the uniform motions of an array of drummers playing in unison like horrible, mindless automatons.
It was then that I heard footsteps behind me. I managed to make a half turn before the blow to my head rendered me unconscious.
I awoke at dawn, in surroundings that were momentarily unfamiliar. Next to me on the ground was Inspector Baedecker, heaped like a giant mound but, to my relief, still noticeably breathing. He had been stripped of his camouflage costume and wore only his trousers and nightshirt.
I stood and surveyed our arboreal surroundings. With great relief, I realized that we were back at the foot of Bell’s Hill. Had we stumbled back under our own power? No. Several sets of muddy footprints leading away told the story of our having been carried back from the site of the ritual. (There were, I probably do not need to observe, a good many more sets of prints leading away from Baedecker than from myself.)
I walked over to Baedecker, intending to rouse him. Then I looked down into his face and beheld it. Ghastly mutilation!
Or . . . mutilation of a sort. For clearly, a lock of the inspector’s hair had been crudely chopped away from the right side of his face, leaving his bluish white scalp exposed to the morning sun.
I roused him—at which he gave an awful start—and asked if he had any memories of the events of the previous evening. Like mine, his recollections grew fuzzy after we began crawling toward the drums and fires, and ended with complete unconsciousness. To my considerable disappointment, his memories proved no more useful than mine.
We returned to our headquarters and inspected ourselves for any other signs of injury, but found none. Other than painful bumps to the head (and Baedecker’s unusual barbering), we have not been noticeably harmed.
We spent today recovering from this event. Tomorrow, we will attempt a daylight return to the site of the ritual. For whatever reason, the close encounter seems to have raised Inspector Baedecker’s spirits. (He is normally given to not-inconsiderable bellyaching and complaining about our mission, living situation, and progress. However, an uncharacteristic calm has settled over him, and he remains nearly silent.)
We strongly believe that this encounter means that we are on the cusp of important steps forward in our research here. None of us doubt that we are close to something big!
Yours respectfully,
Oswaldt Gehrin
Communication 16
April 25, 1940
From: Oswaldt Gehrin
To: Reinhard Heydrich
My Obergruppenführer,
I have exciting—and troubling—findings to report in this update. Our investigation continues to take remarkable turns. First, I must relate that I have been successful in my quest to kill (or, perhaps, to “kill”) the zombie grandfather of the university student Mayonette.
As you will recall, Mayonette had indicated the locations where his grandfather had recently been seen and had provided a description of the man. (It can be difficult to distinguish one zombie from another when they are in stages of advanced age or deterioration. Luckily for me, the zombie in question possessed a defining feature. He had no nose. It had been lost in childhood during an altercation with a wild dog. And while noselessness can arise from an older zombie’s advanced decomposition, Mayonette assured me that I would know his grandfather when I saw him. And indeed I did.)
After just three nights’ surveillance of a spot indicated by Mayonette (an abandoned outpost near a shuttered copper mine), I chanced to encounter the zombie I sought. He was just as had been described—the marks where canine teeth had taken his nose were unmistakable!—and he was alone.
I did not hesitate; I emerged from the underbrush with my Luger drawn. The zombie noticed me and lumbered forward aggressively. Ever the scientist, I did not kill it right away. Instead, I tested Mayonette’s assertions about a zombie’s points of vulnerability by leveling several shots at the creature’s lower body. Great puffs of dust exploded as my bullets connected, and the zombie stumbled as the slugs distu
rbed its balance—but it did not go down! After a moment, it righted itself and walked as normally as it had before. It was only when I leveled my weapon at its head and fired that it seemed to be incapacitated (collapsing in a heap, exactly like a human who has been killed).
Under the conditions of our agreement, Mayonette would allow me to perform a full scientific postmortem on his grandfather’s body. However, he first required me to bring the dead zombie to his grandmother’s home so that—he said—they could verify that I had killed the correct one.
I placed the zombie in a thick burlap sack to insulate myself from its horrible fetor and ghastly appearance, and then hefted the sack over my shoulder. (Perhaps due to years of rot, it was surprisingly light.) Following my map, I returned to the hovel of Mayonette’s grandmother. It was in the early morning hours when I arrived, but there was light from several lanterns flickering inside. Assuming Mayonette and his grandmother were still up and about, I knocked forcefully on the door.
“Hello,” I called. “It is the professor! I have succeeded in my little task. Come and look.”
Here, I hefted the burlap sack off of my shoulder, and it thudded to the ground before me.
No sooner had I done so than I heard the hasty unfastening of a crude metal latch. The door opened cautiously, and I was confronted by a hulking figure who was neither Mayonette nor his grandmother. The tall, wide man (who was perhaps thirty years old), appeared to be a native Haitian. He had deep crevassed scars across his face and wore a headdress bedecked with feathers from a cock. A strong smell of incense escaped through the doorway past him and assailed me. It was not unpleasant. The man’s expression, however, was. (I counted it a fifty-fifty balance of confusion and anger.)
“Hello,” I said to him. “Is young Jean Mayonette—or perhaps his grandmother—at home? I have something of importance to deliver.”
No sooner had the words escaped my mouth than two other gentlemen—of nearly identical age, scarring, and plumage—joined their compatriot at the door. They exchanged expressions of alarm and spoke to one another in a dialect with which I was wholly unfamiliar. (Note to RSHA Western Hemisphere Team: There may be more dialects, or even languages, among the Haitian Voodooists than our intelligence currently indicates.)
The Ultimate Book of Zombie Warfare and Survival Page 16
