Zombies of Iwo Jima

by Dane Hatchell

  Zombies of Iwo Jima

  Dane Hatchell

  This story is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Dane Hatchell

  Cover Copyright © P.A. Douglas

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  From Severed Press:

  From Severed Press:

  Other titles by the author:

  Resurrection X: Zombie Evolution

  A Gentleman’s Privilege: Zombies in the Old South

  A Werewolf in our Midst

  Apocalypse³

  Club Dead: Zombie Isle

  Dead Coup d’État

  Dreaming of an Undead Christmas

  It Came from Black Swamp

  Lord of the Flies: A Zombie Story

  Love Prevails: A Zombie Nightmare

  Pheromone and Rotten

  Red Rain

  Soul Mates

  The Garden of Fear

  The Last Savior

  The Turning of Dick Condon

  Time and Tide: A Fractured Fairy Tale

  Two Big Foot Tales

  Two Demented Fish Tales

  Zombie God of the Jungle

  Zombie’s Honor

  Zombies of Iwo Jima

  “Of course I feel great relief Hitler has been defeated. What do you want us to do, just walk away from Los Alamos?” J. Robert (Oppie) Oppenheimer said, glancing over the memo just handed to him by fellow scientist, Robert Wilson. Oppie adjusted his glasses and read the memo aloud. “Impact of the Gadget on Civilization.” He raised his gaze back to Wilson. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  Wilson composed himself and cleared his throat. “I’m sure. I’ve given this many hours of thought. We’re working to create the greatest destructive force mankind has ever seen. We had been building it to stop the German war machine. That threat no longer exists.”

  “Just like that? All the scientists shake hands, clean out our desk, and leave? Be realistic, Robert.” Oppie took one step closer to Wilson and leaned in toward him. “When they declared V-E Day, did anyone quit the Project? Did you even hear one person suggest they considered leaving before it was completed? I know I didn’t.”

  Wilson looked at the floor, and back at Oppie. “No, I didn’t. And I know it’s not the zeitgeist that’s powering this project. We’re all like a bunch of machines, automatons only focused on an end result, contrary of consequences.”

  “So, you want to sit down with the other scientists on the Manhattan Project, break bread, sing kumbaya, and go home to your house in the country with the white picket fence?” Oppie turned his back to Wilson and paced in a small circle. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to have this meeting. We’ve never met in a group and discussed anything outside of technical matters. It’s the wrong way to handle your concern, and you’re out of place calling for it.”

  “I’m sorry, Oppie. Something inside me is eating away at my conscience. We’ll be giving man the power to destroy the world. I need to talk this out. There may be others that feel the same way. It’s just one informal meeting. Hell, I don’t even know how many in the group will show up. It’s not like the meeting’s mandatory.” Wilson paused, and then said, “Can I count on you to be there?”

  Oppie took a deep breath and expelled the bad air before his reluctant commitment. “Yes, I’ll be there.” He decided it would be the best course of action. He didn’t want some misguided idealist sinking the atomic project.

  * * *

  The Third, Fourth, and Fifth Marine Divisions landed on the black shores of Iwo Jima, one minute ahead of schedule on February 19, 1945. Iwo Jima literally meant Sulfur Island. Mount Suribachi, a volcanic resurgent dome, being the highest point at the southern tip of the island, was the first objective. This would be the first land attack by the Americans.

  The island’s two air bases provided a deadly strategic position for intercepting U.S. long range B-29 bombers and offered refuge for Japanese naval units in need. If the U.S. forces could take the island, the distance the B-29s would have to travel to attack the Japanese mainland would be cut in half. Plus, P-51 Mustang fighters would be able to escort and protect the bombers.

  The Japanese defenses were well fortified against the aerial bombing and naval-shelling barrage that lasted three days prior to the manned amphibious assault. Despite the harsh terrain and hidden bunkers, the Marines advanced and cut off Mount Suribachi in four days, despite the bombardment of heavy artillery fire.

  Five Marines and one Navy Corpsman made history the day they raised the American flag on Mount Suribachi. The six had been captured in a photo that later won a Pulitzer Prize and became the most reproduced photograph of all time. Three of the six servicemen did not survive the final battle.

  The Third and Fifth Marine Division moved north, and then northeast up the center and west coast of the island. The Fourth Division, otherwise known as the Fighting Fourth, turned to clear the island east of the second airstrip, located just north of center of the island.

  Sgt. Packer, a member of the Fighting Fourth, wiped the grime from around his eyes and blew the snot out of his nose. The constant smell of sulfur in the air irritated the back of his throat like acid reflux. The smell of death and sulfur didn’t mix well.

  The Fourth had been pushing forward for thirteen straight hours. Inch by inch, sometimes two forward and three back. But he and his company managed to gain one hundred yards closer to Hill 382, the next objective. From a casual look around, he estimated it cost them four soldiers for every yard gained that day.

  The terrain offered some limited camouflage. The anemic oak forest looked as if a five hundred mile an hour wind blew through. Tree trunks twisted and turned like broken matchsticks. None of the leaves that remained showed any sign of life.

  If not for the Sherman tanks providing advancing cover and eliminating enemy strongholds, the Fourth would have had no hope of making it to their current position. They might not even be alive to worry about the difficult mission ahead.

  The passing of the day brought silence from the guns on the hill and other high points. Darkness was a shroud that worked for and against each side. Ammunition, like food, was too precious to be wasted.

  Sgt. Packer had his men digging foxholes to hunker down in for the night. The Japanese had a series of tunnels throughout the island and would make attacks once it got dark. The earthen abodes were the only means of cover during a sneak attack. One never knew what side the enemy would attack from. Sometimes the threat came from ground that been taken.

  “What’s your name, son?” Packer stood behind two soldiers shoveling the poor excuse for dirt. They both turned and quickly snapped to attention as they recognized the ranking officer’s voice.

  “Hart, Paul Hart, sir!” one answered.

  “Buzzard, Ben Buzzard, sir!” the other chimed.

  Packer made a half grin. He couldn’t remember the last time something struck him as funny. “Hart, eh? Says P. Hart on your uniform. You know what the spells? P-H-a-r-t, you pronounce that fart. Hart the fart. P-H-a-r-t, that spells fart.”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  “Buzzard? I got a Fart and a Buzzard in my company?” Packer’s grin grew larger. “Well, I don’t see how the Japs have a chance against a Fart and a Buzzard.”

  “Sir, no sir!” the two replied in unison.

  Packer began to leave, but hesitated. “Buzzard. Your face. It’s clean shaven. How in the hell did you find ti
me to shave today?”

  “I’m not old enough to shave yet, sir!” Buzzard replied.

  “Carry on.” Packer left shaking his head for the young boy and the risk he was taking for his country. Thank God for boys like him, he thought.

  Hart and Buzzard returned to digging the foxholes. They could eat just as soon as the task was complete. It would either be C or K rations. As bland as the canned items were, it still provided the gut fill needed to fuel the fighting men.

  Hart spooned out another shovel full of dirt. “I wonder what Uncle Sam has for us to eat tonight?”

  “I hope its meat and spaghetti. Them pork and beans give me gas,” Buzzard replied.

  “Well, I hope its meat and spaghetti too if beans give you gas.” Hart snickered. “Hey, what do you think the Japs are eating? Fish heads and rice?”

  Buzzard stopped, and leaned on his shovel. Hart tossed out two more shovels of dirt before he realized Buzzard was lost in his thoughts.

  “Come on man. What’s wrong?”

  Buzzard lowered his head and raised his gaze. An eerie silence fell about. Even in the heat, Hart felt coldness trickle down his spine at Buzzard’s stare.

  “They eat people. Did you know that? It’s an ancient ritual. Sometimes just the livers. Sometimes whole bodies.” Buzzard had spoken in a whisper.

  “Go on. Get out. You’re shitin’ me.”

  “No, no I’m not. Two days ago I was next to one of them Navajo code talkers after he took a message. I asked him what it said. He told me that the Japanese were coming out during the night at Hill 382 and eating the soldiers.”

  “Dead soldiers?”

  “No, they were eating Marines—alive!”

  Hart shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would they eat someone while they’re still alive? Why not just kill the guy first?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’re all hopped up on sake. But think on this, why is it that they’ve been calling this hill ‘Meat Grinder’? Sure, we’re losing soldiers on this front, but not any more than the others. They call it Meat Grinder because the Japs are eating us alive out here.”

  The two finished digging in silence. As tired as Hart was, the very thought of the Japanese eating an American made his blood boil. He wanted to kill every Japanese man, woman, and child with his bare hands.

  The air was heavier at night and combined with the volcanic ash in the air to form a sulfur tasting film. The two rinsed their mouths thoroughly with a small amount of water before sitting down to eat.

  The night’s menu was meat and spaghetti, much to Buzzard’s delight. His Grandmother’s spaghetti was his favorite thing in life to eat. She would make it for him on his birthday. His mother’s spaghetti he could take or leave. The C rations were a far cry from tasting as good as his mom’s, but it was the best the military had to offer.

  “You know, Buzzard, I think they put something in this food that keeps us from taking a crap,” Hart said. He swallowed the last of his caramels, and fired up a cigarette to finish off his meal. “I’ve been here a week and I haven’t taken a dump since we hit the island.” Hart stayed low in the foxhole, being careful to hide the glow from his cigarette from the enemy.

  “You sure do a lot of thinking. What are going to do when you get out? Go to college and be an inventor or something?” Buzzard finished the last of his coffee and chose the gum over the cigarette from his C rations. The fresh mint taste reminded him of the first time he kissed a girl back in high school. She had just stuck a stick of gum in her mouth when he surprised her from behind and stole a kiss.

  The still of the night and the satisfaction of a finished meal calmed the insides of the two men. The two hunkered down in the foxhole and let the hardships of the day slip away. Tuning out reality, the two found a special place in their mind where there was no fear, and then fell into a blissful state of rest that only near exhaustion could bring.

  *

  The first shots came from the east. Hart and Buzzard awoke to a Tommy gun rattling out a twenty round clip. Tommy guns were used in close combat. That meant the enemy was upon them.

  Hart went to stand, but Buzzard grabbed him by the arm so he would stay down. Buzzard needed to wake up and get his bearings, and figured Hart did too. Sometimes fate only allowed one mistake in a wartime situation. He didn’t want to lose his life, or his friend, in an overzealous reaction.

  More shooting erupted from behind. It sounded like small arms, but then guns of all calibers came alive around them. The enemy had made their move in the cover of darkness using hidden tunnels to spring up among them.

  “What do we do?” Hart said to Buzzard, who peered above the foxhole.

  “I can’t see much, just muzzle fire. We have to wait for the Japs to get close enough for us to shoot. We don’t want to hit other Marines.”

  Hart’s pulse raced. War was different in the daytime. He felt like he had a better chance to defend himself. If he died, at least he could see it coming. Not like this, not when he feared every direction his back was turned could loom as a target for a harbinger of death.

  The night lit up from star shells fired from U.S. battleships offshore. The burning shells parachuted slowly down to Earth. Designed to reveal the enemy in the cover of darkness, it also revealed the Marines position from the mountains. If this was a suicide mission, the Japanese guns on the hill would soon open fire.

  Hart looked up from his foxhole and saw a Marine bayonet an advancing Japanese soldier in the chest, directly in his heart, and pushed to hold him at bay. The Japanese soldier pressed forward, arms outstretched, and fingers clawing toward the Marine. The Marine hesitated for a moment, as if fear had frozen him. The Japanese soldier ripped the rifle from his hands.

  The gun fell to the ground and left a hole from the bayonet in the Japanese’s chest. It didn’t bleed, and it didn’t stop the enemy soldier. He grabbed the Marine by his arms and tore at his throat with bare teeth.

  Hart had heard many men scream in pain and cry as they fell into the gaping jaws of death. But never had he heard a scream made of fear such as this.

  The Japanese soldier voraciously bit off chucks of flesh as the Marine futilely tried to fight him off. Hart was just about to leave the foxhole and go to his aid when the Japanese soldier turned his way.

  The enemy’s expression radiated sheer evil. A ghastly snarl contorted his face. Blood dripped from his chin like a wild beast after a successful hunt.

  Hart became paralyzed. His mind couldn’t make his body move.

  Buzzard squeezed off two rounds from his M-1 rifle. The sharp sound broke the clutch of Hart’s fear. He rolled over in time to see an enemy soldier coming straight for Buzzard. Buzzard quickly fired two more rounds. Hart witnessed the bullets finding its target directly into the soldier’s chest. The bullets didn’t stop him.

  More screams from Marines in agony went up into the night, coming from all directions.

  The advancing Japanese soldier ended up on Buzzard’s bayonet. Just like the other Marine. As with the other Japanese solider, all it did was slow his advancement.

  This enemy soldier was close enough for Hart to get a better look. He looked nothing like any living man he had seen before. His face was rotting on one side, exposing his skeletal jaw and cheekbone. His shirt was shredded rags. Where he stomach should have been, was just a maggot infested pit. The enemy was more dead than alive.

  Hart’s need to help Buzzard pushed the fear aside enough for him to charge forward with his rifle and stab the abysmal soldier with his bayonet.

  The two pushed together with their combined might, finally sending the zombie backward, and onto the ground. They had him pinned down like a wounded beast in a trap. The soldier fought to free himself but wasn’t able to overcome the resolve of the two Marines.

  “What the hell is this thing?” Hart said.

  “I don’t know. But it ain’t alive,” Buzzard said, straining.

  “How can it not be alive?”

  “
Look at it! It’s not breathing. It’s not bleeding. It ain’t got no guts! It’s dead!” for the first time, Buzzard sounded desperate.

  “What’re we going to do?” asked Hart.

  “I don’t know. We could cut it into pieces. That might kill it.”

  Hart pulled out his .45 Colt side arm and shot the Japanese solider three times in the head. The soldier’s head slammed to the ground and back up at each bullet’s impact. He steadied his hand, ready to fire again, but the soldier moved no more.

  Hart reveled in victory. “Yeah!” and turned toward the fallen Marine that was first attacked. The adrenaline pumping through him from fear now invigorated him with bravery. The enemy could be stopped. He was going to make each one pay, or die trying.

  The undead Japanese soldier feasted on the intestines of the dead Marine. It fed like a starved wolf gulping down food out of a bowl. Hart felt his spaghetti churn in his stomach and come up his throat. He tried to swallow to keep it down and dry heaved as he pulled the trigger on his rifle.

  The zombie soldier never looked up, with two of the three shots hitting it in the head. A putrid mass of festering gunk spilled out as the bullets broke its skull like an eggshell.

  Hart bent over and gave back his dinner to the volcanic ground of Iwo Jima. Never in his life had he imagined such vile horror as this night had brought. His eyes watered, snot flowed out of his nose and dripped down his lips. He dry heaved again, with nothing left to offer.

  “Look out, behind you!” Buzzard cried. A trap door concealed with scrubby grass on top flipped up off the ground behind Hart. Another zombie emerged from a tunnel, with only one objective in mind. Buzzard raised his rifle to shoot, but was afraid of hitting Hart.

  Hart instinctively spun around at the warning, and dropped to one knee.

  The enemy stood waist high in the tunnel, crawling its way out not even three feet away.

  Hart lunged forward and rammed the bayonette through the zombie’s left eye. He didn’t know if the creature had screamed or not, for he let out a cry of rage that echoed off the surrounding hills. The bayonet went all the way through the skull and poked out the backside of its head. Hart twisted the blade back and forth, grinding his teeth with a half-mad smile on face. “Take that, you fucker!” He lifted the butt of his rifle until the zombie’s head went so far over its back that he heard the snap of its spine breaking. He then walked around the creature, until the head twisted off the body.