Shell County Vodou

Charazon opened his mouth with a dry crack. He tried to lick the dryness away but his tongue was the texture of a biscuit from Mama Griff's rib shack, thick and dry. He opened his eyes and looked around. The dorm was still dark and the only noise was snoring from the fat wing-grip, Theresa, who had arrived last week. If she didn't get her adenoids under control quick, she'd be sleeping outside and fearing for chigga-beetles attempting to burrow into her thick legs. Charazon lay and tried to work out what had woken him. Not the thirst - they lived with thirst; sometimes they died from it. Not the snoring - that had been there all week.

Drumming started. Deep bass thrumming, an insistent tattoo that reverberated in the torpid air. It came from the direction of the salt marshes. Vodou incantation to summon whichever Loa was being venerated by the desperate.

Charazon swung over the edge of the bunk and dropped to the floor. The wooden boards retained warmth from the day's heat, and the shuffling of countless bare feet had smoothed the rough surface to a slippery gloss. He padded to the toilet room and splashed water on his lips. The water was warm and tasted of metal from the pail. He scooped another handful to his mouth and slurped greedily. He knew it was just creek water, but the need to ease his thirst overrode the fear of intestinal parasites.

"You gonna drink all the crapper water?"

Charazon continued to lap moisture from his hand. His head bounced off the wall as his shoulder was shoved.

"I was talkin' t'ya."

"Dammit, Fashal, my horn's stuck in the wall."

Fashal grabbed and pulled. Charazon jerked free. He aimed a punch at her and she caught it with her fingers, wincing theatrically. They smiled at each other.

"Course I ain't drinkin' all the water," Charazon said. "Why you up? Wing-grip girl snoring to loud?"

"She is loud. She needs to learn quick. Are you going to speak to her?"

Charazon nodded.

"Good. But it wasn't what got me up. It's time to feed ma' armadillo."

"Hell, Fashal. I thought your leprosy vector was dead."

"I got another."

"Well, keep it away from me."

"Right. Thought demonspawn don't worry about leprosy."

"No. But it stinks like Mama Griff's gumbo."

Fashal laughed loud, then clamped a hand to her mouth. She headed towards the front of the dormitory. When she opened the door a gust of warm air wafted back, dry and sulferus; the sound of drumming got louder. Charazon rubbed his skull, where the horn grew out, as he headed back to bed.

The morning bell clanged, pulling him out of a dream about his previous life; when he wielded power instead of submitting to it. The dorm dragged itself to life with ill humor. They all headed towards Mama Griff's for breakfast. The food wasn't good but it was cheap, and a big bowl of gristle'n'grits filled the stomach better than a small portion of egg and beans from the mine's canteen.

Other dorms were also heading in the general direction of the mine. One dorm, one crew - that was the way. They worked together, they ate together, they slept together.

Charazon sat down opposite the new girl, Theresa.

"If you rub the tracker it burrows deeper and hurts more," he said.
"What?"

He pointed at her neck. "You been rubbing where they put your tracker in. Keep doing it you'll end with an open sore. That risks infection. Infection slows y'down. You're our wing-grip. You slow down, we all slow down. Wing-grips who make their crew miss quota don't last, nor do people who snore."

Theresa stopped shoveling food into her mouth and raised a hand to her neck. Charazon noticed the hand wasn't fully scabbed over. She wasn't just new to the crew, she was still new to slavery. Could probably still feel the scrape of dimension-transfer on her skin. Still, being an ingénue was no excuse for getting her crew punished.

"See me after shift," said Charazon. "I'll have something that will help your throat, stop you snoring. And don't slow us down. Y'understand?"

She nodded, her eyes wide and fearful.

Shift klaxons sounded, calling crews to the mines. The day passed in a fury of drilling, exploding, and grinding. Eventually the klaxon sounded to end their shift and the slaves made their way back above ground, below quota. Halfway across the courtyard speakers crackled to life.

"Crew Delta!"

They stopped mid-step.

"Contamination sweep. Holding Room C."

Most of them groaned. They headed to the holding room and stripped off. The water was cold and the soap rough, encouraging brevity in the showers. Then they sat on the wooden benches and waited to be called. While no care was given to an individual slave's health there was a fear of some virulent disease sweeping through the mines and laying hundreds of workers low. It happened occasionally. Mine bosses who allowed it to happen found themselves in a crew. Like Charazon.
Charazon stared at his hooves. Once they'd shone with lacquer that was buffed so the top layers appeared translucent. Now they were black and cracked, even after a scrub. He looked up, not wanting to spiral into the past. Fashal sat opposite, back towards him. Her dark skin was still beaded with water and a small rivulet ran down from her hair, it joined some of the beads together. It also crossed a patch of skin that was duller than the rest. Almost gray, instead of brown. Charazon reached across and very gently pressed it. She didn't respond. He jabbed her and she span round, anger on her face. She stopped.

"What?" she asked.

"Show me your fingers," Charazon said.

She curled her hands defensively, and he knew for sure. She was shaking her head. Trying to deny there was a problem.
Charazon leaned closer to her and whispered, "How long?"

"I noticed five months ago."

"Five months? When were you going to say?

"I been fine. Got a little color stick for when this happens-"

He interrupted. "What about bits you can't see? What about infection? You put all of us in danger. Either from the disease, or from The Bosses."

She shook her head again. "No! I've been real careful."

It was Charazon's turn to shake his head. "Not careful enough."

"Help me."

Fashal palmed something to him. It was warm, and he tried not to think about where she kept it secreted. Glancing into his palm he saw a small stick of some colored amalgam. "Bark, or roots?" he asked.

"Both."

"Turn round."

He licked his thumb and moistened the stick, then rubbed the darkened compound over the greyed area. Smoothing it over took moments, and he passed the stick back.

"When we're done," he whispered, "you're coming with me."

She nodded.

The inspections took over an hour and light was fading from the sky when they finally exited the mine gates. Most of the crew headed for the canteen, or Mama Griff's. Charazon and Fashal hung towards the rear and he tugged her sleeve as they passed one of the brick and clapperboard ruins that lined the street. Once this had been a wealthy district. The Slave State cleared the houses of valuables that fleeing residents left behind. The buildings were then left. Entropy took its natural course and over years the structures collapsed. They began to attract other inhabitants.

Charazon led Fashal round the back of the house and onto the remains of a veranda. A smell of fresh blood and rotting vegetation permeated the air.

A voice came from the dark gap where a door used to be.

"What you wanting, demonspawn, and stench-of-death?"

"We need a Sevis Tet for Fashal here."

"Don't come closer. The blood smells her death. No Sevis Tet can save her."

Charazon's knowledge of vodou was limited. Beyond the purification ritual he didn't know what else to ask for. Even this was clutching at straws. He had no faith in the existence of Loa - spirits - but sometimes rituals and mumblings were layered over natural remedies. He could only hope. The leprosy was already manifesting its spread through Fashal's system.

"There is one thing," said the voice from the darkness.

"What?"

"Mariaj Loa."

"What's that?" Fashal asked.

There was no response.

"Answer us," Charazon said. "Please."

"We speak with you. No Loa wants to hear stench-of-death. Bring her back in one hour with a blood gift. When she is purified she will live, sacred and bound, with a Loa."

"What-"

"Go. Return in one hour, and remember the blood gift."

"Wait."

A rat carcass landed at their feet. "GO."

"What's a blood gift? What's a Mariaj Loa?" Fashal asked as they turned back onto the main street.

"The blood gift has to be some creature, a sacrifice. I don't know about the other. I hope it's a cure."

"What am I going to use for the blood gift? A rat?"

"Needs to be something bigger. I was reckoning on your armadillo."

"I'm not sure I want to do vodou."

"It's the only chance you have. That or an escape into the salt marshes."

They were passing Mama Griff's. Theresa came out. She spotted them, waved, and jogged over.

"Hey, I wanted to ask about your leprosy," she said to Fashal.

"My what?"

"Leprosy. I saw the lesions when we were showering. I thought the rules on leprosy are real strict. When I was sent to Shell County we were told to be on the lookout. On pain of punishment mines."

She looked from Fashal to Charazon, giving the appearance of a new girl trying to find her way, to fit in. She rubbed her neck, wincing at pain from both the raw flesh and the movement of the tracker as it burrowed further into her.

Charazon looked round, seeing who was still on the street. A few people were milling about. The entrance to Mama Griff's always had someone coming or going but the delay caused by the crew's contamination sweep meant there were few people. He leaned towards Theresa and spoke in a low tone.

"Listen, Theresa, we were just talking about Fashal's condition. There're remedies available in Shell County, old remedies that aren't found in other dimensions."

"Like the one you said you'd get for my snoring?"

"Ah. Yes. Sorry. I've not got it yet."

"Will you be able to get it today? I really don't want to keep the crew awake." She looked from one to the other. "Can we meet up in a bit. I have to go see someone."

"It might be tomorrow before I can get it. Sorry," Chaazon said.

"Oh. Right. That'll be fine." Theresa nodded and walked off in the direction of the mine compound.

"Where's she going?" Fashal asked. "Who does a new wing-grip have to see?"

Charazon watched the woman's thick, purposeful strides. The first flicker of suspicion occurred to him. It coalesced quickly. "She's going to a boss." He started walking forward.

"Why?"

"To do what we would have done when we were new. Turn you in."

He started sprinting and heard Fashal curse, and then start running. Both of them were light on their feet and, despite the starvation diet and punishing work, had taught wiry frames. They were less than fifteen feet behind Theresa when she finally heard their approach. She attempted to run. Proof enough for Charazon. He lowered his head and charged hard. The collision was solid and Theresa slammed to the ground. Her head bounced on the packed earth.

Fashal came to a halt and helped Charazon get up. Theresa lay inert.
"What now?" she asked.

"I think you have a blood gift."

The sound of drums filled the air.

text by stuartcturnbull, art by mufbatz3000 via Pixabay

by way of explanation, this was written in a couple of hours from a prompt based on a novel. Tying in slavery, disease, voodoo, treachery, and camaraderie, was a tough ask in the 2k word limit, but I like the layers squeezed in here.