by Gunther, Cy
“Yup, no signs of tampering. I think that the gooks were just here scraping up civilians for whatever the fuck it was that they did. We’ll be able to fill the canteens and whatever containers that we can find. Well looks pretty good. Water’s sweet, too.”
Jones grinned. “Okay then. You take the house on the right, I’ll take the one on the left. I want to make a choke point around here. We know that they’re coming, and they didn’t seem all that smart to me.”
“Not that much at all,” Mason agreed.
“Right. So, once the houses are shored up, start throwing shit in the road on either end, block the hell out of it.”
“Understood, Gunny.” Mason turned and jogged off to the right house, his voice rising up a minute later, encouraging the men – in no uncertain terms – to hurry up.
Jones made his way to his house and found the Marines shoring up the rear. They ripped the nearby houses apart, using furniture, doors, windows, roofing, and whatever else they could get their hands on to build a blockade around the home. Stepping into one of the homes that had been stripped bare, Jones saw a large container of rice in a corner.
“Liskow!”
The private came hurrying over. “Yes, Gunny?”
“I want you to get as much of that rice as you can into our house, and stock up on firewood, too. I don’t want to run out of chow if we get stuck here for a few days.”
“Aye aye, Gunny.”
Jones turned away and crossed the street. “Quinn!” he called.
Quinn stepped out of the right house. “Gunny?”
“Rice and firewood. Make sure that you stock that place well.”
“Okay, Gunny.”
Jones stepped off to –
“Gunny!!”
Jones looked and saw Arrakis, Franz, and Addie tear assing towards him. Fuck, he thought. “What’s wrong?”
“The woods,” Nicky said, breathing heavily, “the place is fucking crawling with the damned things.”
“And they can smell us,” Franz added.
“What?” Jones asked. “They can smell us? Did you say that they can fucking smell us?”
The three of them nodded, Addie saying, “We were standing perfectly still, and there’s no way it could have seen us.”
“Are you sure?” Jones asked.
“Oh yeah,” Nicky said, “the thing was fucking blind.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jones swore, “that’s fucking fantastic.”
“Yeah,” Franz said. “Yeah.”
“Okay, the three of you get on barricade detail. Clutter this street up. Those things didn’t look too nimble.”
“They’re not,” Addie said. “Saw a few fall down, and they can only walk. No running.”
“Well thank Christ for small favors,” Jones sighed. “Okay, get on that shit, then. When you’re done, I want Franz in the right house with Sergeant Mason, Addie and Nicky, you’re with me in the house on the left.”
Jones started to say something more, but all four of them turned their heads towards the north, where the sound of the moans grew louder.
The Old Man
“Anything?” The Old Man asked the young radio operator.
The Marine looked up, shaking his head. “I can’t raise them at all, sir. We’ve had no contact with Gunnery Sergeant Jones’ platoon since you left them this afternoon, sir.”
“And they’re smack dab in the middle of the Soviet reports as well,” the Old Man said, chewing on his pipe stem. He paused, relit the tobacco and shook his head. “Give a call to the fly boys, tell them to keep an eye out for the Gunny and his platoon.”
“We also got some other, ahem, um…strange reports, sir,” the radioman said, his face red.
“What sort of reports?”
“Well, just before we started losing contact with some of the platoons in Gunny Jones’ area, we started getting reports that…that…”
“Spit it out, boy,” the Old Man growled.
“Yessir,” the radioman said quickly. “The dead are coming back to life.”
“What?”
“The dead are coming back to life, sir, and they’re eating the living.”
The Old Man took his pipe out of his mouth, spat out the entrance, shook his head and said, “Hell, son, that’s not good. Thought that had died out in China.”
Left
The road wasn’t nearly as secure as Jones wanted, but it would have to do since he didn’t have hours to prepare the position properly. He had five of his Marines with him, and the dead were wandering into the village by ones and twos and threes. Luckily the wind was blowing from north to south, but that only helped with those approaching from the north. East, west, and south would end up being one serious problem. One big, serious, fucking problem.
As would the lack of ammunition.
But there’s always the bayonet, as the Old Man would say, Jones thought. He shook his head. Problem with that, though, is that I don’t think that the dead can be scared by a bayonet charge.
Quinn and Gordon were on watch, Kenyan and Arrakis secured the ammunition, figuring out the Chinese rifles they’d taken from the dead commies, and Addie was trying like hell to repair the radio.
Addie looked up, his face betraying his frustration. “I think it’s the battery, Gunny. I’m not even getting any feedback on the fucking thing.”
“Figures,” Jones said, glancing outside. Night was coming on and the thought of facing the dead at night, in the darkness of a gook village…he shook his head. “Everyone, listen up.”
All save Quinn and Gordon turned to look at him.
“Whatever happens, remember, headshots take these things down. Basically, destroy that head. If it comes to hand to hand and the bayonet, only the head. Smash it, stab it, crush it. I don’t give a fuck, but don’t worry about anything else. Don’t let the things bite you.
“And remember,” Jones said, “these fuckers, they don’t want to kill you, they want to eat you. And try like hell not to get any of their blood on you. If they bite you, that’s it, you’re done.” He looked at them all, the men returning the gaze silently. “There is no room for error here. If you still have your gloves, put the things on. Take your gaiters off and put them on your forearms, add bulk to any part you think they might be able to grab and take a fucking bite out of. Got it?”
The men nodded.
“Good. Get your gear squared away. By the sound of it they should be here anytime, and it won’t take them long to figure out that we’re here, basically a fucking lunchbox just waiting to be opened up.”
Jones picked up his carbine, checked the weapon, and accepted half a dozen clips from Kenyan. He tucked them away and checked the action on his .45. Last, and he hoped least, was his K-Bar. Everything looked good. Everything was ready.
Now they just needed to wait for the dead.
Right
Mason had enlisted in the United States Marine Corps twenty minutes after he heard the news about Pearl Harbor. He’d been sixteen years old and picked up the recruiter one handed when the man questioned his age. That old gunny had laughed at him and welcomed him to the Marines. Mason had fought his way across the Pacific, island to island, learning how to kill and survive in the nastiest places on Earth.
The end of the war had meant a downsize of the Corps, and Mason had been shifted out of the active duty Corps to a reserve unit outside of Boston.
Until Korea he’d been working as a longshoreman on the docks, his killing hands moving crates and freight instead of killing Japs, but with the start of the fight he had volunteered once more, and found himself in Camp Pendleton getting ready for another trip across the Pacific.
He hadn’t expected to be fighting people he’d already killed, though.
That is simply utter bullshit, he thought. When they’re dead, they ought to fucking stay dead.
“So,” he said to the men, “this is a fucked situation.”
Some of the men nodded.
“These fucks are a littl
e more difficult to kill,” he continued, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t put them down. Hell, I finished one off with my boot, so we know that if it comes down to hand to hand we can still win.” He looked hard at them. “We’re fucking Marines, and we always win. Don’t forget that. Understood?”
The men nodded.
“Good. Now listen, don’t let the bastards bite you. That’ll make you one of them, and you don’t want to make your buddy put a hole in your fucking head. But if comes to it, I will let daylight into you. I don’t want to do it, so don’t make me.” Mason paused, then continued, “You make sure that you pick your targets. Call’em out. We’re directly across from Gunny’s position, and I don’t want them having to worry about any stray rounds.
“If we get overrun, we slip out and make our way to Gunny. They’ll do the same thing if it happens to them. Remember, we’ve just got to last a little while. At some point armor’s going to get off of its lazy ass and start rolling through and we’ll be able to make contact and get the fuck out of this place. Any questions?”
No one spoke.
“Good,” Mason said, “let’s get ready to kill these fucks again.”
Contact Left
“Gunny,” Quinn said. “We’ve got three approaching through the barricades from the south.”
Jones stepped up to the window and saw a trio of North Korean soldiers shambling up the road. Their arms started to rise up, mouths opening and that sick, disturbing moan spilling out into the moonlit night. “Okay. Secure that door.”
Quinn nodded and helped Nicky put a pair of doors from other homes up against the house’s sole door.
“Mason!” Jones called.
Mason appeared in the window of the opposite house. “Yeah, Gunny?”
“Get saddled up, here they come.”
“I will, and I know. Let’s kill these fucks.”
“Yeah, that’s the idea.”
Jones ducked back and called up Quinn. “Take them out, Quinn.”
“Aye aye, Gunny,” Quinn said, and the young private stepped back up to the window. He settled his carbine in the corner of the window, took a long, deep breath, and, letting it out slowly, fired. The shot was loud in the confines of the house, but it was true, too. The undead Korean soldier on the left collapsed in a heap. Two more shots rang out and the other dead commies dropped as well.
But the moaning grew louder.
In the shadows of the trees cast by the moon Jones could see shapes, dozens of them, moving suddenly towards the town.
“Fuck me,” he snapped.
Quinn looked at him.
“Evidently the fucks can hear, too.” Turning he said, “Kenyan, get up here and get ready to pass clips to Quinn. He’s the best shot out of all of us, so make sure that he has plenty of ammo. Everyone understand?” The men nodded. Jones patted Quinn on the back, saying, “Fire at will, Marine.”
“Thank you, Gunny,” Quinn said, and started firing.
After thirty rounds Jones stopped keeping count. Quinn kept firing, shot after shot after shot. Standing behind the young Marine Jones shook his head, amazed at the private’s ability with the carbine. Every shot was for the head, and each dropped. Quinn was steady, unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his chest, the squeezing of the trigger, and the slight adjustments he made with the rifle as he sought out new targets.
The undead seemed to be never ending though, for there was a steady supply of them moving towards the town, and Quinn seemed as calm as if he were on the range.
Ten minutes into firing Mason’s group started as well, their shots aimed towards the other side, which meant that the dead would be coming from the rear of the buildings as well.
“Arrakis, Gordon,” Jones said. “Keep an eye on the rear of the building.”
The men turned and faced the rear, weapons at the ready as each marine watched a window that had been boarded over.
Jones stepped up to Quinn and peered outside, making sure that the dead weren’t creeping around the side of Mason’s building.
Jones hoped like hell that Mason would do the same.
Contact Right
Mason looked out the window and saw Quinn dropping undead commies and civvies with a killers natural born ease, the young Marine looking as if he and the weapon were one and the same.
Nodding his approval Mason started to back up when Liskow said, “Sergeant, eyes right.”
Mason looked right and swore. Half a dozen of the fucks were staggering down the street, one of them missing an arm.
How do they get around missing limbs? Mason wondered. How the hell do they get around at all?
Stepping into the window as Liskow moved aside for him, Mason brought his weapon up, and started knocking them down. Each shot took time, and the bastards got pretty damned close before he finished off the last one. Headshots weren’t easy, and he couldn’t risk wasting any ammunition. What little they had would have to last the night, and all he could think about was having to use the bayonet on the fucking things.
Correction. Having to use the bayonet on the fucking things in the dark. That, that was a terrible thought out of a great many terrible thoughts and realities through which Sergeant Jack C. Mason had suffered.
Another twenty of the dead appeared on the right as the firing from Gunny’s house remained steady.
“I need ammo,” Mason said. “Don’t let me run out.”
“I won’t, Sergeant,” Liskow said, handing him a clip.
“Good man,” Mason said. He ejected the empty clip, tossing it back before loading the new one. He missed two of the shots, the others moving steadily towards the houses, never stopping, never hesitating, even as those around them collapsed, brains blown out.
The last one was less than five meters away and the wind shifted, bringing the fresh smell of death to Mason’s nose. The smell reminded him of Tarawa, and he took the top of its head off as it stumbled over a bucket.
The smell of death grew stronger as the wind increased, the sounds of the moans louder. Amongst the buildings and in the tree line and on the road Mason could see dozens of the damned things.
Dozens.
“Bennett,” Mason snapped.
“Yes, Sergeant?” Bennett asked.
“Can you still shoot?”
“Fucking right I can.”
“Good,” Mason said, “get in the window. Cox, make sure that he’s balls deep in ammo, spell him when he needs it.”
“Aye aye,” the men said in unison.
“Liskow, you’re with me,” Mason said.
“Where to, Sergeant?”
“Up. I want to push through that straw shit or whatever it is. Should give us a pretty decent platform to fire from. The rest of you, give us a lift up.”
The other marines hurried over as Bennett continued to shoot, cursing occasionally as he missed a target. Cox kept the ammunition flowing steadily.
“You figure out that Chink rifle?” Mason asked Liskow.
“Aye aye, Sergeant,” Liskow said, lifting it up. “Got at least a hundred rounds for it, too.”
“Good,” Mason said. Looking at Franz and Ellery he said, “Okay, get us up there, boys.”
Franz and Ellery each came over and formed stirrups with their hands, helping to lift Mason up towards the straw roof. They stopped when he got to the top and kept him steady as he spread the straw aside, carefully testing it as he climbed out. He kept his head turned away slightly to protect his night vision from the blasts of the rifles below. As he got settled Mason looked around and swore under his breath.
In the moonlight he could see hundreds of the dead making their way through the young forest. The town was surrounded, and it looked like they were well and truly fucked.
Gunnery Sergeant Warren B. Jones
“Gunny,” Quinn said.
“Need a break?” Jones asked, walking over.
Quinn squeezed off another shot before looking back and smiling. “Not yet, Gunny. I just wanted to let you kn
ow that Sergeant Mason is out on the roof.”
“What?” Jones stepped up to the window and looked up. Sure enough, he could make out Mason’s giant, solid frame silhouetted against the night sky. “What the fuck is he doing up there?” Jones watched as Mason crawled to the edge.
“Gunny?” Mason called.
“Yeah.”
“We’re surrounded.”
Jones shook his head. “Completely?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Jones said. “What else are you seeing up there?”
“Looks like they don’t even try to walk around the fallen,” Mason said. “They just step right over them, or trip. I think I even spotted a couple of Marines in the crowds as well. Just the shape, you know? But they’re either our men, or another platoon that’s made contact.”
“Okay,” Jones said. “Maybe we can scrape up some more ammo after. Be careful up there, though. I’m not sure how well these gook houses are built.”
“Well, I haven’t fallen through yet,” Mason laughed. Another marine appeared beside him on the roof.
“Who the hell’s that?” Jones asked.
“Liskow,” Mason answered. “He’s going to try out one of the Chink rifles, see how well it works.”
“Sounds good. Make sure that one of you takes the north approach though. I don’t want too many on one side and coming up to bite us in the ass.”
“Understood, Gunny,” Mason laughed, and Jones stepped back into the center of the house. Quinn started humming an Irish jig as he returned to shooting, his pace slow and smooth and steady. Nicky and Addie sat beside him, reloading clips and handing them up as needed.
Jones sat down.
“Sergeant Mason says that we’re surrounded, in case you couldn’t hear him,” Jones said, “and I doubt that we’ve got enough ammunition to stop them all before they get here. They don’t seem to care too much that we’re killing them, again, which means that it’s going to come down to hand to hand, and I want you to remember this: they’re going to be trying to eat you. We all saw that. They won’t be trying to subdue you, kill you, take your weapon away or anything.” Jones looked at each man in turn, even Quinn glancing back at him. “They just want to eat you, which means if they get a hold of your arm, they’re going to bite it. Hand, head, leg, foot, it’s all the same to them, it’s meat. You’re meat, I’m meat. That’s it. From what we’ve seen, they just eat, and only if you’re fresh.
