Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead

by Steve Perry

  “Marie . . .”

  “It wasn’t me. He did it to himself,” she said. “The evil turned on him.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I am fine, Indy. More than you can imagine. What was Boukman’s is now mine. I have . . . energy beyond any I have ever imagined. We are safe.”

  Indy nodded. “You knew all along about the magic attached to this, didn’t you? From the moment we met?”

  “I didn’t know for sure. I suspected. I grew up hearing the stories. Once I realized they were true, I could not allow Boukman to obtain the pearl. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

  He nodded again. “Yeah. You should have.”

  He looked around. “Mac?”

  “Still here, by God!” Mac called from behind him.

  Indy turned.

  They were alive.

  Son-of-a-bitch! How about that?

  What about the German and Japanese?

  As if in answer to his thought, Mac said, “The Axis seem to have left the field.”

  Indy nodded. “I wonder how far they got?”

  “Not far,” Marie said.

  Indy looked at her.

  She shrugged.

  THIRTY-NINE

  DESPITE ALL THE ODDS, all the death and destruction, the storms and fighting and everything, Gruber had survived. More, he and Yamada had escaped and were approaching the sea. A hundred meters away, there was a small boat tied to a rickety dock, both of which had somehow escaped the hurricane’s heavy winds and waves. A man stood by the boat, his back to them.

  Excellent!

  “It appears that we have won,” Yamada said.

  The two men were no more than a couple of meters apart.

  “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Why don’t you let me carry the box for a while? You must be tired.”

  “It does not weigh all that much,” Yamada said.

  “I insist. Give it to me.”

  Yamada laughed. “You insist? I am a samurai, Doctor. Trained with a sword, but also with my hands. You cannot defeat me in personal combat.” He looked at Gruber in wonder. Did the man think that he had come all this way to simply give him the artifact with the formula because he asked for it? Whatever training Gruber might have in hand-to-hand combat, it could not begin to approach Yamada’s expertise in ju-jitsu. He could take the German apart like a child’s toy, break his neck and leave him here without working up a sweat, even in this climate. If Gruber was ready to die, then that was up to him.

  Yamada bent to put the box onto the ground, to free his hands.

  When he straightened, Gruber had something pointed at him. What was—?

  The realization hit him. He had made a mistake.

  He had underestimated his enemy.

  Gruber aimed the little Swiss pistol at Yamada. There was but one shot, and the barrel was short and had no sight, so it was like pointing his finger at a target. But the distance was small, less than two armspans, and he could spit and hit Yamada this close.

  Yamada frowned.

  “Walk away from the box and live, Doctor,” Gruber said.

  “No! I will not—!”

  Gruber pulled the trigger.

  Despite the rigors of rain and tropical heat, the tiny gun worked. The noise was louder than one would expect from such a small thing.

  The bullet hit Yamada dead center in the chest. Even so, he jumped at Gruber, screaming wordlessly—

  Gruber leaped to the side and Yamada’s rush missed.

  Yamada stumbled, fell to his knees. Gruber watched as the other man frowned. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him.

  Yamada fell onto his side. Gruber heard the death rattle as the Japanese doctor’s final breath left his body.

  “Sorry, Yamada,” Gruber said. “It was never your destiny to prevail. Our German God is stronger than your Japanese one.”

  Gruber bent, picked up the wooden box. He walked toward the wooden dock. The man at the boat, if he heard the shot, gave no sign. A deal would be struck.

  Gruber walked along the planking, the smell of creosote under the clearing sky and warm sun acrid in his nostrils. The man at the end of the dock had his back to Gruber, staring out to sea.

  “I will pay you well to take me to the mainland,” Gruber said, in French.

  The man turned.

  The shock of seeing the ruined face so stunned Gruber that he dropped the box. Saw it hit the dock, bounce, and fall into the sea. He turned to run, but it was too late—

  The monster’s hideous expression was the last thing Edwin Gruber saw in life as it sank its teeth into his neck . . .

  At the Gate to the Other Realm

  Papa Legba stood drawing upon his pipe, blowing clouds of red smoke, three dogs lying at his feet.

  This time when Boukman approached, the dogs all growled at him.

  Boukman came to stand in front of Papa Legba.

  The old man shook his head. “You have much to answer for, Boukman. Many in the Other Realm would speak to you—some harshly, I expect. Waitin’ a long time for the chance.”

  Boukman nodded. Of course.

  “Did you get to build the shelter for the dogs?”

  Time ran different for the loa. He could have been here a thousand years compared with the few days that Boukman had lived.

  “No, Papa, I am sorry.”

  The old man nodded. “Well. One more thing you must make good. But the line ahead of me is long. Could be a long time before you come available for us to discuss your repayment.”

  “I would have built the shelter, had I lived.”

  Papa Legba blew out a thin stream of ruby-colored smoke. It hung shimmering redly in the sun’s hard light, hardly moved by any wind at all. “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  Boukman shook his head. No. It didn’t matter, now.

  Papa reached for the gate. Opened it. Nodded at Boukman.

  Boukman walked through the opening.

  Monstrous, grinning things were waiting for him.

  Fear enveloped him.

  FORTY

  Port-au-Prince Airport

  “WHY DON’T YOU come with me,” Indy said, even though he knew she wouldn’t. He didn’t have any long-range plans, but who knew where it might go? She was smart, beautiful, and she liked him, he knew that.

  Marie put her hand on his chest and smiled up at him. “I cannot.”

  “We might make it work.”

  “It isn’t about us, Indy. It is about this.” She waved her hand to encompass all of Haiti. “You are a man of the world, you will travel far and wide to do what you must, but I am needed here.”

  Yeah. She was right.

  “And you would certainly not be happy in Haiti for long.”

  He sighed, then nodded. She was right about that, too. Even his notion of settling into teaching was already starting to fade. Someday, maybe. Not yet. He wasn’t that old. “Yeah. I figured that’s what you’d say.”

  “Perhaps I can visit you.”

  “I’d like that.” But they both knew she never would.

  “Before you go, I have something for you.”

  “You’ve already given me more than I deserve,” he said, remembering last night at her house.

  Her smile grew. “That was a mutual gift. Here.”

  She produced a fist-sized silk bundle from her pocket.

  He knew what it was. “The pearl? But—”

  “It has already given me all that it can. I have beheld the true heart beneath the darkness. It has been drained, there is no power left. Take it and put it in a museum somewhere. Perhaps you can tell a bit of the story—not that anybody in your world will believe it.”

  He took the silk package, stuck it into his pocket. “Thank you.”

  She shrugged. “It is the least I can do, after all you have done for me.”

  They embraced, and he kissed her. Not like a brother does a sister. A farewell kiss, sweet and bitter at the same time. Acknowledging what would never be.


  “Go. Your plane will leave without you.”

  He released her, held her at arm’s length.

  He turned and hurried toward the old Ford Tri-Motor, whose engines were already coughing blue smoke and whirring to life, set to take them to Cuba. Mac stood in the doorway, waiting.

  On board, Indy moved to one of the vacant seats, which were low wicker chairs screwed to the deck. He looked out the window at Marie. Another road not taken.

  The plane taxied from the apron onto the runway. The engines roared louder, and the aircraft sped down the tarmac faster and faster until it was able to leap into the air.

  They banked and went back the way they had come, a few hundred feet up, and Indy saw her standing there, waving at him. Maybe he was making a mistake. Forget the war, forget roaming from country to country, chasing history, tilting at windmills. Maybe he should have stayed, to live in the moment.

  He looked at her.

  Saw someone behind her . . .

  Behind him, Mac leaned over the wicker seat back. “Odd, thing, Indy!” He had to yell to be heard over the engines’ noise. “I thought I saw someone—”

  “—No,” Indy said. “You didn’t see anything!”

  Mac blinked. Then he nodded. “Ah. Right. Nothing.” He leaned back in his chair.

  Behind Marie, in the shade of an outbuilding, Mac had seen someone—someone that Indy hadn’t noticed when he’d been on the ground with Marie saying his farewells. But it wasn’t some one, it was two men, and even as the plane sped away, shrinking them to the size of toys, he recognized them easily.

  The hair on his neck stirred as he beheld the duo and knew who they were:

  Dr. Gruber, the German, and Dr. Yamada, the Japanese officer. They were not watching the plane but staring into space, as still as statues.

  Dead men, standing, waiting to be commanded.

  Indy’s breath caught, as he suddenly remembered what Marie had said to him after that terrible night only two days past at the sisal plantation: What had belonged to Boukman, she’d said, now belonged to her. And when Indy had wondered about where they had gone?

  Not far, she’d said.

  Indy swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, as he realized just what that meant.

  The low clouds obscured his view. It was an image he would carry forever, that last glimpse of petite Marie Arnoux, waving good-bye . . . standing in front of two zombis.

  Her zombis, now.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  STEVE PERRY wrote for Batman: The Animated Series during its first Emmy Award-winning season, authored the New York Times bestsellers Star Wars: Death Star (with Michael Reaves) and Star Wars: Shadows of the Empire, and wrote the bestselling novelization of the blockbuster movie Men in Black. Perry has sold dozens of stories to magazines and anthologies, and has published a considerable number of novels, animated teleplays, nonfiction articles, reviews, and essays. He is currently the science fiction, fantasy, and horror book reviewer for The Oregonian.