Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4)

by James A. Hunter

  Probably the leftovers from my earlier tussle.

  Surprisingly, the band was still playing, and it took only a glance to explain why: the musicians were pale, waxy, and glassy-eyed. Several were shirtless and even with only one eye, I could see the black ritual tattoos festooning their emaciated forms. They were zombies. Living zombies. People, just like me, who’d been tortured, then enslaved to the service of an utterly vile example of a human being. Even worse, for these folks to receive such treatment meant they’d probably resisted Beauvoir and his criminal enterprise at some point.

  They’d probably been dissidents, freedom fighters, and now they were forced to participate in the corrupt system they’d likely clashed against. The irony was a bitter pill in my mouth.

  Nothing I could do about them, though. Not now. Nothing except to get to Beauvoir and make him pay. My strength was returning piece by piece with every passing minute, and with it my access to both the Vis and the Nox grew, but I didn’t want to burn myself out before the real party got started. Especially not when I had damn near fifty rounds of 5.56 just waiting to turn some shamblers into pink mist. My finger squeezed down on the trigger, and the weapon kicked ever so slightly against my shoulder as the gun belched thunder and fire.

  And this wasn’t pray-and-spray, Rambo-style shooting.

  In a firefight, it can be easy to get caught up in the moment—to see the targets, the enemies, and go on a rampage. Blasting away wildly, indiscriminately, pumping an unnecessary number of rounds into each target. But a firefight was a bad place for passion, a bad place to be caught up in the moment, because passion, anger, and hate can cause you to make stupid decisions. And stupid decisions can cost you—or someone in your squad—their life. So, despite my wrath and my sudden insatiable thirst for murdering evil assholes, I fought smart.

  I picked my targets carefully, aiming for those closest to me, working out in a half circle. Clearing the wall to my left, then slowly swiveling outward. I also took my time. Not a lot of time, mind you, but enough to practice the essentials of combat marksmanship and fire discipline. I only had so many rounds, after all, so I lined up each shot and waited for the rifle barrel to come to a natural rest as I exhaled before squeezing the trigger. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

  Each enemy got two shots to the head—no more, no less—then I was moving on. Assaulting forward.

  Bodies dropped before me, hitting the floor with wet thumps, mowed down as gore splashed, and skull fragments cartwheeled through the air. It was a sickening scene—one which would undoubtedly serve as grade-A nightmare fuel for months and years to come—but again, the heart of a firefight wasn’t the time and place for such considerations. I could grieve later, but now was the time of fire and death, of hot lead and blood splatter. The Prophet’s MAC-10 barked behind me, clack-clack-clack-clack, spewing out bullets like angry bees, savaging a group of encroaching zombies off to the right.

  Guy was unloading rounds a helluva lot quicker than I was—thanks in part to the MAC-10 being full-auto—but he was doing an admirable job of making his shots count. The ferocious boom of Ferraro’s tactical shotgun joined the fray a few seconds later, blowing apart some shambling shithead near the stage. The three of us made quite the team, actually, like some kind of morbid band of death and destruction:

  Ferraro playing the Shotgun-Bass-of-Badassery, the steady boom-boom-boom ringing out in the background.

  The Prophet was on the Rhythm-Guitar-of-Doom, his compact MAC-10 dishing out a methodical buzz-hum as reanimated corpses fell.

  And me? I was on the Black-and-Whites-of-Shitkickery, pumping out internment blasts like accent notes. Stranger still, was the fact that the gun blasts really did augment the music booming around us, adding to the crazy drum riffs. Making that whacky cross of reggae and blues somehow more complete.

  Slowly, we carved our way through the room, pushing up along the left-hand wall, keeping old brick at our back as we maneuvered toward the entry hall. Sure, the zombies came for us, pushing and clawing, but inside the cramped confines of the building interior, there wasn’t much they could do. These asshats weren’t smart, they weren’t particularly fast, and they sure as shit didn’t work together as a cohesive whole, which meant they didn’t have an ice-cream cone’s chance in hell of walking away.

  Until we ran out of ammo, anyway.

  Once that happened, they’d overwhelm us in seconds, and even with the Vis, it would be hard to push ’em back.

  But working together, me, Ferraro, and that bearded shitbird, the Prophet, managed to successfully fight our way free from the dance floor and into the entry hall, which let out onto the street beyond. The hallway was mostly devoid of undead, and the few present milled around in a lethargic funk—a group of drunken frat guys aimlessly searching for a pair of lost car keys. Easy targets that didn’t put up an ounce of fight as we plowed through ’em, blasting apart everything in our way, stepping over the downed corpses as we headed for the huge French doors standing sentinel over the entryway.

  Finally, I dropped my weapon, letting it dangle on its sling as I extended one hand, pressing my palm flat against the door. Using the Vis already flowing in me, I extended a tendril of power, searching for any clue as to what might await us on the other side. What I sensed wasn’t comforting. What I sensed was bodies: undead bodies, and enough of them to produce a Broadway play. Or, maybe more precisely, I could feel the oily, toxic presence of Nox—pumping in them, filling them, animating them, moving them along like the strings of a marionette.

  I could also feel the puppeteer, Beauvoir, holding all of those strings, controlling all of those meat-puppets.

  “Bad guys,” I said, turning to face the Prophet and Ferraro. “Lots of ’em. Beauvoir is out there with ’em. Not sure if he has any living goons, but I’d put money on it. Probably surrounded by those child soldiers of his. You guys ready for this?”

  “You sure you know what you’re doing?” the Prophet asked.

  He didn’t sound like a man who was worried, though. He was far too calm and collected for that. No, he sounded like a man who was scheming, preparing to make a move. I couldn’t help but feel I was missing some crucial puzzle piece where the Prophet was concerned, and I reminded myself that despite his temporary assistance, he wasn’t on our side. We were quickly nearing the point where our tenuous partnership would draw to a close. As soon as I got the info I needed about Ong and dispatched Beauvoir, my usefulness to him would be over, and who could say what he’d do then?

  Unfortunately, there was still a chance I might need him, so I couldn’t just plant a round in his skull and be done with that fermented bag of ass-cheese. “On second thought,” I said, mind whirling with paranoia, “I’ve got a better idea. Ferraro, you and the Prophet stay here, make sure none of the remaining shamblers from the dance floor get the drop on us from behind.” I met Ferraro’s eye, then glanced at the Prophet, willing her to understand.

  Watch my back, and keep an eye on that jackass.

  She gave me a quick, barely there nod. I’ve got him.

  “And you’re gonna go out there,” the Prophet said, “by yourself, to battle Beauvoir and an army of zombies. By yourself—in case I didn’t already mention that.” He cocked an eyebrow at me, then offered me a yeah-right eye roll. “That’s completely asinine, considering it is a miracle you’re even alive. You couldn’t take Beauvoir when you were fresh, but now, when a wet bag could smother you without a fight, you think you’ve got an edge on him?”

  “Look,” I replied, “if I step through that door alone, Beauvoir will be less likely to take me seriously, plus then if I need you, I can holler, and in charges the cavalry. Guns a blazin’. But, I honestly don’t need you guys to take down Beauvoir.” I thumbed my nose. “Beating that voodoo shit-head isn’t gonna take much power. Work smarter, not harder. Trust me, I got this.”

  He grunted, offered another eye roll, then sighed. “Whatever, meat-monkey, it’s your funeral.” The words were a contemptuous
, backhanded slap to the face, but they seemed more like a formality—the words he had to say on principle, but not necessarily what he really thought or believed.

  I hoisted my M4, cracked one door, then slipped through, pulling the heavy door panel shut behind me, muting the music from within to a dull whisper.

  The courtyard out front was exactly what I’d envisioned in my head: fifty or sixty zombies loitering around, ready to kill, but finding nothing to turn their ire upon. Beauvoir stood on the opposite side of the small sea of undead, directly in front of a charred and smoking building that had the look of a barracks or police station. The place was much nicer than any of the other buildings I’d seen in Cité Soleil—save the club behind me—and given its close proximity to Ge-Rouge, there was a good chance it was Beauvoir’s official base of operations.

  And boy did the Voodoo Daddy look pissed that someone had blown it up. Absolutely livid. “Find ’em,” he screamed, his voice hitting a screechy high while his lanky arms waved wildly in the air. He wheeled on a pair of men with AKs on his right. “Find who did dis and bring ’em to me. I want their heads. Their heads—”

  “No need to keep looking,” I shouted, voice ringing off the concrete and tin-sided buildings. “I’m right here, cupcake.”

  Beauvoir rounded on me, shoulders bunched and knotted, a look of utter hatred contorting his features into a true caricature of a skull. “You.” He imbued the word with such scorn, it sounded like a curse. “You did this? How?”

  “The how’s not important, and that’s not what you need to be thinking about right now. The thing you should be thinking about right now is what you want on your tombstone, ’cause this time I’m gonna put your ass down for keeps. Ain’t no one gonna bring you back. I’m gonna explode you into so many incy-wincy pieces, your rent-a-thugs are gonna need to use a vacuum to hose up your remains.”

  “You,” Beauvoir said again, body shaking, voice trembling. “You gonna wish you were dead. I’m gonna cut off your arms and legs, then I’m gonna—”

  “Let me just stop you right there,” I interrupted, holding up a hand. “As much as I love hearing about all the terrible things you have in store for me, I’m fresh out of fucks for the time being. So let’s just do ourselves a favor and stow the bullshit threats, ’cause I got your number, bub.”

  “Talk. Always talk wit’ you,” Beauvoir spat. “You may have many tricks up your sleeve, but I think it won’t do much good.” He snarled and waved a hand toward the assembled horde. “We have already played this scenario out to its conclusion, and we both know how it ends. You are weak, on the edge of death. You are in no position to fight me, or all of them.”

  “You’re right,” I replied, lowering the M4, letting the weapon dangle as I folded my hands over the pistol grip. “I can’t beat you, not in a knock-down-drag-out. Not against these kinda odds.”

  “Could it be?” Beauvoir asked, his snarl turning into lopsided sneer. “Could it be that our time together has finally subdued that famous Lazarus spirit? I have met many strong men who have been broken by less.” He shrugged. “There is no shame in this.”

  “Not broken,” I replied evenly. “I’m just good with odds. And right now, they’re in your favor. But what if the odds weren’t quite so lopsided?”

  I called on Azazel, reaching out for the Nox, pulling in as much tainted power as I could hold in my broken and battered body. I called on that demon shithead, even knowing the price I would pay later on. The more Nox I used, the more damage I dealt to his already dilapidated prison, and sooner or later he was gonna break free. Once he did, I was in a world of shit. My mind flashed back to an enemy I’d fought not so long ago: a greater Wendigo named Achak. He’d sold his soul for power, too, sold it to a gluttony demon, and ended up a slave, trapped inside his own mind.

  That could be me. Probably would be.

  Whatever. I wasn’t even sure I’d live long enough to deal with that fallout. And if I did? Well that was a problem for future Me to handle.

  Hazy light began to build around me, a nimbus of angry violet the exact shade of Azazel’s demonic eyes. The exact same color I knew my eyes—well, eye—was right at that moment. My hands and arms began to burn with a frozen heat; a quick glance down revealed streaks of red-black spreading through my veins, creating a patchwork of spidery tendrils reaching, clawing, toward my heart. As that power engulfed me, burning increasingly brighter like some otherworldly flame, my body lifted from the ground, my feet hovering a few feet from the stone steps below.

  From the terrified looks spreading across the faces of the living, I knew I must’ve resembled a dark, avenging angel come to deal out God’s wrath. And that was close to the truth. Except I wasn’t doing God’s bidding—no, this was freelance work.

  I turned my senses outward, reaching for the dark power, thick and invisible, floating in the air. The power Beauvoir was using to control and animate his mindless minions. The Avizo. Nox.

  Azazel’s lesson bubbled to the top of my mind as I stared at Beauvoir and his zombies.

  “When a mortal seeks to use the Nox,” he’d said, “they must draw the power through an immortal conduit who acts as a buffer. An insulator protecting the human wielder … It is remarkably similar to the process you magi use in binding.”

  There’s not really a way to block someone with a fistful of Vis already flowing through ’em.

  You can block their constructs. Or unravel their workings.

  You can grind a mage down until they can’t keep a handle on their power. Or you can blast them into low orbit with an offensive construct of your own making.

  But there isn’t a way to cut ’em off from the power of Creation, because that primal energy is everywhere. In everything. The world radiates power—positively brims with it—and so does every living thing. Vis is in rocks and stone, in trees and forests, pumping through the veins of every person in the form of Vim.

  That wasn’t the case with Nox, though.

  Nox didn’t power creation, didn’t turn the wheels of life and existence; it was a negative force, conjured from death and inaccessible to mortals—or, at least, not immediately accessible to mortals. To touch the Nox, a practitioner had to go through an intermediary like a demon or a powerful Loa, forming a connection that worked in the same manner as binding.

  Binding is one of the most powerful tools we magi have at our disposal. Any mage, by themselves, can dish out a world of face-melting, bone-breaking, soul-crushing hurt, which is the reason why supernatural baddies of most persuasions tread warily around our kind. But the most powerful constructs take more than one mage to pull off. They take a team working in concert: sharing flows of energy, weaving different braids together to construct a single mega-construct far more powerful than the sum of its parts.

  But binding is a delicate process, a fragile thing, and it doesn’t come without a substantial set of risks and weakness. Sure, a pair of bound magi can rock your shit ten ways from Tuesday, but, with one wrong step, they might just as well blow their asses to the moon. A butt-load of things can go wrong with binding. Among those things? A binding can be broken. Severed. It isn’t easy to do, but if you’ve got the know-how and the raw power, you can make it happen. It’s a little like prying apart two links in a chain: just requires some brute force and a well-placed strike.

  Me? I had the know-how and the strength—thanks to my link with Azazel—which was bad news bears for Beauvoir.

  Beauvoir was deriving his power through a link to Ong, the Fourth Seal Bearer, and had created hundreds of lesser links to each of his undead minions, turning them into a host of puppets.

  Inside each zombie was a tight ball of throbbing power. That power pushed hair-thin strands of energy through the corpses like a rudimentary circulatory system. But instead of circulating blood, that network of energy conveyed the power of unlife by providing them with stolen Vim. Life force siphoned off from other mortals and from Creation itself, slowly killing the world. That was part of the re
ason Cité Soleil was such a dank, dark, awful place: because Baron Samedi and Beauvoir had been preying on it like cancer.

  Now that I knew what to look for, it was simple to locate the tight knot of power, which acted as a confluence of ingoing and outgoing energy. A control center and binding point.

  Assuming I’d understood Azazel correctly, it should be possible to smash the holy hell out of that knot and break Beauvoir’s control over the undead fiends. If I could do that, it’d be a game changer. And if not … Well, I was as deader than dead.

  Time to roll those dice.

  TWENTY-SIX:

  What Goes Around …

  With a weary grin, I extended a razor blade of whipping Nox toward the nearest zombie—an elderly man with a potbelly, wearing rainbow suspenders, tattered pants, and nothing else——and slashed through the knot of energy imbedded in his saggy chest, slicing it into little pieces, unraveling the construct in a blink.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  My grin faltered.

  Another second ticked by, snailing along slower than the line at the DMV.

  Still nothing. Well, shit.

  But then, then, friggin’ magic:

  The portly, rainbow-suspendered man shuddered, his whole body suddenly plagued by a terrible seizure—arms flailing, legs wobbling, head flapping forward and back, forward and back. Then, finally, the body dropped in a heap of twitching limbs, once more a corpse. I smiled at Beauvoir, the predatory grin of a lion seeing easy prey, then sent out a wave of power, which washed through the courtyard. The zombies, all of them, flew into similar erratic spasms, their arms and legs jerking and jolting, a school of fish suddenly out of water, before bodies starting hitting the deck by the dozens.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.