SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

A few moments later the front door opened, and in stepped a dark-skinned young woman, fury in her eyes. Enter Donka Dzugi — stage name Esmeralda Romenco. She wore a red shin-length dress and black high heel shoes. Her black hair hung down her back in broad curls. Gold hoops hung from her ears. She strode directly to me, her heels like rifle shots on the wooden floor.

“How dare you,” she said, raising her hand to strike me.

I grabbed her wrist before she could do any damage. “Come now, you know you made a deal.”

Somewhere between nineteen and thirty-five, she had the dusky features of the Romani. Dark eyes flashed beneath even darker eyelashes. Her sculptured cheeks rode high over a frown. “I was going to perform at The Filmore. Do you know how long it took to set this up? Years. I’ve been working years in order to be-” Then she paused. “Oh, what’s this?” She turned in the room and brought a hand to her chest. “Something is here, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “It’s why we couldn’t wait. Sorry about The Filmore. If we can help—”

She waved me quiet as she walked around the heptagram. “Is he…?” she asked, pointing at Duncan.

I nodded. “At least I think so.”

“I think so, too,” she whispered.

Mark Patterson stood in the hall beside Burgess. Mark had brought her and by his pained frown had been the object of her fury and scorn the entire way. This was the first time Burgess had seen this and I noted the keen interest in his eyes. Gomer Pyle, on the other hand, stood in the kitchen doorway, smoking a cigarette like a jailhouse felon, his hand covering the cigarette so it couldn’t be seen. Not that any of us cared, but Donka despised cigarette smoke because of what it did to her voice.

She began to hum, a tune like something I’d imagine from a gypsy lullaby, as she walked around the room. Her hands were cupped in front of her, almost in prayer, but ever moving. She paused at the mantel, then moved on, her voice becoming louder, the Romani words rounder and deeper. At a table against a wall, she bent over then turned her head like a bird might to regard a piece which looked African. Instead of staying, she straightened, her voice gaining energy, the decibels rising, until she was belting out words like it was a concert hall and the items in the room were her only audience.

The music was full and round and symphonic. I closed my eyes as I imagined her on the stage of The Filmore. I’d see if we could help her out. She deserved to be there. The public needed to hear the beauty of her voice. She’d played to too many rooms like this one. Not that her talent was a waste, but she should be applauded by so many more people than the sad lot of Special Unit 77.

I began to detect a sharpening to her sound. Something a little off, as if a note just wasn’t able to be reached anymore. I’m sure if I knew music I could say it was a bad B or A or C, but all I knew was my ear said it was wrong. I opened my eyes and noted that everyone was entranced by Donka.

She stared at an item on the mantel and sung toward it. Her once beautiful music slid sideways into something bordering on painful as she walked toward it. By the time she was next to it, I wanted to clasp my hands over my ears and make the noise stop. The very sound of it made it feel like maggots on razor blade roller skates were doing figure-eights in my head.

When she stopped it was as if the silence were a salve on my psyche. I glanced at the others. Burgess had gone to one knee. Patterson had the glassy-eyed look of someone in terrible pain. Gomer had his fist in the center of his forehead as if he could pull the pain away. But now it was gone.

She turned to me. “Looks like this little trinket is the culprit. Terrible thing. Did it sound as bad as I thought it did?”

I smiled. “It was lovely right up until it wasn’t.” I approached the mantel. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

The trinket looked nothing more than a wooden box the size and shape of a donut. It stood about four inches high and had a lapis lazuli-engraved lid. I’d noted the stone before, but couldn’t tell what it had been. But now as I examined it I could clearly see the triangle above an arrow pointing down. I recognized it as a Zorastrian alchemical symbol for sulfur. Interesting. The smell of sulfur had long been associated with the presence of demons. I sniffed and could just detect the hint of the foul smell.

“Is that it?” Gomer Pyle asked, pulling on a pair of white gloves.