by Pete Clark
Speaking of which, a werewolf leapt at him. Marchand drew his sabre, which was silver, because he was not an idiot. He slashed the creature across the neck and greasy black blood began to gush forth as it stood stunned. “Take this, you lycanthropic bastard.” He drove his sword up under the wolf’s chin until it exploded out of the top of his head. The wolf shook violently and, when Marchand withdrew his sword, it fell to the ground dead. Now, was that so hard? He looked around; most of his men were already dead. He had to get the survivors together, retreat, and come up with another cool catch phrase for the next wolf he killed.
“45th. Retreat!” He yelled. A sudden change came over the field. The remaining soldiers formed up with great efficiency and, in less than a minute, were executing an organized and controlled retreat. Well, thought Marchand, nobody can beat us when it comes to running away.
****
Boone was sure he heard Revere scream as the zombie Forbes charged at them. On his way, Forbes took a nice hearty bite out of an off duty soldier who happened to be nearby. “Grullarrk,” the soldier said clearly before falling to the ground.
Forbes Zombie was fast. A hell of a lot faster than Forbes was in real life. How the heck did that work out, Boone wondered. Oh well. He unslung his double-barreled reverse musket, an invention of Revere; the guy was good for something, thought Boone as he fired and turned his former commanding officer’s head into a floating cloud of red mist. He then flipped the release on his musket, spun the barrels so that the fired barrel faced back and the loaded faced forward, and he vaporized the downed soldier’s head as well just to be sure. He wasn’t about to let any zombies rise on his watch.
“Everybody to the wall,” Fraser ordered. It seemed that Boone’s gunfire and the shrieking had alerted the remaining werewolves, who were apparently done feasting on the French and wanted to upgrade to a little English breakfast.
“Zombies and werewolves,” whined Revere. “I sure hope no vampires show up.”
“Vampires?” Boone countered. “What are you, a child? Vampires aren’t real.”
“They’re not?” asked Revere.
“No - vampires are just a myth. But dragons, dragons will fuck your shit up,” said George Washington.
“Revere, Boone, follow me. We need to man the cannon,” Fraser continued shouting orders. Boone wasn’t even sure if this guy outranked him. Oh well; I guess I’ll just help with the cannon.
The three of them reached the cannon on the edge of the barricade. Through the dim early morning mist, they could see three or four werewolves running toward the barricade. They did not have much time. Less than half a minute and these cannons could be real bastards. Boone and Revere fought with the silver ball to get it loaded and worked the cranks to aim and predict an arc. No arc, thought Boone. By the time we fire, he will be almost right in front of us. They prepped the cannon; Boone set the aim dead on the closest wolf, which was damn close now.
“Fire,” yelled Fraser.
“Wow, thanks for the contribution.” Boone looked at Revere. “Fire? What a jackass. Thanks for the tip; we were just gonna lean against it.”
“Fire now idiots, before he rips your throats out!”
Boone wondered if that statement could be considered sexist for just a second before they fired the cannon.
Werewolves were an uppity sort. They often were full to the brim with hubris. Gumption, some would even say. But it mattered not how prideful a werewolf you had; if you shot him in the neck with an 80-pound silver cannonball, he would lose all composure. Some would cry; some would beg for forgiveness; others would just feel flat out embarrassed. But of course, the vast majority of them just died in a messy eruption of blood and hair. Being unoriginal, that is exactly what this one did. There was additional cannon fire from the camp and another werewolf opted to take the same way out. The two that were left, perhaps realizing that it was almost morning, or that there were several hundred guns pointed at them, or that they were no longer fighting the French, decided to call it a day.
‘They’re retreating,” said Commander Obvious, aka Fraser. A great huzzah rang from the soldiers.
“I don’t really like to huzzah,” said Revere. “It seems silly to huzzah with joy when you murder something. I like to create not destroy.”
“Okay,” said Boone. “But most of your creations are weapons.”
“Yes. But I long for the day when I can make nice plates and cups from silver.”
“Well, that day is not anytime soon,” said Fraser. “We need all the silver we can get to kill off these werewolves that are always showing up. Man, I hate werewolves.”
Washington had managed to place himself in the center of the men. He was either standing on some kind of box or the guy was just crazy tall. He addressed them.
“Men of His Majesty’s army. You have done well this morning. You were called upon while you slept, unprepared, and you rose; more, you rose to the challenge.” That is some weak wordplay, thought Boone and Fraser simultaneously.
Washington continued. “Our leader General Forbes has fallen in battle. And Lieutenant Colonel Bouquet is in charge. He, being Swiss, doesn’t really want to talk about war and so he has asked me to brief you. The Lieutenant Colonel has dispatched Major James Grant to test the power of our target. We are here, as you know, to take the crucial French fort Duquesne. As our position is now no doubt compromised to the French and, as Daniel Boone did not bring back his water...”
Really, thought Boone, is water that important? The creek isn’t that far away.
Washington had still more to say. “We shall be marching today. You have four hours to strike camp. We will march toward Duquesne. We will meet up with Major Grant’s force and, if he has not already taken the fort, we will do so. Thereby clearing the way for our invasion of Canada. Can I get a huzzah?”
Predictably, he got his huzzah. Some people even threw their hats. That was just stupid. I mean, they have three sharp corners on them. You could put somebody’s eye out.
CHAPTER TWO:
The Mad Scientist at Fort Duquesne
September 14, 1758. The outskirts of Fort Duquesne
Major Grant was Scottish. That made him instantly cool. However, he was terrible at math. While most of his scouts and military intelligence estimated the force of the enemy at Fort Duquesne to be about 1000 men, he figured it was 200. Why? Who knows? I guess he just liked losing battles.
“We’ll draw them out,” Grant said. “We’ll have a small group of 200 men approach from the south playing pipes and drums as if we are an approaching war party.”
“Sir,” asked Second Lieutenant Francis Marion. “Don’t you think that is a rather obvious ruse? They will probably see it for what it is.”
“Well then, what do you think we should do?” Grant asked. But it was one of those times when you could tell that if you gave him an answer, he would probably stab you in the neck.
“I’m not sure, sir,” Marion replied.
“Very well then; noisy smashing decoy tactic is a go.”
Marion was a man of small stature but extreme intellect. He was also endowed with the innate ability to plan and to sniff out traps. He could plan outstanding and deceptive traps quickly and effectively. He could also identify when trouble was ahead. As a result, it was clear to Marion from the start that this idea was dog shit.
“A quarter of a force,” began the possibly suicidal Grant, “will advance from the front with pipes and drums blaring. This will draw them out. Half of our force shall remain hidden amongst the trees. When they attack, we will move from cover and flank them. The final quarter of our force shall hold in reserve here. At the sound of gunfire, advance slowly and assist as needed.”
Well, Marion thought, at least tactically it made some sense. But with 800 men, 200 in plain sight, it seemed unlikely that they would have a shot against the mixture of French and Indian defenders in the fort that Marion believed numbered over a thousand. Still, Grant was brave and possessed of a see
mingly endless supply of off color jokes. Marion would stick by his side.
In a few short hours, the company had situated itself and was battle ready. Marion and Grant were among the four hundred who were to ambush the attackers. The decoy force began its advance, the proud bagpipes sounding out the - uh, well, Marion didn’t know the name of the tune, but it sure made you want to fight.
The gates to Fort Duquesne opened and the mixed force advanced quickly on the decoy force. “It looks like it may have worked,” said Marion.
“For sure it worked,” piped Grant. “You think I just make this up as I go along? Now let’s get ready to - hey now, what’s this?”
This, it turned out, was the thousand soldiers that everyone except Grant apparently expected to be at the fort. Further, there was a strange green glow emanating from the fort and smoke began pouring from the windows of one of the center structures.
“Does that look like 200 guys to you? It looks like 200 to me,” Grant said as he idiotically held up one hand and tried to tick off the men he counted on his fingers as they streamed by in a huge mass.
“I think it’s about a thousand,” Marion said. He was proud of his iron will as he avoided the clear opportunity for an “I told you so.” “Maybe we should do that whole ambush thing.”
“Right you are. Highlanders, attack!” Grant ordered and the men surged forward; they pretty much all got tangled up in the trees they were hiding in. Muskets were long and branches were grabby. This causes problems. While they were extricating themselves from the forest, the decoy unit was murdered with impressive efficiency.
“Well, the French aren’t usually much, but those Indians sure can fight,” marveled Marion.
“Native Americans,” corrected Grant.
“Are we calling them that yet?”
“It doesn’t matter what they’re called; let’s kill the fuck out of them.”
With “kill the fuck out of them” as their battle cry, they finally managed to get free of the forest. Just in time to get shot to pieces by the enemy who had noticed them some time ago and had managed to maneuver into attack position while the Scotsmen had fought the shrubbery.
“We need to get out of here,” Marion warned.
“The Scottish do not retreat,” said Grant. He was then promptly surrounded by a group of French soldiers. Among them was Marchand.
“Surrender brave warriors and we will refrain from stabbing you in the neck and head.” Marchand was sounding pretty tough for a guy who had run away from werewolves just a fortnight ago.
Not having much choice, Grant and Marion surrendered. Luckily, a bit more than half of their force had managed to escape. Not so lucky was that the rest of them were pretty much all dead. About 30 men were taken prisoner.
“I can’t believe we were beaten by the French,” said Grant.
“Well, they do have all those Indians with them,” said Marion.
“Native Americans,” corrected Marchand.
“I don’t think we’re doing that yet.”
****
Having not heard from Grant and being unable to locate his men, Bouquet - you know, the Swiss guy - had decided to send out two large detachments to scout the area. Washington was put in charge of one group; Revere was among his men. The second detachment was led by George Mercer. The two forces split apart and were to rejoin once they reached Duquesne.
The night was thick with fog and visibility was a significant issue. The British had to be wary of the enemy, each other, the unfamiliar landscape, and mole people.
“Stay sharp,” Mercer said. His eyes scanned the deep fog. Fraser and Boone walked nearby, the force of nearly two hundred moving silently through the mist. Mercer was from a military family. He was connected and educated. Many of his family were either in the military, politics, or both. In a shocking upset, both Fraser and Boone liked him. “Be on the lookout for mole men; they really seem to like this type of weather.”
“We will, sir,” said Fraser.
“Kiss ass,” mumbled Boone.
Most of the evening passed without incident. However, in the ever thickening fog, it was difficult to tell if they were on course. As they approached what they believed to be the tree line of the thicket that led through to Fort Duquesne, Boone spotted a group of men moving in the distance.
“Sir,” he called. “Is that Washington?”
“I’m not sure. If it is, then one of us is in the wrong place,” Mercer said.
One of the figures in the distance looked in their direction, then started waving an arm and shouting “Hey guys!” Over and over again.
“Yes, that’s Washington’s group all right. There’s Revere trying to get everyone killed,” said Boone.
“If that is Washington,” said Fraser, “then what is that other group moving between us?”
“Ugh,” Mercer moaned. “Zombies.”
The good thing about zombies is that they are incredibly stupid and slow. They never have a battle plan; they don’t know how to use cover and generally they just stroll forward and wait for you to kill them. The bad thing is that a black powder musket takes forever to load and they tend to lean toward the inaccurate side. Since you have to hit zombies in the head, and they move, albeit slowly, it was a real pain in the ass to hit them with a musket. And if you missed, well, you better have lots of space. Luckily for our heroes, there were a few other modern inventions to help with zombie killing. Namely the sabre, the bayonet, and the rock on the ground. These are what they should have used to kill this group of zombies. But the bad thing about soldiers in the fog at night after a long march is that they too are stupid. Mercer’s group began firing at the mass of approaching zombies. Heck, they even hit a few. What they did not stop to consider was what was on the other side of the zombie horde. As the vast majority of their shots sailed past the zombies, they flew into Washington’s detachment.
Washington, who had not seen the other group and whom Revere had not bothered to say anything about, was confused. He heard gunfire, he felt bullets flying at them, and he saw a group of men in the distance through the blinding fog. Honestly, what would you have done? They opened fire.
The musket flashes ripped through the dark like a row upon row of fireflies. The barrel smoke pooled with the fog and what little visibility there had been vanished in the tangles of gray.
If the zombies could have formulated a thought, it probably would have involved a number of zombie curses such as “zlektarf” and “misgebot.” For it was only a few moments before they were shot to bits as both armies advanced on them in bayonet lines. Of course, while the zombies were getting re-killed, a number of soldiers were killing each other as well. All in all, not a good situation.
“Hey,” Revere said as the guy next to him had his chest caved in by a bullet. “Why are we shooting at our own guys?”
“What do you mean?” Washington asked. “Aren’t those zombies?”
“Some of them but zombies don’t shoot back.”
“Shit. Hold your fire.” Washington began running across his battle lines, knocking muskets out of his men’s hands as he yelled to hold fire. Slowly the whip crack of rifle fire wound down and silence invaded. The two groups advanced toward one another, stabbing writhing zombies in the heads with bayonets as they made their way.
“Is that you Washington?” Mercer asked.
“Mercer?”
Let’s face it. Everyone was a bit embarrassed. Not only had they wasted a ton of ammunition on perfectly stabbable zombies as well as killed some of their friends and fellow soldiers, but they had also both miscalculated their positions. In fact, they were all now standing directly in front of Fort Duquesne. The fog made the fort appear phantasmagorical as they gazed at it. It was an impressive fort. With impressive cannons. Which were impressively aimed right at them.
“Well, that’s not good,” said Boone.
****
“You guys have a lab?” Marion asked.
“Yup. A super secret lab,” d
e Lavoir added.
Marion and Grant were being given a tour of the fort. Although the Indians kept giving them menacing looks, the French were awesome hosts. They fed them, gave them clean clothes, and were now giving them a tour.
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” Grant said. “But, if it is so secret, why are you showing it to us?”
Marchand responded. “Your main army is going to be here pretty soon and we are not equipped to defend against so large a force. So we’re going to have to blow the fort.”
“Again, you know, great, just great. But you’re going to show us your secret experiments?” Grant continued in another seemingly misguided attempt to suck at his job.
de Lavoir smiled. “We are planning to execute you. So we might as well show off first.”
“Ah. It all makes sense now. Lead on.” Grant actually seemed bolstered by this news. Marion didn’t get this guy. But what he did get was the idea that this secret experiment situation was clearly very important and, once he learned about it, he was going to have to find a way to get out of here and quickly. Maybe he’d take Grant. The guy was a knot-tying wizard after all.
They entered a large domed chamber. It was filled with a greenish light that cast a peculiar pall on everything in the room. There were a number of tables and cabinets and a huge assortment of strange devices that Marion did not recognize. There were odd smoke and strange sounds coming from various parts of the room. Oh yeah. There was also a huge white hairy monster, apparently asleep, strapped to a giant table. A few French scientists were lurking about and a rather larger number of Indians. One Indian in particular seemed to be running the show. They approached him with Marchand.
