by Steven Novak
“Three days ago Captain Stevens was officially relieved of duty. Captain Stevens was unwilling to adapt to the changing world around him. His ideas for the way this facility should be run were in direct conflict with the needs of the soldiers serving under him, and you. My name is Gerald Walker. You will refer to me as Mr. Walker or Sir. You will refer to the men and women serving alongside me the same. If it’s wearing a uniform, it’s a Sir. Do I make myself clear?”
No one responded.
Walker’s hand moved to the gun on his hip. The thirty soldiers standing behind him did the same. “I will only ask one more time! I expect you to answer and I expect you to answer with a Sir! Now, do I make myself clear?”
The group responded as best they could, throats raw, barely holding together. It wasn’t good enough. The soldiers spread out, hoisted their weapons.
“Not good enough! I want to hear a Sir, yes Sir!”
Steel clacked, feet stomped.
“Sir, yes Sir!”
We didn’t mumble.
I remember the smile on Walker’s face. I’d seen it a thousand times on the faces of friends and co-workers, and every morning when I looked in the mirror. He was in charge. We all wanted to be where he was, have what he had. We wished we were him and he knew it.
There was a strut in Walker’s step when he made his way to Patrick and me. He poked my brother in the stomach with the muzzle of his gun and grinned when he screamed. “From now on you will be working for your food! No more laying around! No more handouts!”
He was talking to the crowd, looking at us. “Your beachside palaces are gone, people! No more vacationing at the summerhouse! There aren’t any maids here to clean your shit and tell you how amazing you are while you feed them pennies of what you earn! We are in a survival situation! In a survival situation there are no free rides! Do I make myself clear?”
“Sir, yes Sir!”
His voice lowered, eyes narrowed, whispering in my ear so close I could hear his lips smack. “You want the Bertie to eat, you work double. Got it?”
“Sir, yes Sir.”
His gun moved from Patrick’s belly to mine. “Louder.”
“Sir, yes Sir!”
The muzzle dug deeper. “Say it again.”
“Sir, yes Sir!”
Deeper. “Again.”
“Sir, yes Sir!”
I did what I had to do.
I’m not proud of it.
The next month I kept doing what needed to be done. The month after I did the same. Sometimes the jobs we were given had a purpose, like fortifying walls and structures, clearing gimps. Sometimes we were just being worked. I dug ditches for no reason, then filled them the next day. Twice I was told to stand, just stand, in the same place, all night. If I moved, I got hit. By morning I was so bruised I could barely walk.
Different soldiers treated us differently. Some of them loved what they were doing; it was payback for their lives before it all collapsed, the wars we sent them to, our fat wallets, my girlfriend’s ass. We were human ladders. They needed us to fall down so they could climb up. Others were just following orders, trying to make it to the next day without turning into Captain Stevens, turning a blind eye to stay alive. It was easier that way.
The hitters were testing us, seeing who would break, weeding out the troublemakers. If someone collapsed on the line, so what? One less mouth to feed. When someone died, they disappeared. No one really knew what happened to the bodies. There were rumors, lots of them. A hanger near the east end of the base was considered off limits, always locked down, guarded. Sometimes we’d hear moaning. As much as I wanted to know, I also didn’t care. Whatever was happening to them wasn’t happening to me. That’s all that mattered.
The gimps outside the base were disappearing as well: bodies dragged to the woods, grass stained red, spattered with intestine and things so chewed they were unrecognizable. To make matters worse, the forest was moving. Left unattended, nature was taking the area back, everything creeping inward, bringing the monsters closer.
Sooner or later one of them would find the nerve to come inside. We all knew it would happen. The soldiers probably thought they were ready for it. They were wrong. None of us were ready for what came over that fence.
Or how many of us it would kill.
3.
I was working the fences when it happened, stabbing gimps through the eyes with what amounted to a sharpened stick. We weren’t allowed knives, certainly not guns. There were ten of us, hands soaked in blood and pus and gunk I couldn’t begin to identify. Things happen inside a body when it dies, disgusting things, even if that body comes back to life.
The gimps smelled twice as bad on the inside as out.
That night they were livelier than usual, gnawing at the links in the fence, teeth grinding steel. They knew something was up before we did, could sense it in the air. They wanted in.
They wanted to eat before there was nothing left.
The soldier guarding us was named Jackson—more specifically, Mr. Jackson, Sir. He wasn’t a massive man, wasn’t small either. He was sturdy, arms carved out of granite, small enough to still be fast. His eyes never left the group, cold and dark, sunken deep into his face. His hands never left his rifle. He’d watched us before, had a bad attitude, and wasn’t afraid to show it. If he wasn’t beating someone up, he rarely moved. When he decided to move you knew you were in trouble. There was something angry in the way he stood, nastiness boiling just below the surface. He hated us, all of us. He was looking for an excuse to show how much. When the guy standing beside me collapsed from exhaustion, he saw an opportunity.
“Get up. Get yer ass up.”
His name was David, the guy who collapsed. I think. He was from another barrack. We’d only met a few times, whisper-bitched about the guards while digging a ditch, and went our separate ways.
“Not gonna ask again.”
He was a skeleton, everything thin and frail, face drawn and tight, the same as the monsters he was stabbing. I wasn’t sure he was capable of getting up, not anymore.
“I said, get your ass up!”
When Jackson took a step forward, the urgency set in. David planted his feet, a handful of dirt, used his stabbing stick as a cane. He tried to stand, grunted, stumbled, and failed. He tried again. His face was soaked in sweat, limbs jittery. When he coughed he spit blood. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Suddenly Jackson was stomping in his direction.
I probably could have helped David. He was right beside me, bumping my leg as he wobbled, nearly knocking me over. I might have gotten beaten, but I could have helped. I could have wrapped my arms around him and pulled him to his feet. It might have been all he needed. He could have found his second wind, maybe survived the night.
Instead of helping I stepped to my left. When he reached for my leg I brushed his hand away. When he tried again I knocked him over, turned my head, and stabbed some poor son of a bitch who’d been dead a year straight through the eye. I kept my mouth shut and went back to work.
I’m not proud of it.
The moment Jackson’s rifle connected with David’s head, it exploded. Blood sprayed from the gash, soaked my side, my arms and legs, and stained my boots red. David fell, limp, into the cage. The gimps broke his fall. Fifty dead fingers snagged his clothing, pulled him to the steel, strung him up like a scarecrow. At the promise of meat the dead frenzied. Their mouths went to work, snapping through the holes in the fence at anything exposed, nibbling the flesh from his body. Some guy farther down the line screamed. A woman cried. I watched as David’s body jostled against the steel, sections of head tearing like paper, bits of hair still attached. There was blood everywhere, so much of it. I couldn’t look away. I heard them swallowing, sticky tongues licking stickier lips, everything glistening.
Jackson smacked me in the back of the head so hard I bit my lip. “Stop staring, asshole. Back to work.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He smacked me again.
“Sir, yes, Sir.”
One more time for good measure.
“Sir, yes, Sir!”
He wasn’t buying it. I wasn’t saying it loud enough. Mr. Jackson, Sir didn’t like me. The feeling was mutual.
He moved close, breath heavy, nostrils flaring. If the howler hadn’t shown up when it did, I might have ended up next to David.
No one was sure how it got inside. We all knew when it arrived. The wall of a barrack fifty yards away bent under the weight of something massive, rivets popping, steel moaning. Glass shattered. Someone screamed. I saw the bodies before the beast. A woman—what was left of her—smashed through a window on the far side. When she hit the ground she bounced, limbs flailing, blood crisscrossing the moon. Another body crashed through the door and hit the dirt with a thud, flopped and bent. It didn’t have a head. The howler spit that out a second later.
Jackson had already forgotten about me. “Stay right fucking here! Don’t any of you fucking move!”
Most of us dropped to our knees and watched as he charged the barracks. He was twenty feet away when the monster emerged. It blasted through the front door, too thick to fit. Its body splintered the frame and split the wall in two, wood transformed to splinters. It was massive, legs like iron, layers of muscle covered in coarse gray fur. I’d never seen anything so big. Before Jackson could get off a shot it was on him, all over him, mouth so wide it engulfed his midsection. When it snapped back, it tore him in half. I didn’t look away. I might have smiled.
I’m not proud of it.
Instead of screaming Jackson gurgled, choking on his own blood. I could hear his bones crunching between the creature’s teeth, its snout dripping blood. When it had its fill of Jackson’s belly, the howler turned its attention to us.
Its eyes were incredible, horrifying, deep crimson, improbably red. It growled, low and steady, upper lip quivering, moonlight glistening off gargantuan teeth. Instead of howling, it roared. There was something human about that sound, half a word, so much rage. I recognized it. Some of us ran. The rest froze. I stumbled, tripped over what remained of David, narrowly avoided the feasting gimps. The monster was already charging, huffing with every step, feet like car tires, kicking dirt. It was ten feet away when a bullet hit its side. Another hit its leg and the creature slid to a stop, snarling at the gunfire. The ground around it erupted, a maelstrom of lead, bullets piercing flesh, blood like falling rain. On the opposite end of the base a contingent of soldiers was approaching, dark shadows and flashing muzzles. Instead of charging, the howler sprinted toward the barracks to its right, into the shadows, using them as cover.
It was smart. It wasn’t just a mindless eating machine, barely aware of its own existence. It wasn’t like the gimps, wasn’t even like us. It was something new.
The soldiers were unorganized and spread out, barking orders they had no intention of following. The insanity of the situation caught them off guard. They forgot their training. As they approached the buildings they continued to fire, no idea what they were shooting at. It didn’t matter. Bullets ricocheted off steel, exploded in dirt, shattered windows. They were aiming at anything, hitting everything, tearing the poor bastards inside to pieces.
They didn’t care.
Taking aim at the ground, they forgot to watch the sky. If it hadn’t been for its eyes I never would have spotted it. The howler was on the roof of a building to the left, keeping low, watching. It waited for the soldiers to move into the space between the bullet-riddled barracks. It wanted them huddled together, shoulder-to-shoulder, unable to defend themselves. When it leapt into the shadows I couldn’t see much of anything. The darkness ate them all, left only screams. I heard two distinct voices before the gunfire began, listened as two men died. The area erupted in flashes and noise, gunfire and yelps. Something vaguely resembling a body was tossed from the shadows, face sunken, bones like shattered glass. Another body followed, and one after that. The forth was tossed so high it landed on a nearby roof. When it bounced the arm popped off, headed in the opposite direction. Something exploded. A fireball spread from between the structures, blasted outward, bits of steel taking to the air, everything on fire. The force of the explosion caught me off guard; I felt it on my face, unbearable heat. It punched my chest, turned my legs to rubber, and knocked me to my ass. Something popped in my ears. The world went away, replaced by a steady hum, so sharp I felt it in my brain.
Less than three minutes and a single howler, that’s all it took.
In less than three minutes our base, with our well-trained soldiers, had become a warzone.
I tried to stand; my legs wouldn’t work and the humming in my ears did a number on my balance. Forward became backward, up was down, and legs and brain were no longer communicating. I was on my knees when the howler emerged from the flames, half its body missing, exposed ribcage reflecting the glow of the fire. Three of the monster’s legs were working, forth a twisted stump of mangled bone and mush. The creature shuffled from the inferno awkwardly, smoke pouring from its nose, breathing fire. I was almost on my feet when it stopped, wailed, and snarled at the moon. The sound dropped me back to my ass. The howler’s backside was up, cooked tail waiving like a torch in the night, throwing flames. When it finished screaming it stopped again, sniffing the air with its blackened snout.
It looked in my direction.
Suddenly its gnarled leg didn’t matter, and spilling guts meant nothing. Red eyes narrowed. Lips quivered. It was still hungry, still angry. It could smell me. It wanted me.
The creature’s head dropped inches from the dirt, hindquarters raised. Its twisted leg slapped the ground, not so useless after all. The moment it charged a flurry of automatic weapons unloaded into its torso and up its neck. Another group of soldiers were approaching from behind, firing in rapid succession. This team was smarter, taking their time, making every shot count. The assault overwhelmed the beast, blew the snout from its face, turned teeth to dust. The moment its head erupted the monster collapsed.
I was alive.
For whatever reason, I was still alive.
It took an hour to put out the fires, six to clear the corpses. If a soldier’s brain was intact, we were told to destroy it. By direct order of Mr. Walker, Sir, soldiers weren’t allowed to come back. That sort of nonsense was for people like us. Apparently they deserved better.
I spent the next day burning bodies. Between the sun and the heat from the fire I’m surprised I survived. My body was gone, dragging, limbs more useless by the hour. I was ordered to cook the corpses until nothing remained, bones and ash catching the breeze. By the time I was done I was covered in the black sticking to my sweat, glued to every wrinkle and crack. The smell was atrocious. Pinching my nose didn’t make a difference. Holding my breath did nothing. When I wet my lips I could taste it.
The next day the mood had changed for the worse. The attack brought things into focus, put our captors on edge. We were less welcome than ever. The morning was spent in our bunks, stomachs growling. The man in the bed across from me never stopped crying, legs pulled to his chest, face buried in knees. He’d only been with us a week. I didn’t even know his name, didn’t care to. I wanted him to shut up. Patrick was worse than ever. My brother hadn’t eaten in days. He was so weak he stopped screaming. Pain had become normal. Normal hurt less. His breathing was labored. A few times I thought he’d stopped, nudged him awake to keep him going, wiped the tears from his eyes. My brother was dying.
Our saviors-turned-captors spent the morning arguing, screaming back and forth while throwing things. I think a fight broke out. Later in the day there was another. Someone may have been shot. A small part of me actually believed they might just kill each other and leave us the base and the food. When I closed my eyes I imagined a dinner: four courses, turkey and gravy and wine so expensive it made the table next to us take note. Patrick was there too, sitting at one side and a beautiful woman at the other. I was okay with him being there. When she asked me who he was, I didn’t li
e.
“He’s my brother.”
“Oh, he’s cute.”
She was the one lying.
It’s what I was paying her for.
I hadn’t thought about Patrick for years. When I put him away I convinced myself there was nothing I could do for him and he was better off. Suddenly he was all that mattered. My Bertie brother who couldn’t speak or walk or say his own name was the only normal thing I had left. I needed Patrick to survive, even if he wanted to die. I imagined myself getting control of the base, getting Patrick his medication, leading the group to bigger and better things. I thought of all the ways I’d improve the place, how I’d keep us fed and organized and on track. The place needed a real leader, someone with an IQ above eighty. In my daydream I was wearing Fred Felchus’s stupid watch.
A less delirious part of me realized how stupid it all sounded.
The soldiers were tired of us. It was obvious. They were sick of sharing their food, done with having to supply us with the most basic human needs. Some of them had no interest in being slave masters to begin with. At the same time, they had no idea what to do with us. Not all of them were cold-blooded killers.
Some were just assholes.
The few that didn’t want us dead were changed by the howler attack. They were through fighting the good fight. They were on edge. They’d had enough.
The howlers outside the walls of the base were louder than ever. We’d killed one of their own. We’d blown it to pieces, spread its brains across the dirt and burned its body. They probably smelled it from the forest. We all knew what was going to happen. It was as clear as day. More than ever we realized the reality of the world we lived in, what it was capable of, the lengths it would go to survive. Anything remaining, anything resembling a human being was gone and no longer served a purpose. The monsters had inherited the earth.
Maybe they just found their way home.
