Indiana Jones and the Army of the Dead (22 page)

Indy moved up to stand by Marie. “The Germans and Japanese will have to call it quits at night, like we will,” he said. “But what about the
zombis
? Can they function in the dark?”

“Not particularly well,” she said. “The True Risen can’t see as clearly as even we can, but then again they cannot easily die. If one falls over this cliff and hits the rocks, it may break so many bones that it won’t be able to walk.”

“That’s something.”

“If it can climb and crawl, though, it will.”

Indy stared at her. “Even I can outrun somebody going that slow.”

“As can the hare outrun the tortoise,” she said.

He blinked at her.

“A
zombi
dispatched on a task will continue to move using whatever is left to it, without ever having to rest,” she said. “While we are sleeping, it will be crawling . . .”

Indy shivered at the thought of a man with broken legs doggedly dragging himself along on his bloody elbows . . .

Mac edged over to where they walked. “What?”

“You don’t want to know,” Indy said.

Boukman drank from the bowl, sipping at the blood therein. It was warm, and he needed to finish it before it cooled, for clotted blood was of no use to him; its power faded quickly once it was out of its container. He had taken a pint from one of the potion-slaves, a pint from another, and that was enough to start.

He had leaves brought in and piled into a soft pad, covered with a sheet, upon which he could lay. Two of his slaves stood nearby, waving large palmetto fans to circulate the air over him.

He had laid a restoration spell, offered a chicken and a goat to the proper loa for their assistance. He had eaten fruit and bread and roast pig, washed down with the blood.

It was all he could do for now. He would have to sleep and allow his work to help heal his body and spirit. This spent, ideally, he would stay quiet for several days, a week, longer. He could not do that now. Time was of the essence, and even this amount of forced rest tried his patience, though he knew he had no other option.

He finished the bowl of blood, had it removed, and lay down upon the bed. He closed his eyes. He deepened his breathing, slow and long, to bathe his innards in life-giving air. He felt it flow into his limbs, into his feet. His toes. Fresh air in; used air, out; easing slowly his aches and pains.

At the edge of his consciousness, before he drifted off, he was aware of something . . .

Storm. A storm was coming.

There would be power in that. He might be able to use it. Hurricane-loa were fierce and manic and they sometimes would extend favors when the winds tore at the world, just because it pleased them to do so . . .

Yamada had composed a death-poem as they walked, a simple haiku about a falling cherry blossom, just in case. He did not feel impending doom, but men had been surprised by Death’s cold touch many times, and it was best to be prepared if there was a chance of sudden demise.

Now, in the lee of a rock outcropping next to a stream, Yamada considered his new circumstances as night crept in to steal away the day. In the final gleamings of the dusk, there were many things he must consider and resolve as best he could.

Gruber, of course, would say whatever he thought was necessary to stay alive. A cornered rat facing a pack of dogs had more honor than the German, of this Yamada was sure. But things had taken a dire turn, and since survival was paramount, a man had to use the tools at hand. He would not trust Gruber, but he recognized that the man might be crucial to Yamada’s mission.

“Schnapps, Doctor?” As usual, they spoke in English.

Yamada had been aware of Gruber’s approach, though he pretended otherwise.

“Thank you, but I think not.”

Gruber sat next to where Yamada rested on a fallen log, and raised a small silver flask to his lips. He took three swallows of whatever was in the container. Yamada could smell the alcohol as the man removed the flask from his lips. “Want to keep a clear head, eh?”

Yamada gave him a slow nod.

“Personally, I think a few sips of good schnapps helps in that regard. Clears away the cobwebs. Of course, this is not good schnapps, but it is what I have.” He took another drink.

“The scouts should be back soon,” Gruber continued.

“It is to be hoped so.”

They had each sent one of their men in the joint effort. For safety, Yamada had said, and Gruber had nodded, but both men knew that safety was not the reason. Neither trusted the other’s man to come back with a completely objective report for both to hear.

“The American and Englishman will not be able to travel any better in the dark than we,” Gruber said. “We will be able to catch them.”

“Perhaps.”

Gruber screwed the cap onto the flask and slipped it into his pocket. “Perhaps? You don’t believe that the cream of the German SS and of the imperial army can move faster than some out-of-shape civilians?”

“In an ordinary race, there would be no question of it,” Yamada said. “But we are chasing them to fulfill our mission. They must be aware that they are running for their lives. Such knowledge can offer impetus to move faster.”

Gruber chuckled. “Of course. But I think you over-estimate them.”

“Perhaps.” He paused for a moment. Then: “There is a story in our country. A man, of no great talent or achievement, was condemned to die by the local
daimyo.
You know the term?”

“Warlord, isn’t it?”

“Near enough. The condemned man worked as a simple laborer on an estate, cleaning the walks, pulling weeds. He had committed no crime, but somebody of high status had been offended by his manner or his look—the reason doesn’t matter. They complained, and the
daimyo
sent his executioner to slay the laborer.

“Such things were of no importance back in those days, the removal of a servant for small reason—or no reason at all. People lived or died on a ruler’s whim.”

Gruber nodded, as if he understood that.

“The
daimyo
’s executioner was a samurai most skilled with his sword. He found the man on a pathway, using a broom to sweep the leaves away. He announced himself and his purpose. Pulled his sword, and strode in to cut the laborer down.”

Gruber nodded. “Yes . . . ?”

“Know that this was no great event for the executioner. He was an expert, he had killed many men, armed, skilled opponents, with swords, spears, arrows, even his bare hands. He had never lost a match, and he was as calm as a frozen pond on a windless January day.

“The laborer had no skill with weapons at all. It was the samurai’s duty, a chore that needed little of his ability, and he was unconcerned about the outcome. He was a master swordsman, the greatest such for miles in any direction.

“The condemned man had done nothing wrong, he knew it, and he did not wish to die for no reason. He charged the samurai assassin using his broom.”

“And was quickly hacked to small pieces for his trouble, eh?”

“No. So fierce was the man’s attack that the samurai had to give ground. The broom was everywhere—the man had wielded it for much of his life, and it was a tool with which he was comfortable. The executioner took hard knocks from the stout wood as the laborer attacked like a man possessed of a demon.”

He paused again. “A man who knows he is about to die, with nothing to lose? He can be a formidable foe.”

Gruber nodded. “What happened?”

“It was only when the samurai was pressed and in danger of defeat that he was able to unleash his own fear. Only then could he call up his own inner demon to match that of his attacker so that his superior skill was able to come into play. When that happened, he cut the laborer down.”

Gruber smiled. “All is well that ends well.”

Yamada shrugged.

Gruber frowned. “Once the samurai was cranked up, he defeated the laborer, right? The end was never really in question, was it?”

“No. But he learned a lesson: Never to take an opponent for granted.”

“But, Doctor, all the laborer was able to do was fend off his death for a bit longer. In the end, he died.”

Yamada favored Gruber with a small smile. “And in the end, we all die, do we not? Isn’t that the goal of most men in their lives? To fend off death for a bit longer?”

“We will catch them, Dr. Yamada. We must.”

“I agree, Doctor. But I do not think it will necessarily be easy—and I do not think we should assume so.”

The two scouts chose that moment to reappear, and Gruber waved them over.

Yamada listened more to Gruber’s man making his report than he did his own, and the German soldier’s account was substantially the same as that of Yamada’s soldier. Their quarry was some distance away and probably stopped for the night. They could not be certain of their exact position, because there were pickets, and the scouts did not wish to reveal their presence; still, it seemed reasonable.

“And could we move through the dark and take them?” Gruber asked.

The German soldier was polite and deferential, but the essence of his reply was that such action would be dangerous in the extreme. The cliff face near the sea was unstable; a misstep would be fatal. If the pickets were able to offer a warning, a direct attack would be risky. There were more people in the civilian party than in the German and Japanese camps together, and all of them were armed, with machetes and with guns. While the tactical superiority of German and even Japanese military troops over such a ragtag assemblage was unquestioned, a frontal assault on a larger, armed force, in the dark, without the element of surprise? Perhaps not the wisest course. Better to catch them somewhere unexpected,
jawohl?

Yamada’s solider had much the same assessment. Though he was, of course, more willing to lay down his life than the German was, even such a sacrifice would not ensure victory. It would not be the best strategy. And, though he did not address it, Yamada knew the man must be thinking about the superhuman creatures that had wiped out most of their number. One had to know they were still out there somewhere. And who knew what they might do? Or how well they could function in the dark? Maybe they had eyes like cats?

No, stealth was the proper path here. Not samurai, but more like ninja. Less personal honor involved, but the mission was more important than even that. Personal glory might have to be put aside to satisfy the mission, and if so, then that was how it would be.

After the scouts were finished, Gruber and Yamada sent them back out to keep watch. That left five men in their combined group, and they would need to post a couple to stand guard. It would not be the most comfortable night’s rest, sleeping on the ground, but Yamada had been through worse, as he was sure Gruber had. They would endure. They would continue following their prey, and at the right moment they would strike.

Boukman felt the thing behind him, though he was too afraid to turn and look at it—he knew the sight would freeze his heart solid. It was gaining, and try as he might he could not increase his speed, the air itself seem thickened to a gel, it was as if he were trying to walk and swim at the same time and managing to do neither very well.

He could feel it. He could smell it now, it was a thousand years of mold overlaid with the offal behind a butcher’s shop on a hot summer day. It reeked with the hot breeze from a village latrine overflowing with waste. Ashes and brimstone and obscene heat . . .

And he could hear it, too, a rasp of a tree-sized coarse file on rock, a breathy whistle, a steam kettle coming to boil.

Boukman swore and pumped his legs and arms harder. Useless as they were, he had lost his gun and his machete, even his clothes were gone, and his young and strong body moved like that of an old cripple. It would be on him in a moment, and he would be engulfed in a horror beyond all comprehension.

He felt the touch of something loathsome on his bare shoulder, softly, softly, at first, like a woman’s breath, but then with the insistent sear of a malignant flame . . .

Boukman screamed—

Boukman awoke, eyes snapping open, instantly alert.

In the dim hut, the two slaves waving their fans moved like automata, set into a mindless function by Boukman’s command. The morning sun tried to push its way through the thatch and around the edges of the door and bamboo, but mostly failed.

Boukman lay still, pondering The Dream. It had never gotten so close to him before, the thing that had chased him for nearly two hundred years. What did that mean? What was he to learn from this? He could only believe that things were coming to a climax soon, and that his actions from here on would have to be considered quickly, but executed flawlessly. Riding the edge of powerful magic gave a bokor great abilities, but there was always a danger of falling off. He had lived a long and full and rich life, master of his corner of the world, and the time, he felt, was coming soon whereupon he would expand his abilities beyond anything he had considered possible, or he would be harvested by the monster of his dreams. The edge along which he ran was sharp and narrow, and he had negotiated it with skill and élan for so long, he sometimes took his ability for granted. That would not do, now. To slip was to be sliced in half.

Ultimate power was just outside his grasp. He had to reach out for it, but he had to have a steady hand.

The smallest mistake now would be worse than death.

Much worse.

TWENTY-FIVE

T
HEY HEADED BACK
to the open rock close to the cliff’s edge, and for almost an hour the going was pretty easy. Then they came to a spot where a huge section of the cliff had fallen away, a hundred yards or so, taking the path all the way to the forest. Beyond this avalanche, the cliff soared, higher than they were now by another hundred feet. Even if they circled the rock-slide, they would have to climb the rotten cliff.

Not going any farther in that direction.

Damn.

They’d have to go back into the jungle and find more animal trails or start hacking their way through the brush.

Indy could feel the sense of tension, of being pursued, and everybody was on edge.