Desperate Souls (24 page)

They clambered up the roof’s slight incline to where light spilled out of the open window.

“It looked a lot closer down on the ground,” Jake said.

Edgar planted his feet on the roof with his back to the wall, then crouched low with his fingers interlaced. “I hope you haven’t stepped in any dog shit today.”

“Just this case,” Jake said. Setting his right foot between Edgar’s hands, he stepped up at the same time Edgar gave him a boost, then scrambled up the wall. His hands slapped the concrete window ledge, and he pulled himself up.

Peering through the window, he looked down at the metal floor of a catwalk six feet wide, illuminated by lights in the ceiling high above. Beyond the catwalk he saw nothing. Raising himself up on his hands, he swung one leg inside, then the other. As far as he could tell, the catwalk ran all around the interior and no sentries patrolled it. He felt intense heat rising from below and heard equipment rumbling.

My, oh my, what have we uncovered?

Turning back to the window, he held out his hand to Edgar, who grabbed it with both of his and walked up the building’s side.

“You’ve gained weight,” Jake whispered.

“It’s all that Creole cooking I’m eating.”

“I hope you go on a diet before the wedding.” Jake lay facedown and wormed his way toward the edge of the catwalk, and Edgar did the same thing. Gazing over its edge, he realized that the second-floor windows were more like third-floor windows because the catwalk stood thirty feet above the sunken floor level. Between motionless conveyer belts and useless machinery, he estimated he saw at least fifty figures at work, their movements mechanical and tireless. The perfect workforce.

Zombies.
He sensed Edgar tensing up beside him.

“What the hell are they doing?”

Jake tried to follow the production line’s progression. Two zombies stood by a huge furnace, taking turns shoveling ashes from its glowing interior. They deposited the ashes in a metal bin as wide as a Dumpster and as deep as a bathtub. Four zombies used metal scoops to fill large buckets with the ashes, which they dumped into a second bin, where the ashes cooled. Four more zombies moved the cooled ashes to a vat, where they added the ashes to a substance Jake could not see. Here, two zombies stirred and cooked the concoction. Using buckets, two other zombies poured the concoction into glass molds, where the thick liquid formed gray bricks.

Black Magic.

Farther down the line, more zombies wrapped the bricks in plastic, while still more loaded them onto a flatbed dolly.

“This is it,” Jake said to Edgar. “This is where they process the shit that’s destroying the city.”

Edgar said nothing at first. He stared at the emaciated figures toiling below. Jake recognized the look on his face: shock.

“Edgar?”

Edgar turned to him. “What the hell
are
those things?”

Jake swallowed. “You need me to spell it out for you?”

“They’re not in any trance. They’re fucking corpses. What the hell have you gotten me into?”

“I haven’t gotten you into anything. You’re a cop, remember? A member of the Black Magic Task Force. Well, here’s your Black Magic. You going to do your job or pretend you didn’t see this?”

Edgar returned his attention to the operation below. After a minute, he nodded at a spot across the plant’s interior. “Those guys are alive.”

Following Edgar’s sight line, Jake spied two young black men relaxing in an alcove across the factory floor. One stood with his arms folded, a pistol sticking out of his waistband, while the other sat in a tipped-back chair, his feet crossed on the card table before him. Smoking reefer, they traded jokes and laughter and paid little attention to the creatures under their supervision.

“Overseers,” Jake said.

“But overseeing what?”

Turning to his left, Jake’s vision of the factory was obstructed by the industrial furnace. “I want to see what’s at the other end. I want to know what they’re putting
into
that furnace.” He backed up to the far wall and rotated his body counterclockwise. Then he crawled along the catwalk, commando style, followed by Edgar.

Once they had passed the furnace, Jake worked his way to the edge of the platform again. He saw at least a dozen naked zombies standing in line. They looked worse than the others he had seen so far—the skin pulled over their skulls had turned purplish gray; bones protruded through flesh; gums were visible through rotted away lips; and clumps of hair had fallen out. Staring at the line of still creatures, he imagined toppling them like dominos. A metal stairway descending from the catwalk like a fire escape prevented him from seeing whatever was happening at the front of the line.

I
need to know,
he thought, realizing that very line of thinking had gotten him into a great deal of trouble in the past.

Motioning to Edgar, he resumed crawling. As he passed the wide metal stairs, he moved faster, his elbows growing sore. His high-top sneakers dug into the metal grooves on the catwalk for traction. Once clear of the stairs, a wide air duct obstructed his view. He reached the end of the catwalk, and the duct still blocked his view.
Damn it.
Then he saw a metal ladder bolted to the cinder-block wall.
Now we’re talking.

Facing Edgar once more, he nodded at the ladder and looked back.

Edgar gave him the finger.

Winking, Jake crawled to the opening in the catwalk through which the ladder descended. The walls of the square shaft melted into darkness, with bright light at the bottom, where a doorway faced the main floor. Jake gripped the ladder in both hands, then swung his legs over the edge, taking no chances that would permit anyone below to see him. He maneuvered his feet onto the rungs and climbed down the ladder.

Halfway down the shaft, he felt darkness closing over him. Looking up, he saw Edgar descending. As he reached the light below, he stepped off the ladder, pressing his back against one wall to keep from being seen. Edgar dropped to the ground with his back against the opposite wall.

With great caution, they peeked around the doorway. At the front of the line leading to the furnace, the zombies shed their clothing and deposited them into bins on wheels. Zombie workers retrieved the bins, which they pushed to the furnace. They threw the filthy garments into the flame, feeding it. The naked zombies stood without any sense of shame, their genital areas rotting like the rest of their bodies. Zombies lay upon four out of six cafeteria-style tables. The two standing at the front of the line—a man and a woman—filed toward the remaining tables and laid down on them. Two clothed zombies stood on either side of each table. Men, women, teenagers, black, white, Asian, Hispanic—they all held machetes.

Then, all at once, they raised their machetes and buried them in the limbs of their fellow creatures. The machetes continued to rise and fall, hacking away at the zombies, which failed to react to the blows. The butchers hacked hands away from forearms, forearms away from biceps, chests from stomachs, legs from hips, shins from thighs, and feet from shins. Finally, they split the heads open like coconuts.

Jake squinted as released souls rose into the air and faded away.

“Jesus Christ,” Edgar said, oblivious to the soul activity.

The butchers tossed the body parts into wheelbarrows, then carted them over to the furnace, where the attendants used pitchforks to throw the parts into the hungry flames.

Good God,
Jake thought.
Black Magic creates zombies, and zombies are used to create Black Magic!
Scarecrows were the junkie equivalent of cannibals.

Then high-intensity light shone down on him and Edgar, exposing them.

Pressing his back against the shaft wall, Jake squinted at the flashlight aimed at them from above. He could not see the face of the figure holding the light, but he heard the man’s voice loud and clear: “I was right! There
is
someone here!”

Jake heard a gunshot, and one of the ladder rungs disintegrated into wood chips. The sound of the gunshot ricocheted around the shaft, right behind the bullet. Jake turned his face to the wall, shielding it. As soon as he heard the round strike the floor, he threw himself at the doorway, where he collided with Edgar.

They burst free as their assailant fired a second shot and stood facing the dozen machete-wielding zombies stationed at the tables, where another half dozen zombies waited to meet their demise. With their instruments raised, the machete zombies turned their decomposing faces to Jake and Edgar, who froze in midstep.

“Take them down!” The voice above echoed throughout the factory.

Jake and Edgar looked up at the catwalk behind them. The overseer who had been standing on the other side of the factory now stood at the railing, a pistol in one hand. Turning back to the zombies, who moved in their direction, they looked at each other and drew their Glocks.

“Go for their heads,” Jake said.

“Of course.”

Jake spun on one heel and squeezed off a shot at the overseer. The round struck the man’s hip, shattering it, and he fell down screaming. Beside him, Edgar fired his first shot.

Flickering blue light caught Jake’s attention, and he turned back in time to see a soul rise from a toppling body. Jake brought his gun to bear on the advancing horde. Taking careful aim, he fired at the head of a zombie that had locked its eyes on him. A bullet hole appeared in the creature’s forehead, and brain juice blew out the back of its skull. The dead man’s soul rose even as his body fell.

These souls are trapped in their bodies,
Jake thought. Just like Old Nick had imprisoned souls in a secret chamber in the Tower.

The zombies showed no sign of concern as their fellow undead creatures hit the ground and stopped moving. They continued coming, and Jake and Edgar kept shooting. The air filled with gun smoke, and the ground deepened with rotten flesh. Machetes clattered on the floor. Escaping souls flickered like the camera flashes of paparazzi at a red carpet affair, but only Jake saw them.
My gift.

With the first wave of zombies dispatched, those lying on tables sat up. They were in worse shape than the others, which Jake concluded was the reason they had been deemed disposable.
They passed their expiration date.

Glancing at the pile of flesh on the floor, Jake remembered Laurel’s instructions to him. “Cover me,” he said to Edgar. Then he jammed the hot Glock into its shoulder holster and approached the mound.

“What the hell are you doing?” Edgar shot one of the sitting zombies in the head as it prepared to slide off the table. As the body fell over, others touched their rotting feet to the floor.

“No time to explain!” Jake seized a machete from the fingers of one of the zombies on the floor. The creature now looked unreal, like a mannequin or Halloween prop, especially with its abbreviated, sutured fingers. Raising the machete high in the air, he brought it down with all his strength. The steel blade severed the zombie’s hand from its wrist, spilling sawdust. As Jake reached for the hand, he registered bodies dropping around him, almost keeping a beat with Edgar’s gunshots. His body shuddered as his fingers closed around the dry, leathery body part. Then he heard Edgar’s gun slide back.

“I’m out!” Edgar said.

Stuffing the hand into his inside jacket pocket with the open wrist facing up, Jake heard the familiar sound of a magazine dropping on the floor. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the shadow of a figure fall over the flesh pile.

Reload fast, partner.

Jake turned and stood at the same time. He did not have time to drop the machete and pull his gun, so he squeezed the machete’s wooden handle and came face-to-face with features he recognized, shadowed by a hoodie. Louis Rodriguez, who he gathered had murdered his grandmother and younger brother, stood two feet from him.

Bastard!
He swung the machete over his head.

Louis raised his right arm in a defensive move, and the machete in his hand deflected Jake’s blade. Then Louis’s left hand shot out and grabbed Jake’s right wrist. The zombie twisted Jake’s arm. Groaning, Jake released the machete, which clattered on the floor. Now Louis swung his machete. Jake caught the zombie’s wrist before the machete reached its intended target—his head. They stood struggling, Jake’s arms trembling, Louis showing no emotion at all. Then Louis braced his right foot against Jake’s chest and kicked him, and Jake landed on top of the unmoving zombies on the floor.

They can fight! That means they can think. They’re more than programmed machines.

Swinging the machete over his head, Louis charged at him faster than Jake had expected.

Feeling faces and limbs pressed against his back, Jake drew his Glock and prayed he had time to aim before the zombie brought the machete down. As he raised the weapon, he heard a gunshot. Before he could squeeze the trigger, Louis’s forehead exploded in a shower of liquid brain that rained down on him. Jake clamped his eyes and mouth shut and looked away, feeling the rotten juice on his cheeks.