Chapter 20
White pins and Zombies
"We've got a tail, you guys," Malika said as she slid out of the brush onto the game trail that Cooper and Pike were using to help lug the sleeping body of Simpson quickly. The drugs they had liberated from the fort's medical tent were more than able to put Simpson out on the spot.
"That's okay, we're prepped for Simpson's partner. He's a piece of work, but we've got something special for him." Pike said.
The team had liberated more toys from the camp to help them in their games. They had done this on the first day, when their surprise attacks had scared guards and disrupted normal patterns and protocols. They took little useful things here and there so that people would be less likely to notice.
Malika shook her head, "I know you spotted the partner, we've got another tail beside that guy. Some creepy little guy in a loin cloth. He's good, I couldn't get close enough to see what he was packing in terms of weapons, but he was wearing kevlar and made good use of cover. I only saw him clear once, and didn't have a shot. After that, I could follow him by brush movement and the sound of animals staying clear of him, but nothing out of him personally. He's really good."
Cooper nodded, "Then we need to pick up the pace, and we need to be prepped. Stay away from us and cover your tracks like never before as you leave this trail. I don't him knowing we have a third person. How much time do we have with Simpson, do you think?"
Malika closed her eyes and estimated, "I'd say you'll have maybe five minutes if you really push it."
Pike nodded, "We need to run then, forget anything else, let's add distance. Let them track us. We'll buy more time by running than by being careful."
The brothers nodded to each and broke into a run as Malika faded back into the brush carefully removing her tracks and adjusting leaf litter on the ground to make everything look natural.
* * *
Devlin had been following the trail for about half an hour. He had crossed a game trail about twenty minutes back and almost lost them, realizing after the fact that his quarry had turned onto the game trail instead of crossing it. The move had seemed silly to Devlin, better to make pursuers work hard by tracking through brush and debris. But the Devlin realized that taking the game trail allowed them to carry Simpson more easily. It made sense, once you thought like your quarry.
Their trail had become hard to follow on the game trail. The dirt was already packed down by the animals that used the trail and the tracks the tribals left were much less distinct on the game trail. Devlin had trouble following them, but would spot tracks that matched the moccasins his two quarries were wearing every so often to prove that they were still on the game trail at this point.
Abruptly though, the tribal's tracks became more distinct, easier to spot and follow. Devlin was able to measure stride distance, the tracks were so distinct. The tribals were running- almost a full sprint. Devlin cursed under his breath.
"They hadn't thought I would follow them, and then I must have given away my position. They were moving at a normal pace before, because they thought that nobody was following. Now they're running because they know I'm on their trail. Fine. Then let's run, I can run all day!"
Devlin broke into a run.
* * *
Nugget paused and listened to Devlin rant. He looked over everything at the transition point. Why had the prey been spooked here?
Was the pack wolf right? Had the pack wolf given away it's position to the prey? Nugget admitted to himself that this was a possibility.
Had Nugget himself given his position away. Nugget didn't think so. If they knew about Nugget, then they knew about the pack wolf much earlier. They would have spooked earlier then.
Nugget looked at the ground where the tracks told him of the change in speed. The tracks lengthened their stride, the pressure releases grew extreme, and the younger man in carrying the front of the sleeping pack wolf had a rock in his moccasin.
Everything else looked as Nugget would expect this area to look. Nonetheless, something bothered Nugget about this scene. There was a smaller game trail behind the bushes on the left side of the trail, Nugget realized. Why did the signs on the ground not tell him there was a game trail connecting with the main trail. The signs on the ground told him that there was nothing beyond the bushes but regular woodland.
Somebody had hidden this game trail, Nugget realized. The person who had hidden the side trail had done it so well, that Nugget couldn't even tell when the trail had been hidden. The trail could have been hidden recently or ages ago. Did this relate to Nugget's hunt- Nugget did not know. Nugget stepped delicately onto the side trail and looked at the ground for signs.
Signs on the trail spoke of deer, many deer, and rabbits, and foxes and skunks and porcupines. The trail spoke of a few bears and many coyotes, and some wolves. The trail did not speak of humans. This bothered Nugget and he sat down more two minutes to think this over.
Nugget did not like not knowing what the ground was telling him, but his quarry was escaping and he would have to deal with his not knowing.
* * *
Private Morgan Simpson awoke to pain in his wrists and a voice speaking behind him.
"Hello Simpson."
Simpson opened his eyes. There was a table in front of him with a large assortment of medical tools: scalpels, pliers, a bone saw, syringes and numerous hunting knives added for apparent effect.
Behind the table was a large chair carved out of a burned out dead tree whose leafless branches stretched out over Simpson's head. Seated in the chair was a figure wearing a black top hat with raven's bones on it. The figure was dressed in a black cloak with a deep red lining and black glyphs stitched onto the red. Beside the figure sat a wolf hound. A wolf hound.
Simpson knew what a top hat and a wolfhound meant. He tried to stand, but felt metal dig into his wrists. Simpson looked and found himself bound by his wrists and ankles to a big old wooden chair, worn down from age, but still quite sturdy. Simpson was tied with some sort of wire, and resistance would cut his own wrists.
"I told you, that we would be meeting."
The figure in the top hat didn't move, and the voice didn't come from the figure. The voice came from behind Simpson. He turned his head to look, and saw a wild haired man in leather armor who was gently running a straight razor across his own face in a pantomime of shaving.
"What do you want?" Simpson asked the wild man.
"You aren't talking to me." The wild man answer, and Simpson realized that the wild man hadn't been speaking earlier- the voice was wrong.
"We should move this along Simpson, you don't have much time." The original voice spoke again, but this time came from his left.
Simpson snapped his head back around sharply, but there was nothing there. His movement caused the wolfhound to growl though and as it did, Simpson heard the voice say, "Easy Phobos."
Simpson turned back in time to see the figure in the top hat gently scratching behind the wolfhound's ear, "Easy boy, I'll let you eat his fear as soon as he's dead." The voice came from Simpson's right this time.
"You, the ghost dealer, you're the one who's talking." Simpson said.
"It's taken you long enough to catch up with the rest of the class Simpson. Time that will work against you." The figure lifted a pocket watch with it's free hand and snapped it open.
"By my measure, you only have seven minutes until you are going to wish you are dead, although it will be days or even weeks until you actually are dead."
Simpson stared at the figure in disbelief, "What do you mean?'
The figure did not answer.
"What do you mean?!" Simpson shouted, shaking the chair and causing the wire to cut into his arms and legs.
"I mean what I say. I have killed you Simpson. Do you know history? Have you heard of Haitian Voodoo? Have you heard of the Zombie?"
Simpson was silent as he tried to process. The ghost dealer's roving voice continued to speak.
"The Voodoo master would make a powder and administer it to a victim- usually orally- you can see from the syringes that we chose a more direct route. The mixture slows the victims bodily functions until they seem completely dead, even most talented doctors cannot tell the difference. The victim is declared dead and buried or cremated. But here's the rub Simpson, the victim is still alive and fully conscious- trapped in a paralyzed body that is slowly suffering brain damage from oxygen deprivation."
Simpson was shaking his head now.
"Normally the Voodoo Master would dig up the victim before the brain damage was too great, and would administer the cure." The ghost dealer held up a syringe and shook it gently.
"The Voodoo Master would then own the cured individual, because- of course- brain damage is incurable and tends to make one highly suggestible."
"But if the Voodoo master didn't dig up the victim, the victim would die a slow agonizing death as the brain- its functions slowed to a crawl- slowly suffered from oxygen deprivation and the victim died while slowly losing everything that made them who they were. They would lose memories, plucked slowly from their minds. They would lose the ability to make distinctions and understand concepts. They would regress to a child-like state, and would rage in their minds at their containment in their grave. And they would eventually despair and breakdown as they lost the faculties that allowed them to cope with emotions- finally sliding away as the last brain cells flickered off. It's a horrible way to die, not one I would wish for any day."
The Wild man behind Simpson spoke, "So my master and I have a deal for you." The wild man placed a hand on Simpson's shoulder.
"Answer a few questions for us," The ghost dealer's disembodied voice said, "And I will administer this to you."
"And that's the antidote right?" Simpson said, trying not to sound desperate.
"No," The wild man answered, "We do not have the ingredients that would allow my master to mix the antidote. This is a poison that will kill you instantly."
"Then why would I tell you anything?"
"Choose not to answer, and we will leave you." The ghost dealer's voice said, "I have added a few ingredients that will delay the onset of the symptoms, but we only have five minutes now before things start to happen. Choose not to assist us and by the time your partner finds you- you will be apparently dead. And then you get to attend your own funeral, perhaps you're own autopsy first though. I can't imagine that would be fun, but probably more enjoyable than slow brain death in a coffin buried six feet underground."
The wild man leaned in and spoke into Simpson's ear, "Four minutes and thirty seconds. You can die now in peace Simpson. My master promises that the poison is tasteless and painless. Or you can die slowly imprisoned in your own body over a matter of excruciating days."
"Time grows short Simpson," The Ghost dealer's voice said quietly from behind, "We do not need you, there are many others who could answer our questions. But if you wish a peaceful death you need to answer us now."
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