Zombie God of the Jungle Read online

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Dane Hatchell

  These stories are a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

  Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed Press:

  Other Titles Available from the Author

  Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution

  A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

  A Werewolf in our Midst

  Apocalypse³

  Club Dead: Zombie Isle

  Dead Coup d'État

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  It Came from Black Swamp

  Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

  Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

  Pheromone and Rotten

  Red Rain

  Soul Mates

  The Garden of Fear

  The Last Savior

  The Turning of Dick Condon

  Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

  Two Big Foot Tales

  Two Demented Fish Tales

  Zombies of Iwo Jima

  Zombie’s Honor

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Nakima slept soundly on a bed made of thatch in his Grandfather’s hut. Deep drumbeats in the distance pounded out an enchanting rhythm where the tribe’s Shaman danced and grunted incantations to bring back the departed spirit of their fallen God.

  The Shaman performed his ancient ritual nonstop for the past three days, believing he alone had the power to restore the faith of his Village. A faith that had been untested for more generations than any knew.

  Kilomba had always been there to care for them. He brought the rains for the crops and provided the abundance of fish caught in the sea. The benevolent God’s only demand in return an annual human sacrifice, of which the Village eagerly complied in order to continue the blessing of plentiful food and fertile women.

  The future was in question now that Kilomba laid dead and rotting where the bolt of lightning had struck him down.

  The Shaman stumbled as he struggled to complete the ceremonial dance. Two ebony warriors rushed to his side. One gave him a drink from an animal skin.

  “It is no use, Barlak. Kilomba is forever asleep. It is time for you to rest,” one of the warriors said.

  “A God can never die. This is trickery of the Devil to test our faith. Kilomba’s spirit is waiting from above. I can feel it in my heart,” Barlak said.

  Thunder rolled in the distance. The eastern horizon lit briefly in a warm glow. Fresh winds pushed the ceremonial flames sideways. A damp coolness washed over the villagers in their wake.

  “The time is approaching. We must not lose faith now. Prepare the terrikitu, quickly, for the final time,” Barlak said, as he weakly waved his hand.

  “Kilomba’s body has started to rot. This is a waste of time. Better to declare the death of a God than allow the people to cling to false hope,” the warrior said.

  With his last remaining strength, Barlak slapped the warrior on his cheek with his open palm. “Devil, get behind me.” Then, called, “Start the terrikitu.”

  Sanctified disciples of the Shaman mashed a large bladder filled with extracts of fermented leaves and roots, pumping the potion directly into a vein leading to Kilomba’s heart through a small piece of sharpened bamboo.

  Two others stood on the chest of the massive beast directly above its heart. In unison, they flexed their legs and bounced up and down, using the heart as a pump to circulate the potion throughout the body.

  The mighty beast was as magnificent to behold in death as it was in life. He lay on his back with his arms stretched out from his side. From the tip of his right hand to the tip of his left totaled nearly twenty-five feet, slightly longer than he was tall.

  The head was larger than that of ten human’s. The face a black leathery mask surrounded by short black hair. The nostrils were so large that two fists side by side could fit in each. The teeth—long yellowing spikes able to slice through the toughest of animal hides. His jaws had been strong enough to crush the sweet milk from coconuts.

  The bladder went empty as the last of the potion entered Kilomba. The two disciples stepped off his chest, kneeled, and gave a short prayer before departing.

  Barlak sat upright with the two warriors supporting him on either side. Lightning crackled across the sky. The earth rumbled from the reverberating thunder. The winds intensified, blowing out the flame of a few torches that outlined the body of Kilomba.

  A memorial made of bamboo towered near the head of the fallen God—a beacon erected by the villagers to announce to the heavens Kilomba was dead. The tower rose some fifty feet in the air.

  Rolling clouds from the west blocked the light of the moon and gobbled up the stars. A blanket of darkness blocked the heavens, split only by the branching arms of lightning that chained above.

  Barlak raised both hands to calm the mourners and then clapped twice for the drummers to stop. He then nodded for them to invoke the power of the gods.

  The drummers pounded a rare beat to open a window to the gods’ ears. The pulsating rhythm pleading, begging, demanding an answer to the prayers of the faithful.

  Barlak raised his hand to still the drums. Lightning crashed in the distance, filling the silence.

  Lowering his hand, the drums resumed, and before the second beat, the lightning struck the shrine of Kilomba.

  Ethereal spirits poured down the tower and pooled around dead giant. Jagged sprites and fairies of electrical energy joined hands and danced upon the body of the giant ape.

  The clouds continued to roll overhead, but one drop of rain never touched the ground. The hairs of the mourners stood on end, tickling the skin at the root.

  Barlak’s eyes widened, his heart pounded at the sight of the fantastic event. Standing with the aid of the warriors, he lifted his hands and spoke the final chant.

  Waves of energy flowed through Kilomba’s body glowing like burning embers. Barlak couldn’t tell if the body was actually starting to twitch or if the flow of energy made it look so.

  Then, there was no mistaking. Kilomba’s whole body began to quiver in rhythm with the otherworldly force—shaking him like a string puppet with a frenzied master.

  A high-pitched whine filled the air and grew in intensity. An arm of electricity reached out of Kilomba, flowed up into the towering shrine, and left the body of the fallen God. The top of the tower erupted in a celestial shower of sparks that the heavens absorbed, leaving eerie quite behind.

  The clouds evaporated, unveiling the light of the moon and the smiles of the stars.

  Kilomba’s eyes opened.

  Cries of surprise and thanks went out from the faithful. The Gods in heaven had heard them. Many fell to their knees in reverence. A few backed away in fear.

  Barlak hobbled toward the giant. “Praise be to Bumba and Shango. Kilomba has returned from his visit in the heavens. He has come back to protect his children. He has come back to preserve our way of life. It is assured the hunt will be plentiful. The fields will bloom and produce a wealth of fruit to feed our children.”

  Kilomba sat upright, releasing putrid gas trapped in his bowels. Two of his worshipers wretched and vomited. He looked at the crowd of tribe’s people with lifeless eyes and opened and closed his mouth, as if learning movement for the first time.

  Cold fear
crawled up Barlak’s spine and rested in the back of his head.

  Kilomba brought his fist to his side and put his knuckles into the ground. Slowly, he pushed himself up, placed his legs underneath, and stood. The giant ape wobbled, shifting his body to stay upright.

  More of the villagers backed away. Barlak remained with hands uplifted, praying for a merciful outcome.

  Kilomba leaned his head back, spread his arms, and let out a horrific cry. The sound echoed in the still night air. He put his knuckles to the ground, took an unsure step forward, hesitated, and then continued.

  Barlak backed away as the brooding figure lumbered toward him. He was unsure of what move to make next. He had expected Kilomba to return into the jungle and rest in his mountain abode. Something was still wrong with Kilomba. He walked as if he were asleep. His movements were stiff, and the rotting parts of his body started to tear.

  The walking dead God reached out to grab Barlak. He easily stepped out of the way, as the giant hand missed him by several feet. Kilomba tried again with the other hand and missed as before.

  Kilomba let out another loud cry, turning everyone on their heels, and fleeing toward the village.

  *

  Jarobi, Nakima’s grandfather, leaned against the outside of his hut with his left hand, while directing his urine stream with his right. Aging had him waking frequently in the night to relieve himself. An enlarged prostate reduced his once powerful stream into a trickle. Still feeling half-asleep, he raised his one open eye to the direction of his brothers’ screams as they fled back to the village.

  “Wake up! Kilomba lives and is angry. Wake up!” the first to break the village perimeter yelled.

  Jarobi shook his leaking member dry and returned to the hut. “Wake up, little Nakima. There is something wrong. We must leave.”

  Nakima was a deep sleeper and did not respond.

  More commotion filled the village as those awoke in surprise and the others fleeing Kilomba returned.

  “You must wake up now. Danger is coming.” Jarobi leaned on his cane as he shook little Nakima.

  Kilomba howled, engulfing the Village in pandemonium. Brush and small trees crunched as his knuckles and feet hit the earth.

  “You must wake now, Nakima!” Jarobi pleaded.

  Nakima’s eyes opened and stared into the distance. He yawned and struggled to awake.

  Kilomba cried again. This time sounding like he was just outside the hut.

  Jarobi helped his grandson to his feet and pushed him out the door. Not twenty feet away stood the lofty figure of the Ape-God, silhouetted against the moonlit night.

  “Run, Nakima! Run!” Jarobi yelled.

  Nakima looked about confused, and then did as his grandfather instructed. Kilomba made another step toward them.

  Jarobi pushed off his cane as fast as he could. As the distance between he and Nakima grew farther, the distance between he and Kilomba closed.

  Jarobi fell to the ground as Kilomba’s sweeping hand caught him across his ankle. He was on his back looking up at the husk of what his loving God had once been. It was a cruel joke of the Devil no doubt that had drained the life of their vibrant deity, replacing him with the soul of an imposter. This false god had broken the covenant protecting the village.

  The hand of Kilomba wrapped around Jarobi’s body and lifted him into the air. Nakima stopped and turned when he realized his grandfather was no longer right behind him.

  Kilomba shoved Jarobi’s head in his mouth, tore it from the body, and chewed greedily. His eyes looked vacant as bones crunched and blood spilled from his lips.

  Nakima watched in shock as the God he had worshipped all his life ate his grandfather. He was aware of the annual sacrifice, but never really understood the real implications of the ritual. Kilomba gobbled down the rest of the body. Nothing was left of Jarobi but his cane and the blood stained ground of his home.

  The massive ape turned and headed toward the thick of the jungle.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into coming on this stupid trip,” Mary said, after swatting a biting fly on the back of her neck. “You need to get me to shore. This up-and-down on this old bucket makes me want to puke.”

  Professor David Brigtsen, famed National Geographic explorer and her husband, ignored Mary as he compared the shoreline to the photographs in his hand.

  “How are you going to make this up to me when you find out it’s a bust? David. I’m talking to you.”

  Professor Brigtsen held a photograph toward the shore. “Yes. You are talking to me. I’m standing next to you. I couldn’t escape the sound of your voice if I wanted to.”

  Mary frowned, crossing her arms across her short, fat frame. “Why couldn’t you be content with teaching? We’re too old for this crap. But no, you have to be off halfway across the world chasing the African Bigfoot. You’re only going to be remembered as an old fool who was tricked by a prankster. Ever hear of Photoshop? That big monkey in those satellite photos was created by a ten year old on a computer.”

  Professor Brigtsen pushed his gray hair under his twill safari hat. “It was standing right over there. By that tree to the left of that large rock. My stars, it must be twenty-five to thirty-feet tall.”

  “David! Get your head out of your ass and answer me,” Mary said, her arms by her side, and her hands balled in fists.

  A thin Chinese girl with long legs glistening with a combination of insect repellent and sun block stepped up behind Professor Brigtsen. She wore khaki shorts cuffed at mid-thigh, an olive colored shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders, and the shirt-tails tied in a knot at her waist. “Professor Brigtsen. Captain Roscoe radioed the team has made contact and will be back to pick us up shortly. He sounded really excited.”

  Professor Brigtsen spun around at the sound of her voice. “Why, thank you so much, Changchang.” He smiled and gave her a wink, feeling Mary’s stare burn a hole in his back. “Tell the others to ready the equipment. We shall move as soon as the boats return. We don’t want to delay.”

  Changchang smiled back and nodded, her almond shaped eyes nearly closing, and turned to carry out her professor’s instructions.

  Professor Brigtsen looked back at Mary. Her mouth was drawn in so tight all he could think of was a sphincter muscle.

  “You just had to bring your little Geisha,” Mary said.

  “Geishas are Japanese. Changchang is Chinese,” the Professor said.

  “Whatever. Changchang Chow. What a stupid name.”

  “Her name is actually Chow Changchang. In China, the surname is written first.”

  “Whatever. Her face is mashed like a Chow or a Pekingese dog.”

  “Mary! How dare you act in such a way about my best student! I do believe this voyage has taken a toll to your basic reasoning. Get a hold of yourself, woman. Don’t embarrass yourself any further. And for God’s sake don’t embarrass me. This expedition may very well be my last. It may also prove to be my greatest claim of discovery. My professionalism needs never to be in question. National Geographic has given me the opportunity because of my reputation. The Chinese government is funding half of this expedition because Changchang is my student and because her father is well connected in the government. Please don’t do or say anything that might jeopardize the success of my mission,” the Professor said.

  Mary stewed awhile, looking at her husband through narrow eyes. Her upper lip quivered, showing glimpses of her front teeth.

  “Make use of yourself and go and pack. We shall be leaving shortly, and I want you to be at my side in this historic moment.”

  The scowl on Mary’s face softened. “Why is so important to you to have me with you?”

  The Professor walked up to Mary and took her hand. “My dear, we have been together for over thirty years. This will prove to be my finest moment in history. I cannot think of a better way to honor our marriage than by sharing the success with you. The world shall remember David and Mary Brigtsen together as
they present the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

  “You are a fool,” Mary said softly. “But you are a charmer.” She leaned over and hugged him tightly.

  The Professor returned the hug and kissed her on top of her head. He looked toward the shore as the dinghies sped back toward the ship. His future was now in his hands. He could not afford to make the slightest of mistakes. Not only for him, but for Changchang also.

  * * *

  Barlak greeted the male strangers with the custom of handshakes while smiling and making eye contact, the same with the two women, adding a kiss on the cheek.

  Professor Brigtsen listened to Barlak’s fantastic tale of the Ape-God that shared the island. He was familiar with the tribe’s dialect and followed the story up until lightning struck and killed Kilomba. Then had Barlak retell and explain the part where Kilomba returned from the dead.

  “So you are saying that your God died, and then you brought him back to life. But that he is not alive as he once was. That he is now a nzambi, and seeks a daily human sacrifice instead of his annual? Do I understand you correctly?” the Professor said.

  “Yes. Once each day we leave him an offering by the sacred ground near his cave. If we do not, he returns to the village and creates havoc until capturing one for his meal. Many people die. Much destruction is done. It is better to offer sacrifice. Only one die,” Barlak said.

  Professor Brigtsen noticed the disproportionate ratio of women to men, having counted less than fifty males on arrival.

  “Is that what happened to all of your men?” he asked.

  “In the beginning, we tried to return Kilomba to the grave. Many brave warriors died in the attempt. Our men sacrifice themselves for the women and children.”

  “You will have no men left in a couple of months. What will your women and children do then?”

  Barlak looked to the ground and shook his head. “I do not know. We have no boats to leave island. There is no place we can hide. We can only fight and become victorious, or we will die. Will you help us fight, Brigtsen?”