“Sergeant Stuart! If you prefer to take care of the rest of our enemies, please feel so inclined!” I called back.
“Sor, arrangements could be made!”
The men laughed – it felt good to be alive.
Blasts of musketry sounded from the north wall, and then from the east and west. I ran up to the fire step and looked out. The wandering dead, previously aimless, now seemed purposeful, as if lead by an unknown force. They scrabbled at the walls, attempting to breach the fort. It was a grisly sight: rotten limbs coming apart on the raw timbers; bloat bursting under the pressure. And as they swarmed, they trampled one another under foot.
They were building a ladder of their dead.
I hurried along the wall; it was the same at each point: a slowly building ramp of dead; organs bursting and oozing in the moat. The night had been loud before: the roar of tigers; the shrieking of monkeys, now… near silence, bar the raspy scrambling of the dead.
A wind kicked up, and with it the stench of dead long-decayed. The men trembled on the walls. I walked among them, touching shoulders, whispering quietly, and did what I could to reassure them.
The morning would bring no relief, I feared. We could not send out runners now: we were fully surrounded. There was no way to make contact with the nearby town for reinforcements from their garrison. In fact, a steady trickle of the enemy was moving that way – their purposeful shuffle could be maintained all day.
I feared we were lost…
* * *
As dawn broke, so did Hell.
The first sliver of sun peeked over the horizon. And the first dead, finally mounting the ramparts, came over the walls.
“Fire!” I yelled.
A barrage of musket-fire tore down the first invaders, shattering bone and spraying guts. The men reloaded and fired, reloaded and fired, mechanical almost as the dead that mounted the summit and were torn down by the blasts.
It stretched on for hours. The fighting intensified as some demons breached the wall. The hand-to-hand fighting was gut-wrenching. Stabbing another man is hard enough, it’s worse when he doesn’t notice he should be dead and pulls the musket deeper, trying to reach you with rotten hands.
I filled breaches in the ranks, hacking at limbs and crushed bones with my saber. I wished for the heavier cavalry blade more than once.
A slight lull in the fighting brought Captain McKee to me.
“Nick!”
“Robert,” I said.
“Seems we might hold after all. Your boys love a scrap!”
“So do we all, I hope. It seems long from over.”
“Oh, aye, much killing to be done yet, but your boys have the stomach for it. Fighting for your life makes things more lively than in the drill yard, I reckon.”
I had to laugh… until McKee’s mirth faded as he looked over my shoulder to the dawn.
“What do ye make of that?” he asked.
I followed his pointed finger. A cloud of smoke was blooming on the horizon. I snapped out my own glass and peered through. My heart sank.
“Time to form up in the yard, I think.” McKee nodded and hurried off as I yelled the order: “Off the walls! Form square in the yard! Form square! Now!”
Men leapt from the fire steps and hurried down the ladders, forming an orderly square in the yard. I was the last off our side of the wall, slashing and snarling at the demons snatching at me.
A thunderous crash rocked the fort.
“Roll up the artillery. Guns here, now! Hurry!” The gunners pushed the twelve-pounders into the formation and aimed them at the gates.
“Ready! Present arms!” The north face of the square drew up and leveled their muskets, the gunners waiting with leather-clad fingers and burning tapers.
Another crash and the men’s muskets wavered.
“Steady men, steady!”
Another crash and the gate slammed down. A flood of demons poured through. My blood turned cold. A huge elephant pushed through the ruined gate and threw its head back, trumpeting so loud some men dropped their muskets to cover their ears. It had no tusks I could see, and it was covered in rot and putrid pus. It turned milky eyes towards us, but hatred of the living gave the dead orbs evil fire.
The demons poured around its legs and under its body, coming in a tide of rotten flesh that threatened to fill the fort.
The elephant trumpeted again and stumbled into a charge.
“Fire!” I bellowed.
The gunners put fire to touch-holes and the guns roared, thundered, and leapt back from the recoil. Two shots from the flank guns missed the elephant but left a long trail of shattered and ruptured bodies in their wake. The center gun hit dead on. The elephant’s head burst like an over-ripe melon, and its guts blew out its sides. It wavered, stumbled, then fell.
The men sighed with relief and muttered prayers.
We opened fire on the remaining demons in the yard – fire, the crackling of muskets, and smoke surrounded us as those in the square battled for their lives.
Another trumpeting.
Thunderous on the air.
My heart fell.
“We killed the cow,” said Sgt. Stuart, suddenly at my side. “Now we get the bull.”
Another elephant appeared in the gates, straining at the small opening, cracking timbers and threatening to upset the whole wall. Demons popped beneath its feet like grapes. The stench made the gorge rise in my throat.
This monster had tusks – one broken halfway down.
Nothing we had could stop it.
“Load!” I shouted at the gunners, but they were well ahead of me, swabbing and ramming powder, their eyes wide and feverish as they prepared another volley. “Hold, men! The demons of India shall not linger!”
The guns fired, and this time they hit true.
The beast’s sheer size made the cannons seem small. The flank guns tore at its guts, cracking monstrous ribs and shattering bone. Splinters flew in all directions – shrapnel that tore apart demons too close to the impact.
The center gun hit it in the chest, blowing its guts out the back and blasting rotten bits of dangling organs from the many oozing holes in its hide.
To our horror, our unthinkable, indescribable horror, it trumpeted again then lurched into a charge. The men rushed to reload before it could crash into the line – its speed was terrifying. “Fire! Load! Fire! Load!” Nothing else could save us but steady fire and discipline. The monstrous elephant bore down on us.
A trumpet call!
McKee and his dragoons burst from the smoke around the stables and charged the beast, yelling like insane banshees.
“For King and country!” McKee’s voice roared over the din of battle.
The dragoons met the charging monster head on. They slashed at tendons, legs; muzzles flashed as they fired carbines and pistols into its head and sides – a ferocious and unrelenting sea of blades and bullets.
The elephant faltered; started to back up. It trumpeted in anger; slashed about with its tusks.
McKee’s horse was gored and tossed through the air like a child’s toy. I could only keep to my square, moving about the inside faces and checking on men, pulling some from the front ranks who were too tired to fight on, and helping haul back any dead.
The great elephant tried to rear on its back legs but the bones were too far gone and shattered under its remaining bulk. The dragoons dismounted and hacked into the beast’s flanks, trying to quench the demonic fire that gave it life. I ordered the infantry to advance. I moved with the north face of the square to secure the fort walls.
We fought like demons ourselves, slashing and roaring bloody battle cries. The monsters fell beneath our steel; rancid blood burst and flowed, thick and stinking. Carnage.
Demons were ripped and gutted with twisting bayonets; heads burst by musket fire. I saw a man stomping on a little demon monster – a babe that had clawed its way out of its fighting mother’s womb.
Such things no man was meant to see.
&nb
sp; Finally, the demons were driven back and the north face of the fort secured.
We built a barricade of whatever we could find at the gate then climbed the walls again.
A ring of dead, twelve feet high, formed grisly ramps around our fort. We must have slain thousands.
And yet, and yet... the tide kept coming. But the demons now avoided our fort, as though some unknown force told them to bypass us. We’d saved our lives at some cost to the enemy. Whatever it was that drove them now knew we had teeth. The enemy could be seen for miles. We were a single tree standing against an avalanche. A single point of human sanity.
And the dead walked on.
They shambled past, oblivious to the now baking sun and the stench of rotten bodies.
I found McKee in the surgeon’s tent, mending a broken arm.
“Have we stopped them, Nick?’
“For now, Robert, it seems so.”
“Their disposition?”
“They avoid us, but walk on. South.”
Roberts’s eyes grew wide. “Towards New Birmingham.”
I nodded.
“They have no walls. We must sally and harass the enemy. Someone must be sent to warn them!”
I nodded again. “The tide is coming in, Robert. We must be the sea walls.”
He tried to stand but the surgeon held him back. “Sir, you’re in no shape to be riding!”
McKee, covered in blood and gore, and his arm in a sling, grunted and lay back.
“We’ll find a way to warn them. We must.”
“We’ll find a way.” I walked out, worry stabbing at my bones. New Birmingham was a thriving colony town. They had only the protection of their garrison. Stout men, but with no walls.
I climbed our walls again and looked over that seething mass of dead. It was going to be worse, much worse at New Birmingham. But we would ride. We would battle the enemy, and make them fight for every shambling step.
God help us all, the demons marched on.
Death at 900 Meters
Tyson Mauermann
The reticle tracked across the Iraqi landscape for what felt like the two-hundredth time this hour, searching for anything that would jeopardize the squad or their mission. So far, there’d been nothing to be concerned about, but in Fallujah, that could change in the blink of an eye. The marksman kept his M82A1 SASR rifle – his sasser – trained down range.
Sergeant Shane Hill was on his third deployment and looked forward to returning home. His long-time girlfriend, Lynn, had finally worn him down and made him commit to an engagement upon his return. In three short days, he and his platoon would rotate to the rear on their way back to Camp Lejeune, ending his tour of duty. He couldn’t wait, but right now there was only the mission. One thing at a time.
The mission was simple: breach and secure the target location. The building wasn’t much to look at, a strong front door with no windows on the first floor. The second floor had a few windows covered with dust, dirt, and grime. The door leading to the deck looked rotten and would likely fall apart with very little force. With luck, the unit would find a few Iraqis who the MCIA – Marine Corps Intelligence Activity – had deemed targets of opportunity. Capture if possible, kill if necessary, and get out without losing any friendlies.
The plan was to hit the target house right before sun up, only a short time away. It looked good to Shane. There was no activity in any of the surrounding buildings and the neighborhood was quiet – perfect conditions for providing overwatch. Hill had chosen a large abandoned building to the east, knowing that as the sun rose into the sky it would be difficult for anyone to see the two-man HOG – Hunters Of Gunmen – team, the best of the best.
“Delta Whiskey Four to Overwatch, report,” Platoon Leader Chavez called over the radio.
Hill knew Chavez was doing his best to take command of the unit. He‘d just been transferred to the group, fresh from officer training. Hill guessed Chavez remained distant from the men because that’s what the training manual recommended. Chavez rarely deviated from the manual.
“Delta Whiskey Seven, you’re all clear,” Sergeant Hill replied.
The mission was about to kick off. Time to give the area another eyeball. Hefting the heavy .50 caliber sniper rifle onto his shoulder and putting eyes on the target, he slowly worked his way to the left. Nothing piqued his interest; the streets as quiet as a tomb.
Hill glanced over at his partner, Lance Corporal Charles “Dog Pound” Turner, who looked through the scope on the smaller of their two rifles – an M40A5 chambered in .308. Turner surveyed the landscape with sharp eyes, looking for something to ten-ring.
Turner was a good guy to have watching your back, Shane thought, a bit of Navajo mixed with a little south of the border made for a compact man with rippling muscles and character. He was always at ease, regardless the situation. If Hill had to pick someone to be in a foxhole with, Turner was the easy choice.
Turner and Hill were on the roof of a three and a half-story dwelling disguised as a pile of shit and bricks. Five blocks from the target residence, they were roughly nine hundred meters from the target house – the tallest building in the immediate area.
If the two highly-trained and decorated snipers couldn’t get the jump on the terrorists, no one could.
Hill returned to his scope and caught movement a few houses to the right of the target, on a second-story balcony. The area was dark and wouldn’t see the light of day for a few hours, but something had drawn his attention.
“Overwatch to Delta Whiskey Four, you have a possible tango on your three o’clock. Watch your flank,” Hill said into his comms.
“Roger that. Keep me posted if the tango advances.”
Hill saw Turner move his scope to check it out.
“I don’t see anything,” Turner said. “You sure?”
Just then, a dark shape leapt the gap between the two adjoining balconies, little more than a blur in Hill’s scope. Both snipers lifted their heads, and stared at one another.
“Overwatch to Delta Whiskey Four, tango is moving fast to your posit. Advise you secure your flank and hold.”
“Delta Whiskey Seven. Repeat tango’s last known position.” Hill wasn’t sure but it seemed as if Chavez’ voice sounded a little shaky.
“Last sighting was three houses from target on your right, second floor. “
“Copy, Delta Whiskey Seven.”
Through the scope, Hill could see his platoon leader snap instructions to the assault team, and he watched the men of the right flank reinforce their lines of fire preparing for the worst.
Hill moved his scope back to where the tango was last seen. He double-checked the dope, making sure that the range to target was correct. It was a waiting game; a game of which he was a master. Hill knew Turner was hot to get another kill, the fourth in the deployment. He was chasing Hill’s kill record. If Turner could get one more they’d be tied. Hill knew the man was dying to get the record before heading home. Just as Hill was about to check back with the breaching team, he saw more shadows. A second tango crept along the terrace.
This time, however, Hill was able to see a few more details. The figure was big – not Turner big, but large enough to warrant caution. He was also deathly pale. Hill switched off his safety and slowed his breathing, preparing to take his first shot. He placed his crosshairs on the back of the tango’s neck. If Hill’s shot flew true, the bullet would sever the spinal cord from the body and put the guy down before he even knew he’d been shot. Hill visualized the shot, starting with the trigger pull and ending with the large tango crumpling to the ground. He did this before each shot. It was an attempt to see all the variables and make minute adjustments milliseconds before he actually fired.
The tango slowly turned, and then moved out of sight. Hill’s practiced breathing froze. Red, glowing eyes had, for a second, made him doubt his normally perfect vision. He shook his head. Damn stupid time to be imagining things.
“Delta Whiskey Seven to Delta Whisky
Four, you have a second tango – second floor, third house. We can’t get a bead on them.”
“Overwatch, we’re sending a party to investigate while we commence the operation. We have to rock ‘n’ roll or we lose the element of surprise. If the tangos reappear, take ‘em out if you see a weapon,” Chavez responded with a little more iron in his voice.
“Roger that,” Hill replied.
He watched as two marines moved toward the second house, the darkness and urban environment providing perfect cover. A quick look at the target house had the rest of the team stacking up in preparation to breach. They were moving a little early; daylight was still about half an hour away, but a few slivers of light were starting to creep over the rooftops. With luck they would secure the target house and exfiltrate to base before anyone on the block woke for the Morning Prayer.
“Oh, shit,” Turner yelped. “Tango is right on top of them, and they’re blind. I’m taking the shot.”
“Belay that. Tango doesn’t have a weapon” stated Hill.
“Dammit, Hill, you know as well as I do that they intend to kill our boys.”
“That may be the case but ‘no weapon, no shot’ is the order from up top,” said Hill
“Shit, the brass don’t know what it’s like out here. This is gonna go sideways fast.”
Hill watched as Turner fumed. Just then, the two marines responsible for checking the team’s flank could be heard going fully automatic. The radio burst to life as the firing stopped.
“Delta Whiskey Four to Delta Whiskey Six, report,” came the call from Chavez.
“Delta Whiskey Six, we just capped two pale, motherfucking Johnnie Jihadis. They got the jump on us, but now the Hajis are down. We’re all good here,” PFC Staples replied.
Not long ago the platoon celebrated Staples’ twentieth birthday in-country with some ‘confiscated’ beer. He was a good soldier who was shaping up to be a great marine. His melon-sized and balding head had earned him the unfortunate nickname of ‘Pineapple’. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but then again, nicknames given by the unit rarely did.
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 22
