Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead

by Steve Perry

  His second in command, Captain Suzuki, stood there holding a lantern in one hand, his drawn sword in the other. Yellow light gleamed from the mirror-bright surface of the katana’s patterned steel. “Trouble at the village,” Suzuki said.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  The scout, a young man from Tokyo named Ito, looked at Suzuki. The officer nodded. “Speak!”

  Ito told the tale, and it sounded so fantastic that he was sure Suzuki was going to slap the boy and call him a liar. Yamada held up a hand to caution the captain.

  “You are dismissed,” Yamada said, after the boy was done. “I will speak with the captain.”

  Yamada considered what he was going to tell Suzuki. Until now, he had not been certain of the truth of his mission. Oh, he felt that the powers-that-were at home believed it, and his duty was not to question them. He would go and do as he was ordered, but in his heart he had not been convinced. At this juncture, it seemed less than useful to maintain the secrecy he had kept for himself.

  Suzuki had not needed to know more, but given the circumstances, Yamada reasoned that it was advisable to tell him. Ignorance might be cause for failure, which could not be allowed.

  “Come into my tent,” Yamada said. “There are things you need to know.”

  Braun looked shaken, and Gruber could understand why. It was not something an ordinary soldier could easily deal with, this kind of information. The cat, as the English said, was out of the bag, and there was no way to put her back in, not now.

  “Perhaps, Kapitän Schäefer, you would assemble the men?”

  “Jawohl.”

  Once the men were gathered around the lamp, Gruber began:

  “That which I am about to tell you must never be repeated elsewhere, to anyone, do you all understand? To do such will be considered treason against the Reich and worth the firing squad or piano wire around your throat, is that clear?”

  There came a murmur of assent.

  “You are probably aware that Reich scientists have been working to create ways to make better soldiers. There are chemicals, drugs created in our laboratories that will make a man stronger, able to stay awake longer, and the like. Even now, some of the soldiers in certain elite units have access to these drugs, the new anabolic agents and amphetaminics. But these drugs have limits and side effects, and are not yet perfected.”

  The men nodded but said nothing. He was the doctor, he would explain, they knew this.

  “Some cultures have developed similar things. The Thuggees have the Black Sleep of Kali Ma; the Peruvians have the coca leaf mixed with certain roots; there is a kind of mushroom tea in central Mongolia that allows a man to run for miles without feeling hunger or tiredness.” He looked at them.

  “The Africans stumbled upon a formula centuries ago. How such ignorant savages managed this seems beyond belief, but they did. They created a concoction that makes a man stronger, immune to pain, able to heal faster, run farther, leap higher. It was kept a secret known only to a few, who used it to their own ends.

  “Such abilities would be a great asset to the German armies, nicht denken Sie?”

  Yes, they nodded, they surely did think so.

  “This African formula was, during the slave days, written down, then transported here to Haiti. To this very island. This is the reason we have come, to collect it. And it should be apparent that somebody local has access to this formula.

  “The men we are following are going to lead us to it.”

  One of the men, a corporal, looked somewhat dubious.

  “Herr Wagner? You have questions?”

  “It—it seems . . . rather . . . fantastic, Colonel.”

  Sergeant Braun said, “Wagner, I saw a man shot three times with a pistol who paid it no more attention than he would a bee’s sting. Last I beheld him, he was walking into the forest, and I saw not a drop of blood on him.”

  That drew a disturbed murmur from the others.

  “The sergeant is correct. It is not your duty to worry over the effectiveness of this formula, only to assist me in retrieving it. I tell you all this because it may be that some of the men who have taken this drug might stand against you, and you need to be aware that they will be formidable adversaries. With luck, we won’t have to find out how formidable, but whatever it takes, we must retrieve this for the Fatherland. If it costs all of us our lives, that will be a small price to pay.”

  The men nodded. They were soldiers. They would follow their orders. Good Germans did that.

  ELEVEN

  “ZOMBIS?” MAC SAID.

  Indy said, “The undead.”

  Marie looked at Indy. “You know the term?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “—you thought it was just a tale to frighten children?”

  Indy shrugged. “Actually, I didn’t think that much about it at all. Most cultures and societies have stories about the undead: ghosts, wraiths, vampires, lich. It’s a common trope—I’ve always liked the one about Saint Felix, Saint Regula, and Saint Exuperantius.”

  Mac said, “Who?”

  Indy said, “You really do need to catch up on your history, Mac. They were Catholics, decapitated by the Romans in the year A.D. 286. The story goes, after they were killed, they picked up their heads and climbed to the top of a hill, where they dug graves and buried themselves.”

  “There’s a nice trick,” Mac allowed. “Much more impressive than water into wine.”

  “Yeah. If you believed they could do that, you might be a tad nervous about running into them on a battlefield.”

  The dawn had laid her tentative fingers upon the night, and Marie had assured them that the group of zombis would not be able to return for a while. She said, “There are strange things under Heaven, messieurs. Science cannot explain everything.”

  Indy nodded. He had plenty of reason to agree with that. He had experienced some unbelievable things himself. Whatever your beliefs, you had to develop a pragmatic view of things.

  “Most of what I know comes from India or the American South. What’s the local version?”

  “In Vodoun—they call it ‘voodoo’ in the American South—priests and priestesses—houngan and mambo—communicate with gods and demigods, the loa. In exchange for the use of their bodies—acting as ‘horses’—the possessed are granted certain powers. Among these, depending on the loas involved, is the ability to raise and animate the dead.”

  Indy nodded. He knew that.

  Mac gave her a funny look.

  She ignored Mac. “There are two kinds of zombi: the True Risen and les enfants du breuvage magique—the Children of the Potion. The latter are more common. To make these, a houngan uses certain drugs derived from the datura flower, mushrooms, and other plants found on our islands. Liquid from a certain kind of toad. A rare lizard’s blood. Fish roe. There are different formulas in various branches of the art; some work better than others.

  “By this method, a victim is poisoned, put into such a deep trance that he or she appears to be dead. A funeral is held, the body is buried, and the houngan comes back later and digs the victim up. He—sometimes she—then controls the victim with drugs, forcing them to do whatever the houngan wants.”

  Indy nodded. Fascinating stuff. He knew some of it, of course, but he hadn’t heard these particulars before.

  “The other kind of zombi is much less common. Only a bokor, a master houngan, has the power to bring the true dead back to life. It demands great resources and supernatural concentration. A hundred years ago, at his peak of power, bokor Boukman, the strongest of all Vodoun priests, was supposedly able to raise and keep fifty or more of the dead up and animated at once.”

  Indy and Mac exchanged glances.

  “Today the strongest bokor might manage twenty, and his control of that many would be less than ideal. Much easier to use the potion, even though those slaves are not as durable.”

  “And you shooed them off,” Indy said. “So . . . ?”

  “Yes. I am a ma
mbo. What I did was small compared with the man who brings forth and keeps the zombis under his hand. I cannot raise the dead or control them on my own. I was able to divert them only by pretending to be the bokor who owns them and sending them away.”

  Indy held back a sigh. Great. Never happened lately but that a woman he found attractive had some kind of kink. What was it with him and bad girls? A Vodoun priestess. Terrific.

  “The bokor will not be pleased when they return without you,” she said.

  “Me? Us?”

  “Yes. There is some kind of link here. Boukman feels things, and he must believe there is power to be had.”

  Mac said, “Boukman? What, he’s the grandson of the powerful wizard you mentioned?”

  She shook her head. “No. He is the same man.”

  Mac frowned. “How old is he?”

  “No one knows for sure. Two hundred years, perhaps more.”

  “Bosh!” Mac said.

  But Indy knew such things were possible. He could hardly forget the Guardian of the Holy Grail, a knight from the First Crusade, and all that transpired in the Canyon of the Crescent Moon. Kept alive by the power of the Grail, that knight had to have been born around the time of the Battle of Hastings, in A.D. 1066, making him at least 870-something. Two hundred? A drop in the bucket next to that. Still . . .

  Another old guy giving him grief . . .

  Marie said, “Boukman is my great-great-great-and-then-some-uncle, and whatever his age he is still the most powerful bokor in the land. I cannot stand against him, my magic is pale and small. I will do what I can, but if you still wish to seek this artifact, we must hurry. The sooner we can leave this island, the better.”

  “I hear that,” Indy said.

  Not once while he was teaching Introduction to Archaeology had a magical old man ever wandered into his class to disrupt it. Not once. Still, living to be two hundred or eight hundred might be something useful to know—long as you didn’t feel or look that old. That knight had been in pretty good shape for somebody who’d been around since the Crusades, but he didn’t look all that spry. Had more wrinkles than a laundry on wash day.

  Boukman knew before the zombis told him what had happened. They would not have returned without their quarry unless there had been some kind of magical interference.

  So. Petite Marie had developed some skill in the art. She came of good stock, so it was perhaps not altogether unexpected that she would become a mambo of some power. He had not spoken to her in years, not since she was a child, and he had not kept track of her as perhaps he should—there were no rivals near his strength on the islands, but some who might cause trouble if allowed to grow, and he had spent more time watching and dealing with them. Those with potential to be a danger to Boukman were eliminated before they reached that stage. Women took longer to mature in the art, and while they could be formidable, little Marie wasn’t old enough to have gotten very strong yet.

  Then again, she bad turned his zombis back.

  Interesting . . .

  Well, he could prevent that, now that he knew of it. A few words added to a spell, and his slaves would be immune to any blandishments Marie could offer. She would realize this, of course, but it did not matter—she did not have the power to match his.

  Boukman stood considering things.

  This was a sign of some kind. Extracting the meaning from such signs was often tricky, but it was always there.

  What did it mean?

  He had, he decided, moved too early. The gods or the loa did not want him to know yet, so they had stepped in. Very well. He would back off, be patient, and wait for the right moment. The greater powers apparently wished for the imen blan to continue on with their quest. So be it.

  Boukman feared nothing natural that walked the land, but he most among men knew better than to challenge the gods. That way lay ruination.

  “Go,” he said. “Watch the white men. Stay hidden while you do. You—” He pointed at a man who in life had been a policeman in Port-au-Prince, a strong and fierce fellow. “—return tonight and report.”

  There came the nods of acknowledgment.

  It was a small island, but there were a score of people involved who normally were not here. He could perhaps use a little more help. “You,” he said, indicating another of the zombis, “go and collect the other Children of the Potion. Bring them here.”

  The undead shuffled away to their tasks.

  After they were gone, Boukman decided that he needed a big meal, one washed down with blood. And human blood would be best.

  He felt as if he would need to be fortified. Great things were in the air, and he must be ready to deal with them.

  When the Children of the Potion arrived would be plenty time enough. They still circulated blood, and any of them could spare a pint or two without any ill effects—not that it mattered. There were always more of them to be had if needed. Draining one dry would only provide a new possibility for creating another of the undead.

  Yamada was ready before dawn, his excitement too much to allow him to sleep. They would have to move with care while stalking their prey, but as thick as the jungle seemed to be, staying unseen ought not to be too big a problem.

  He considered the idea of bypassing the archaeologists, of collecting the native guide and questioning him directly, but decided that it was too risky. The man might know where they were going, but the two gaijin doubtless had more specifics. This mission was too important to risk it, and the safest course was to simply follow them to the prize and then collect the formula. Truth was, Yamada didn’t know exactly what form that prize was going to be in. He might not know it when he saw it; antiquities were not his field of expertise. The second man who had been chosen to offer that aspect of knowledge had yet to arrive in Haiti. The first man selected, from the Imperial Academy in Tokyo, had, in an ironic twist of fate, been on a ship traveling from Hong Kong that had been sunk by a Japanese submarine. Killed their own expert.

  Ah, well. It was war. Bad things happened . . .

  The American and Englishman certainly knew more about antiquities than did Yamada.

  Risking failure was not in the cards he wanted to play.

  Suzuki approached, looking a bit eager himself in the dim glow of the lantern.

  Yamada looked at him, one eyebrow raising in question.

  “I have three men in place,” Suzuki offered. “As soon as our prey starts off, one of them will come back and report. We should be able to catch up quickly, and the soldiers following will leave a trail.”

  “Bread crumbs?”

  Suzuki frowned. “Excuse me, Yamada-san?”

  “I beg your pardon, Captain. It’s an old joke. I will tell it to you sometime.” Of course. Even though Suzuki was fairly educated for a military man, any depth in Western fantasy literature was unlikely. No reason he would know the tale of Hansel and Gretel, by the Brothers Grimm—who had undoubtedly lifted it from other sources. And being a pragmatic sort, Suzuki would be quick to notice the obvious—a trail of bread crumbs in the forest would certainly be eaten by insects or animals in a hurry, just as it had been in the fairy tale.

  Suzuki nodded as if dismissing the comment. “It is likely that we shall have to stay some distance away,” he said. “And probably not wise to follow too directly on their trail, just in case they might be watching for such a thing.”

  “Why would they do that? They don’t know we are here.”

  “The attack at the village might be repeated,” Suzuki said. “They would be unwise to ignore that possibility. Who knows what other dangers might reside in these forests?”

  “Yes, of course.” He gave Suzuki a slow nod, a military-style bow, to acknowledge his expertise. Honor always had to be served.

  Suzuki returned the bow.

  “First light won’t be long,” Suzuki said.

  “I am ready,” Yamada said.

  “Doktor,” Schäefer said.

  “Kapitän.”

  “My sergeant
has sent one of the men back to say that they have discovered the Japanese campsite.”

  “Ah, good. And . . . ?”

  “They have packed their tents and are prepared to march. Though we have not seen their agents, surely they have men watching our quarry.”

  “Of course. When the Englishman and American and their party depart, we must allow the Japanese to follow them first.”

  “Ja, of course.”

  “It would be best if neither group knew we were trailing them.”

  Schäefer nodded. “All is in readiness, Colonel Doktor.”

  “Good.”

  Schäefer moved off, to unnecessarily inspect his men yet again, and Gruber turned his thoughts back to a question that had been nagging at him: Sergeant Braun’s observation about the incident at the village seemed, as Herr Wagner had said, far-fetched.

  Three shots, to the heart?

  Only if he had armor hidden under his shirt . . .

  For certainly, no medication would make a man bulletproof. That was beyond any science that Gruber knew or could possibly believe. Perhaps some drugs indeed might raise a man’s pain threshold to such an extent that he could shrug off a wound that was non-fatal. And mayhaps even retard bleeding from such an injury—some coagulant, say, that when exposed to free air might do the trick. It would have to be something like that, else the fluid would thicken too much to circulate in the vessels.

  Humans could be very fragile or very durable, but they were not invulnerable.

  Of course, in the heat of a violent encounter, guns going off and in the middle of the night, Braun’s excitement must have gotten the best of him. What he had taken as fatal gunshot wounds could have, under the circumstances, easily been misconstrued. A handspan to one side would miss the heart and aorta. A small-caliber bullet could glance from a rib, doing little real damage, but appearing to be worse than it was. Some of the most minor wounds bled profusely at first but were not particularly debilitating.