Fortress of the Dead

by Chris Roberson

  “Anybody got eyes on it?” the sergeant called from the north edge of the enclosure, a dozen or so paces behind Jun and to her right.

  “Nein,” Werner sounded off, to Jun’s left, answered by Curtis’s simple “Nope” from behind her.

  “I can hear them,” Jun began, not taking her eyes off the darkness in front of her, “but so far I haven’t seen…”

  There. Right in front of her. The flickering light of the torch’s flame was reflecting on something at eye level a short distance ahead of her, iridescent like light on spilled oil.

  “Got something,” Jun shouted, while raising her Thompson submachine gun to her shoulder and sighting on the spot where she’d seen the light reflected.

  “Over here, too,” Curtis called out from behind her.

  Jun scarcely had time to blink when a rotting corpse shuffled into view, heading directly towards her. In the ruined face one eye still rested in its socket, although the pupil was cloudy and white, but the other eye had been knocked loose at some point, dangling at the edge of the dislodged optic nerve against a hollow cheek like a ball hanging at the end of a tether. But some kind of beetle seemed to have taken up residence in the empty socket, feasting on the decaying flesh, and it was the iridescent shell of the scarab-like insect that Jun had seen the light reflecting against.

  Another shuffling step towards her, the Dead’s mouth working unsettlingly back and forth as that inhuman guttural whisper ushered forth from somewhere deep within.

  Jun could hear Curtis firing repeatedly behind her, shouting obscenities as he did. She didn’t bother with boasts or war cries herself, but simply squeezed the trigger of the submachine gun and drove a bullet through the Dead’s skull right through the milky white eye.

  As the Dead collapsed to the ground, the beetle unfolded its wings and jumped away, startled.

  “Contact,” Werner called from Jun’s left, and his MP40 barked in his hands as he fired into the darkness.

  Jun watched the tiny beetle perched on the ground beside the decaying corpse for a brief instant. Then the insect unfolded its wings again and took flight.

  “Damn,” she heard the sergeant saying from her right, “I’ve got one of the bastards on this side, too.”

  As the sergeant’s 12-gauge shotgun made short work of the approaching Dead, Jun’s attention stayed with the beetle. For a moment she worried that it might fly too close to the torch’s flame, but it rose up and out of the sphere of torchlight and into the night sky above, unscathed and unsinged.

  The Dead were her enemy, and she had made a sacred promise to protect the living. She found some comfort in the fact that she had not been forced to harm a living creature to bring down one of the undead enemy, even a creature as small and seemingly insignificant as a beetle.

  “All quiet?” the sergeant called out after a long silence. “Sound off, y’all.”

  “No movement east,” Curtis answered.

  “South is clear,” Werner added.

  “And to the west?” the sergeant called over after a moment. “Kiddo, where are we at?”

  Jun blinked, realizing that she had gotten caught up in the reverie of watching the beetle disappear into the darkness. She trained her attention back on the darkness before her, straining with each of her senses.

  “Nothing,” she finally replied. “One hostile approached, but it’s down.”

  “Seems like they came at us from all four sides,” the sergeant said, stepping back from the razorwire and lowering his shotgun.

  “Almost like a coordinated attack, nicht wahr?” Werner observed from the other side of the enclosure.

  “But they’re not supposed to be able to do that, are they?” Curtis sounded equal parts skeptical and alarmed.

  “If I might,” Sibyl chimed in from the center of the encampment, “isn’t it equally likely simply to be a coincidence, and that four lone shamblers were drawn by the heat and light of our campfire and torches at the same time?”

  “But the four of them all arriving at the same time, too?” The sergeant turned away from the razorwire, and from the light of the flickering torches Jun could see the look of uneasy disbelief on his face. “That’s a mighty big coincidence, you ask me.”

  “But what, I ask, is the alternative?” Sibyl went on, while setting about the business of relighting the main campfire. “A heretofore unknown level of communication and coordination amongst the mindless undead?”

  “Perhaps that is exactly the solution, Frau Beaton.” Werner approached the center of the enclosure, slinging his MP40 over his shoulder. “It would be in line with much of what our friends here have told me.” He nodded curtly towards the huddled refugees.

  Jun was curious to ask Werner just what he meant by that, but the sergeant forestalled any further discussion.

  “There’ll be time enough to continue this conversation tomorrow on our way down to base camp,” he said, his tone making it clear that he was not inviting debate on the matter. “We best get what rest we can in the meantime. We’ll take it in shifts to cover the approaches, and anyone not on sentry duty best get what sleep they can. Jun and Curtis, you’ve got first shift. Wake me and Sibyl in a couple of hours, and then she can catch a little more shuteye while Werner and I cover the last shift before dawn.”

  As the others settled themselves down to sleep around the restoked campfire, Jun busied herself reloading a fresh magazine drum for her Thompson, and then started to walk the interior perimeter of the enclosure. Curtis was still in position on the eastern edge of the razorwire, and didn’t seem to be planning on moving any time soon.

  In response to a sharp glance from Jun, he just shrugged.

  “My ears work just as well standing still as walking around, you know,” he said. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any smokes on you, would you?”

  It was not the first time the American had tried to cadge cigarettes off of her, and she was sure it would not be the last. But she couldn’t fault him for trying, as annoying as it was.

  “Again, I do not smoke,” she said as she walked past him.

  “Well, I do,” he said, and pulled a half-full pack out of his breast pocket. He shook one out, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and then lit it with the flame of the nearest torch.

  “If you had cigarettes, why try to get one from me?” Jun said, pausing for a moment to look back in his direction with a perplexed expression on her face.

  “Why smoke mine if I could smoke yours instead?” Curtis answered with a lopsided grin.

  Jun just shook her head, and continued on her rounds, listening for the sounds of more Dead out in the darkness. The image of her friends in Moscow once more flashed into her mind but she pushed it from her, and instead concentrated on the memory of that tiny life that she’d seen fly up into the night sky, rising up above all of the terror and misery on the ground below.

  Chapter 5

  JUN WOKE SHORTLY before dawn, as the skies in the east were just beginning to lighten, the sun still hidden somewhere over the horizon. The little sleep she’d had in the night had been fitful and short, plagued by the usual nightmares. As always, she had dreamt about being out on patrol with the deadhunter squad, encountering the enemy, and finding herself overwhelmed by the onrushing hordes of the undead before finally jolting awake, heart racing and breathing hard. And as always, it took her a brief instant to realize that she was not about to be consumed by an undead fiend, and that she and her squad had survived the previous day and night unscathed.

  In essence, Jun’s nightmares were identical to her waking hours, up to a point. It was maintaining the difference between the two—ensuring that she was the one who prevailed, and not the enemy Dead—that kept Jun on her toes.

  As she rose, stretching her protesting muscles and rubbing a sore spot on her lower back, Jun checked the time on her wrist watch. It was already full daylight back home in Datong, and as always found herself wondering what the surviving members of her family were doing with their
day. Her mother was probably still at the market procuring the ingredients for the evening meal, most likely, and Jun’s younger brothers would still be at their daily studies. She had not seen any of them since she had left home to accompany the diplomatic mission to Moscow, and she sometimes wondered whether she ever would again.

  “All right, y’all,” the sergeant called out as he kicked dirt over the dying embers of the campfire. “Up and at ’em, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.”

  Curtis was still snoring, curled up in a ball on the hard dirt a short distance from where Jun now stood. She walked over and nudged his foot with the tip of her own boot. “Wake up!”

  “Knock it off, will ya?” Curtis moaned without bothering to open his eyes. He waved one hand in a feeble gesture, as if plagued by a fly that he couldn’t quite muster the energy to shoo away.

  “Sergeant says it’s time to get moving,” Jun said, nudging his foot a little harder. Then she grinned, and leaned over him with her hands on her hips. “Wait too long and he just might pour ditch water over you again…”

  That got the American up and moving. The sergeant had only pulled that prank once before, a few weeks previous, but apparently being awakened suddenly by getting doused in near-freezing muddy water was enough to make an impression.

  “All right, all right,” he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position and prying open one eyelid. “That’s the last thing I need.”

  Jun hid a smile behind her hand as Curtis climbed to his feet, grumbling and swearing beneath his breath.

  “There a problem over there?” the sergeant called over from the far side of the camp, where he was helping Sibyl distribute emergency rations to the refugees.

  “Nah, everything’s fine, sarge,” Curtis replied with a weary wave, and then began lacing up his boots.

  The sergeant caught Jun’s eye and gave her a broad wink before turning his attention back to the refugees.

  “What I’ll never understand,” Jun said as she busied herself rolling up her own bedroll, “is how you sleep so soundly on the ground in the first place.”

  Curtis shrugged and he shoved his supplies back into his backpack. “Sister, the things I’ve slept through before now, like back in Dresden? If I’m not having to worry about the roof collapsing on my head or…?” He paused, shaking his head ruefully. “I’ll take sleeping in the dirt any day of the week, if it means not having to worry about the sky falling down on top of me.”

  By the time Jun straightened up, her backpack settled on her back, her rifle slung over one shoulder and her submachine gun over the other, Werner had finished extinguishing the torches that had burned through the night and was in the process of lashing them together in one bundle. One of the torches slipped free as he was tying them together, though, and fell to the ground with a clatter. Werner almost lost his grip on the rest of the bundle, and in his successful attempt to keep it from collapsing was prevented from stopping the errant torch from rolling across the ground and out of his reach.

  The escaping torch came to a stop a short distance from the spot where Sibyl was packing up her own supplies.

  “Frau Beaton…?” Werner was struggling to keep the armload of torches from slipping out of his grasp, and looked to the Englishwoman with a pitiable expression on his face. Jun couldn’t help but note the contrast between the cold efficiency that the German veteran displayed when engaged in combat operations, and his comparative lack of experience and confidence when dealing with more mundane tasks. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” Sibyl responded without turning around, tightening the shoulder straps on her backpack. “I’ve far too many things to see to, myself.”

  The Englishwoman was already walking away, leaving Werner perched in an awkward position with his legs splayed wide to either side, his arms wrapped tightly around the bundle of torches.

  Jun hurried over and picked up the errant torch in one hand, and then carried it back to where Werner was standing.

  “Many thanks, Fraulein,” Werner said as he opened his arms just wide enough for Jun to slip the torch back in amongst the others in the bundle. Then Jun held the torches in place while he finished lashing the bundle together.

  “I don’t think that it is you personally whom she dislikes,” Jun said, glancing in the direction that Sibyl had gone. “I just think that perhaps she blames your entire country for the death of her husband.”

  Werner shrugged as he hoisted the bundle of torches onto his shoulder.

  “I do not need her to like me,” he said, slinging his Karabiner onto his shoulder. “Nor come to my assistance in such trivial matters. So long as Frau Beaton has my back when we are facing the verdammt Dead, I will be content.”

  As Werner began to walk away, he paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “Of course, it is possible that I was the one who killed her husband,” he said, as though mulling over an odd bit of trivia that had just occurred to him. “I killed a great many soldiers in North Africa, and I imagine that many of them left widows behind. Frau Beaton might well be one of them.”

  With that the German soldier turned and walked in the direction of the sergeant, who was organizing the refugees into marching order.

  Jun stared after Werner for a moment, blinking in silence. There was nothing prideful or boasting about his statement, but neither was there anything like regret. It was more like an athlete reflecting on scores won against members of the opposing team after a match, without any particular malice against or sympathy for those whom he had defeated. Not that war appeared to be a game to the German, far from it. One usually found some measure of happiness in sport, and found joy in winning a game; but Werner did not appear to find his victories in wartime as a source of any sort of happiness or joy. His manner was more that of a workman who took pride in his day’s labor, but would just as soon have spent his time doing something else if the circumstances had been different.

  ###

  JUN HAD WANTED to ask Werner to elaborate on what he had been saying the night before about the Nazis’ alpine fortress before they had been interrupted by the encroaching Dead, but the awkward tension with Sibyl had distracted her, and now the squad was preparing to move out. Jun thought she might have a chance to give voice to her questions once the sergeant had given them their marching orders, but another burgeoning conflict involving Sibyl distracted her once again.

  The group was moving south along the main road, with the sergeant in the lead, the bulk of the refugees following behind with Sibyl and Curtis flanking them on either side, and Jun and Werner bringing up the rear. The sergeant was addressing the company, deadhunter squad and refugees alike, as they moved.

  “We’ve got a long day’s hike ahead of us, y’all,” he was explaining, “but Lord willing and the creek don’t rise we’ll get to our base camp before sunset.”

  Some of the refugees exchanged uneasy glances, and Jun could make out snippets of conversations about waterways in their path and the possibility of flooding.

  “I just mean we’ll be there barring catastrophe, is all,” the sergeant clarified, sounding a little exasperated. “Just a bit of luck and we’ll be fine.”

  Jun had been confused by the sergeant’s idioms herself on more than one occasion, so she could hardly blame the refugees for being perplexed by his sometimes circuitous turns-of-phrase.

  As she waited for an opportune moment to ask Werner to expand on what he had been saying about Himmler’s strategic retreat, Jun scanned the horizon, wary and watchful for any sign of the Dead.

  “Don’t worry about shamblers roaming at long range,” the sergeant called back from the head of the line, almost as if he had sensed her concern. “Our first priority is to get these civilians to cover. Anyway, we crossed that last village off our map so we’re due for a debrief and a bit of R&R as it is. If any Dead bastards come close, put ’em down, but otherwise we’ll leave any scattered roamers out there for the ne
xt squad to handle.”

  That was well enough for Jun. She was about to ask Werner about what the refugees had told him the day before, and his comment about the Dead coordinating or communicating amongst themselves, when her attention was drawn by a loud exchange between Sibyl and Curtis.

  “Hey, Sibyl, did I ever tell you about Joe Thompson, Jim Tierny, and Jonathan Taylor?” Curtis was saying, calling out over the heads of the refugees shuffling along between them. “Three guys I was in Basic with, who all had the same initials, first middle and last. Two of ’em even had the same birthdate. When it turned out that all three of them had dated women named Sally you’d have thought they’d unlocked the secrets of the pyramids, the way the three of them carried on about it. Had to mean something, right? It was written in the stars or some sort of malarkey like that. They were brothers in arms, destined to fight alongside each other to the bitter end. Only then they found out that they’d all three dated the same woman named Sally, who clearly had a particular type that she preferred, and all three of them ended up in the brig for disorderly conduct after a three-way boxing match broke out in the barracks. Two of them celebrated their shared birthday behind bars, while the third just mourned the loss of the teeth that had gotten knocked out of his grin in the course of the fight.”

  Sibyl fixed him with a haughty stare, leaning to one side to look past the backs of the refugees walking between them. “My dear boy, whatever are you babbling about?”

  “The point is, I’ve seen stranger coincidences than a few shamblers coming out of the woodwork at the same time, lady.”

  Sibyl sighed dramatically.

  “Of course,” Curtis went on before she had a chance to reply, “all three of the poor bastards died on the same day during the Battle of the Bulge, so maybe they had some kind of shared destiny, after all. So it goes.”

  “Granted,” Sibyl shot back in a rush, as if worried that the young American would carry on talking if she didn’t speak up first, “given a long enough time span one will doubtless encounter any number of unlikely confluence of events. That simply stands to reason, given the nature of randomness and a sufficiently large sample size. But there are limits to what reason will bear, clearly, and the mere fact that coincidental relationships between acausal events exist doesn’t by extension prove that all a-causal connections must be coincidental.”