Jumbie-Mon
prologue


October 1991
Kazakhstan

THE DRIVER'S gaze darted from the narrow road to the sky and back. It was a race against time: to reach the facility before the fast approaching artic front slickened the already slick roads. The facilty was the Scientific Experimental and Production Base facility known as SNOPB, and it was about to be shuttered for good. A flake peppered the Lada Novi Kombi's upright windshield followed by another and another—the front's precipitation threatening but mostly evaporating before reaching the ground—.
     Suddenly the rear of the Lada Novi Kombi kicked out. The tires spun, grabbed, and then lost their grip again. White-knuckled instincts took over, as the driver overcorrected, twisting the steering wheel in the skid's opposite direction. A series of corrections later—the first more frantic than the last—and the Lada found its lane.
     Moments later, a truck whizzed past. Perspiration freckled the driver's forehead. He dared not think of the collision that almost was.
     Slow down he told himself. There's no hurry. The entrance is less than a kilometer away.
     The driver inhaled sharply, a wheeze working its way up his chest cavity. He fumbled in the console for his inhaler. The last attack had been more than a year ago, but the apprehension was too great. He was taking a gargantuan risk. If precisely everything went right, he would never again be seen in Kazakhstan. If. If not, then he would never be seen again.
     The driver dosed the inhaler twice, then twice again. The SNOPB entrance gate loomed ahead. He wiped his brow with his hand, half held his breath as he passed though security, then parked in precisely the same spot he had claimed each day for the last decade. A second pass through security at a perimeter checkpoint, this time with even less scrutiny than the last, he entered the empty mini-tram and took a seat near the rear. The vehicle's airbrakes hissed and the car took off with a jerk towards Building 271 bringing on thoughts of his first visit to the secret bio-development facility.
     The tour guide that day had been a Colonel whose lecture began with the numbering system used at SNOPB.
     "Herr Docktor, this is two-eleven, where all dry and liquid materials are stored."
     "And those pipes?" he asked, pointing to the series of large diameter tubes running overhead.
     "How we transport the agents, of course," answered the Colonel. "The building they connect to is two-twenty-one."
     "And what goes on inside two-twenty-one?"
     "Microorganisms are grown and genetic research is conducted."
     Next they stopped at a group of interconnected buildings marked 241-244 where the Colonel described agents were weaponized.
     "Was this where India One was developed?"
     The Colonel's brows raised, acknowledging the smallpox strain knowledge." "Yes."
     "And what is that?" I asked, pointing towards a mostly-underground building.
     "Two-fifty-one is a depository; where we store the damn stuff. This way Herr Docktor," motioned the Colonel as the tram screeched to a halt in front of a building numbered six-hundred. "Six-hundred has a high containment system, with a special chamber for conducting tests. This is where you'll be spending much of your time."
     The Doctor remembered looking through the thick glass window, barely able to contain his excitement. The working chamber was the largest he'd ever seen, about 30 feet wide, twice again as long, and at least 50 feet tall. Everything shined of polished stainless steel. His gaze turned to the walls stacked floor to ceiling with hydraulically operated doors sealing cages containing monkeys and rabbits. The Doctor's hands fell to the twin joystick controls that manipulated the articulating robotic arms. The slightest touch made the gripper hands pulse. He smiled; the controls felt familiar, comfortable, like an old friend. "Level three?" he asked.
     "Everything at six-hundred is Bio-safety Level three. The showers, the medical room, the containment suits. Anyone entering or exiting the chamber, must first shower, and be subjected to a full examination. Herr Docktor, safety takes priority at SNOPB."
     "What agents will I be working with?"
     "Until now, SNOPB has only manufactured anthrax and smallpox," replied the Colonel.
     "But that's not why I'm here."
     "No. You're here to synthesize agents that mirror and expand upon your work in Suhl. Come, there are still a few more buildings you will need to know about."
     The Colonel took him to 277, a waste treatment facility where biohazards were neutralized, and then 247, where agents developed in the labs were assessed for weaponization. Lastly, they came to 271, a heavily guarded building, protected by concrete walls at least 6 feet thick. "Two-seventy-one is designed to withstand a nuclear attack. Pray that we never find out. Here, Herr Docktor, is where our most dangerous secrets are kept." The Colonel paused for effect before adding, "Your developments, should they ever be used, must be so effective, that the devastation they spread will never be forgotten."
     "Doctor. Doctor."
     The guard's words snapped him to attention and jarred an adrenaline release. His facial muscles tightened.
     "Have you not heard the news? Go home. No one is to enter the labs. This facility is being closed."
     The doctor's heart pounded and his chest weighed heavily; a voice inside shrieked NO FURTHER. Somehow he summoned a calm. "Stupid politicians. Just shut down a facility with no thought given to the safety of those who live nearby. A test I'm running—it isn't yet stable—it must be secured. M6—the most lethal agent we've ever worked with."
     "Oh?" the guard sputtered; coming to grips that safety in and around SNOPB might no longer be so certain. "C-comrade, m-my family lives less than a kilometer away. Do whatever you have to."
     The doctor smiled at the young soldier. "Don't worry, I'll soon have the threat neutralized."
     "Thank you," gushed the guard.
     The critical moment behind, the doctor strode past the guard and into the main corridor, not certain what he would have done had a real challenge been presented. He entered the elevator, pressed the button for Level 3, and keyed in his personal entry code. The LED flashed several times before the identification was accepted and the car started to descend. His head pounded and his stomach soured. Had the guard bought his story? What if he was contacting the base commander? Would his access code still work? Would the lab be empty? What would he say if it wasn't? What would he do if he were caught?
     Bong! A hollow mechanical clash resonated through the elevator shaft and the car de-accelerated suddenly. The Doctor swallowed nervously as the doors parted. He crossed the corridor and punched his access code into the keypad, waiting for a green light to flicker—or red—the color that would signify his capture, and, in all likelihood, death. It seemed an eternity but the acceptance light flashed, and the door-lock electronically unlatched.
     The Doctor's heart drum-rolled. Was anyone inside?
     Darkness met and swallowed him, like a thousand shadowy caves. But today, the dark told a different tale: the level was vacant.
     I'm in!
     The doctor hurried to the refrigerated storage vault, gripping the submarine-like airlock wheel tightly in his hands. It felt cold to his touch and sent shivers down his hairline. Trembling, he whirled the wheel counter-clockwise until the tumbler reached its limits and halted with a metallic click.
     The door was unlocked.
     He tugged the heavy door open, his fingertips tingling with the sensation spreading to his palms and then to his arms. A blast of sub-zero air chaffed his face. He ignored the sensation and reached inside, removing a small clustered plastic case and held it to the light. The Doctor exhaled heavily: Both vials were there, one marked M5, and the other M6. The doctor removed the ice-cold capsules and slipped them into his breast pocket. A moment later, he hurried out from the lab and into the corridor. The elevator door remained open. The car had not been called for.
     The ride to the surface was suffocating. The doctor envisioned hostile bayonets and trigger-happy guards. For a moment he considered hiding the capsules. The emergency phone box was a possibility, but if they were on to him, that action would only postpone the inevitable. The capsules were missing and he would be arrested anyway.
     The doctor buried his face in his hands; his palms covering his lips and cheeks and his fingertips shielding his eyes. What have I done? he trembled. When the elevator halted and the doors opened, he spread his fingertips and hesitantly peered through the gap. A pair of polished boots at the edge of the elevator told the doctor all he needed to know. It was over. He'd been caught red-handed. Would the end come from a bayonet or a bullet? he wondered, looking up. Instead of a Tokarev rifle-mounted bayonet, all that his eyes met was a frightened whimper.
     "Is it safe now? Is my family safe? Should I send them away?"
     "All is fine," whispered the doctor. "All is fine." The doctor inhaled deeply, looking past the frightened young guard to the tempered glass of the exit door. Outside, it was snowing. Heavily, now. The doctor's temples relaxed. The sky never lied.

Present Day
St. John, U.S. Virgin Islands

"CHARLIE, WHERE you go today?"
     "To Jumbie!"
     "Oh, you know I don't like you to go there. Bad things happen there. Men get sick, disappear, why don't you go to Hawksnest and make your Momma happy?"
     "Mom! Those are just silly stories. No one we know has ever had anything happen to them at Jumbie Beach."
     "Audley Marshall. Look at him now. He be sicker each day; all from Jumbie-mon."
     Charlie rolled his eyes. "Mom, if he's sick from anything, it's the rum. Why yesterday morning we saw him passed out at Chilly Billy's."
     His mother started to speak, but then frowned and said nothing.
     "The worst thing that happens at Jumbie," assured Charlie, "is when the tourists try to park where they shouldn't and end up getting stuck."
     "Who you go with?"
     "Billy and Sparky, and Sogo too."
     "Okay. But you come home for lunch."
     "Mom! Do I have to?"
     "Well, OK. I pack you a sack-lunch. But you come home before dark—Charlie call dat George?"
     Charlie understood. It was her way of saying he'd better not be late. "Yes, mom."
     Billy and Sparky were waiting for Charlie in front of the Jomonson's. As usual, Sogo was late. The boys played catch for a while, until Sogo emerged from the path connecting the Jomonson's yard to the upper hills. He was carrying his lucky bat and grinning from ear to ear.
     Sparky couldn't resist, goading and mimicking him in mock-Tankalankan. "Sogo, d no be skinnin' up yuh teet'. Lucky bat or not, Charlie-mon and I best you t'day."
     "Nevah happ'n mon," laughed Sogo. "Besides, me and Billy—we no be fraid of dat."
     Sogo spoke in such a jumbled mix of island-speak, Jamaican slang, and priceless Tankalankan, that the boys had a field day with his speech. It was a good thing Sogo was a good sport.
     "Yah Mon, we fixta Mal Yeux spell on yur bats."
     "Mal Yeux—fixta, fixta," jeered the other two.
     "I say Jumbie. De same as beads mon—ward off Bad Eye spells good."
     "But not obeah—never be so."
     "Obeah? Look neh crosses," intoned Sogo.
     "I don't see any crosses mon," snickered Charlie.
     "Not crosses mon . . . crosses."
     "What?"
     "I now hang up d laundry an' it starts to rain."
     The boys burst out in laughter. Sogo had done it again—come up with the craziest thing.
     "We be playing tag; not doing d laundry," Sparky playfully reminded their new friend.
     "No laundry. Luck mon. Bad."
     "Are you saying 'Look neh crosses' means 'my bad luck'? badgered Charlie.
     Sogo sheepishly nodded.
     "Well luck or not. You're it!" Billy yelled, tapping Sogo on the shoulder.
     And so it went, the four boys laughing and kidding all the way to Jumbie Beach. A day off from school was like riches in the bank. When they reached Jumbie, all of the parking spaces were empty. Good news; the boys had the beach to themselves.
     "Last one to the bottom carries our gear back home!" yelled Billy, sprinting down the steps towards the beachhead. Caught off guard, the others raced to catch up with the glib trickster. At the bottom Charlie edged out Sparky by half-a-length, with the slightly overweight Sogo bringing up the rear, muttering, "oh shimps mon", as if he were really surprised.
     After they caught their breath, they staked out the pitchers mound, homeplate, and first, second, and third bases in the sand. Sparky and Charlie formed one team, while Sogo and Billy the other. Sogo had lost the race down the steps, so Sparky and Charlie let them bat first.
     "Saah-wing batter saah-wing," jeered Sparky as Charlie served up the first pitch. Sogo swung hard, catching nothing but air, and spinning so hard he lost his balance. The boys erupted in laughter. Strike one. Again Charlie wound up, letting the underhand pitch go. This time Sogo caught a piece, but the ball just dribbled to his left and nearly into the bay. Foul ball. Strike two. Billy retrieved the ball from the waters edge and tossed it back to Charlie. Red in the face, Sogo stared down the next pitch. Ahead by two strikes, Charlie wasn't going to give his friend anything resembling a good pitch. He nodded to Sparky in centerfield, then let loose a looper, chin-high. Sogo swung with all his might, missing the ball by good two feet. Strike three. Charlie couldn't help himself, and began to snicker out loud. Sogo joined in and then the other two. Soon they were all on the ground, laughing and rolling in the sand.
     At the end of eight innings, Sogo and Billy were down 6-2, and what was worse; neither of those runs had been scored by Sogo's lucky bat. In the ninth inning Sogo struck out again. One out. Things were looking bleak until Billy saved the day, slugging out a triple, and nearly an in-the-park homerun off Charlie's wayward pitch. Now Sogo felt the momentum shifting—at least they had a chance.
     Charlie pitched his friend low, but Sogo wasn't going to swing at just anything. Ball one. Charlie glanced at Billy who was taking a huge lead off of third, then over to Sparky—there was nothing he could do. He pitched just outside, but at waist level. Sogo wasn't fooled, and let the pitch go by. Ball two.
     "Come on Charlie," cried Sparky from centerfield.
     "Come on Sogo," cheered Billy from third base.
     Charlie wound up again. This time he gave Sogo a good pitch, over the plate, but just a little high. Sogo swung through, catching a healthy piece, but foul tipping the ball sky high and way behind. Two balls and two strikes. With Billy on third and no one left playing catcher, Sogo dropped his bat and ran after the ball. Up the embankment he climbed, his eyes darting all over the nooks and crannies searching of the wayward ball. Where the heck was it? As Sogo scaled higher and neared the spirit face, he held his breath. The terrifying appendage glowered at him. Sogo scurried even faster. He could feel the spirit's breath. It made the hair on his neck rise. As he reached a landing just above the face, he heard his friends catcalling from below.
     "Did you find it?"
     "Need any help?"
     "Wat yah be doing Sogo—taking a nap?"
     "Watch out for the spirit face."
     Then he saw it. The ball lay in a small clearing surrounded by about a dozen dead bannaquit birds. Flies were everywhere. Sogo stooped to pick up the ball now noticing the flies too were deadly still.