The Zombie Game by Glenn Shepard Read Free Book Online Page B

momentarily stunned rodent scurried into a crevice in the wall.
    From the stack of corpses, an arm emerged and then a leg. A head appeared. The body wiggled, and the man rose to his feet.
    Jakjak stepped away from the pile of bodies. He looked down at the bullet holes in his chest and touched them. “Ow,” he said aloud. He slapped his face. That, too, was painful. But zombies don’t feel pain.
    He looked around. Iwa was not with him. He was alone, save for the bodies on the floor.
    “ O wi , Bondye, Great God of the Universe,” Jakjak prayed. “You have restored my life. What do you wish me to do?”
    There was silence, but he felt a new energy in his body. He expected no reply, as he knew the Vodoun God didn’t communicate with individuals, as in other religions. His God communicated only through human priests ( houngans ) and priestesses ( mambos ) and through Iwa , the spirit of dead humans and animals. He looked at the two bullet holes over his heart. A miracle had occurred.
    He took a couple steps. He seemed to walk like he’d always walked. He looked at his hands; they, too, seemed as they’d always been.
    Jakjak looked upward. “You made me a zombie. Now I’m here to do your bidding.” He shook his head. “But I don’t want to kill nobody. Why am I a zombie?”
    Still, he heard no voices.
    He looked around for Iwa . The cat was not there. Nor was Julien Duran. He was alone. Zombies were always directed by bokors . But who is my master?
    Jakjak took a deep breath. The pain persisted in his chest. He coughed and spit old blood from his lungs.
    Then, he felt pangs of hunger. Zombies neither hunger nor thirst. And I feel both.
    He looked around the cave he was in. Dim light shone from a low-wattage bulb hanging from an electrical wire. Several cabinets lay on their sides. He started opening them, and in one he found a small stock of canned goods. Rust covered them all. A calendar that was partly covered by the cabinet was for the year 1989. Jakjak lifted several cans and looked at the labels: tomato soup and chicken noodle soup. No matter how old it was, he was going to consume it.
    There was no can opener. He took a sharp chunk of concrete and knocked a hole in one of the tops. Ignoring the dust and chips that fell into the can, he put it to his open mouth. He felt pain as the sharp edge cut his tongue. He wiped his mouth and saw bright red blood on his hand.
    He laughed aloud. “Zombies don’t bleed!”
    Disregarding the blood seeping from his tongue, he gulped down the entire can of tomato soup. He opened and downed two more cans and he wiped the food running down the corners of his mouth with his forearm.
    He felt his stomach. “ Ki begay bon . That tastes good.” He flexed his muscles. He felt strong.
    Mr. Duran must be in this cave somewhere , he thought. Stuffing two more cans in his pockets, Jakjak started to explore the cave. But all possible openings for escape were covered by large chunks of cement and marble.
     
     
    Beneath the National Palace
    9:35 a.m.
    Julien Duran feasted on rare Kansas City steak, Russian caviar, and French truffles, while drinking Dom Perignon Rosé, 2000. His hands were now free.
    The wine was not from his own wine cellar. He had bought two bottles of this vintage a year earlier when President Longpre was his dinner guest, paying over $400 for each bottle, but Duran and the President had consumed every drop at the dinner party. This champagne must have been stolen.
    Duran tried pretending he was again at that event for the President of Haiti, tried eating slowly and with dignity. The food was as fine as that served to President Longpre, but it was his first actual meal in three days. He was famished and weak from starvation. So he swallowed the meat without properly chewing, shoveled the caviar onto his tongue, stuffed his mouth with the truffles, and gulped the wine.
    Even though Baccus had given him generous portions, he licked the plates clean and chug-a-lugged the