After all, everyone knows that if you capture a leprechaun it’s good luck. He’d be waiting all right.
A Tide of Flesh
Jeff Hewitt
I was torn from the ethereal green fields of England and slammed back into the heathen sweat of India by the sound of musket fire and screaming. I thrashed against the mosquito nets as I sat up.
“Lieutenant Crawford!” One of the ensigns – I had yet to learn his name – stood outside my tent. I peered at him through the mask of nets. His features seemed distorted in the growing light of morning. “What in bloody… What is going on?” I demanded.
“I… uh… Captain Dartmouth. We request your presence—“
“You bloody moron! Fetch me Sergeant Stuart and get the hell out!”
“Y-Yes, sir!” The ensign fled with due haste and I took the opportunity to dress. The sound of combat made my fingers clumsy. As I tied my stock, Stuart appeared.
“Yes, sor!”
“What the hell is everyone firing at?”
“Enemies at the walls, sor.”
“Have they brought up guns or attempted to scale the walls?”
“No, sor.
“Who are they? Whose men?”
“We haven’t been able to determine that, sor. It’s still dark out.”
I pulled on my leather boots and slung my sword. Last, I checked my pistol and pulled the hammer to half cock.
“Join me on the wall, Sergeant.” I walked through the parade ground of our wooden frontier-fort and climbed a ladder to the fire steps.
“Hold fire,” I ordered.
“Hold your bloody fire!” yelled Sergeant Stuart. He whacked a few privates with his halberd, yelling until there was relative quiet on the walls. The light of the torches flickered, pushing against the dark. When the powder-smoke cleared, I spotted a handful of corpses in the ditch surrounding the fort. A few men still shambled around the glacis of piled dirt abutting the ditch. They didn’t move like normal soldiers. They didn’t come in waves; they didn’t run for cover; and they didn’t scream or yell challenges. They just… walked about, as if on a stroll.
“Sergeant, has their disposition been like this the whole time?”
“Aye, sor. They spooked the boys, but they ain’t been at the walls like they mean it,” he said.
I scanned my surroundings. “Sergeant, where’s Captain Griffin?”
Stuart made a show of checking the muskets of some of the men on the walls.
“Sergeant, where is he?”
Stuart looked supremely uncomfortable. One of the privates finally spoke up; a tall man with a wicked scar that ran the length of the right side of his face from forehead to jaw line. “Buggered off ‘e ‘as. No good for anythin’, that git.”
The sergeant whirled to give the private a hide tearing, but I stopped Stuart short. “It’s okay for him to speak freely in this case, Sergeant.” I turned to the private. “When did he leave?”
“Soon as they was spotted, sir. Took a look over the wall and was off on the first ‘orse ‘e came to,” the private said.
I shook my head.
“Bloody yellow bastard,” muttered a nearby private..
I gave the man a sharp look then pulled Sergeant Stuart aside. “Is this true? He deserted?”
“Aye, sor.”
“Is there anyone else? Any senior officers?”
“Just Captain McKee, with the dragoons, sor.”
“Christ,” I said. Stuart nodded. I looked over the wall again; the men stumbled into the ditch and piled up, shuffling about and wandering aimlessly. “What the hell are they doing?”
Just as I spoke, there was a rush of small bodies that moved with eerie rapidity. I drew my sword and pistol as the first wave rushed over the top of the wall.
The creatures were monkeys of all shapes and description, and rotten to a one. Their bodies were disgusting bags of dripping fluids, clotted blood, and matted hair. Their eyes, when they were present, either bulged grotesquely or were a creamy, blind white. Their dirty-yellow teeth were bared in a hateful grimace. They swarmed up and over and attacked the men, leaping onto backs and chests. They pulled hair, bit at throats and exposed skin, tried to gouge out eyes, and tore at the men with jagged nails.
One of the stinking beasts leapt onto my back. I tried to cut at the bastard with my saber but couldn’t get a good angle on him. Crazy scenes of carnage whirled past my vision as I tried to get the shrieking monster off. Men grabbed monkeys from their friends and crushed those heinous heads beneath hobnailed boots.
Sergeant Stuart whirled his halberd in a cyclone of steel and crushed bodies. Monkeys stuffed my men’s eyeballs, nerves and all, into their gaping mouths and leaped about like madness manifest. Men unlucky enough to lose eyes and limbs rolled on the ground, screaming in puddles of blood as the beasts feasted on their flesh.
I dropped my saber and reached over my shoulder and grabbed the monkey. Small bones snapped beneath my fingers, and the flesh came away in a stinking patch, releasing a horrible stench that burned down my throat. I dragged the monkey free. The rotten simian shrieked in my face and raked my cheeks with its nails. Pistol now in hand, I shoved the barrel into its midsection and pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped forward and a fountain of gore blasted out the back of the devil. I threw the corpse over the wall, grabbed my saber from the floor, and laid about myself. I slashed at the beasts attacking my men, chopping off little heads and furry limbs in a pattering rainfall of ripe organs and decayed bones.
After what seemed an eternity, the monkeys were beaten back – little backs snapped and heads burst under musket butts. Men who had lost their weapons during the melee literally tore the monsters apart with their bare hands. When the last beast was thrown back over the wall, the men cheered their victory.
I was soaked in black, clotted blood and bits of offal. Sergeant Stuart was the vision of Death himself. The only bit of him that didn’t drip with blood or gore was his eyes, which were wide, red, and angry. At that moment I think he could have killed a man or tiger with a mere look. He raised his bloody halberd above his head and roared:
“Take more than monkeys to put our lads in the ground!”
A cheer rose around him.
I wiped my saber clean and sheathed it at my side. When the cheering died down, I motioned to Stuart. “Good fighting, Sergeant. Get the men ready for another assault. Muskets primed, bayonets set.”
Stuart nodded and yelled orders.
The sound of the bayonets snapping into their locks as one thrilled me. I had never before been in a battle such as this – a desperate fight in close quarters. I found I rather liked it, but I had my doubts about command. Captain Griffin was a veteran, had regaled us many nights in the officers’ mess with tales of his combat prowess. To make such a man flee… I shook my head.
I walked the parapets to take stock of the wounded and killed. We’d lost several men to blindness – their eyes punctured or even torn out. Many more had severe bites that left bloody crescents oozing languid blood. The dead were taken to the fort chapel until we could give them a proper ceremony.
As I walked the wall, the enemy shambled into view. My God, there’s thousands. We were completely surrounded. A cold chill stabbed through me. How would we ever defend against such a numerous enemy?
I schooled my face, showed no outward sign of my fear as that would only serve to panic the men – they were worried enough by the attack and the desertion of our captain. I made light talk with the ensigns, to let everyone know I was in command. I inspected muskets and personal weapons; made sure each bayonet was sharp and well-attached. These men were ready for a fight. I came to the last little stretch of wall and found the big Scottish captain of the dragoons.
Captain McKee was a huge, handsome man. He wore a full, black beard, despite the tradition and regulations that dragoons be clean-shaven. His eyes sparkled with deadly mirth, and the carbine he was aiming over the wall as I approached looked like a toy in his hands
. The carbine roared, spat fire, and one of the enemies in the ditch fell, pierced right through the head. A small mound of bodies testified to his accuracy.
“Ha! I haven’t had this much fun since Assaye!” The big man laughed as he reloaded his carbine.
“Captain McKee, sir!”
He turned to me. “You can call me Robert. I think the circumstances rather allow it.”
“Yes sir… er, Robert. I want to formally offer you command of the infantry, being the most senior commander, and in light of your—”
McKee held up a hand to cut me off. “Nay, Nick. Keep your infantry. I’m a cavalryman and would nay know what to do with your men. Not properly.”
“Thank you, Robert.” I stepped close. “May I come to you for advice? I’ve never… that is, never had the command, to…”
“Never led men in combat. Aye, I know. Yes, of course you can ask for my help. Given the situation,” he said, with a wave of his hand towards the walls, “I think you may end up relying on yourself more than you think anyway.” He turned back to the wall and fired off another shot. A body fell into the ditch. He grinned. “If we’ve got enough shot and they decide to keep up the ducks in a pond act, I think we’ll do rather well.”
“I estimate they number in the thousands. We have plenty of shot and powder, but not enough to kill every man in an army.”
McKee turned a critical eye to the men piling into the ditch. “Every side about the same?”
“Yes, sir. Robert.”
He nodded. “Aye, I agree, then. Probably a few thousand so far.” He looked thoughtful. “I’ll take me lads out and have a look. Get the full scope of the enemy’s disposition.”
“We’ll make sure the gate is clear. Which do you want to use?”
“The south gate. I gather the enemy is mostly coming from the north?”
I nodded.
“Good, then the south it is. They’ll be lightest there.” McKee hurried down the ladder and into the parade ground. “Dragoons! Form up, lads! We’re ridin’!”
I pulled more men towards the southern side of the redoubt – two hundred in all. Sergeant Stuart joined me.
“Infantry, form line!”
They ordered themselves into two rigid lines.
“Shoulder arms!”
Two hundred muskets came up.
“Fire!”
Two hundred muskets spoke, roaring with voices of fire. A line of men outside the walls shook and fell apart. Musket balls blasted off limbs, gore showered into the air, and as the powder-smoke cleared, only a few crawled along the ground or clawed at the air. Two hundred men reloaded and prepared another volley.
“Ho! Dragoons, out!” The dragoons swung into their saddles and rode out of the fort and into the darkness of the Indian night. The guards fired a few shots as the enemy approached the gate and then pulled it shut.
I paced the wall, trying to see through the gloaming. A distant popping of musket fire; the clash of steel; screams of men. The enemy shuffled towards the sounds in the gathering night, seemingly attracted to the noise. When the outriders grew quiet – I assumed on reconnaissance – the enemy near the walls returned their attention to us.
A quick patrol of the walls and the enemy was still pouring in on three sides: north, east, and west. They were wandering into the south ditch but not at near the same rate as the other sides. They were packed in tight, some trampled by their comrades.
A pounding of many hooves racing for the fort got my attention. The patrol was coming back!
“Open the gate!” I yelled down. The guards obeyed and the dragoons thundered through. Captain McKee was at the back, following one of his men who dragged an enemy soldier behind him on a rope.
I ran down to the parade ground. McKee stepped down from the saddle and unbuckled his helmet.
“What did you see?”
His face was grim. “Bloody thousands. It’s hard to get an accurate count, of course. It’s dark, but my God… must be over a hundred thousand. You’ve got a great bleeding horde around the fort, thick as flies, and more coming in from the north in droves. They’re not in formations; they’re just coming on. We couldn’t reach the head of their column. It’s just too far, and they’re too scattered. And there’s something else…” he nodded towards the prisoner.
The men were formed in a circle around the enemy. They jeered and baited him, throwing rocks and punches. McKee shoved some men aside and we took in the captive.
On the surface, he was indistinguishable from the thousands of the sultanate’s troops. Dark skinned, light-colored robes, and boots of fine leather. His manner, however, was nothing less than demonic. He growled and tugged at the rope, trying to reach any man he could. His skin and uniform were dirty, almost as though he had clawed his way out of a grave.
“Look, Nick! His chest!” McKee pointed.
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Those look like musket wounds,” I said.
McKee drew his cavalry saber, heavier than my own, and stepped forward. The man lunged at McKee, but was brought up short by the rope. McKee swung downward – a brutal stroke – audibly shattering the prisoner’s knee. When the monster went down, McKee chopped again, breaking its back. Yet, it gave no yell of pain, no scream at having its bones broken. It lay on the ground, clawing at the air, and slobbered with eager mouth at the big Scottish captain.
McKee put his boot on the creature’s throat, for it was no man. Now that it was on the ground and relatively still, the wounds that should have killed it long ago were obvious. Two big musket-ball holes pierced its chest, and gray bones were exposed from where it had been dragged along the ground. The eyes held no spark – soulless.
“It’s a demon,” I said.
McKee nodded, gripped his saber with both hands then drove it with brutal strength through the creature’s skull. It shuddered as thick black blood welled up around the shining steel. The blade was wrenched out with a scream of steel on bone. The creature finally lay still.
McKee wiped his sword on the dead man’s robe. “Aye, ‘tis a demon. But demons die, same as men,” he said.
Those men who had born witness to the kill muttered prayers, to God or any divine being that might listen. They would take help from wherever it came.
I pulled McKee aside. “How do we fight such an army? Is it the dead of India in its entirety?”
“I don’t know, lad. With the men, with our guns and swords, with our lives, if need be.”
“But... how many men have we killed?” I thought of the monkeys. “And beasts?”
“The butcher’s bill may be more than we can pay, lad,” said McKee. “But we’ll send him home with bulging pockets all the same.”
A sudden volley of musketry from the eastern wall seized our attention. Sergeant Stuart was already running along the wall towards the men who were frantically re-loading. “What the hell do you—”
A guttural roar shattered the night.
Two huge, dark shapes clawed over the wall and leapt at the line of soldiers. The men scattered, screamed, as the beasts growled, bit, and slashed with long, wicked claws.
Soldiers leapt from the wall, risking broken limbs as the monsters cleared the fire steps.
“Tigers,” said McKee in a voice filled with both awe and dread.
My own throat turned dry and hot as we watched the tigers chase the last of the men off the fire step. Sergeant Stuart, madman that he was, stood at the south-east corner screaming a challenge to the beasts. One of the tigers, terrifying in its speed and ferocity, rushed the man and his whirling halberd.
The other tiger preferred the prospect of a chase, and left the string of dead and dying men on the wall to pursue those in the parade ground. It took a graceful leap and landed on a man, snapping his back and tearing out his throat in one fluid motion.
It roared, and the blood of dead men poured from its mouth.
The sight of it bearing a man to the ground shook me from my stupor. I drew my saber and yelled above th
e noise of battle. “To me! Form a line!”
My voice cut through the din. Men ran to me. I grabbed some stragglers and dragged them into the line, forming up near the south gate, twenty or so men, when the tiger in the courtyard took notice of us. It dropped the man it was shaking and roared again, baring its exposed ribs and rippling shoulder muscles.
It had no skin, no organs. It had been shot and skinned and left for dead. I had no time to wish the hunters had thought to take the teeth and claws.
It charged.
“Aim! Fire!” I yelled at the men, signaling with my saber.
A roar of musketry blasted the charging beast, tearing exposed muscle and shattering ribs. It checked the tiger’s charge but a little, breaking its stride but failing to stop it.
“Receive charge!”
The men in the thin front rank dropped to one knee and drove the butts of their muskets into the ground. Their bayonets formed a glittering wall of steel.
The tiger crashed into them at a run, roaring, claws slashing. A dozen bayonets pierced it, releasing torrents of blood, both fresh and rotten. The animal howled as it seized a man and dragged him, screaming, into its waiting jaws.
I ran to the tiger’s side and hacked its back with my saber. My arm shook from the impact as its spine shattered. Its back legs sank to the ground, but it continued savaging its victim, shredding flesh. I reared back and with a desperate yell, brought down my saber again and severed the spine completely. My third blow took it just behind its head.
The beast crumpled to the ground, the dead man hanging from its jaws.
The second beast fell with a thud beside us. Dead.
Sergeant Stuart called down from the parapet. “I put down your cat, Lieutenant. It were a bit bitey!”
I gaped at the sergeant – this man who had fought a tiger single-handed on the wall. His halberd was covered in gore, and the man looked like he’d been bathing in the leftovers of a butcher’s shop.
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 21
