If you were to ask most fans of horror and science fiction about what jumpstarted the modern zombie trope, they would most likely cite a certain cult classic from the late 1960s with grainy and simplistic production values. A wide array of other films followed suit throughout the 1980s, and by the turn of the century in the 2000s the zombie phenomenon was reborn and reignited, soaring to newfound levels of popularity and exploding throughout the landscape of popular culture. The revitalization of zombies from the realm of B quality bargain films to the shining lights and massive quantity of eyeballs of the mainstream has been a stunning success story, perhaps becoming almost too successful for its own good. After all, through the advent of zombies into every nook and cranny littered about throughout network and cable television, and blockbuster and cult film, the genre has been picked apart and over sampled, becoming ubiquitously watered down and done to death.

     Turn on most any television program or film included among the genre and you will likely spot a bastion of highly infectious, brain-feasting corpses and/or the coming zombie apocalypse on account of the widespread rise in the zombie population set in the rubble and ruin of a dystopian future world. It may relieve you, or disappoint you for that matter, to learn that our story tonight features nothing of the aforementioned sort pertaining to the hungry insatiable appetite of the undead, or of any revolution bordering on Armageddon.

     What we have for you this evening is a simple tale without the gory glitz and glamour of the modern zombie, a tale stripped down to its roots, how appropriate seeing as how we are getting to the roots of the zombie legend and all of its surrounding mythology and folklore. In a remote mountainous island region of Haiti, a former relief aide worker is about to take a trip back down memory lane, but there happens to be a bump in the road of this tropical trapeze that lay ahead, one that will lead him to investigate a plantation owned by an eccentric fellow whom the locals are afraid of, citing his mastery of voodoo and his use of zombies to do his bidding. Be advised that although there is no global undead pandemic or worldwide zombie apocalypse forthcoming, the events waiting to unfold before you could very well spell the end of the world for some of our characters...

2: Chapter 1

Glancing down from his plane window at the beaming azure waves shimmering in the sunlight and sparkling with whitecaps as they crash along the beaches, Damon Brooks lets out a heavy sigh while leaning back and resting his head against the seat cushion. It was a homecoming of sorts, only this was far from a happy reunion, as present circumstances combined with an inconvenient blotch on the resume had returned the man to a place from his past, a place he had vowed to never return to again, the Caribbean island nation of Haiti.

     Things were much different back then, when Brooks was a recent college graduate young and eager to travel the world, providing relief work and learning about foreign cultures and customs while helping those in need, a most enriching and rewarding arrangement. Soaking up as much knowledge as possible like a sponge, he had always been very appreciative and respectful of the many different unique cultures he enjoyed the pleasure of coming across.   Signing on with the Peace Corps seemed like just the means to do so, an organization that would send the enthusiastic young man to the impoverished nation to aid in relief work. It was not so much that any one item arose amounting to a triggering point or a changing of the internal guard of his mind, as much as it was a growing sensation to put behind the modest wages and seek out a career path that did not involve a daily grind involving an ever present overindulgence of pain, misery, hunger, filth, and death. Grandiose visions of changing the world often subside with even the most optimistic true believers over the passage of time, and the stark reality setting in was that as hard as Brooks worked and cared, there was simply not enough bandages to be applied or measures to be done to fix up the third world.

     Ten years after the impasse and resolution of his crosswords he was here again, this time clean shaven and short haired with his former slender frame holding on an additional thirty pounds or so, a man returning with some semblance of humanitarian aide on his mind yes, but returning in the form of a businessman, working as a scout for a multinational corporation launching a new product line of soft drinks dubbed “Caribbean Cola” that was expanding operations throughout the tropics. Given his intimate knowledge and expertise of the Haitian island and populace, Brooks was assigned to return near his old stomping grounds and serve as a liaison between the community and the company in the purchase and operation of a new sugarcane refinery plant.  

     Rummaging through his bag of mixed emotions and the collection of thoughts from his memory bank as the plane touches down and pulls up to the gate, easing off of the plane making his way towards the baggage claim before his mind and emotions return to the present tense, a fostering growth of excitement resonates providing the coming reuniting with a longtime friend who happens to be his ride into the village.                 

Stepping out of the airport into the light of day, the humid heat washes his thoughts away, overtaking his sensations and enveloping him like a sauna, while watching the luscious palm trees fluttering about every which way in the unyielding surge of the caressing breeze. Awaiting his arrival outside of the airport stands a man decorated with rugged and rather ragged long dark hair on the top and a corresponding dirty beard muddying the skin beneath his chin. Mr. Daniel Crawford, a college pal of Brooks that later worked alongside him in the Peace Corps has remained on the island of Hispaniola as a relief worker, and has obviously grown accustomed to the rustic and rudimentary lifestyle.

     “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Wall Street fat cat! How are you Damon?” asks Crawford, extending his hand for a long awaited shake.

     Smiling momentarily, Brooks briefly pauses and thinks back to how he is the only person that the mild mannered and soft spoken Crawford has ever spoken out about, a sign that Brooks has always taken as a showing of comfort and respect as opposed to any slighting or hostility.

     “You look about ready for a protest or sit down or occupation of Wall Street or whatever it is they do,” cracks Brooks, “I’m doing great Danny, it really is great to see you again, it has been far too long and it’s great to be back here.”

     “This may come as a surprise to you, but you started a bit of a trend when you treaded off for greener pastures way back when. It’s hard to keep a team down here for long. People just aren’t as comfortable volunteering their services or even working in the relief business as much as they did when we were still green,” replies Crawford, as the two step into his dusty yellow sedan.

     “For a home schooled kid you are the farthest thing from sheltered, why, you’ve been out and about and here and there and you’ve done this and that, you’re far from the naïve, soaking wet fish out of water that you were back as a freshman. Dare I say it, you sound as though this place and this line of work has weathered and worn on you a bit, just as it did me,” questions Brooks.

     “A lot has changed since you were last here Damon. The earthquakes hit especially hard and devastated everything, as you know, we more or less had to start over from scratch, building and building everything in an endless circle. The monsoon season has been harsh these past few years, we’ve gotten a few tropical storms, low category storms that may not have inked the papers back in the States but damaged the infrastructure here. A rise in gang and criminal activity, and on top of that a leveling off of funding that has been slashed repeatedly since those recessions during the time of our graduation. You were wise to get out of this mess when you did,” explains Crawford.

     “For the record I wasn’t quite ready to jump into it just yet, but here you’ve gone and set aside the preambles and reunion phase of the trip and have scrambled up my talking points, so...I suppose I might as well just dive into it. All that stuff about how you needed me to get here before you could divulge some information about the village of Croix-Bleue, how you weren’t comfortable speaking over the phone and could only do so in person? Surely the earthquakes and budget cuts weren’t on your mind, and it doesn’t sound as if they’ve amassed a budget for wiretaps,” asks Brooks.

     “Yes. You mentioned that the company bought out the factory and the land from that rum distillery near Croix-Bleue, how it was a cheap bargain and how from all accounts it was unique in that the infrastructure had remained intact from natural calamity and how there was a large populace nearby, correct?” asks Crawford.

     “You’ve pretty much nailed it to a tee. Not a lot of negotiating or work on my part left to do I suppose, aside from speaking with local authorities and greeting the local population. I wonder how many of them will remember me?” jokes Brooks.

     “You may wish to advise your boss to consider second thoughts regarding this whole operation,” retorts Crawford.

     “My boss is just a shoot from the hip and ask questions later kind of guy. Not a big fan myself, but what can I say, he’s my boss and he pays my salary. That’s the way of the world Dan, that’s the way it’s always been, and I didn’t start that fire, nor could I wash it out,” replies Brooks.

     “About that, I went ahead and did some of that reconnaissance work you requested of me. The factory and land? Check. The infrastructure? Check. A large nearby population? Check. A populace of willing workers? Negative,” announces Crawford.

     “What are you talking about here Dan? Don’t forget, I’m no stranger to the island. Yes, food and drink and shelter are bigger deals, but work was just as scarce a commodity to these people. You don’t think they’re going to want to work in a factory or on the sugarcane plantation? Hell, they’re not going to be slaves, they’re going to get paid, paid more money than they could make anywhere else in that town of 30,000,” declares Brooks.

     “It’s not about the money or the work opportunity, Damon,” quips Crawford.

     “Well it isn’t as if it’s demeaning work. This stuff is their bread and butter, they’re unskilled laborers. Please spare me some economic diatribe political rant about heart and values, because I did not fly down here to swim through the slums to hear it. These peoples care far less about theory and intangible items than they do food on the table, some are reduced to eating garbage off of the streets,” claims Brooks.

     “Not at all. You know this place well, fairly well at least, but you may not know much about this. Up there in the hillside is a village of about five thousand, and in that village is located a large sugarcane plantation. The owner there is believed to be a Bokor, feared by the entire village, along with our fair city right here. That is why the rum distillery went out of business and was so pleased to sell the land for cheap. Nobody would work there then, and nobody would work for some sugarcane plantation now, they flat out refused out of a paralyzing and destabilizing fear, as misguided as it may be,” explains Crawford.

     “So they’re afraid of a voodoo priest, is that right? Refresh my memory a bit if you please,” requests Brooks.

     “Or a sorcerer, yes. Look, I’m not trying to convert you or change your way of thinking, I don’t buy into the fear, but the villagers sure do due to the zombie legends and superstitions so rampant and intertwined with religious tradition. I’m just telling you that you guys may want to find another factory for that soft drink beverage of yours,” claims Crawford.

     “Funny, the zombie legends are coming back to me a little bit. In all my time here I never once saw a live one, or should I say a dead or undead one, just as I suspect you’ve never encountered one either, although I suppose I’m hardly going out on a limb there with that assertion. If you recall we heard a few stories from random villagers here and there during our time, mostly because they were afraid of us foreigners. Good work Dan, this may be a spiritual or religious dilemma to these people, but it’s an economic dilemma to us, and I’ll call my boss first thing in the morning and fill him in on the good news. It can wait, I’m tired as hell,” laughs Brooks as the two arrive at the relief worker compound, a somewhat modern facility that once served as the residence of Brooks during his younger days.

3: Chapter 2

Curiosity growing the better of him upon awakening from a four hour nap, tidbits of the zombie legends continue sprinkling their way into the brain of Brooks, leading the inquisitively stricken one up from his futon and towards the corner of the room, signing onto the computer to research up a refresher course on the voodoo beliefs of the undead. Having never once saw one during his time in the country, his thoughts center on how travelers to Ireland most likely had their eyes shielded from any leprechaun sightings, how visitors to China never encountered any fire breathing dragons, and how guests of Loch Ness generally did not witness the monster.

     It was the lunatic fringe, or so he thought, that spoke out about the zombies as actual authentic beings born not from the imagination or storybooks but real to the touch and standing in the flesh. Fanatical, paranoid and uneducated rural villagers often spewed, spit and lashed out dismal warnings of such legends from their tongues to Brooks and Crawford and any other relief worker willing to listen, and in the process painting themselves in an inadvertent picture denoting the portrayal of one in dire need of seeking out and receiving attention, a Haitian equivalent of rural UFO witnesses back home.

Hardly the type to engage in the musings of common stereotype, it was simply unfair to classify the general populace as a group keen on the beliefs of the rising undead roaming about the streets in the dark and dead of night, shaking their little rattles and dousing themselves in paint, plant grease and animal feathers to ward off the evil creatures. Such was generally the type of superstition limited to the realm of those on the far end of the spectrum, not unlike the fanatics of any other religious order around the globe. The difference being, by and large that the Haitians simply did not follow the rules and ways of our common core Judeo-Christian beliefs, a notion that may petrify some back in the States, but not so a man such as Brooks that had walked among the ruin and poverty of this nation, a world oozing scenes far more terrifying and real than any apocalyptic zombie feature could dare create.   Aside from that Brooks was not merely tolerant yet heavily immersed in his fascination with foreign cultures, spending a few hours enjoying getting reacquainted with the logic behind the mythological zombie. The voodoo religion originated in Africa and was brought upon the island of Hispaniola along with the influx of the slave population during the days several centuries prior when the slave trade reached its apex. Today the religious traditions and customs of voodoo are popularly practiced throughout the nation, alive and well and just as strong as ever.

Despite what one may think from the outset, the notion of zombies play a substantially small role in the faith, not taken seriously by most adherents and reduced to a use mostly as a sort of parable between life and death and the many taboos involving and separating the two, among those proscriptions such as murder, cannibalism, and grave robbing. Although, it must be noted that there does exist a fringe of believers on the far wing of the spectrum that does heavily believe in zombies, a branch of the faith that takes them very seriously to the point of pronounced significance in their everyday lives, and it is from this bizarre minority that the westernized depictions of the undead creature takes flight.

It is difficult for certain to suggest whether zombie legends were composed merely and strictly in a way to keep order and separate the boundaries of life and death, along with aims of safeguarding against the grave digging and desecration of the deceased, but for one reason or another they came into existence with heavy footing and were passed down through the generations.

     Interestingly enough, those that do happen to believe in zombies do not fear an attack from the creatures as much as they fear the eternal and unpleasant fate of being transformed into zombies themselves through the zombification process. Just how does one become a zombie? According to voodoo beliefs, there are two ways for one to die: naturally, through aging or bodily illness, or unnaturally, through premature accident. Those passing on naturally were believed to be spared any repercussions, while those perishing prematurely were said to suffer the discomfort of being confined to a place between life and death, leaving them susceptible to having their souls stolen and harnessed by the power of the Bokor, a voodoo priest or sorcerer said to possess the ability to trap the ill-fated soul in a bottle or other means, and through ritualistic methods use the soul to channel the corpse of the deceased to rise from the grave.

     Would the reanimated zombie corpse proceed to feast on the living with an insatiable appetite for flesh and blood and brains? Hardly. The reanimated corpse was said to possess a silvery white tint to their skin with deadened, lifeless eyes possessing a calming and quiet stare that never blinked, while their decomposing lungs were barren of oxygen given they had no need to breathe. Recognizing basic language and being able to hear and occasionally speak a word or two, the zombies were said to hold no instincts, no intuition, no personality, no thoughts, no memory or recollection of their past lives, as they were merely reduced to walk the earth as mindless drones serving as slaves under the direct command of the Bokor, the crafter of the spell able to trap the soul and in essence raise the dead.

Lacking any free will they remained confined as prisoners convicted of nothing yet chained inside of their own mind in a perpetual dreamy trancelike state of being. Lumbering slowly yet surely about with a slow, crawling and deadening pace, the undead were reduced to slaves in order to do the bidding of their master, whether they consisted of altruistic or malicious matters.          

Oblivious to physical pain and sensation and said to possess strength superior to what they enjoyed in life, the zombie was perfect for being relegated to use as a hard laborer, often in the fields of farms or sugarcane plantations--a morsel of information that sends not quite a shiver but at the very least a discernible quiver down the spine of Damon Brooks, glancing up from the computer monitor and towards the mountainous hills outside of the window.

     While many zombies were used for benevolent purposes, their valuable and practical nature tailor made for the island made them an appealing use for malevolent purposes, and a staple for those dark Bokors dabbling in black or red magic, red magic consisting of the specific channeling of evil spirits. This included using them as a form of deterrence towards their enemies in order to intimidate them, as well as for more wicked purposes including ordering and carrying out severe bodily harm and murder. The only possibility for a zombie killing another living human was not through the cranium-craving hunger in their stomachs but through the direct command of their Bokor, with the offending zombie soldier possessing no preordained preference for tearing apart the flesh or feasting upon the brains, and it should also be noted that the bite of a zombie or even a killing committed by a zombie did not amount to the victim being transformed into a zombie in and of itself, as the rotting teeth of the undead creature were not fangs protruding with nor dipped in a virulent venom ready to unleash a harrowing disease and spread a plague, while his slobbering saliva was neither infested nor infected with any contagious virus dripping about.

As far as killing the walking zombie, in a world of endless possibilities such a feat was impossible, considering the creature was already deceased and that even as far as zombies are concerned, in this world of ours you only die once. The only way to put a stop to the reanimation, short of disintegrating the corpse, was through the means of a reversal, countering the spell and breaking the curse.

     Those spellbound victims doomed into membership among the ranks of the walking dead were destined to remain as zombies in perpetuity unless the curse was lifted in a very specific way. In the event the commanding Bokor were to be killed, control over the zombie would be assigned to the assailant or designated to another of his choosing. Salt was used as a weapon against a zombie that could possibly wrangle him free from the spell wresting control away from the Bokor, although in either case the victim would remain stuck as an undead, mind numbing and toe-dragging zombie, reduced to the unsatisfying status of drone without king. There was a third way that the spell could be set aside, and the only way that the soul of the victim could be laid to rest, and that was through the direct divine intervention from a voodoo God.

     Equipped with more information than needed pertaining to the legendary undead creatures of the voodoo culture, closing his eyes for the night is Damon Brooks, smiling at the notion that even if there happen to be zombies on the hillside plantation, they will not be coming after him to feast upon his brains in the night...

     “Mr. Barnaby, Damon here. Our plan may have hit an unforeseen snag in the line. It seems that the people in the area are unwilling to work at our developing facility because they are in fear of...well they are in fear of a Bokor who operates a rival sugarcane plantation,” explains Brooks on the telephone with his boss the ensuing morning, patient and careful in his selection of words and presentment of such rogue explanation.

     “A what? Would you care to repeat yourself?” asks Mr. Barnaby, understandably startled and confused.

     “A voodoo priest sir, a sorcerer. Listen, as preposterous as it sounds these people are steadfast in their beliefs and will not lay down the weapon of their faith on account of us. Regrettably sir, it is my belief that we may wish to look elsewhere for our facilities and operations, not because of some ritual or spell but because of purely economic considerations of course,” explains Brooks.

     “Damon, you’re a former relief aide worker, not only have you given these people food, water and clothing, but you’re giving them employment! This is P.R. at it’s finest for us, and this is why we have put you in this position, you’re intimate with the Haitian culture. Brooks, we own property there in Croix-Bleue, one of the very few areas around Port Au Prince that is somewhat earthquake resistant in terms of the terrain and topography. Relatively speaking this location is stable, and has a heavy population base, making it the perfect spot. The location and infrastructure is already in place as far as I’m concerned, and dollars and cents and efficiency matter more to me than any potpourri of hocus pocus, and I’m sure that it will be to those impoverished villagers too!” demands Barnaby.

     “Yes, I can appreciate that sir. The only problem is that these are not men of dollars and cents, these are men and women of principles, traditions, long held religious and ceremonial beliefs that they steadfastly adhered to, many would rather die than alter their way of life. I am not trying to cause friction; I am just speaking from my experience on this island. These nuts will respect some man wearing leaves and shaking a stick more than they will men like us dressed in a suit and tie coming from a faraway place,” snaps Brooks.

     “You make a good point, but you know what? The wheels are already in motion. We’ll talk to the important movers and shakers in the community and convince the people to get on our side of things if that is what worries them, now it is your job to assess what needs to be done in order for any tensions to dilute themselves. Start with that Bokor or whatever he calls himself. Do what is needed to secure his blessing if he will call off his dogs towards the village people, fair enough? Enough debate, go talk to him,” orders Barnaby.

     “Sir, if we were to go to some rural home in the United States brandishing the conduct of an operation they are strongly opposed to, the owner would be liable to stuff a shotgun in our face. In the Haitian countryside they’d be likely to concoct some sort of magic spell, I may not believe in voodoo but I do believe in karma,” responds Brooks.

     “Well I don’t know about you but I’d much rather have some witchdoctor cooking up a batch of wild soup as opposed to seeing some redneck pointing a gun into my chin. Before you respond you better ask yourself what you believe in, Damon. I have no business and frankly no interest in bestowing upon you an exercise in faith, but if you’re getting misty eyed and nostalgic about being back on that third world island, just remember they could always use another pair of hands in the Peace Corps to dig through filth and garbage. Do you understand me clearly? Speak to him, get it done!” demands Barnaby before angrily hanging up the phone.

4: Chapter 3

     Later that week Damon Brooks makes his way through the village and upwards into the hills via the vehicle of Dan Crawford, slumping in the car and exhaling heavily in the passenger seat, turning to look at his friend who has something to say.

     “I’ve got to say, this is going to be interesting to say the least. Never met the guy before, and from all I have heard my curiosity has reached fever pitch. Did happen to speak to some locals about him just yesterday as a matter of fact, some pretty intelligent, community figures that maintain quite a bit of power and hold a heavy serving of sway. They’re the ones that helped set up our little meeting, apparently not just anybody has the privilege of trekking atop the hill and meeting him, you owe me one partner,” explains Crawford.

     “As I said I appreciate it, so be on the lookout for a thousand thank you cards headed your way. Now please do tell, what did they have to say about him?” asks Brooks.

     “A reiteration of what we knew and thought. You may be lucky to have won a chance meeting, but you may not be so lucky regarding what else I’ve got to say, let alone once we get up there. This figure that goes by the name of Janjak Gramont is a Bokor, one of the oldest and by all accounts most powerful sorcerers in the country. Everyone is afraid of the guy, whom has amassed a fortune by killing off rivals and making them into zombies...or at the very least inducing them with the threat of doing so,” explains Crawford.

     “These intelligent community friends of yours believe all of this?” snaps Brooks.

     “No, of course not. They’re educated men from this century. You cannot place a price on education and logical thought, which frankly explains this whole zombie legend most adequately. It may just be one giant carnival show of a ginormous bait and switch tactic cloudy with the smoke and mirrors of an amusement funhouse burning to the ground. The potions, concoctions, zombie drink if you will, that these alleged Bokors serve to ill-fated parties to consume, among the ingredients are Tetraodontidae, an extremely powerful neurotoxin found in puffer fish. You consume that and it shuts the body down, and just the right serving in a non-lethal dose will keep the body alive.  

“The poison wears off, and this zombie victim ‘rises from the dead,’ still lethargic and slumbering about, to the horror of the throngs of witnesses unfamiliar with the process. Repeated further dosage of other chemicals significantly impairs the brain chemistry of the victim, incarcerating them in a near catatonic state of lifelessness absent of exhibiting free will, a phenomenon appearing to be akin to mind control.

“As you know my undergraduate degree was in Public Health, and such is my specialty here in my relief aid work. Citing possible and likely medical and medicinal explanations for zombification is a necessity to understanding their operation from our perspective. We know a few things about this specific town and now we have equipped ourselves with adequate weaponry pertaining to this culture and about this Gramont fellow,” explains Crawford.

“Learning point takeaway, refuse any drink he offers, check,” quips Brooks.

“That may all be well and true, but lately I’ve had another thought about these zombies, how the legends grew here, and why they are incorporated differently in our country. In America, catastrophe as we see it is fast moving, fast paced, instant, overnight. Tornadoes, hurricanes, guns firing, bombs exploding, here today, gone tomorrow, devouring and changing our world in a mere matter of minutes if not seconds. No surprise that kids view zombies as living corpses feeding on the living, attacking them in droves and waves and feasting on their brains, and spreading some apocalyptic plague that is so repulsive and destructive that at some point it became sexy and glamorous,” declares Brooks, staring out the windows at the endless barrage of slums and broken homes near and far, stretching from the dirty curb of the dirt road to the fleeting haze of the horizon.

“Conversely, here catastrophe is slow and ever-lasting. Granted, they’re not immune to things changing overnight via an earthquake or some tropical storm blowing in from the sea. However the devastation is real and ever-present, you see these people ravaged with famine and pestilence and death, it’s as if some of those four horsemen decided to take up refuge here and hold a perennial derby. Everyone here is hungry and thirsty and hot or cold, soaking much too wet during the rainstorms and caking much too dry under the hot sun. No wonder they’re not afraid of zombies, as is the fear back home in the supernatural realm, instead they worry about becoming a zombie, doomed to an eternity confined as a meandering slave to the unscrupulous. No zombie attack could be nearly as frightening as the lack of the basic necessities, for the slow, deathly crawl of the undead is omnipresent in their world,” concludes Brooks as the two pull up to the sugar plantation.

“We’re here. They speak Creole, so I hope you’ve dusted off your fluency,” exclaims Crawford before exhaling and breathing in deeply. “Let’s do it!”

Standing approximately twenty-five feet tall, the white plantation house does not look nearly as grand or magnanimous up close and personal as it did far away from the valley, but it does appear far more eerie and menacing than it did before. Searching for a doorbell that does not exist, knocking loudly on the wooden door is Crawford as Brooks examines the grey stone foundation of the plantation house, augmented into a series of uneven bricks, the upper portion adorned in tucked wood panels painted in a bright shade of white. Looming not far overhead is a balcony, the centerpiece of the plantation house surrounded by an assortment of tall yet gaunt glass windows decorating and surrounding the structure.

Swallowing a lump in his throat as a man answers the door, greeting his host in Creole is Crawford as the man motions them inside.

“It’s the son,” whispers Crawford, as Brooks examines the appearance of the man, roughly thirty years of age with dark black skin and dressed in rather haggard looking clothes for coming from a family in the stratosphere of the Haitian hierarchy. Wearing a faded checkered hat, a dusty blue shirt from a fabric resembling flannel, and long jeans cuffed at the ankles with a slender pair of sandals clasping his feet, with a brisk pace the son leads the two inside of the plantation, a rather humbling and modest interior casting a slightly modern appearance that was far from the sinister voodoo lair rife with candles and shrunken heads that Brooks had been anticipating.

(Translated from Creole): “Father, these are the two men that are here to see you,” speaks the son to his father before turning back towards his guests.

“I am Toussaint Gramont, you will speak to me,” declares the son following a whisper with his father, as Brooks lays eyes upon the Bokor. Despite being nearly eighty years of age by all accounts, the man looks to sport an appearance of no more than fifty, looking as though he stands five and a half feet tall although it is difficult to say as he sat comfortably in a chair positioned closely to the ground. Dark brown eyes staring firmly and ominously from his jet-black face, coated with a brushy black moustache and thick white beard, the elderly Bokor studies his guests with a sneer draped across his cheeks. A thick yellow wide brimmed straw hat attached with a large red feather adorned his head, while a slender white garment was worn as a shirt, with loose purple pants of some unfamiliar variety that almost seemed to resemble a dress enwrapping his legs. The strangest aspect of all was why his arms were painted white while the back of his hands were painted red up until the fingertips, a question that neither Brooks nor Crawford wishes to inquire about.

“You’re relief workers from the city?” asks the son.

“Yes, I have been living and working here in Haiti for about a decade, while my partner here is a former relief worker that now works for a company hoping to do business and provide opportunity here to the good Haitian people,” explains Crawford, in ambassadorial fashion.

“What type of business?” asks the son, leading pause on the part of Crawford, directing the question over to Brooks.

“Well, you see, we’re a soft drink company. You know, Cola drinks and the like, and we have purchased the factory from the old rum distillery,” explains Brooks.

“What are you going to be doing there?” asks the son.

“Making the soft drink, and employing the good people of the village. We do not wish to infringe upon your plantation by any means,” replies Brooks.

“What is your business then with us?” asks the son.

“Well,” begins Brooks before being interrupted by Crawford.

“They’re going to be refining sugar for the production of the soft drink, and we were hoping that we could have your blessing, and you could encourage the city folk to work there without any repercussions from yourselves,” interjects Crawford, much to the dismay of Brooks.

“No good, no business. Leave factory alone! How you say, Monopoly. We’re the sole producers of sugarcane in the area,” shouts the son.

“Sir, I only wish that we can co-exist here in the village, in our community, we respect and admire the job that you and your son do and praise you for your success,” declares Brooks in a diplomatic way.

“Stick to providing fresh food, clean water, and shelter, and stay away from sugar refinery,” snaps the son.

“Sir, we may have experience working as penniless relief workers, but I assure you that I come from a corporation with deep pockets. Surely for the right price you would tender to our desires, we already own the factory. What would it take to gain your acceptance, in American dollars?” asks Brooks directly to the Bokor himself.

“You agent of company, yes?” asks the Bokor to Damon Brooks.

“Correct, let’s do business, let’s make a deal, name me your price,” replies Brooks while instinctively shaking the hand of the old man, whose eyes grow wide at the offensive notion leading him to sneer his nose towards the scout.

“No business, no deal, sell that land, I don’t want your sugar refinery anywhere near this village or the city. Promise me that you won’t refine any sugar, look at me, in the eye!” shouts the Bokor as his son and Crawford fall silent looking on.

Sensing the sweltering parched portion of the back of his throat while attempting to swallow, dry and dehydrated as if languishing in the hot island sun and surpassed only by the scorching look of the Bokor, peering into the eyes of the voodoo sorcerer Brooks feels the intense scrutiny and pressure rapidly overcoming his emotions. His suit and tie and cushy position sure seemed to melt away up atop the hill inside of the sugar plantation, as he was a world away from being the home team, caddying the undesirable role of the despised visitor on their turf.

Responding carefully, he opens his mouth: “I promise you, we’ll look elsewhere, we’ll move elsewhere and leave. Pleasure meeting you,” he declares, almost hypnotically, his voice shaking along with his knees as the son abruptly shows them to the door as Brooks wobbles on out along with Crawford.

5: Chapter 4

“That was very kind of you, acquiescing in his wishes and changing your mind like that,” exclaims Crawford as the two make the short trip towards the car.

“It was strange, I didn’t mean to say that, it felt as though I was under some trance, like he was moving my lips and vocal chords and I was merely a puppet,” reveals Brooks.

“Anyway, why in the hell were you so quick to spill the beans on the sugar refinery?” snaps Brooks.

“Honesty is the best policy, besides you were obviously just as afraid of them as I was, probably more so from what I can tell,” replies Crawford.

“Maybe in relief work, but in business you play your cards right, and keep them close to the vest until the timing is right for you to up the ante!” exclaims Brooks in anger.

“Funny how now that we get out of that place and into the safety and refuge of my car you begin with your political-speak. Might want to work on that. Did you hear yourself in there? You sure aren’t much of a politician,” replies Crawford...

Assigned to remain in Haiti for the ensuing month as the sugar refinery operations commence as the distillation process of Caribbean Cola gets off the ground in the city of Croix-Bleue, the weeks begin to pass like seconds ticking off the clock as Damon Brooks cannot help but to think back to the promise he made to the mysterious Bokor on the hill, and his subsequent breaking of it.

“Truth be told, I haven’t had a full nights rest since that little meeting, that arrangement you made for us. The entire ordeal was one grand mistake, we found more than enough villagers willing to look the other way in exchange for work, why did we get those whackos involved in the first place?” asks Brooks.

“You may remember your boss insisted upon it to quell any fears, lot of good that did. More importantly it was a showing of respect,” replies Crawford.

“I lied to him, directly, to the face of the old man. Care to drop the respect and honesty card, would it kill you to do so? You don’t even believe any of this stuff, this witchcraft zombie nonsense, I’m the one being respectful of it!” angrily and frantically snaps Brooks.

“It really is keeping you up at night? I’ve already let you in on the secret; the entire resurrection process is merely a cut-rate sideshow for those not in the know that let their imaginations run wild. As long as he doesn’t prepare your food or serve you a drink you should be fine,” replies Crawford.

“Besides, they’ve got their own operation going on, you really think they care what you’re doing there at the plant? As shabby as those two looked they sure aren’t hurting for wealth in this land.”

“A funny feeling is all, an itch, a strange sentiment. There is more I need to admit to you Dan, gather a drink, you may need one with what I am about to say, just as I do,” explains Brooks.

“Go on,” request Crawford.

“Being out and about at the factory, and even around here I’ve been unable to shake the idea that I’m being watched. There have been people here and there on occasion just watching me, studying me as if I am a resource guide to some life or death exam. As if...as if they can read my thoughts, as if they know about what it is we’re doing there, as if they know about the conversation and the promise at the sugar plantation atop the hill. As if something is growing closer to happening to me, some inevitability that will prove to be the fault of my own actions,” admits Brooks.

“You’re losing it pal. Damon, you’ve been in the sun too long, maybe the water isn’t agreeing with your stomach. What I think it is though, is that you’re letting your imagination run wild just like those voodoo practitioners. In less than a week you’ll be in Port-Au-Prince on the plane back to Miami and you’ll never have to step foot here in this country again.

“So start looking forward to that, out of sight, out of mind. Speaking of our sparkling capital city, as you know I’ll be there for the next three days, a new team of arrivals has landed and it’s my job to show them the ropes. I’ll be back before you leave and we’ll have dinner, preferably one not prepared by our friends with the face paint,” explains Crawford with a wink, leaving Brooks alone in his room to attempt to get some sleep, his mind lumbering about with visions of the undead clouding this thoughts.

Going from bad to worse the following day Brooks finds himself wandering about the sugar refinery unable to shake that awful unsettling sensation of being watched, as if trouble is bubbling below with a dark mass of storm clouds forming overhead. Not helping is the fact that it’s a stormy day outside, darkening the scene and the mood outside as Brooks takes a taxi ride from the refinery to the relief aide compound, a journey filled with anxiety and trepidation as our passenger darts his vision from one outside pedestrian to the next, followed by one car to the other in a fast moving ever increasing wave of paranoia.

“You work as relief worker?” asks the cab driver, his words piercing the silence in a stabbing shock to the chest, kick-starting the heart of Brooks.

“Yes, that is what I do. Also helped open up that refinery plant back there, to help create jobs, and do good in the community,” replies Brooks, voice shaking, hand running alongside his forehead to clear the pooling sweat forming on his brow, before sliding the fingers through his hair.

“Only one sugarcane plantation in the area, up there. You better be careful, or they’ll come get you,” replies the man with a sneaking and snarky grin, sending a shiver down the spine of Brooks, noticing the light coating across the dark skin of his chauffeur glowing in an almost luminescent manner and appearing unnatural.

“Who, who is they, tell me, how do you know all of this?” asks Brooks.

“His workers, he has a whole army of men. They don’t play games or fool around. Three hundred gourdes,” declares the cabbie having reached the destination at the compound, as Brooks shuffles through the flimsy paper money, handing over the fare before exiting the cab and rushing indoors.

“This is insane, you’re insane!” Brooks shouts to himself inside his room while kicking off his shoes. “Zombies don’t drive taxis, they aren’t that coordinated. That was just some voodoo nut,” he boasts with a sarcastic laugh, a laugh interrupted by the creak of a door.

Rising to his feet immediately, slowly pacing his way towards the door with a solemn expression sewn across his face, reaching his hands up is Brooks, unlocking the wide wooden frame before pulling it open, sticking his head into the hallway and finding each and every door closed in his vicinity. Cannot possibly react this way to every little bang and bump that comes across my ears here, ponders the businessman to himself, sliding into the chair and placing his headphones upon said ears to drown out any foreign noise. Moments later, the increasing thud of forthcoming footsteps prompts our character to discard the headphones in a flurry. They were coming from the hallway, sounding as heavy as clasps of thunder rolling about in continuous bouts, as he places his ear squarely against the door.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Comes the accompanying sound of knocking, three of them, almost identical and rhythmic to each other in tone, a deadening noise sounding as though the grim reaper were on the other side of the door. Rising off of the floor after falling to the ground in an instinctual reflexive action from the heavy noise permeating his eardrums, the trembling man glances at the wooden door, rattling again with the coming of three additional foreboding knocks.

“There are never peepholes when you need one,” utters Brooks between extended gasps of breath, although in no rush to learn the identity of the individual or individuals on the wrong side of the door.

Just then a second sound begins to ring in clear through the rotating battle of thudding and silence, a second set of footsteps, only these were close, very close, too close--they were in the next room, inside of the compound apartment. Swallowing his fears and rushing to lock the deadbolt, Brooks watches as the doorknob begins furiously twisting about in confined frustration, the slow paced thud of knocking on the door continuing in triplicate and building in intensity.

“Who is it? Who is there? Go away! Please go away!” shouts Brooks, hoping desperately to hear the sound of a familiar voice, perhaps Crawford, or another friend residing in the compound, or a refinery worker or associate from Caribbean Cola, any ally would do provided they were not undead or hoping to drag Brooks back up the hill with them.

Just then the footsteps from the other room pick up their brisk stride, having growing faint as they had walked away before sliding over to another room and growing louder again. There was another way in the room, one other doorway, which was open as Brooks raises his head that had been buried in his hands in an ill-fated, half hazard attempt to gather his scrambled thoughts. Whoever was in the apartment was now in the room. Turning his head with a swift jerking motion straining just about every muscle in his neck, the blank and expressionless look of a man stands before him, six feet tall, with bulky muscles poking through ragged clothes and displaying snow white eyes barely grazing through eyelids that seem to slither about as if the man were experiencing rem sleep, or sleepwalking, only Brooks knew the truth pertaining to what stands before him.

Too frightened to make a sound aside from his porous breathing, the moment is interrupted as the apartment door comes crashing down from the blunt force of the man standing behind it, a second figure in ragged clothes with eyes that seem to glow as brightly as the moon when they manage to peek open, coated with dark skin glistening that same silvery tint Brooks had read about from what seemed like stories, legends even, only they were true, just as real as the men standing before him.

Staring blankly at the man that had betrayed their master, the zombies never utter a word, merely standing deathly still before shuffling their feet towards the former relief worker. Fight or flight response failing him like a plane nose-diving into the water, grimacing in pain, and in fear is Brooks, attempting to squeeze one last bit of energy from the muscles that were locked into place as if he were suffering from the final stages of a ravenous case of tetanus.

Knowing what he wished to do, what he needed to do, at long last throwing every last bit of effort in his dry bones and leaping up from off of the floor is Brooks, snagging a wooden chair and hurtling it into the glass window, smashing it into a thousand pieces every which way as he climbs from atop the chair and pushes his way outside through the window, slicing his hand but feeling not an ounce of pain given the slow and steady surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins that has finally awoken from its slumber.

6: Chapter 5

The drenching rains of the coming storm begin wetting him to the bone, and it was only after feeling the slippery wet liquid feel of hot red blood dripping from his hands and fingers does he realize what it was, but that was inconsequential, mere collateral damage, as he was outside and out of harms way for the moment, racing around seeking help but knowing not where to find it, darting through the filthy streets in the dousing rain before finding a taxicab.

“You again, welcome back,” exclaims the same cabbie from before, much to the bewilderment of Brooks, although that slight spark of a shock was about fifth in line in his mind at the moment after what had just occurred.

“Port-Au-Prince, we’re going to the airport. For your troubles you can have the rest of my gourdas,” promises Brooks as the two take off.

“Please do tell, what do you know about that man atop the hill, his army of workers?” asks Brooks, as the creaking of the novice wiper blades do an amateur job of scraping the gathering pool of water off of the windshield, as the cabbie looks at his passenger with a serious look bordering on contempt upon his face.

“Zombies, he’s got zombies, those suckers are real, aren’t they?” asks Brooks, receiving a response of silence from the driver.

“Please, help me!” begs Brooks.

“My grandfather spoke of how he knew that man atop the hill, Janjak Gramont the Bokor, they have owned that plantation for many years, generations, going back centuries. That is why so many around here fear them so much, the stories and legends have been ingrained in the fabric of our town. My grandfather used to swear by them, I don’t buy them though,” responds the cabbie.

“Feel free to buy them, I’m selling them to you at a bargain rate, they’ve made a believer out of this skeptic,” replies Brooks, noticing the scratchy buzz of the radio as the cabbie adjusts the dial to his liking for clarity. Despite playing the entire duration of the trip, Brooks hadn’t noticed the invisible musical notes pouring through the radio given all of the puzzling thoughts that were buzzing through his mind.

“The tropical depression that made landfall to the north of the island earlier today is expected to continue to wreak havoc across our listening area, bringing with it six to ten inches of rain over the next two days. Port-Au-Prince International Airport has grounded flights indefinitely and will be closed through tomorrow night,” replies the voice from the radio bulletin. His French may not have been what it once was, but Brooks could clearly ascertain the gist of the message, the most painful interpretation he has ever translated.

“Dammit, this cannot be happening, closed for a tropical depression?” asks Brooks.

“The rainwater floods the runways, they did not build the airport at a strategic location whatsoever,” replies the cabbie.

“The high-rise hotel, that touristy place where they speak English and where many foreign nationals stay, what is it called, the dancing toucan?” asks Brooks.

“Palms Pink Flamingo?” asks the cabbie.

“Yes, that’s it. They shouldn’t be able to get me there,” responds Brooks.

“Is someone after you? Are you in trouble? Are you really a relief worker?” asks the cabbie as the questions begin piling in.

“Yes I was, I am, it’s complicated, let’s just say I ran afoul of your grandfather’s friend on the hill,” explains Brooks, divulging the wrong answer as the cabbie slams on the breaks.

“What is it, what’s the matter?” asks Brooks, the cabbie looking at him with a menacing scowl across his face.

“No,” Brooks responds with a laugh. “You’re not one of them, tell me God you’re not one of them!”

“One of who?” replies the cabbie.

“A god damned zombie!” snaps Brooks.

“I am just a cabbie. Look mister, the hotel is a mile away. I will drop you off, you will pay your fare, and I will never see you again. I do not wish to make trouble with those men on the hill,” responds the cabbie.

“You said you didn’t believe in those zombies?” asks Brooks.

“My grandfather was a very wise man, and I’m not in the business of taking chances. It’s not in my nature as a cab driver; I roll the dice and hit person or car as a result. Zombie or no zombie, they have mass quantity of power, and means to seek revenge. Best of luck to you,” explains the cabbie while pulling up to the fifteen-story high-rise luxury hotel. It may not have been what the corporation scout had budgeted for, but whether he would be able to write it off through the company or be forced to foot the bill himself, it sounded like the next best place to be on this island after the airport, shielding himself from the rain and racing inside as the fury of nature intensifies.

“Mr. Barnaby, I’m flying back tomorrow night. Something came up and I need to get out of this country as soon as this damn tropical depression passes,” explains Brooks to his boss on the phone from his hotel room on the fifteenth floor.

“What’s the matter, are you a little tropically depressed yourself?” asks Barnaby.

“Look, I’m not going to mince words here. I’m concerned for my safety. We met up with the plantation owner and his son, just as you told me to do and which I confirmed with you after the fact. As you know they refused to give their blessing, and warned us to stay away and cease any and all operations in the area, which we did not, so as a result they’ve sent men after me,” explains Brooks.

“Get off with me then and call the police,” replies Barnaby.

“That won’t work, he’s the most powerful man in town. They’re afraid of him too; at the very least I know that they won’t interfere with him. Besides, he didn’t merely send men; he’s got others to work as foot soldiers,” explains Brooks.

“Others? Just what are you talking about?” requests Barnaby.

The zombies are real, I saw them with my own eyes, they came to the compound and broke down my door, one was already in my apartment for Christ sake!” shouts Brooks.

“Look Damon, I don’t know if they used puppet tricks or ventriloquism or a light display or a little magic show or whatever. Maybe we can book them to do my kids birthday party if they spooked you that much, but what do you expect me to say?” asks Barnaby.

“Just don’t be surprised when I charge this hotel room to the company account. These things are real, this is no pony show, or game of pin the tail on the Yankee!” shouts Brooks.

“The more I think about it, this is great. You have given me an idea, this is perfect for Caribbean Cola, and we can call one of the flavors Zombie Soda. We could open up a theme park down there and call it Zombies of the Caribbean!” jests Barnaby with heavy laughter.

“Sir,” responds Brooks in frustration, speechless as how he should respond.

“I’m not wasting another breath on this Damon, I get it that you’re homesick but you sound nuts. Look, if you’re in serious danger than call the authorities. If not, simply be careful for that place is a dangerous country, a lesson you should have learned years ago. Take care and I’ll see you soon. No more nonsense, I’m a businessman, not a horror writer,” snaps Barnaby, hanging up the extension and leaving his employee alone and clutching his phone, before dialing another number.

“Dan, listen to me, this is an emergency. I left the compound and I’m at the Palms Pink Flamingo hotel. They’re real Dan, I saw them. One broke down my door and another was in my room,” explains Brooks.

“Who?” asks Dan out of confusion.

“The zombies Dan, that Bokor fellow is the real deal, all of it is. The damn storm has shut down the airport otherwise I’d be on my way back to Miami,” responds Brooks.

“First of all, that relief worker compound is a United Nations safeguard for the record, no walking dead creatures would be able to just walk in there,” explains Crawford.

“Theoretically, no, they wouldn’t, now would they? This isn’t a god damn textbook lesson here Dan, we’re not in college anymore, this is real, they found me somehow and I’m worried that they’ll come after me here,” replies Brooks.

“Are you sure this is not some misunderstanding, a bad dream perhaps? Did you eat something that didn’t agree with you? Remember my medicinal explanations for the entire phenomenon?” asks Crawford.

“Short of some sort of hex on this bottled water I’d say that is out of the question!” demands Brooks.

“What do you want me to say? Agree with you that there are undead creatures coming after you? Gramont probably sent a goon squad down clad in face paint and makeup and island attire to scare you,” offers Crawford.

“Jesus Dan, you know, the world may be ripe with metaphors and parables, but not everything is passed down through the ages as some exercise in philosophy. These people wouldn’t be so terrified of zombies if they never saw them. I don’t know how he does it or why, and I don’t need to learn, forget about the application and practicalities circling through your brain and just help me find the damn solution!” shouts Brooks.

“Okay, very well, now settle down, how can I help you? The police are no valid option,” responds Crawford.

“I’ve gathered that, no use phoning in a zombie attack,” replies Brooks.

“Not only that, but your adversary more or less controls the police. This isn’t the States, apparently they grew tired of police investigating that plantation after receiving complaints from relatives, you know how corrupt tings are down here,” explains Crawford.

“How do you know all of this?” asks Brooks.

“Both eyes open, keeping an open mind, and setting my ears to the grindstone over the course of ten years will teach you some things,” explains Crawford.

“Look Dan, I’ve pissed off Gramont and need you to meet with him and negotiate some type of truce before those things find me here and kill me,” declares Brooks. “I looked into his eyes, he’s not the type of man to play around. There is nowhere I can go in this country where I would feel safe, he has ensured that I’m trapped with no way to get out, and those zombies are going to come after me and try to kill me,” explains Brooks, sliding to the ground in desperation.

“Tell you what, I can get back tomorrow night at the earliest, may take another day depending on this weather. You hang tight, I’ll try to reach out to the Bokor in the meantime,” answers Crawford.

“Good, I can hold out, I think. I’m on fifteen here, cannot tell you the room because I feel as though they’re listening in somehow,” explains Brooks.

“You need to relax Damon,” responds Crawford.

“When we get through this ordeal we’re going to take action. Poor villagers here have enough on their plates, they don’t need to worry about any voodoo sorcerers killing them or turning their loved ones into zombies,” explains Brooks.

“Coming back to the fight then?” asks Crawford.

“I never left, physically, maybe, but not emotionally, or spiritually. Poverty, pestilence, potions, same fight, different battle. Voodoo may have it right after all, you may be able to separate the two, the physical from the spiritual,” calmly declares Brooks, hanging on to the phone call for as long as he possibly can.

“Damon I have to go, there are things that must be taken care of before I return and meet with Gramont, wish me luck, and take care,” explains Dan.

“Godspeed buddy,” replies Brooks with a heavy sigh before turning off his phone, the signal flickering in and out seemingly in conjunction with each gust of the wind.

7: Chapter 6

When it rains it pours, a statement not merely applicable to the weather, as the electricity shuts off with the sound of a heavy thunderbolt cracking through the sky in the background as the lights slice the air into an abyss of black.

“Where is it, that first aid kit, in the kitchen,” whispers Brooks aloud stumbling through the darkness, reaching his hands across the countertops and feeling the refrigerator, oven, microwave and sink before his fingers come across the handle of the first aid kit. Retrieving it and staggering back towards the direction of the balcony door in order to reach the portion of the hotel room with the highest concentration of light, the former relief worker scurries about opening up the kit.

“Thank God, let there be light!” he whispers, pinching forward the button on the flashlight affording him a sliver of a beacon of light. Inside of the shiny metal red box are two other items that can prove to be of importance, a pair of scissors and a syringe. Tearing off the wrapper and biting off the cap, Brooks scrounges back into the kitchen for the saltshaker, filling up the dial after remembering the legends about salt neutralizing any offending zombies.

Just then a heavy thud occurs that sounds as if it is coming from another room. A fellow hotel guest? A thunderbolt over the ocean? The unrelenting and sheer winds and torrential downpours of rain from the storm? Or something else...?

Just when the sound begins to dissipate, growing faint as if rolling out with the tide, the now familiar and fear inducing thud has returned, first from an adjacent room, and then a second boom sourced from the hallway and a third arriving about from the ceiling.

“No, there is no way they could reach me up here, fifteen stories in this hotel miles away and in the storm?” shrieks Brooks squeezing his hair, his facial muscles tensing up and contorting into an uncomfortable position.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Comes a noise from the balcony glass door, a harrowing sound if there ever was one that leaves the former relief worker paralyzed in fear. Working up the courage to turn around, expecting to find an undead figure in black standing and staring back at him, the only thing unleashed is the greatest sigh of relief this side of the Caribbean upon noticing a small chair blowing against the door in the wind. Dropping to his knees and breathing in deeply, the terrified man closes his eyes, providing them some much-needed rest, a rest that would not last.

Mere seconds pass before the paranoia inducing noise returns, resulting in a short lived rest of the eyes as Brooks shines the flashlight frantically around the room in his left hand with the scissors and syringe ready to strike in the shaking grip of his right hand as the sound of footsteps grows ever closer, now inside of the hotel room, surrounding him in a circle of doom.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Cries the sound of the wood meeting the fists of someone, or something from outside of the hotel room door, Brooks responding by wincing in agony. Taking advantage of the hotel peephole, glaring in quickly and finding the same haggard looking man from before at the compound staring back from the hallway with an expressionless face and bright white eyes, a dagger of panic rips through the conscious of Brooks, stumbling backwards in an upsurge of inertia upon learning the identity of the stranger.

Picking himself off of the floor, Brooks reaches for the flashlight all the while hearing the troubling sound of an accompanying pair of footsteps moving in from behind him. Breathing coming to a halt, extremities trembling and his heart not knowing whether to slow to a crawl or explode like a jackhammer through his chest, Brooks turns around, frantically waving the flashlight through the blackness in an effort to find the intruding trespasser standing before him...but finding nothing.

The main entry room, nothing. The coast is clear in the kitchen. Not a mouse is moving about in the bedroom, and the living room is barren as well, as Brooks returns towards the door after investigating his surroundings, on edge and wary of what is to come at any moment. Bang! Bang! Bang! Comes the noise from the hotel room door, causing the frightened man to shudder and cower in fear once again.

“He’s not leaving. If I open up the door in a hurry, I can stab him in the eye, subdue him, and seek out help. Please legs, I need you more than ever!” he asserts aloud in quietly whisper.

Working on dialing up his courage the all-important first step is taken, followed by the second, and then a third, the quivering flashlight picking up the shining sight of the doorknob sliding frantically back and forth. Some of us inhale through our noses, while some breath in through our mouths, but at this point in time Damon Brooks was breathing in through both in an ill-fated attempt to swallow up the oxygen needed to satisfy his heart and lungs given his low supply coursing through his veins at the moment.

Hearing something stagger about behind him, our protagonist stops dead in his tracks, squirming and visibly becoming squeamish at the prospect that something sinister is lurking behind him. Turning about, nothing is to be found, a phenomenon Brooks attributes to a potpourri of paranoia and delusion. Now, back to the doorway escape, he thinks to himself following a brief pause, everything is brief at this stage yet very fast at the same time during this befuddling period of contradiction.  

Turning back around is Brooks, shining the flashlight right into the face of a looming zombie that had already been inside of the room.

With a face as dark and barren as the room around him, chapped lips curling over his teeth and egg-white eyes peeking from the slits of his eyelids like a pair of crescent moons that seem to glow in the reflection of the flashlight, Brooks finds himself standing toe to toe with the undead creature. In a mad panic the bottled and leaking emotions spill and scatter in an explosion as Brooks screams bloody murder, dropping the pair of scissors to the floor but maintaining hold of the salt filled syringe, lurching forward and stabbing the zombie in the chest, injecting a dosage of sodium into the heart of the creature that has absolutely no effect.

At some point during the ordeal the flashlight slips away out of the sweaty grip of his left hand, falling to the ground and casting the room in complete darkness once again, as Brooks instinctively falls to the floor as if the room is on fire. A stop, drop and frantic crawl towards the balcony door lay in store for Brooks, desperately making his way towards whatever light and whatever escape present itself to him, as long as he exits the hotel room, anything to get out of this room, the last place on the planet he wishes to be at this point in time.

Reaching the glass balcony door Brooks feels up and down for the latch to unlock the three inches of glass keeping him concealed inside this coffin of a room, as the slow stumble of the zombie makes its way towards him through the darkness, inching closer and closer with each lazy stride. Just after flipping the switch and slamming open the balcony door; the hotel door to the hallway slams open, signifying an alarming alert that the accompanying zombie is now inside of the room as well.

With no lock to seal the door behind him, crawling onto the sopping wet cement balcony, looking out into the turbulent ocean waves and up into the darkened sky and the falling deluge, there is but one recourse of action for the man on the run for his life. “HELP!” he screams with every ounce of energy protruding from his sullen larynx, glancing to his right and to his left and finding nobody else in the vicinity to offer assistance. Body shaking and on his knees praying like a hypothermia patient shaping a snow angel, pleading to the heavens is Brooks, praying to the Christian God, the voodoo God, any God or any being of any power that will listen and offer to intercept the coming calamity.

“Can’t possibly survive a leap this high,” he declares, wrapping the fingers of his hands along the balcony ledge, clutching on for dear life and looking towards the ground far below in search of a clue.

“The rooftop! It’s my only chance!” he says aloud, placing the balcony chair upright and stepping on top of it, avoiding peering back inside of the darkened room with all his might, before placing his foot on the ledge of the wet balcony railing.

“Easy Damon,” you can do this, only a few feet up there to safety” he whispers, feeling the brisk wind roaring and snapping his skin harder than before as the rain picks up once again, reminding him of just how slick and soaked everything is.

A blaring boom of thunder causes him to slip and lose what remains of his failing grip, sliding back onto the balcony and narrowly avoiding slipping off the ledge and towards what would have been certain death. Shaking off the stunning astonishment of his brush with the end, an ironclad grip grabs hold of his ankles, as Brooks lets out a shrieking, ear piercing scream that nobody is ever going to hear on account of the fierce winds and torrid tropical monsoon of rain. Something has a hold of him and it is far too strong and determined to ever let go, a thought that will be the last though to stream across the mind of Damon Brooks for the time being as his rapid breathing seems to slow to cessation, as the surrounding scenery waltzes and twirls about as if from the point of view of a spinning ballerina following the striking of the crown of his head against the dripping wet concrete, vision fading into a dark abyss, thoughts collapsing into nothingness...

8: Chapter 7

“He said he had a low phone battery, they may not have had power restored either at that flamingo hotel,” declares Crawford to himself while making the drive up into the hills towards the sugar plantation of Janjak Gramont.

“That sun really goes down quickly out over the sea,” exclaims Crawford viewing the sun dipping out of sight and disappearing into the Caribbean in harmony with the turn of the wheels, venturing closer towards his undesired destination.

“Sure seemed like there was enough daylight as I took off, had I not been sidetracked so badly I wouldn’t be arriving there after dark. Maybe I shouldn’t have come? Nah, Damon needs me,” expounds Crawford to himself, ascending the hill atop the village ever closer.

Pulling up to the plantation as evening gives birth to the night, relaxing the ignition and stepping out of his yellow vehicle, the relief aide worker slowly embarks towards the door.

“Doesn’t look as though anyone is home tonight,” elicits Crawford, sending a whisper sailing into the gentle evening breeze after knocking on the door, speaking aloud as if in an effort to forget the fact that he is alone. Hearing a distant humming sound coming from behind the house indicating the presence of human activity, the intrepid and inquisitive relief aid worker scales a small gate and meanders about at the side of the plantation towards the backyard, although what awaits him there is a sight certain to shock the conscience.

There they were, men working in the fields, dozens of them in every direction stretching as far as the eyes could see, although the distance of the horizon was crimped given the heavy darkness of the dawning night. For a man of such logic and reason what he witnesses makes absolutely zero sense, given the sprawling night shift outside in pitch black conditions save for the luminosity of the moonlight, at least when the shining sphere decided to peak between its hiding spot behind the thick clouds coming in off of the sea.

Slowly easing his way into the fields wading through the flowing crops and carefully studying the nightshift workers up close and personal in order to conduct an impromptu inspection, the results of his findings are destined to provide a startling conclusion.

Dirtied up and wearing haggard clothes that look as though their fabric could disintegrate into dust and vanish into thin air at any moment, the dress of the workers was not a sight out of the ordinary for the relief worker, however the overpowering stench of the men did burn and burden the inner lining of his nostrils as the bitter aroma grazes his senses, for the foul stench of death was in the air on this night, an odor of decadence rotting about that oddly enough seemed to vanish into the wind as well after a short while as if the odors of the men were tempered down for one reason or another rendering the trespassing Crawford a mere stranger to the smell yet to obtain the requisite acquired taste.

Each of them appearing to be acting in uniform gesture, the small army of men tending to the fields while performing their labor tediously and in methodical fashion, slumping over as if they could fall to the ground at any moment from the slightest touch in spite of the impressive stature of their collective physique, a collective group brandishing eyes half open as if they were either delaying the coming of neglected sleep or already indulging in the process of nodding off to sleep. Standing in such misalignment underneath the coming glint of the moonlight, there were plenty of them, dozens standing in all directions as Crawford slowly reminds himself where he is and what he is doing as his night vision slowly slides into focus, the horizons growing more distant all around him as his eyes slowly adjust to the sweltering darkness of night.

     “Excuse me, how can you see out here? Why are you working the fields at night?” asks Crawford, speaking in French to the nearest worker, a man looking no more than twenty-five years of age. Ignoring the words of the relief worker as if he is not standing before him, continuing on with his stumbling work is the zombie, exhibiting no expression from his empty face.

     Repeating his questioning in Creole to another man and receiving the same reaction, the perplexed and wondering investigator hastily turns towards another, “What’s your name, tell me your name!” he asks, pleading with them in the hopes of receiving some type of response.

     My God, what if this is true, contemplates Crawford silently to himself while standing motionless while pondering his next course of action. Despite never having witnessed a real live (or dead for that matter) zombie in person and lacking the expertise to account for accurate assessment and confirmation of such, the legion of mindless slaves standing in the flesh and tending to the fields before him sure look the part.

No talking anywhere, not one word is spoken among the masses as the only noise audible to the ears of the relief worker consist of the shuffling of feet, the cutting of the sugarcane and the sound of crickets and other wildlife chirping about.

     Calm, cool and collected having witnessed many a devastation, this was a new experience for Dan Crawford as he feels as though he were cast in the starring role of a horror novel, suffering the pyric fate being the lone survivor in a sea of zombie drones. A hoot of the owl delivers a shiver flowing through the extremities, serving as a message to get out of the fields before something deviant happens, for a second smell is now permeating the nighttime air, that of a surreptitious evil bringing forth with it a reckoning revelation.

Backing his way slowly away from the plantation and away from the workers, Crawford stumbles into a worker, reflexively and instinctively apologizing on behalf of his clumsiness. Turning to face the worker Crawford stands at attention upon experiencing a moment of déjà vu resonating throughout his bones and chilling his blood.

     Clothed in a fabric much more modern and different than anyone else standing about in the fields, this man also seems to be dirtier than the others, dusted up and caked in mud with dirt crumbling about from his clothes and body as if he has recently risen from underneath the ground. Something else was different about this man, skin coated in a shade much more pale than the others, as the gravity and reality of the moment dawns upon Crawford, whose eyes grow as wide as the moon.

A closer look reveals a familiar face staring back at him briefly before those eyes return to their primary focus and objective, for emerging out of the darkness under the ample light of the moon beam empty white eyes deadened as Crawford recoils in horror upon watching his friend drained of his thoughts and personality, toiling about aimlessly while tending to the fields, trapped with the rest of the workers as a zombie.

“Damon, DAMON! What has he done to you? What did he feed you? Come on, we’re leaving this instant,” pleads Crawford, attempting to grab hold of his friend who remains in steadfast position, opposing any and all help and ignoring the cries of his friend.

“This way! Come this way! Follow me, please!” screams Crawford, cries of desperation going unanswered. “Okay, fine, you stay here, I’ll get help, somehow, someway,” declares Crawford after struggling and wasting five minutes worth of futility attempting to free his friend from his imprisoned state of mind.

Turning around in an effort to race away from the plantation, Crawford is startled at the sight of two zombies standing in his way, two zombies grabbing hold of his shoulders, raising him from the ground.

“Let go of me! Help!” shouts Crawford, kicking and screaming and attempting to fight back but to no avail against the mighty unmatched strength of the undead. Another familiar sight soon takes center stage for Dan Crawford, as the Bokor Janjak Gramont emerges from the darkness, making his walk over ever so slowly, with white paint scribbled across his face and shining as brightly as the stars.

“This does happen to be a private party and you are trespassing upon my land. No trouble, you merely miss your friend. Would you care to join him? We’ll be happy to put you in the ground. Would you like that? Would you like to be put in the ground?” asks Gramont, an angry smirk descending upon his face as he removes a machete knife from his backside, pointing it towards the chest of Crawford.

“Puffer fish, tell me that you poisoned him with the toxin, he’s still alive, you merely drugged him!” shouts Crawford.

“His soul is in my hands,” replies the sorcerer, shaking his head and laughing with the wicked snarling smirk draped across his face.

Struggling with all his strength against the brute force of his zombie captors, there was no use fighting them, as the desperation and will of Dan Crawford was no match for their superior force as the Bokor slowly draws the knife nearer to the chest while chanting words of an unfamiliar tongue in the ears of Crawford, aligning the knife with the heart in order to quickly kill the intruding foreigner. As luck had it the zombies were grabbing him by the shoulders, not the arms, and although he could not loosen their grip, the captive one manages to successfully slide a hand into his pocket and retrieve a pistol brought with him for protection just in case, although time was running out and was in the window of milliseconds as opposed to seconds. Never so relieved to be the type to be safe than sorry, maneuvering the gun best he can sliding his sweaty fingers and pulling the trigger with no time to focus an aim, Crawford succeeds in discharging the firearm and lodging a bullet into the chest of the Bokor in synchronization with the slicing and slight penetration of the skin with the knife into the chest of the relief worker.

Close your eyes and hope to strike him right and true is the idea and Crawford hopes it will not be his last one. Luck shining down his way, one lucky shot is all it takes, as Janjak Gramont collapses to the ground, dropping with him the knife as the old man struggles to breathe for less than a minute, breathing his penultimate breath before the ceasing of his pulse, his eyes focusing up in on Crawford before their intense gaze drifts away to death, eyes becoming as deadened as the zombies in the field.

Maintaining their heavy grip while keeping their emotions lifelessly in check were the two zombies clutching the shoulders of Dan Crawford, a frustrating ordeal leading the relief worker to cry out, “Let go!” an order acquiesced to by the undead foot soldiers, dropping their captive to the ground below. Climbing off of the ground of the sugarcane plantation, Crawford clutches his chest, blood trickling down but finding relief with the comfort that the wound is a mere graze as opposed to what he believed it to be and what it easily could have been.

Darting his field of vision towards the ground and making eye contact with the Bokor for the final time before turning his gaze up and about, a new realization takes hold, as the legion of zombies have all desisted from their field work and have turned towards the relief worker, standing at attention. Initially fearing an act of forthcoming reprisal or revenge, the former captive regains a footing on the situation, seizing control of the moment.      “Drop your tools!” he shouts, a demand respected and accepted by the throngs, laying down their tools en masse as Crawford looks on, the realization taking hold that he has become the captor. “Now what?” he asks aloud.

     A different kind of noise emerges from the eerie silent still of the night, breaking the peace and calm of the moment, as a low volume buzz is heard coming from the pocket of Damon Brooks. Slowly reaching into the pocket of his former friend, Crawford retrieves a cell phone, filthy from dirt and low on battery power but still vibrating away, shattering the tension and the tranquility as the relief worker watches the zombie masses staring blankly towards him waiting for an order from their new master.

     “Hello?” he asks, fielding the most awkward telephone call conversation of his entire life, yet one paling in comparison to the unforgettable tempo and mood of the night.

“Yes, Mr. Barnaby? This is Daniel Crawford, a friend of your associate, Mr. Brooks. What’s that? Oh, yes he’s here, but you see, he’s somewhat indisposed at the moment. Yes, that is correct. You know what though?” asks Crawford, eyeing the zombie hordes.

“Come to think of it, he is working for me now. Listen, that employee shortage, still a thorn in your side? Are you merely seeking to cut costs? Well, you have just given me an idea, and I think that I may have found a perfect solution for you, and for me as well for that matter. You see I have just inherited some inventory so to speak that I would preferably like to move at the earliest convenience. Let’s you and me discuss business,” boasts Crawford...

     Not long after Crawford exits the fields, ordering the zombies to return inside of the sugar plantation house for the time being, a confused Toussaint Gramont steps outside of the house in search of answers, bound to learn all of that of what he seeks. Glancing downward at the body of his slain father, the son soon turns his focus to the machete knife that lay on ground not far from the cold dead hands of Janjak Gramont. Carefully eyeing the blade doused with a trickle of blood, smelling the scent of the blood Toussaint retrieves the knife, squeezing the handle tightly and grimacing in pain, vengeance coloring his eyes, casting those eyes away and looking out into the night, and into the great beyond...

     Back inside of the plantation house, within a matter of hours Toussaint Gramont lays out the requisite ingredients and necessities to cook up a batch of a very special concoction. Delicately lighting a series of carefully placed and spaced candles with the precision of a veteran expert well beyond the years and experience of his expertise, the novice, amateur younger Bokor in training ignites one candle into a ring of material encircling the room, burning a blazing, roaring circular fire with a fifteen feet diameter, sending cinder crisps floating adrift throughout the center of the room and out the open windows into the nighttime air.

     Peering down from outside of the circle of fire barefoot and dragging mud in his wake he stands, dressed in a robe with an assortment of colors splashed together like a rainbow, raising a scepter in one hand high into the air towards the heavens, while pointing downward at the floor inside of the circle with the other all the while chanting, praying to the Gods yet demanding orders and commanding orders from them in order to unleash a powerful force of pure deviance.

     Inside the center of the fiery circle and underneath the candles lay an assortment of jars, pottery bowls, animal bones and feathers, and a series of strong vapors the likes of which clear out and paralyze the nasal passages. This was the Bokor’s kitchen and in essence these were the items from his cookbook for a banished and forbidden recipe, a dish generally best served cold but in this case one that would be served red-hot, red in more ways than one considering the form of magic that was to be used.

     Centered between everything else was a small doll made of nothing but cloth and string, a doll featuring arms, legs, a head and torso, but lacking basic facial features, much less any distinguishable traits belonging to any one person. Moving carefully towards the voodoo doll, Toussaint Gramont gently leans down onto his knees upon the floor, rested his legs while extending his arms and inserting the bloodied blade of the machete knife into the chest of the doll, holding the handle firm with both hands while depositing the blood of Dan Crawford before rising back up again and stepping outside of the halo of fire.

     Licking his lips, the son continues on with his chanting, the reflection of the fire burning in his eyes and matched only by the swirling passions of vengeance clearly evident inside of the windows to his soul, the tango between the darkness of the room and the ample light of the dancing flames casting a dancing of shadows sprawled across his face. Upon completing the ritual ceremony and casting his first spell and offering to the voodoo Gods, Toussaint Gramont flashes his teeth in a smirk of a smile that is not unlike that of his father, showcasing a dastardly expression foreshadowing what is to come... 

9: Epilogue

Whether parables teaching lessons against the taboos separating life and death, warnings about the perils of groupthink and conformity, religious ceremonial rites lost in translation, the root origination of the Haitian voodoo zombie is certainly up for debate. However, the formulation, source, and arrival of that knowledge and those lessons to our consciousness is not nearly as important as how they can be incorporated and utilized for the better. Not in terms of guarding and protecting ourselves against hordes of flesh eating zombies on the loose in a raging apocalyptic world, as much as respecting the practices and attributes of different cultures.

There are many legends, beliefs, religions, and the like out there, and one seldom knows the precise origin of them, along with how there just may be a morsel of truth inherent to some of them. After all, the stories, tall tales, and traditions passed down from generation to generation to generation have to originate at some point, coming from something and starting somewhere.

Both Mr. Damon Brooks and Mr. Daniel Crawford attempted to be safe as opposed to sorry, respecting the local customs to an extent, but meeting such obligations only halfway, reminding us once more how regardless of the civilized world we fancy ourselves as coming from compared to the uncivilized practices of others from lands near and far, those that fail to heed the warning of locals and their traditions, may be doomed to succumb to their wrath.

 

END