like a
cat. But he knew that it was no feline who pursued him. Its size
was immense as it picked its way through the stand of bamboo. And
that was not all that he heard. With the sound of footsteps came a
peculiar whistling noise... like air forced through a narrow, wet
opening.
Quentin urged his horse onward. The gelding
grew skittish in the darkness, unable to see where it was going.
The canebrake grew thicker, pressing in on the trail like opposing
walls, making it difficult to navigate. The young man strained his
ears for sound. He was thankful to find that he could no longer
hear the sound of the footsteps... as well as the moist wheezing that
accompanied them.
"Let's take leave of this damned place and
get back home," he told his horse soothingly. His eyes peered into
the darkness, trying to gauge his surroundings in the pale
moonlight.
Abruptly, they were set upon. From out of the
canebrake, two dark arms extended. Strong hands -- calloused from
grueling work at the urging whip of the overseer -- grasped the
throat of the gelding. With a powerful yank, the horse's neck was
broken. Its eyes rolled into the back of its head and it dropped to
its side, pinning Quentin Deveroux underneath.
Frightened, he struggled to pull himself
free. He looked around frantically, but the arms of the demon in
the canebrake had disappeared.
With some effort, Quentin managed to wiggle
from beneath the weight of the dead animal. But something was wrong
with his leg. He shrieked as he attempted to stand. Quentin looked
down to see a jagged shard of bone protruding through his trousers,
just below the knee.
He tried several times to walk, but fell each
time. "Lord help me!" he cried out, teeth clenched against the
agony that throbbed through his shattered shinbone. "Please...
deliver me from this hellhole."
Slowly, he began to crawl on his hands and
knees along the muddy pathway between the towering stalks of sugar
cane. It was slow going... one torturous inch at a time. Once a swamp
adder slithered across his path, scarcely a foot from his nose. He
nearly screamed, but he knew he didn't dare. It would only alert
his whereabouts to the wild creatures and gators who hunted in
darkness, searching for a helpless morsel such as himself.
He had only traveled a few yards when he
heard something come crashing out of the canebrake. He rolled over
onto his back to find the thing that had killed his horse, standing
on the pathway eight feet away.
It was the headless body of Jonathan; naked,
his ebony skin glistening with sweat and wet sand. The ugly hole
within the column of his neck -- severed just above the larynx --
sputtered and wheezed as his lungs inflated and deflated without
benefit of those cerebral impulses necessary for such function.
"No!" screamed Quentin. "Lord Jesus, no... it
is impossible!"
But he knew that Mojo Mama's voodoo had made
it possible. Out of love and vengeance, she had conjured a spell
and turned the sunken remains of her only son into a living,
breathing zombie. Horrified, he watched as the headless corpse
started toward him. Its huge, dark hands clenched and unclenched
angrily, ready to latch upon the murderer of the woman who had once
given birth to him.
Quentin wailed and tried to crawl away. He
dismissed the revolver in his coat, for in his haste he had
neglected to bring powder and ball with which to reload. The
youngest of the Deveroux scrambled only a few feet, before hands
roughly took hold of him. He wept, waiting to feel strong fingers
close about his gullet, expecting the quick twist that might
shatter his neckbone and send him spiraling into the dark void of
death.
But it did not come. No, something much more
horrifying took place. He felt the thing's brawny arms encircle
him, lifting him from the pathway. Quentin shut his eyes in
revulsion as it pressed him closely to its broad chest, almost
tenderly so. He struggled to break free, but there was no chance of
doing so.
Quentin pleaded as Jonathan
cat. But he knew that it was no feline who pursued him. Its size
was immense as it picked its way through the stand of bamboo. And
that was not all that he heard. With the sound of footsteps came a
peculiar whistling noise... like air forced through a narrow, wet
opening.
Quentin urged his horse onward. The gelding
grew skittish in the darkness, unable to see where it was going.
The canebrake grew thicker, pressing in on the trail like opposing
walls, making it difficult to navigate. The young man strained his
ears for sound. He was thankful to find that he could no longer
hear the sound of the footsteps... as well as the moist wheezing that
accompanied them.
"Let's take leave of this damned place and
get back home," he told his horse soothingly. His eyes peered into
the darkness, trying to gauge his surroundings in the pale
moonlight.
Abruptly, they were set upon. From out of the
canebrake, two dark arms extended. Strong hands -- calloused from
grueling work at the urging whip of the overseer -- grasped the
throat of the gelding. With a powerful yank, the horse's neck was
broken. Its eyes rolled into the back of its head and it dropped to
its side, pinning Quentin Deveroux underneath.
Frightened, he struggled to pull himself
free. He looked around frantically, but the arms of the demon in
the canebrake had disappeared.
With some effort, Quentin managed to wiggle
from beneath the weight of the dead animal. But something was wrong
with his leg. He shrieked as he attempted to stand. Quentin looked
down to see a jagged shard of bone protruding through his trousers,
just below the knee.
He tried several times to walk, but fell each
time. "Lord help me!" he cried out, teeth clenched against the
agony that throbbed through his shattered shinbone. "Please...
deliver me from this hellhole."
Slowly, he began to crawl on his hands and
knees along the muddy pathway between the towering stalks of sugar
cane. It was slow going... one torturous inch at a time. Once a swamp
adder slithered across his path, scarcely a foot from his nose. He
nearly screamed, but he knew he didn't dare. It would only alert
his whereabouts to the wild creatures and gators who hunted in
darkness, searching for a helpless morsel such as himself.
He had only traveled a few yards when he
heard something come crashing out of the canebrake. He rolled over
onto his back to find the thing that had killed his horse, standing
on the pathway eight feet away.
It was the headless body of Jonathan; naked,
his ebony skin glistening with sweat and wet sand. The ugly hole
within the column of his neck -- severed just above the larynx --
sputtered and wheezed as his lungs inflated and deflated without
benefit of those cerebral impulses necessary for such function.
"No!" screamed Quentin. "Lord Jesus, no... it
is impossible!"
But he knew that Mojo Mama's voodoo had made
it possible. Out of love and vengeance, she had conjured a spell
and turned the sunken remains of her only son into a living,
breathing zombie. Horrified, he watched as the headless corpse
started toward him. Its huge, dark hands clenched and unclenched
angrily, ready to latch upon the murderer of the woman who had once
given birth to him.
Quentin wailed and tried to crawl away. He
dismissed the revolver in his coat, for in his haste he had
neglected to bring powder and ball with which to reload. The
youngest of the Deveroux scrambled only a few feet, before hands
roughly took hold of him. He wept, waiting to feel strong fingers
close about his gullet, expecting the quick twist that might
shatter his neckbone and send him spiraling into the dark void of
death.
But it did not come. No, something much more
horrifying took place. He felt the thing's brawny arms encircle
him, lifting him from the pathway. Quentin shut his eyes in
revulsion as it pressed him closely to its broad chest, almost
tenderly so. He struggled to break free, but there was no chance of
doing so.
Quentin pleaded as Jonathan
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