in the air.
Birds uttered harsh cries in the rainforest behind them. A gust of hot wind made the feathery palm leaves slap and scrape.
She scolded herself for being so cynical.
The skin on her arms tingled. She wiped sweat off the back of her neck.
She crossed her arms tightly on her chest to steady her heartbeat.
The priest finally finished his low chant. He nodded. The six men lowered the cups to their mouths and drank the dark liquid down.
Lea heard soft cries in the crowd. Muttered words.
The men stood silently, swallowing even after lowering the cups to their sides. Palm leaves slapped loudly above their heads, as if clapping.
The sky darkened from pale gray to charcoal. The wind picked up, fluttering robes and skirts, lifting Lea’s hair behind her head, making a howling moan as it swirled through the shivering trees.
But she wasn’t prepared for what happened next.
As she squinted into the fading light, the six men all began to groan. They coughed and rolled their eyes. Their faces reddened. They bent their knees and knelt.
Bending low, faces purple, they uttered hideous choking sounds. Then rasping moans from deep in their throats. Their stomachs bubbled and heaved.
And they all began to vomit at once.
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.”
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.
“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.
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.
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
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
