by Greg James
Kitty swore at him.
Wilson hung his head, listening to the thunder of the wolf's approach, readying himself for its strike. Maybe this was better. How it should be.
Kitty slapped him hard across the face.
Wilson snapped his head up, blinking, looking at her in stunned surprise. Her face was flushed. Her eyes were teary. A few metres away, he saw it. The hospital camp. It was there, no longer teetering on the horizon's precipice. He smiled and ran forwards, enjoying the wet thud of a duckboard underfoot.
Forgetting their feral pursuer for the moment.
He heard Kitty behind him. Feeling her grip on his wrist slacken, Wilson turned his head, “Kitty, are you okay?”
Wilson ran straight into a figure he had not seen.
He fell backwards, landing hard on his coccyx. He looked up into a blind, punctured face, its empty sockets nestling in pulpy skinless folds. Water ran over the distorted features, mixing with trickles of pus and rheum. He glimpsed a torso of fleshy ridges and open sores. It did not speak. It squealed, raising its mummified hands.
Wilson recoiled from the abomination, recognising it from the trench. He could see there were other shapes moving about in the camp. Shapes with body movements that were wrong, awkward. They shambled through the driving gusts of the growing storm, pursuing the men and women of the camp. Unnatural silhouettes flickered and danced inside the tents and huts. Kneeling over the bed-ridden. They were peeling off bandages. Picking at opened wounds the way a curious child picks at its food. They were sliding long fingers under helpless skin, scratching at the bones beneath, making men beg, buck and scream. Some of them were crouching over the unmoving, plucking out eyeballs and tongues to absently chew upon.
Wilson heard the wolf's claws clatter onto the duckboards behind them.
The animal snarled and leapt at Wilson. He crashed to the ground, banging his bad thigh on the earth, swearing. He locked his hands around the beast's throat, feeling the taut tendons as it leaned forwards. Its muzzle was reaching for his throat. Silhouetted by the dancing shadows, Wilson could only see the hypnotic blackened diamonds of its eyes. Huffing out powerful breaths, it scrabbled at his torso with its forepaws, raking claws through his pyjama suit, carving gashes into his flesh.
Wilson howled.
He clenched his teeth against the pain bursting inside his skull. His arms were shaking from the strain of holding the wolf back. He could not keep this stalemate up for much longer. Ropes of expectant drool slid from between the wolf's jaws.
There was a blur of motion over Wilson's head.
Kitty had punched the wolf. With a growl, it looked up at her. Kitty's face blanched as she saw that the wolf was still there. Still very real. Wilson gasped as the wolf leapt at her, punching him in the stomach with its paws as it launched itself. The wolf knocked Kitty down hard, pinning her with ease under its weight. She screwed her eyes shut as she felt its claws cut her, stifling a cry. Wilson got to his feet.
He went for the wolf.
Snaking his arms around its neck, he heaved at it, trying to twist it off the prone girl. The wolf lashed about, grumbling in its throat as it struggled to throw him off. Wilson's face contorted into a snarl. He pulled at the wolf's lower jaw, craning its head back. With a yelp, it overbalanced, crashing to the ground, leaving Kitty gasping, shaking but free.
Wilson was lying on the wolf, adrenalin pumping through his veins. He hissed through his teeth as its legs lashed at him, nicking him with its claws. His hands were at its throat. His vision swam. For a second, he saw himself there, where the wolf should be. His eyes wide and frightened, a stream of blood running from one of corner of his mouth, dressed in his old uniform. Cold, grey, dying.
Wilson paused.
The body beneath him dissolved into that of the thing from the crypt. Its cinder-point eyes were laughing as it slashed at him, raking its brittle fingernails down his face. Blinded by blood, Wilson tumbled to the ground, feeling the monster shift back into its wolfish form.
Kitty looked up and saw the eyes of the wolf. It was very close to her now. She could see the hairs matted to its body by the rain. She watched a rope of slaver drop from its jaws. She could smell the rotting meat odour on its breath. Kitty closed her eyes, praying, unable to control the shaking that was pulsing through her freezing body. She bit her lip, wanting to be brave at this moment. She had tried to be strong. She hoped that was good enough. It leapt. Felling her with ease.
The wolf tore her throat out.
Wilson screamed as the light went out in Kitty's eyes.
Blinking, she clutched a slender hand to her neck, uttering a single liquid gurgle as dark oily fluid ran through her fingers. She was dropped with a wet slosh, arms and legs sprawling out. The wolf buried its muzzle in her open throat, its jaws chomping down, tearing away flesh and muscle, jerking her about with hungry tugs. It licked gobbets of matter from her lifeless face, lapping up blood, savouring it. The ugly wounds steamed as rain fell, pooling in them.
Tenebrous hands darted out of the blackness, grabbing Wilson. He struggled against the mummified grip of the creatures holding him. It did no good. His throat was already raw from the scream he had uttered as he watched the wolf savaging Kitty.
The wolf backed away from the corpse, letting the shapes come shambling in. Their under-formed nostrils were twitching, scenting the odour of a fresh kill. Their spindly fingers slid over her legs and ankles. Wilson screamed as he watched them beginning to work themselves under her soft skin. One of the creatures turned in his direction. An earthworm was writhing in the crusty hole where an eye should have been. A malformed, sinewy arm twitched, hanging broken as a twig at its side. They were all laughing at him, gibbering with delighted alien hysterics. It was a few seconds before Wilson realised he was laughing too.
It was the laughter of the damned.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wilson squinted as early morning light thrust bright knives into his eyes, awakening him from where he had fallen. A bitter morning rain was falling, creating a gentle dewy haze. Wilson froze as he took in the sights before him. What had been done to them was worse than anything he'd seen at Ypres. He tried to throw up. Wishing that he could. There was nothing left inside him now. He was empty.
The horrors of the night before were coming back to him. He looked up and saw what was left of Kitty Goldsworth. Her throat and torso were torn open. Her limbs, chewed and broken. Her face flecked with blood, spittle and bits of meat. The eyes were blind marbles staring up at the sky. Tears sprang to his eyes as he knelt, running his fingers over the exposed bones of her ribcage. Something glinted amongst the moist offal of her internal organs. He reached out and picked up a decorative silver cross. A gift from a loved one. He held it up and watched as it was washed clean by the touch of the morning rain. It became the one thing left untainted by the night. He felt his heart tightening, hurting so much. He had fought and he had failed. A hand fell onto his shoulder, raising him to his feet. The pits of its eyes glinted, glimmeringly dead, so empty. The long splinters of its teeth were caked with blood. It grabbed Wilson by the chin. It breathed the deaths of many into his face.
“Bastard.”
He spat in its eye.
It struck him, sending him hurtling backwards. Wilson banged his head, black blossoms coloured his vision. He felt the world spin away from him, dissolving into the Grey. It washed over him in waves, making his veins feel as if they were flowing with ice. He pushed on through. Each step heavy. Wilson felt a sweat prickling his brow and underarms. He could feel their voices. The vibrations he made disturbing the ether they dwelt in. Wilson quickened his pace. He knew that picking up speed would cause ripples here, echoes, alerting them to his presence. He no longer cared.
They were coming for him.
Wilson took another step, and then he fell, for the last time.
Wet ground slapped him in the face. He breathed in, gagging on a mouthful of pure winter. The Grey was gone. He was out of it, but
he knew, he felt in his guts, that they were still coming for him. Wilson clambered to his feet. He stumbled, righting himself with an effort. He was nowhere near the hospital. He was in no man's land. The mechanised chatter and wail of battle reached his ears. It was in the distance, so he was safe for the moment. Looking down at himself, he saw that he was in full uniform.
Wilson shook his head, dislodging nagging questions from his mind.
He felt a stab of pain dart through his hand. It was clenched into a fist. Opening it, he saw a tiny silver cross in his palm, its points driven into his hand by the tight grip he'd had on it. He picked it out of the small wound in his hand. The self-made stigmata seeming to mock him as it bled. He slipped the crucifix into a pocket. He tried to wipe himself down but wiping at the mud just turned the splatters into streaks. With a sigh, he stopped the fruitless exercise.
He began walking.
That thing was still after him.
He was going to have to get rid of it.
Christ alone knew how he was going to do that. Nothing had worked so far. He had kept it at bay a few times but that was all. He needed to kill it, once and for all. No-one else was going to die because of him. His eyes roved across the land. It was an expanse of clay and soil pulped into a dirty grey mash. It was all the same. Nothing distinguishing one part of it from another. He had no idea where he was going. A few dead trees jutted out from the muck. There were no other landmarks.
A footstep fell behind him. He looked around. No-one was there. Another footstep. He spun around. His hackles rose. His breath skipping out in quick gasps. He stayed still for some time. He did not know exactly how long.
Then, he saw them. Pale and unclear, flickering flames. Ghosts from the sun. Eidolons of war. They saluted him. Wilson saluted back. A strange, twisting smile playing over his lips as he did.
Night fell across no man's land. Intermittent gunfire rattled away in the distance, coming no closer than during the day. Wilson was glad of that. It gave him time to think. A little light was cast by the flickering of Wilson's ghoulish companions. He had walked on for hours, after he saw them the first time, hoping they would disappear. They did not disappear. Their hollow eyes were always there, boring into him.
At the head of the dead patrol was Captain Bone. His uniform was clean, immaculate. The rhythm of his marching was a model of perfect time-keeping. He beat his swagger stick against his thigh, making the rest of the patrol keep up their pace. Bone's voice sounded in his head.
…You lost them. How do you lose your comrades, Wilson? This is a man's war. There's no place here for you…
This was no man's land, no place for anyone, frankly. This could be where he belonged. A place empty of people. An endless lifeless desolation, where no-one else but him could come to harm.
Smithy was a real mess. His uniform hung in tatters from his bones. The rats hadn't left much of him behind. His tin hat balanced awkwardly on top of his picked-clean skull. Wilson swallowed hard at the rough sound of bone scraping on bone as Smithy marched along. The Sergeant puffed on a limp cigarette clamped between his bloodied teeth.
…Told you, boy, not to go on. You did though, didn't you, eh? You're more than halfway there now. You're almost done. You're seeing ghosts, for Chrissakes. You'll be getting the horrors next…
I think I've already got them, Sarge, he thought.
Then there was Brookes, that smile still carved across his face. His torn throat flapping away, open then shut, open then shut, in time with his marching. His eyes were gone. Taken by the rats.
…Not much of a look out now, are you, Brookes, eh?...
Brookes nodded his dead head.
A puppet dangling on broken strings.
Kitty stumbled along at the rear of the procession, trying to keep up. She was using one hand to keep her insides from falling out. She was not trained. She was just a volunteer. She did the best job she could, under the circumstances. She avoided Wilson's gaze each time he tried to catch hers.
I'm sorry, he thought.
His mind was too numbed to think of anything more fitting.
How do you console the dead?
…you can't, boy…
…dead is dead…
…there ain't no coming back…
The patrol tramped on and on. They wouldn't lose him ever. The dead never tire, never sleep, never eat, never drink and they never, ever dream. The only sound he would ever hear was their relentless pursuit. They would be with him always. It was a kind of justice, he thought, as he lay down to sleep in a shell hole.
...so still, so cold, paralysis steadily spreading, the dead weight, uncomfortably numb, the voices in his head, torturing their way through the echoing cavern spaces of his scratching skull. Sinking into the wet, nothing but rain falling, the black birds in the trees, calling, hungry, waiting...
Wilson awoke, shivering.
He cried out at the sight before him. It was not a patrol watching over him. It was a battalion. They were little more than outlines in the air, discolorations in the morning light, but he could see them all the same. His peripheries seemed to be crowding with the drifting dead.
Wilson laughed out loud.
It was a shrill sound. There was no enjoyment in it, just desperation. He rolled to the ground, lay spread-eagled in the dirt and cackled at the heavens above. The shades of the dead waited for him to grow hoarse from his hysteria and get back to his feet. In the distance, beckoning black-boned fingers were stabbing out of the horizon's rotten flesh.
Drawing him on, towards them.
He came to the edge of Black Wood as night fell. He was panting, aching and exhausted. He approached the forbidding fringes of the wood, feeling undergrowth crunch beneath his boots. At least he would have some shelter from the rain here. He had not looked behind him for a long time. He knew they were still there.
Their dead eyes accusing him.
Then, a tremor shook the air, making Wilson turn to face the ashen army of skin and bones he had been leading to this place. The wind was keening through them. Captain Bone stepped out from the ranks. His arctic eyes crucifying Wilson. The wailing of the wind became a roaring. Drowning out Wilson. It was growing into thunder. Becoming seismic, a deafening pandemonium. The very air was heaving, seaming, splitting, undulating. Swelling, falling in on itself.
The disturbance burst open.
Out of the great wound, came hands, raking the air, grasping and clutching. The condemned dead flickered out, fading from sight, snuffed out by the sudden violence. Great arms came forth, followed by hideous suppurating heads he knew too well. Their wet liquescence weeping tears of pus and viscous fluid. He watched them, these piggish horrors, as they were disgorged onto the ground. As one, they raised their ropey diseased heads, screaming and gurgling. Their mummified fingers reached for him, rattling and chafing. Wilson fled from them, losing himself in the depths of Black Wood.
Branches clipped his face, snagging him. He batted his arms about, trying to clear a path. The trees lunged out, clawing at him. Through tears streaming from his stinging eyes, he saw the trunks twisting and writhing. The undergrowth seemed to be alive as well. It was trying to snare his ankles and make him fall. He knew if he fell, the trees would overrun him and drag him down into their witchy depths. Faces flickered in his peripheries. They were traced out on the trunks of the trees. Rain pattered down onto Wilson from the branches above. It stung his eyes. He wiped it away with his hands. Some of it ran into his mouth. He tasted it, recognising the sharp metallic tang.
It was not rain. It was blood.
He felt the undergrowth shifting beneath him. In the poor light seeping through the trees, he saw a mass of the dead trembling underneath his feet. Corpses drowning in a mire of sucking skin. Cataract-ridden eyes wept infectious trails of tears. Toothless, tongueless maws murmured as he struggled over them. Blind, gibbering spineless things swam through the soft clogging salts leaking from the bodies. Snatching at Wilson's heels with boneless fingers as the
y slithered and dragged on by.
Wilson dashed out into open ground.
A great crashing came from the trees behind him. They were hot on his heels. Up ahead, a shattered farm house loomed. Its hollow shell taunted him. It was a husk, a carcass. Another dead thing in this land of the dead. The crashing grew in volume. Wilson's heart was thundering. He was tired. He couldn't run for much longer. He was bleeding in dozens of places from the clawing he'd received in the wood. Drawing in a wheezing breath, he ran towards the farmhouse.
Pushing the door open, he fell inside.
The air was damp and musty, he guzzled it into his lungs, lying on the floor, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Knowing my luck, this place will be a Jerry machine gun nest and I'll be shot dead in the next few seconds, he thought. Wilson lay on the damp wood floor, breathing heavily, waiting for disaster to befall him. No light came on. No harsh Teutonic tones disturbed the quiet of the house. Wilson got up. The sound of many feet tramping along reached his ears. The things were out of the trees, on their way to the house. They knew where he would go.
He needed to hide.
He could make out a table and chairs in the room. Beyond them was a lightless oblong. He edged towards it, hands held out, fingers probing for obstructions. The last thing he needed to do was cripple himself. The oblong was a doorway, steps led down from it into a cellar. The tramp-tramp-tramp of misshapen feet came closer. Wilson ran down a few steps, turned and shut the door. Not slamming it, he held it in place. Feeling around for what he hoped would be there. A lock. A bolt. A wooden bar he could draw across it.
There was nothing.
He carried on down into the cellar. Maybe they won't search down here, he thought. They might check the house and then go. The door to the cellar shook as it was smashed in. Wilson looked around the cellar, praying for a hiding place of some sort to become clear to him. Irregular heavy footsteps thumped their way down the cellar steps.
