The Drought (44 page)

Then he was gone, sucked beneath the river, pulled down, down, down to the source of the furious eddy—the drainage pipe. The dark open maw of the pipe would have been terrifying on its own but he was not alone beneath the churning water. White, bloated hands reached out from the pipe, and grabbed at his ankle. Lungs burning, he kicked at the hands, and struggled to make the surface. The current wouldn’t let him out.

A hand clamped down around his ankle, and jerked him forcefully. A silent scream left his lips, an elongated bubble of air floating toward the surface. Cold water swirled over his legs—he was in the pipe. He gripped the outer rim of the pipe until his fingers bled. His grip gave out. Complete darkness engulfed him.

He and the ancient spirit became one. The evil consuming his soul was much older than Jean-Claude Brunache. Its reign of terror could not be measured in years or decades—it extended back centuries. The screams of thousands of children echoed in the endless expanse of time. Within this darkness, there was no remorse, only the need to kill again. Dully Jar thought,
He has me, the tonton macoute has me,
and then incredibly, he climaxed.

Barry had tried to explain to him once what it felt like. Now, Jar understood why words had failed his friend. It felt like everything inside his body had turned to liquid and was flooding out of him; like someone had let loose the Hoover Dam and when it finished draining he didn’t think there would be anything left, no bones, no blood, just a puddle of loose skin lying on the floor. The flood carried away the centuries of darkness, the mutilated children and his desire to kill.

Spent, Jar lay against the woman. He didn’t understand what had happened but for the first time since he left Junction he felt like himself again. Uncomfortable and painfully aware of his nakedness, Jar pulled away from the naked woman. As he moved, he felt something push against his stomach. He didn’t stop to investigate, like Adam newly aware of his nakedness he slid away from the altar in shame.

*

If Jar had looked back, he would have seen dark fissures race across the smooth skin of the priestess’s stomach, he would have seen the skin stretch and roll like someone was inside pushing a fist against the inner lining of her belly. He would have seen her smooth, flat, stomach, bulge outward and begin to stretch, grotesquely. Had he looked back he would have witnessed gestation, and the woman holding her burgeoning belly with the ecstatic joy of any expectant mother. And he would have seen what killed her and known the nightmare wasn’t over.

*

After the boy fled the altar, the drum beat changed and became more subdued. The acolytes dropped to the ground, kneeling in supplication as their priestess writhed on the stone table her body straining to accommodate her rapidly expanding uterus. Pain ripped through Elise. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth and her nails bent and snapped as her fingers sought purchase on the stone slab.

The growing womb glowed like an alabaster orb in the hazy moonlight. Griffin stepped past the throng of keening people and moved closer until he stood over the taut belly, his hand hovering above the stretched and torn skin. He lowered his hand.

Her eyes flew open. A single word embedded in a scream rang out. “No!”

It had been his intention to touch, only to touch. Energy surged through the tips of his fingers, burning a path along his palm and up his arm. The thing growing inside her called to him. It wanted
him
.

The machete burned his palm.

Urgent gibberish whispered in his ear.

One downward slice opened her protruding belly.

He pulled back the flaps of skin, exposing the pulsing mass growing within her womb. Burying his face into her open belly he fed like an animal at a trough.

Death did not come quickly. She flayed at him as he ingested her uterus. Her cries, at first strident with fear, became weaker until they were barely audible over the wet sound of his feeding. Finally she lay still.

When he finished, Griffin stood over the ravaged body, blood dripping down his face. He felt the ancient spirit enter him, heard the multitude of tormented souls tied for eternity to their killer and another muted voice quickly silenced.

A surge of power enveloped him followed by deep seated hunger. He turned and looked out over the rapidly diminishing crowd. The few remaining worshippers were down low keening. They did not pose a threat. His eyes sought out and found Jared Riley. The boy tugged at a listless girl, his shoes clutched against his chest.

He pointed, signaling out the boy. “You’re next buckaroo, Didn’t Barry tell you? No one steals from my collection.”

Reserve, Louisiana

In a brief, character defining moment Daniel Dupier chose cowardice over heroism; life over death. Dread, cold and heavy, weakened his bowels when he saw the deformed man with sand imbedded in his face. Instead of rushing to the defense of his sister; his first and longtime lover, he stepped into the shadows, disassociating himself from the woman at the altar and the people in the crowd. Death had come for Elise. He was a gruesome suitor, but not discriminating, he would take her and anyone else who cared to join the party.

He fled into the woods, intending to loop around to the spot where he had stashed Nathan’s truck. Before he left Reserve, he had one additional stop he intended to make. It concerned a duffle bag full of cash. If he played it right, used the chaos rolling through Reserve to his advantage, he just might be able to walk right out of the station without anyone realizing what he’d done. Had he stuck around a little longer he would’ve seen three people walk into the meadow and he would have known Nathan Singer was still alive.

*

Narried, flanked on either side by Nathan and Nute came through the cemetery following the same path Jar and Suzy had come down earlier. A woman’s scream pierced the night. The timbre of the scream told the story long before they broke through the trees and saw the nightmare with their own eyes.

They saw a figure more creature than man pull away from Elise’s gaping abdomen. When he turned, blood and entrails hung from his face. His eyes scanned the fleeing crowd as if he were looking for someone. It had been more than fifty years since Narried had been in the presence of Brunache’s evil. The impact of the moment sent a cold chill down her spine. Her feet faltered, she stumbled, and for a brief moment the old woman residing within appeared. Raw fear cut through the illusion of youth and left her exposed.

Brunache had found his willing vessel, a vessel where evil already dwelled. She could feel power emanating from the man. The potimeau pole thrummed with energy summoning the Petra Loa who now hovered among the trees, a giddy spectral audience.

The boy Nathan had brought to the diner did not see the looming menace. He stood next to the girl from the river and tugged desperately at her arm. Narried laid her hand on Nute’s arm and said, “Do someting, quick.”

Nute muttered a few words in a guttural tongue.

The unresponsive girl came to life like a marionette on strings. She gave the boy a hard shove and he fell back right as the machete descended. The blade cut through her forearm. Her hand along with most of her wrist fell to the ground. She didn’t scream, didn’t hold her arm against her chest in agony, her eyes remained fixated on some unseen point, perhaps something in the afterworld. Without hesitation or any sign of fear she positioned herself between the boy on the ground and the menacing figure of the man with the machete.

Nute murmured, “Even in death young love is very strong. Powerful magic don’t need much help from me.” The words had scarcely left his mouth, had not the time to even register before the monstrous figure in the distance raised the machete once again. Moonlight winked off the blade.

Nathan had never seen the girl but he sensed here at last was Suzy, the girl from the bridge, Jar’s friend. He, like the boy, intuitively knew she had drowned in the Mississippi. Even from a distance her skin appeared bloated. His rational mind once so stringent accepted this fact with surprising ease. Knowing she was dead did not enable him to sit by and watch her get hacked to pieces. He broke free off Nute’s restraining hand and ran forward in a low crouch.

The blade descended before he reached her. It came down swift and vicious. The girl staggered back, her head lolling to the side, held in place by a thin flap of skin. A mixture of river water and blood sluiced from the open neck cavity and the side of her face came to rest awkwardly against her shoulder. She fell to her knees. For a moment her remaining hand explored her wound like a blind person in an unfamiliar room as she tried to right her nearly dismembered head.

Nathan watched the grotesque scene unfold ready to go pull the damaged girl to safety but after those first few moments she ceased her movements, tilted and fell the rest of the way to the ground. He didn’t know how or what magic had given her life but he sensed it had been retracted. There was no time to ask questions, the disfigured man lifted the machete again, and bent down to grab the boy.

Nathan had seen enough. Crying out like a madman he rushed forward. He hit the boy with a full body tackle right as the man lifted him up. The impact broke the boy loose from the man’s grip, but the descending machete completed its downward arc, and cut deep into and down the length of Nathan’s left hamstring.

Hot fire shot down Nathan’s leg as he and the boy hit the ground in a tumbling roll. He cradled the boy, taking most of the impact and let the momentum carry them, knowing when they stopped moving the thing he thought of as the
tonton macoute
would be standing over them, machete in hand.

When at last they came to a stop, Nathan didn’t try to stand. He knew his damaged leg wouldn’t hold him. Using his body to shield the boy he lifted his weight off Jared and said, “Run damn it, run.” The boy couldn’t or wouldn’t move. Terrified to look behind him he gave the boy a hard urgent push, “Damn you kid, get up and run. Think of your mother.”

The man behind them laughed, “His mother is dead. I killed her along with his little friend, Barry. Yes sir, I served them up pipin’ hot. I guess you could say they were well done taters, isn’t that right Jar?”

Nathan looked down. The boy’s face was screwed up tight like he was going to cry. Only when he spoke, he didn’t hear grief in his voice, he heard anger. “You’re a damn liar, Tanner. They’re alive.” He raised up onto his elbows and shouted, “And you know it!”

Nathan looked between the blood-covered man, missing his right ear and part of his face, and the boy, unable to grasp the relationship the two obviously shared. He shoved the boy’s legs again. “This is no time for a damn reunion, get the hell out of here.”

Jar swallowed back his tears, rolled away from Nathan, and scrambled behind the shed.

In retribution Griffin stepped onto Nathan’s injured leg and twisted his foot. Oblivious to the screams that ensued, Griffin stated in a matter of fact voice, “I hope you enjoyed your little moment. It was your last.” He lifted the machete ready to strike when he heard a familiar voice chanting in Haitian.

He swiveled his head around and watched an old woman approach assisted by a man. She held a faded parchment in her hand. The spirit riding him pushed his way to the front. He pointed a finger at the rolled parchment. “You’re going to need more than a damn ritual to send me back this time.” He placed his foot onto the sheriff’s injured leg and jumped, coming down hard onto the torn hamstring. Blood spurted from the long gash and the wounded man writhed in agony nearly losing consciousness.

Sneering, Brunache mocked the injured man, “Where is Ninon? Certainly she could have held up better than this pathetic piece of shit.”

Narried threw a look of rebuke in Nathan’s direction. This creature thrived on others weaknesses. To survive this encounter they all needed to be strong. Still chanting, she handed the scroll to Nute. She withdrew the vial of ashes from the fold in her long skirt, uncapped it and poured a portion of the powder into her palm. Repeating the chant she blew the powder into the air. A hot wind formed and carried the powder across the distance. The Loa were with Narried. Their presence imbued her with power. The substance crossed the distance and made contact with his skin. Blisters formed across his chest and shoulders and he cried out, baring his teeth.

Stilling her racing heart, Narried called out, “You come on with your bad self. I got more where dat came from.” She raised her palm to her lips preparing to blow another handful in his direction.

Brunache looked down at the man beneath him and sniffed the air. He could smell the blood of his enemy—the injured man was a descendant. His eyes shifted between Narried Savoi, the man by her side and the trash under his foot. He wasn’t sure what Narried Savoi was capable of, or if her ability with the Loa over the years had made her stronger. But he recalled she had been strong enough to take part in dismembering a woman and he had little doubt the male body he now rode would not fare well if it fell into her hands.