World of Darkness - Antagonists.pdf - World of Darkness - Pomidoros

You shoot a man, he ought to stay down.

He'd heard the talk, but passedit off as a bunch of bullshit, a decision he

currently regretted. Something strange had been going down on the streets of

Detroit and Andre Langman was getting his first taste of it.

Until he sawthe vacant eyesand stitched-up lips, Andre thought the thing

coming at him was just another memberof the Cadavres, the territorial rivals

of Andre'sgang, the Vipers.He fired, once, noting with satisfactionhow cleanly

the bullet entered his target's stomach. The shot knocked the creepy looking

bastard back about two feet, but didn't stop it from walking steadily forward,

a low, strangled moan coming from its sewn lips. It neither quickened nor

slowedas it closedthe gap betweenitself and the young man sporting the yel-

low bandana that identified him as a member of the Vipers. Andre swore to

himsel[, squeezedoff another two rounds. One slug caught the thing in its

right shoulder, the other in its stomach, but it never so much as flinched.

-Andrepanicked then, unloading shot after shot at his pursuer. After emp-

tying the clip with no response,Andredroppedthe gun and ran. His legspumped

furiously as he wovethrough dark streets, dodging the half-hearted circles of

illumination the streetlamps offered. Five blocks later, Andre began cursing

himself for his pack-a-dayhabit, his lungs burning and struggling to process

enough oxygen.Another five plocks and he felt his legs begin to give way, each

breath a desperategasp. Witli a final glance over his shoulder to confirm he'd

shaken his pursuer, the young man veeredinto an alleywayand leaned against

the rough brick wall, panting.

What the fuck wasthat? Andre askedhimself. No way a brother takes that

many bullets and keeps on walking. And his mouth? Who messedhim up like

that?

Shuddering, Andre wiped his face with his bandana. He stood there for a

moment, back pressedagainst the wall, then he took a deep steadying breath

and droppedhis arms down to his sides.

"I guess we got a problem, Andre," a familiar voice said from the back of

the alleyway.Andre began frantically patting his waist, searching for his gun,

until he rememberedhe'd tossed it when that thing wouldn't fall down. A fig-

ure emerged slowly from the shadows, which, though dark and deep, didn't

seemdark or deep enough to conceala person the size of the man approaching

Andre. Andre knew that man. Hell, Andre had killed the man himself, six

weeksago.

"Third?" Andre whispered.The man nodded. "Third. Shit! That's impos~

sible. You're dead, man! I killed you."

"Like I said, Andre," Third said sardonically, "I guesswe got a problem."

Suzette dreamed of Saint~Domingue. She stood in the middle of a blood~

drenched sugar cane field, the cane broken, trampled and littered with bodies.

The corpses, both black and white, lay like discarded dolls, their limbs broken

and splayed, or severed and kicked aside. On the horizon, flames leapt into the

heavens from burning plantation homes. The smells of death and ash mingled

in the humid evening air, clinging to Suzette's sweat~soaked clothes.

Suzette tUrned to the woman standing beside her, unsurprised to see the

skeletal face beneath the rignon head scarf, the bare breasts like empty sacks

above the black wrap skirt. The hollow eye sockets of Manman Brijit, wife of

Baron Samedi, regarded the young sorciere for a moment; then the Loa raised a

thick cigar up to her skull mouth, clenching it between her teeth, and pointed

at the cane stand in front of her. Suzette looked out into the sugar cane expect'

antly, seeing nothing but smoke, fire and blood.

"Is this Haiti?" she asked, in the French patois that had not passed her lips in

nearly 20 years, since she moved away from Haiti as a small child. Manman Brijit

answered Suzette in the same familiar dialect, her voicesurprisingly resonant as it

issued from her lipless mouth. .

"Not yet, but soon," and then she pointed again at the cane stand.

Suddenly, the sugar cane began to sway and shudder, as a band of men emerged

directly in front of her. The menhad obviouslybeenslavesonce, the tatteredremains of

cheapclothing hanging from scarred bodies. As they movedfrom the cane, the silver

moonlight reflectedoff their machetes. Yes, Suzette noted, they hadindeedbeenslaves...

once. Under the bright moon, shesawtheir vacantwhiteeyes,their mouths sewnclosed.

They walked,but in a slow,determinedshuffle. Somelackedan arm, an eye,an ear, and

nearly all sporteddeepmacheteor bayonetwounds; but they movedas though oblivious

to theseinjuries. Suzette knew thesecreatures, knew how to createthem, though she'd

nevermadeit through the wholeritual. Zombies, she thought, and shuddered.

From behind the undead slaves, a voice barked a sharp order in French, and the '\

zombiesall drewtheir machetesand began to march forwardmore quickly. They -J

passedSuzette and Manman Brijit, ignoring the women completely,savefor a

single figure, whichpausedfor a momentbeforeSuzette. The man's eyeslooked

into Suzette's, and though he was dark as the night, dark as Manman's fine

mink coat, his eyessparkledpaleblue. His unstitchedlips curled into a smile and

he turned on heel to chaseafter the band of zombies.

Suzette turned to Manman Brijit. "But what does this haveto do with me?"

she asked. "This happenedover 200 years ago. What does this mean to me?"

Manman Brijit raised the cigar to her mouth again and took a puff. As she

exhaled,the sweet,smellingsmokeswirledaround Suzette; shespoke, her dream' ;f

voice rich and deepas a man's.

"Child, it means, 'Don't cross me.'"

The thick, syrupy cigar smoke curled into Suzette's lungs, choking her.

She gaspedand clawedat her throat, as if trying to pry loose an invisible hand.

Strangling, Suzette fell to her knees, the edgesof her vision beginning to cloud.

Suzette awoke in her efficiency apartment in Detroit, choking and gag~

ging on invisible smoke. She touched her neck gingerly, finding it tender,

.. and realized she must have been clawing at it in her sleep. She swallowed,

her throat sore and parched. Shaking the dream from her head, Suzette hast~

ily arose, meticulously washed her body in the coffin~sized shower of her

tiny bathroom, and then carefully dressed in the batik wrap~around dress.

She covered her long, black hair with a bright yellow rignon, just as her

mother had taught her.

The slender, young black woman walked into the empty space meant to be

her living room. Suzette owned very little furniture. No one much Jiving in

this room anyway, she thought wryly. The body laid out on the low table that

served as Suzette's makeshift altar was still stiff and had not yet begun to rot,

though she'd filled the room with sweet, fragrant flowers, just in case. The

heavy scent of gardenias reminded Suzette of her dream and the swirl of sweet

smoke from Brijit's cigar, and her hand went involuntarily to her throat.

~'Don't be a child," Suzette muttered to herself, sharply. "That was just a

dream, and Manman Brijit, she's only coming when you call her and not before."

She breathed deeply, steadying her pulse, and began to prepare the body for the

ritual. First, Suzette removed the corpse's clothes, cutting away the too~baggy

jeans and boxers, and then the blood~stained jersey and undershirt. She unfastened

the heavy gold bracelet from his wrist and heard it fall to the ground with a satisfy~

ing thud. Her narrow fingers prushed the dead man's soft face, lightly touching

his long~lashedeyelids and full, cold lips, his smooth skin dark as morning coffee.

He was pretty, she mused. Shameabout that. She ran her fingertip sensually around

the bullet hole just below his left clavicle. Finally, Suzette's searching hand came

to rest on the most important item, the small leather gris~gris bag she'd given the

young man a few days ago, while he was still among the living. Under her palm,

the bag seemedto pulse faintly, as though remembering the now~stilled heartbeat.

Suzette smiled.

And hedied for me. Wasn't that sweet?

Patting the bag gently, Suzette rose and walked to the cabinet that held all

her vodoun possessions, both the ceremonial and the practical. She carefully

removed a large wooden bowl, stained dark inside with decades, perhaps even

centuries, of use. She set the bowl on the floor beside her altar, then picked up

her purse from the kitchen table and headed out the door to the butcher's. Live

chickens were in short supply in downtown Detroit, but fresh chicken blood

was cheap by the pint.

World of Darkness - Antagonists.pdf

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