The chirps of a thousand car alarms mixed with the myriad cries for help, as a chorus of terror and panic drifted toward the shattered palace from every direction. Desperate shouts to locate victims could be heard in response. La Croix and the PNP troopers were determined to help their fallen comrades, and took their first wobbly steps toward the pile of rubble that buried the two lead vehicles. Several of the men were still alive; they were screaming loudly for help as their blood seeped out from under the debris.
Mas let go of her back door and took a tentative step forward to join them, when a firm hand came out of the dust cloud behind her and grabbed her arm. She turned to whoever it was, thinking it was a protective gesture by one of the troopers from the trailing vehicles. But it was a woman.
“I’m Nadege Francine. Come!”
She gently but firmly pulled Mas toward her Jeep Cherokee, parked further down the driveway. Even in the tumult of the disaster unfolding around them, Mas noticed the U.S. Embassy license plate. But she back-pedaled, jerking her thumb at the half-buried SUV she arrived in.
“My bags,” she explained.
Francine nodded and went with her to the partially crushed Mercedes. The rear door had been left open by the two troopers who piled out of the back in the first moments of the quake. But the impact of the debris that crushed the front of the SUV had slammed the door shut. The entire body of the vehicle was twisted now and the back door was stuck, its bulletproof glass still intact. They could see her carry-on and her briefcase inside.
They yanked repeatedly on the door, one foot planted on the bumper for leverage, and after several frustrating attempts they finally wrenched it open with a groan of twisted metal.
Mas yanked out her carry-on and briefcase and lugged them down the littered driveway to Francine’s Jeep. Francine led the way, her badge out and held high and her other hand on the pistol strapped to her hip, just in case the people scrambling around them got any funny ideas. There was a wild edge of panic in the air, and anything could happen.
They piled into the Jeep and, before Mas could buckle up, Francine peeled around in a tight circle and quickly weaved her way around chunks of debris, heading down the driveway for the main gate, one hand on the wheel and the other one on her weapon.
When they got to the gate, the panicked guards thought they had to show some kind of authority, to restore some semblance of order, but Francine just shot them a stern look and they let her pass.
As soon as they were on the boulevard, Francine had her window down and her weapon held aloft in her left hand, a clear warning to anyone on the street. Mas did the same, gliding her own window down and holding her Sig Sauer aloft in her right hand. But nobody paid them any attention and after a few moments, they glanced around to assess the situation.
They were stunned by the world they were moving through. It seemed as if the entire city had just been carpet bombed. Sirens and alarms were wailing and chirping in every neighborhood. Fires had broken out and more were erupting every few seconds. Boiling black smoke added to the dust-choked air and accelerated the rising sense of apocalyptic doom that engulfed the populace.
The streets were clogged with panicking people and screaming children, many of them dazed and injured, some of them grievously. It was evident that several would be crippled for life, or die from their injuries and the infections that were sure to follow. Those who were still largely in one piece were screaming for their loved ones and digging through the rubble with their bare hands.
They stared at the chaos unfolding around them as Francine’s Jeep inched down a wide thoroughfare, threading through any clear space she could find.
“This is bad,” she said in a hushed voice. “This is very bad.”
Mas saw something out of the corner of her eye and turned her head to get a better look.
“Zamba,” she said.
Francine glanced at her, surprised that Mas even knew the name. Mas pointed to something ahead, and Francine looked to see what it was.
The Carmex billboard was slumped against a shattered building, and a wall had collapsed on the procession of villagers. The roasted corpse they were carrying was lying in the road, still chained to its pole. The houngan who had been leading the procession was facedown in the street, crushed by falling concrete. He was wearing the wrist-watch of the roasted corpse, and his dead hands still gripped the pike with Zamba’s bust.
But the pike wasn’t lying on the pavement. Rather, it was weirdly upright, almost perfectly erect. When the houngan fell, the base of the pike wedged into a deep crack in the asphalt, and the rubble that buried him served to keep the pike planted and stable.
Francine rolled to a halt, staring at the macabre sight of Zamba’s bust scowling at the destroyed city.
“Isaac told me about Zamba – ” Mas began.
But Francine cut her off, suddenly testy. “Outsiders always misunderstand the legend of Zamba, no matter how many times they are told!”
She turned to Mas and continued in a stern voice before Mas could even respond. “Haiti didn’t make a bargain with the devil, Agent Mas, Zamba did! And yet there are those who still blame him for Haiti’s plight, and those who blame Haiti for his loathsome bargain.”
Francine’s frown twisted into a derisive sneer. “As if our ancestors had actually begged him to do something so foolish!”
She realized she was venting and knew that Mas didn’t deserve it, but they were in the middle of an unfolding catastrophe and she was nearly at her wit’s end. But so was Mas. Francine took a breath and continued in a quieter voice.
“Voodoo can be used for good or bad, like any other religion. In that way, they are all the same.”
She suddenly frowned, remembering something that Mas just said. “And who is this Isaac?”
“Isaac La Croix,” Mas told her, “the man who met me at the airport. He’s with the President’s staff.”
Francine was puzzled. “My office at the Embassy works directly with the President’s staff. I can assure you, they have no Monsieur La Croix.”
Mas frowned as well, hearing the news. She was just as puzzled as Francine was. She looked away, angry with herself that she had been so easily fooled by the smooth-talking Frenchman, or whatever he was, or whoever he was...
But as she gazed out the windshield, her mind drifted away from self-criticism and quickly became riveted to the here and now. Everywhere she looked she saw human disaster on a colossal scale. The damage and misery were absolutely horrific, and it was overwhelming to think that every other part of the metropolis was likely to be as bad as the street they were on. Compounding the tragedy was the utter certainty that as even bad as it seemed now, it was sure to get much worse as the days rolled on.