Red Rain

5

Groaning, moaning, bleating like sick sheep, all six men heaved together. At first they spewed a dark liquid and then the chunky orange and yellow of their undigested lunches.

Hands on their knees, heads bowed as if praying, they puked their guts out in a chorus of animal groans and splashing liquid.

Lea grabbed her throat. She felt her breakfast rise. Her stomach churned. She held her breath, swallowing hard, swallowing, struggling not to heave along with them.

This was no act. They weren’t faking it. No one could fake those ugly sounds, those horrified expressions. She covered her ears from their choked gasps and bleats and retching moans.

The sour smell rose into the humid air and swept over her. She stared at the thick piles of yellow-green vomit, spreading puddles on the sand. Still holding her breath, Lea started to turn away.

But Martha held her by the shoulders. “It isn’t over. It just started.”

Just started?

A shudder ran down Lea’s body. Her legs suddenly felt rubbery, weak. She forced herself to watch. The six men bleated and choked. They grabbed their throats. Their eyes bulged in panic. Their faces darkened from red to purple to a sick blue.

She cried out as the men collapsed to the ground. One by one, they folded up, coiling into themselves. Uttering strangled sighs, they dropped facedown into their own vomit. They sprawled awkwardly on the ground, eyes bulging, gazing blankly. Their arms and legs twitched, as if they were getting electrical shocks; twitched like grotesque puppets that had lost their strings. Then stopped.

No one moved.

Swaying in the gusting wind, the feathery palm trees slapped and applauded. The birds had stopped their shrill symphony.

The red-robed priest knelt beside one of the fallen men. The star tattoo on his scalp appeared to wriggle, alive, like a blue octopus. He placed two fingers on the man’s throat. Minutes went by.

“Il est mort.” Announced in a whisper.

“Oh my God,” Lea murmured. She suddenly realized she had been hugging herself tightly for some time. Down by the tight circle of onlookers, she heard the startled cries of the four tourists. No one else made a sound.

The priest moved to the next victim sprawled facedown on the sand, a young man with short red hair and a boyish, freckled face. He rolled the man onto his back. After a brief examination, the priest repeated the words. “Il est mort.” Flat. No emotion at all.

Lea turned and saw the two men tourists snapping photos with their phones. The women had their hands over their faces, blocking out the death scene.

“Is this for real?” the man in the Budweiser shirt boomed. “Hey-are they really dead?”

No one replied. All eyes were on the tall, bald priest until he knelt over the last of the six victims.

“Tous sont morts.”

Lea forced herself to breathe. She suddenly felt dizzy, the blood pulsing at her temples. She had hoped to write about travel adventures people would find exciting. But no way she wanted to watch six men drink poison and vomit themselves to death.

Squinting into the graying light, she could see clearly that the six men weren’t breathing. Their chests showed no movement. No rise and fall. No movement at all. Their eyes bulged, gazing blankly like glass doll eyes. Their mouths hung open, frozen in their final gasps for breath.

Still, no one on the island moved or made a sound. She glimpsed Jean-Carl across from her in the circle. He had his head down, hands jammed into the pockets of his cargo shorts.

The tourists had stopped their picture-taking. One of the women was crying. Budweiser Man wrapped her in an awkward hug.

The priest, still expressionless, turned to face the crowd. His blond caterpillar eyebrows had gone stiff and still.

He clasped both hands in front of him. Lea noticed for the first time that his fingernails were painted black. He began to chant: “Revenir. . Revenir. . Revenir. .” Softly at first, then louder, urging the audience to join in.

“Revenir. . Revenir. . Revenir. .”

The chanting voices echoed off the trees of the rain forest. The chant continued for two minutes. . three. .

Lea screamed when she saw a hand move. On the ground. Fingers twitched.

“Revenir. . Revenir. . Revenir. .”

The chant continued, no longer a word, just a low, breathy sound.

Another dead man blinked his eyes. Another raised his head an inch off the ground. A short groan escaped his throat. More hands twitched. Like crabs testing the sand.

“Revenir. . Revenir. . Revenir. .”

As Lea stared in disbelief, the six dead men sat up. They blinked rapidly and shook their heads, tested their jaws, squinted at the chanting crowd.

The chant ended suddenly. People rushed forward to help the men to their feet. In seconds, they were all standing, taking small steps, still looking dazed, wiping chunks of vomit off their shirts and shorts and robes.

The priest raised his hands high above his tattooed head. “Les hommes sont revenus,” he announced. “The men have returned.”

The six men were walking steadily now, making their way to the path. The circle of onlookers broke up, people heading in all directions. Lea listened to the excited conversations. Some people were laughing. The ceremony was over.

Lea shut her eyes. Again she pictured those men bent over, their streams of vomit splashing onto the grass. Their gasping, terrified faces. Their bodies coiled lifelessly on the ground in front of her.

And as rain began to patter down, she thought of the 1935 hurricane and the story of the dead returning to life to repair the devastating damage. The living sharing their space with the unliving.

Huge raindrops rattled on the palm leaves, like assault rifles. Loud as thunder. The wind swirled around Lea, pushed her right, then left. She planted her feet, determined not to be blown over. A suffocating wind rushed over her face, made her gasp for breath.

It came on so suddenly. I thought we had time.

Hugging herself again, she ducked her head and searched for Jean-Carl. Nowhere in sight. Perhaps he had run to the jeep.

A strong blast of wind bent the palm trees till they were nearly horizontal. Lea’s shoes sank into the mud as she stepped onto the path.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Gasping in surprise, she spun around. “Martha?”

Martha had a canvas tennis hat pulled down tight over her hair. Her sweater was already soaked through, matted to her body. “Better come home with me.” She had to scream over the roar of the wind.

Lea blinked through the sheets of rain that swept over her. “No. My stuff-”

“Better come with me, Lea. This is going to be bad. It’s going to be real bad.”