Age of Voodoo

by James Lovegrove

  “And it’ll work?”

  “I’m not sure. I have the necessary ingredients and I know what I’m doing, but...”

  “Never mind. It’s a plan. Our only plan. We have to try something. What are you waiting for, Miz Montase? Get busy.”

  ALBERTINE BEGAN WITH a lave tet, a ritual washing designed to strengthen her resolve, dispel bad energy and bring her into closer rapport with her personal loa. She sprinkled her head with water in which herbs had been steeped. At the same time she chanted and made obeisance.

  Next she invoked her loa directly by inscribing a cabalistic diagram on the floor in marker pen. It was a crossword-like symbol made up of the names of her three vodou husbands:

  She gazed at it for a while in a deep meditative trance.

  Lastly she mixed together a selection of powders from her bag, adding them to a bowl and stirring with an index finger. She murmured the names and qualities of each one as she poured it from its little stoppered bottle. “Bend Over Powder—it breaks hexes. Myrrh Powder—it breaks curses. Compelling Powder—it forces obedience. Conquering Glory Powder—it overcomes obstacles to achieving one’s goals.” In all a dozen powders went into the mix, which she then decanted into a velvet pouch. She secured the neck of the pouch with its drawstring.

  “Done,” she said. “I’m not promising anything, but...”

  “But nothing,” said Buckler. “We’ve got zuvembie knockout dust and we’re going to use it. The question is how we’re going to use it. Facing off against the whole of Couleuvre’s little army isn’t going to fly. We’re down by two and we don’t have even a pocket knife between us. Our best play isn’t a stand-up fight, it’s a tactical withdrawal. Some of us get the hell out and summon reinforcements.”

  “Some of us?” said Lex.

  “Specifically, you, Albertine and Sampson. Just the three of you guys. You move quick, keep low, steer clear of trouble, and hit the surface running. Get on the plane and hightail it. Once you’re in the air, Sampson can get himself patched through the right people on the shortwave and call in help.”

  “But what about you?”

  “We have injured, and I’m not leaving anyone behind,” Buckler stated firmly.

  “But boss—” Tartaglione began.

  “Not even a dipshit like you, Tartag.”

  “You say the sweetest things.”

  “And Hospitalman Morgenstern has to stay to keep Pearce stable.”

  Morgenstern didn’t even blink, just nodded. Lex couldn’t help marvelling at the unflinching loyalty Buckler commanded from his team. The Thirteeners were a misfit bunch, and their lieutenant was the biggest misfit of them all. Perhaps that was why they respected him so much.

  “Now, that door isn’t locked,” Buckler said. “But there’s four zuvembies stationed outside. Couleuvre seems to think that’s all the security he needs. He reckons we’re licked and we’re just going to hunker down here and wait to die. What say we show the faux-hawk motherfucker how wrong he is?”

  THE ZUVEMBIES WERE arranged in a semicircle in the passage, poised to intercept anyone who emerged from the storeroom. The breakout was going to have to be fast, hard and timed perfectly. Buckler and Morgenstern would run interference, enabling Lex, Albertine and Sampson to make their bid for freedom.

  “I’ve got these undead sons of bitches figured out,” Buckler said. “They’re autistic about their master’s orders. Long as we don’t step foot outside this room, they don’t react. Moment we do, bam, they’re onto us. We can use that to our advantage.”

  They got ready, lining up at the door, Buckler and Morgenstern in front.

  “Dove?” said Buckler.

  “Yes?”

  “We all get through this, you and I need to sit down and talk. There’s things you don’t know that I think you ought to.”

  “I’ll look forward to that.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you, sport. It’s not going to be happy-clappy fireside stuff. And Sampson?”

  “LT?”

  “We don’t all get through this, you’re elected to head up the next Team Thirteen.”

  “Aw shit.”

  “Yeah, poisoned chalice. Choose your recruits well. I know I did.”

  Buckler grasped the door handle and tugged it open. Outside, in the passage, the zuvembies stirred like sleepers awakening. They bunched together around the doorway, forming a sturdy wall.

  “Hey, you ugly fucks,” Buckler taunted. “This here’s a prison break. Just so’s you know.”

  The zuvembies stared.

  “In a moment we’re going to cross the threshold. Want to stop us? Do your worst.”

  Morgenstern had a bedsheet in her hands, the ends twisted around her fists, a loop dangling between.

  “On my mark,” said Buckler. “Three. Two. One. Go!”

  He and Morgenstern propelled themselves out of the doorway. Buckler shoulder-barged one of the zuvembies, creating a gap in the wall. Morgenstern ducked low, turning her momentum into a skid, like a baseball player sliding home. She slipped the sheet around another zuvembie’s ankles and yanked the creature off its feet, all in one clean motion.

  Lex and Albertine raced out next. Albertine had tipped a small amount of her poudre from the pouch into her cupped hand. As a zuvembie shifted to block her path, she puffed the powder straight at it.

  “Leave!” she commanded. “You are free. Damballah compels you. Leave this body and go to your rest.”

  The zuvembie staggered, clawing at its dust-streaked face. Its eyes roved wildly. All at once the dull implacability that characterised it and its brethren was gone. The zuvembie seemed uncertain, riven by inner conflict.

  Then its baleful yellow gaze altered. Comprehension dawned. For a moment, barely a split second, the thing seemed recognisably human, no longer a hollow shell but a sentient being. Lex could have sworn it looked relieved, even grateful.

  Then the zuvembie crumpled like a sack of meat. It lay flat out, devoid of animation, utterly inert. Dead. Not undead. Not living dead. Dead dead.

  There was no time to celebrate Albertine’s success. Sampson caught her and Lex from behind and hustled them along the passage, yelling, “No gawking. Let’s move!”

  Two of the three remaining zuvembies swivelled and gave chase. The third, the one Morgenstern had toppled, was locked in a struggle with the female Thirteener. The pair of them writhed on the floor, the zuvembie pinning Morgenstern’s legs, Morgenstern scrabbling to extricate herself.

  “Hey, assholes!” Buckler shouted, waving his arms. “What about me? Don’t forget me.”

  One zuvembie continued on after the three fugitives. The other spun round and made for Buckler. He danced backwards, evading its outstretched arms.

  Lex poured on speed, hauling Albertine with him. Behind them a shrill scream cut the air. He looked back and saw that Morgenstern was now smothered by the zuvembie. It lay on top of her in a grotesque parody of the missionary position. Morgenstern beat at it with her fists. The zuvembie took hold of her forearms and, with no discernible effort, bent them sideways, snapping them both just above the wrist.

  Morgenstern’s scream turned into a long, drawn-out guttural grunt of fury and agony. She headbutted the zuvembie three times in swift succession, smashing its nose with her brow. The zuvembie retaliated in kind, hammering its forehead down onto her face. The force of the blow was such that it popped one of Morgenstern’s eyeballs clean out of its socket.

  Still she fought, battering the zuvembie with her knees, even her elbows, despite the pain this undoubtedly sent down both sets of shattered radius and ulna. Buckler was trying to reach her, but he had his own zuvembie to contend with. It kept charging and he kept having to dodge.

  Sampson halted. He was torn. He wanted to go back help his teammate, but he had pre-existing orders. Besides, the third zuvembie, one of the Marines, was closing in. It had almost caught up.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “This ain’t fair.” He hu
rried off again after Lex and Albertine, casting one last despairing glance over his shoulder.

  Morgenstern let out a final, horrendous howl of pain and defiance, which her zuvembie assailant cut short with a punch that landed like a meteor, stoving in her entire face. The crunch of bones was like an axe splitting wood.

  As Lex and Albertine rounded the corner, Buckler’s voice echoed after them down the passage. It was a cry that came from the gut, an appalled, abysmal “Nooooo!!!”

  THEY RAN ON, Sampson huffing along behind them, the zuvembie Marine behind him, maintaining its dogged pursuit. They skirted around the body of Professor Seidelmann. The pile of confiscated weapons had been cleared away, nowhere to be seen. Briefly Lex wished there was time to go searching for them. He had never yearned to have a gun in his hands quite as much as he did right then.

  They reached the door to the stairs. Sampson was lagging. Like many a big man he was not a fast runner. The zuvembie was now within touching distance of him. Its fingertips found his collar and snagged it, jerking him to a halt. Sampson spun to face the creature.

  “Oh no you don’t! This is for Morgenstern.” He smacked the zuvembie several times, hard as a heavyweight boxer. He might as well have been flicking it with a feather duster.

  Albertine broke away from Lex, emptying more of her poudre into her palm. She flung it in a cloud at the zuvembie, repeating her incantation from before.

  Again, an instant of confusion followed by an instant of clarity.

  Again, a sudden, total collapse as the Grim Reaper reclaimed what was overdue and rightfully his.

  Sampson peered down at the zuvembie’s body, panting hard, then turned to Albertine.

  “You,” he said, “are a miracle worker as well as the goddamn sexiest woman I have ever met. Please tell me you’re single. I want you to have my babies.”

  Albertine cast a look in Lex’s direction.

  Sampson nodded. “Thought as much. Can’t blame a guy for trying, though.”

  THEY MOUNTED THE stairs. Sublevel 1 seemed to be all clear. They proceeded with caution anyway. Too much had gone wrong on this mission to allow for complacency.

  The elevator loomed ahead.

  “How’s your climbing?” Lex asked Sampson.

  “For shit. Look at me. I ain’t built for agility. Yours?”

  “The elevator shaft’s lined all the way up with struts and braces. They’ll do for handholds and footholds. It’s no cakewalk but I think I can manage. I’ll carry a rope up with me and secure it at the top for you and Albertine to use.”

  “Cool. Then we’re golden.” But Sampson’s expression was bitter.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Morgenstern.”

  “Not as sorry as I am. Morgenstern was good people.”

  “She gave her life so that we could get away.”

  “Yeah, so let’s not blow our chance.”

  No sooner had Sampson said this than a figure stepped out through the elevator’s open doors.

  “Wilberforce?” said Albertine.

  “Wilb?” said Lex. “Why are you—?”

  Wilberforce hung his head. His shoulders slumped in shame. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This isn’t my fault.”

  Two men followed him out.

  They were Garfield ‘the Garfish’ Finisterre—sunglasses propped on bald-shaven head, as ever—and one of his seemingly neverending supply of henchmen.

  Both were carrying handguns, and the guns were pointed at Wilberforce’s back.

  The Garfish grinned at Lex.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “That was easy. I come lookin’ for the white guy who keeps fuckin’ up my shit, an’ what do I find first thing? Him an’ his voodoo witch bitch, along with some fat-ass scumbag I never met. Hey hey, this is my lucky day.”

  He turned the gun on Lex.

  “An’ it’s about to be your unlucky day.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  TEN SECONDS TO DECIDE

  “WILB?” SAID LEX. “Please tell me you didn’t bring them here. You haven’t sold us out.”

  “No!” Wilberforce replied hotly. “No way, man. I’d never.”

  “Then how...?”

  Finisterre’s grin broadened, becoming a gloat. “One word, spook. Transceiver. The LoJack from my own car. Last night I had Virgil remove it from the Jeep and plant it on Wilberforce’s plane, right down inside one of the floats where you’d never think to look. It was obvious you were plannin’ on goin’ somewhere. Virgil couldn’t tell me where, but I didn’t need to know, long as I had a way of trackin’ you. I hired another seaplane, fired up the GPS, an’ lo an’ behold, here we all are havin’ a joyous reunion on some piece-of-shit little island I never knew even existed.” He cast a quick glance at his surroundings. “What the hell is this place anyway? Some kind of prison?”

  “It’s somewhere you really do not want to be,” said Lex.

  “With you in my gunsights? I think it is.”

  “Dove, who is this pimp motherfucker?” Sampson demanded. “’Cause if he thinks pointing a Desert Eagle at me is going to stop me from pounding his sorry ass into the floor...”

  “Let me handle him,” Lex said. “Listen, Finisterre. You have a beef with me, that’s fine, I understand. What you don’t realise is that we’re in serious trouble. All of us. If we don’t get off the island immediately, we run the risk of being attacked by something very nasty. Worse: we could all be vaporised in a nuclear explosion.”

  “Something nasty? Nuclear explosion?” The Garfish roared with laughter. His henchman joined in, dutifully, sycophantically. “Yeah, right. I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “Man’s not lying,” said Sampson.

  Finisterre’s face narrowed in anger. “Bullshit. I’m not fallin’ for any of that garbage. You’d say any old shit to save your skin, Dove.”

  “Okay. Don’t believe me. That’s your prerogative. But I’m going up that elevator shaft whether you like it or not.”

  “Oh yeah?” Finisterre fired. The bullet whipped past Lex’s ear. He heard it buzz by like a wasp and then the whine of a ricochet as it deflected off a wall further along the passage. “Next one’s in your head. Or his. Leroy?” The henchman, taking his cue from his boss, pressed his own gun up against Wilberforce’s temple. “Maybe you’re not scared for yourself, Englishman, but your friend? That’s another matter.”

  “Lex,” said Wilberforce. It was both apology and plea.

  “You just don’t understand the situation,” Lex said to the Garfish.

  “Yeah I do. I’ve got you by the balls, that’s the situation.”

  Lex decided to try a different tack. “Then—money. I can pay you a decent sum. Half a million Manzanillan, how about that? If you’ll just let Wilberforce go and allow us past.”

  “You negotiating with this dick now?” said Sampson.

  “I don’t see that I have a choice.”

  “Money,” said Finisterre. “That’s one thing I already got plenty-plenty of. Besides, how’re you goin’ to pay me, boy? I don’t take no cheques, an’ I doubt you’re carryin’ that much in cash on you.”

  “I can guarantee to give it to you. The moment we’re back on Manzanilla.”

  “So it’s a promise, huh?” Finisterre let rip with another of his booming laughs. “Know what my mama used to say about promises? They’re worth less than piss in the wind. That applies especially to ones comin’ from you, Dove. You’d as soon spit on me as cough up what you owe. The point is, we’re past the money thing, you an’ me. Way past. This ain’t about debts or interest on loans or any of that any more. This is about you puttin’ men of mine in the hospital an’ the morgue an’ generally interferin’ with the smooth runnin’ of my day-to-day business affairs. This is a blood feud.” He waved the gun back and forth, sketching an imaginary line between himself and Lex. “There’s only one kind of payment that’ll balance these books.”

  “Let’s rush him,” Sampson muttered.

  “No,”
Lex shot back. “Wilberforce will be dead before we’re even halfway there.”

  “Of course, I’m not averse to takin’ a bonus on top,” the Garfish added. He was eyeing up Albertine. “Treatin’ myself to that little honey over yonder. Wilberforce’s cousin, right? You’re fine, girl. It’d be a pleasure introducin’ you to my pal Little Garfield. Only, he’s not so little, if you get my meanin’.”

  “You lay a finger on me,” Albertine warned, “you’ll never see your Little Garfield again.”

  “That supposed to intimidate me? I know you’re some big-shot voodoo mambo. My man whose leg you broke, he swears you’ve got supernatural powers. An’ maybe you have, maybe you have. But I ain’t met the woman yet who can do a thing about it when she’s flat on her front an’ there’s ten inches of cock up her batty hole. Then she’s got two choices, either moan or scream, and frankly I don’t care which it is. Makes no difference to me. In many ways screamin’s better. Means I get more of a ride.”

  “Oh you are one classy individual,” said Sampson. “It’s going to be a delight beating that eight-ball head of yours against a wall ’til it breaks.”

  “I have no argument with you, American,” said Finisterre, all at once sounding reasonable and personable. “You, my friend, are more than welcome to leave. You’ll find a rope hangin’ down in the elevator. Climb up, go, it’s all good. My business is with Dove an’ Wilberforce an’ his cousin, an’ frankly I’d prefer there not to be any witnesses.”

  “You must have me mistaken for some kind of moron. You’d shoot me in the back soon as I got past you.”

  “You have my word I won’t.”

  “Maybe you should take him up on the offer, Sampson,” said Lex. “Only one of us has to get to the surface. Might as well be you. Especially as you’re the one who knows exactly who to send a mayday to.”

  “You don’t honestly believe this asshole? I don’t even know the guy, and already I can tell he’s as slippery as rattlesnake shit. I wouldn’t trust him to let me go free any more’n I’d trust him to babysit my thirteen-year-old niece.”