by Gunther, Cy
“I don’t know what these fucking things are. We all know the fucking Russians have something to do with it, so it can’t be good. There is one good thing, though,” he said.
“What’s that, Gunny?” Gordon asked.
Jones grinned. “At least the fuckers aren’t shooting at us.”
Sergeant Jack C. Mason
An hour had passed since the first contact had been made, and there’d been no let up.
The stream of the dead was constant, but slowed down to a trickle as they tried to force their way in past their fallen. The bodies had built up around the sides of the houses as well, creating an added layer of defense that neither Mason nor the Gunny had thought of. Mason wanted to call down to his Marines to grab some sleep if they could, but he knew that they wouldn’t be able to.
Hell, he thought, I can sleep through anything and I’m pretty sure that I can’t sleep with these damned things around.
“Rifle,” Liskow said, and he handed the commie rifle down, its barrel glowing a dull orange from being fired so much. Someone handed up Liskow’s third weapon, calling out, “We’re down to about fifty rounds for the Chink gun.”
“Got it,” Liskow said. A pouch of clips was tossed up and he caught it. Liskow looked over at Mason.
“We’ll go down just as soon as you’re empty,” Mason said. “We’ll still be able to use the damned things as clubs, if it comes down to it.”
“Think it will, Sergeant?”
Mason looked out over the town in both directions. While the first wave had thinned out, it looked as though a second wave was coming towards them. Just as thick as the first, too.
“I do,” Mason said. “But it’s nothing for us to worry about. We know what the fuckers want, and what we have to do. Doesn’t get any simpler or purer than that, Liskow, so I wouldn’t worry. And fuck it, what’s the point of living forever?”
“I don’t want to live forever, Sergeant Mason,” Liskow said, sighting in on a target and firing. “I just don’t want to end up being something’s midnight snack.”
Gunnery Sergeant Warren B. Jones
“That’s it for ammo, Gunny,” Nicky said. “All that’s left is the Thompson and the BAR, plus the bazooka. And the sidearms. Pretty sure that the ammo won’t last too long for those, either, Gunny.”
Jones nodded. He went to the window and looked up to the rooftop of Mason’s house. “Mason!”
Mason looked over. “Yeah?”
“We’re out of the small stuff, how are you set?”
“Less than fifty for the Chink rifle, maybe twenty for the carbine.”
“Okay, listen,” Jones said. “When you’re out of ammunition I want you to make a break for our house.”
“Got it.”
Jones stepped back from the window. “Addie, get in the window with the Thompson, Franz, get up there with the BAR and get ready to support Mason’s crossing. Bennett and Cox, get that door ready to be opened. Nicky, you’re with me. We need to find the best place to punch through the rear.”
“Aye aye, Gunny,” Nicky said, and the two of them went to the rear wall while the others went about their tasks. For a few minutes Jones and Nicky pushed and tugged on the rough planks until they found a spot that could be disassembled quickly.
“Coming across!” Mason yelled from outside.
“Cox, Bennett, open the door. Addie, Franz, make sure they make it.”
Cox and Bennett ripped open the door just as Liskow came barreling towards it. Mason brought up the tail of the group, all of the men breathing hard and sweating, the stink of fear and battle heavy on them, just as it was on Jones and his group.
Mason grinned at him as the door slammed closed behind him, the Marines putting the barricade back together. “This isn’t nearly as much fun as I thought it would be, Gunny.”
“Well,” Jones said, “you’ve got me there. I didn’t think this was going to be fun at all.”
The small, one room house was crowded with twelve marines jammed into it, all of them trying to move as Jones gave instructions for the door and window to be blocked up while Nicky, Kenyan, and Franz started disassembling the weak section of the back wall. Within a few moments everything was done, and Jones said, “We’re heading for the tree line, and no firing of sidearms unless absolutely necessary. Bayonet, rifle butts, and K-bars. Boots if you have to. And again, you watch out for their fucking mouths.”
With that said, Jones led the way out and turned right, a slim alley running between houses and leading to the tree line. Mason brought up the rear, and as they left the house they could hear fists pounding on the door and windows, the whole house shaking. The noise grew louder, as did the ever present moans, even as the Marines got further away, until the house finally crashed down, collapsing beneath the weight of the undead.
“Fuck!”
Jones turned around to see Nicky being dragged backwards, blood exploding out of his throat as some dead Marine sank his teeth in. Jones blinked, and even as he did so Gordon had pulled his K-bar, killed the dead Marine, and put Nicky down.
“Fuckers,” Jones spat, and turned back toward the tree line.
Corporal Robert E. Boylan
“Are we lost?” the Lieutenant asked.
Boylan stifled a sigh of exasperation and looked up at the Lieutenant. “No sir.”
“Well how the hell do we know that we’re not?”
“We’re still on the road, sir,” Boylan said, carefully keeping his temper under control.
“And?”
“And, sir, there are no other roads in this area.”
The Lieutenant glared at him, but he didn’t say anything else. Boylan waited for the new officer to look away before rolling his eyes.
Mac shook his head, but kept his eyes on the road, the Sherman grumbling and rolling along under his control. Silence, or as much silence as can be had in a tank, continued for a little while longer, until the Lieutenant decided to speak again.
“Corporal.”
“Yes sir?” Boylan asked.
“Weren’t we supposed to meet up with one of the Colonel’s platoons?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well where in the hell are they?”
“Hopefully still alive, sir.”
“And what does that mean, Corporal?”
This time Boylan couldn’t stop his eyes, and he was thankful that the belly was so dim. “Combat, sir. Word came through that something happened up here with the gooks and a couple of our forward platoons.”
“And how the hell did you know that?” the Lieutenant demanded.
“Lance Corporal underground, sir,” Boylan said.
“Say again?”
“The Lance Corporal underground, sir,” Boylan said again. “If you want to know anything, listen to the scuttlebutt from the lance corporals. They’re everywhere, and they hear everything. They’re worse than a sewing circle when it comes to rumors and information, sir, but they’re usually pretty damned accurate.”
Mac chuckled, nodding his head, “He’s definitely right about that, sir. The Lance Corporal underground has a better news system than the Associated Press.”
The Lieutenant said something under his breath.
“What was that, sir?” Boylan asked.
“I’m opening the hatch, I want to get a better look at what’s going on.”
“Aye aye, sir, and watch out for snipers, sir.”
“This area’s cleared, Corporal,” the Lieutenant sneered, “no matter what your lance corporal underground says.” The Lieutenant popped the hatch and straightened up. Boylan gave him the finger, and went back to his weapon.
Gunnery Sergeant Warren B. Jones
When they broke free of the town’s small circle only a few of the undead noticed them, and Jones’ marines finished them off quickly. Gordon smashing one’s head in as it squatted and ate a dog by the side of the road.
“Unfucking believable,” Gordon snapped, looking at the dog.
“So what?”
Liskow asked. “It’s just a dog, and the fuckin’ gooks eat dogs even when they’re not dead.”
“Fuck you, and fuck them,” Gordon said.
Something whimpered and all of the men stopped.
Gordon bent over the dead dog and moved it with his rifle. A small, black puppy crawled out, whimpering. Hushing the dog gently Gordon slung his rifle and picked it up, tucking it into his blouse.
“All done, Mr. Fireman?” Franz asked.
“Firemen save kittens, asshole,” Gordon snapped. “Marines save fucking dogs.”
“Okay, enough shit,” Jones said, “we need to— ”
The sound of a tank cut him off. They could hear the diesel grumbling as a spotlight burst over a small hill, and lighting up dozens of the dead in the forest. Jones watched as the dead turned to face the Sherman, arms rising up, jaws dropping open. They moved steadily towards the tank, the tank’s treads tearing up the soft road before the great war machine came clattering to a stop as the dead closed in.
Jones could just make out the tank’s commander standing in the turret.
Fuck, Jones thought, he doesn’t know.
The tank’s engine shut down.
“What the fuck?” someone asked in the column.
“Move it!” Jones yelled, and the Marines around him started sprinting towards the tank.
The dead were closer, though, and moving at their disturbingly steady pace. Within a few heartbeats the first of them stood at the tank, then, slowly, it started clambering up onto the machine, and Jones could hear the commander, a hint of fear in the young man’s voice.
“…need to get off of this vehicle, or I’m going to have to take action against you,” the young commander was saying.
“Button up!” Jones screamed, causing some of the dead to turn towards him. “Button the fuck up!”
The commander swung the spotlight onto Jones, nearly blinding him.
“Gunnery Sergeant, you will remember your rank!”
“Button up, you fucking moron!” Mason yelled, “They’re going to fucking kill you!”
“They’re not even armed, sergeant, and you will remember your place--”
His words turned into a shout of dismay as the first of the dead grabbed him, pulling him out. The shout turned into a scream, and the sounds of tearing flesh rang out clearly in the night air. A second figure appeared in the hatch, but a trio of dead Marines fell upon him, not even dragging him out of the hatch as they started to feast upon him, the man screaming as an arm was ripped out of its socket. The Marine started to drop back into the turret, howling and gibbering with pain as he brought one of the dead into the tank with him.
Screams rang out from within the tank as Jones and his Marines reached the dead around the tanks. The Marines fell upon the dead with bayonets and rifle butts, K-bars and boots.
And the men in the tank still screamed.
Corporal Robert E. Boylan
The first thing that Boylan noticed when Mac fell back into the turret was the fact that another Marine was eating his face.
The second was that the new Marine was obviously dead since he was missing about half of his ribcage. And finally, Boylan noticed that somehow Mac was missing an arm.
Hunt pulled his sidearm and fired it, the .45 nearly deafening as it went off in the confines of the tank, the round blowing through the chest of the dead Marine. As the round ricocheted and killed Miles, the dead Marine finished off Mac by ripping out his throat with his teeth.
Hunt fired again, the ricochet buried itself in the radio, and Mac came back to life, a low moan issuing from his mouth.
Boylan watched in horror as the two dead Marines fell on Hunt, twisting his head around as they started to eat.
With his head ringing Boylan scrambled up and out of tank, kicking off Mac’s sole remaining hand, his old friend reaching for him as Boylan freed himself of the steel coffin. Outside, in the light of the moon and the spotlight he saw Marines finishing off a few more of the dead, with plenty of others around them with their heads smashed in.
Blinking Boylan stumbled down from the tank, a couple of guys helping him. They tried to talk to him, but he pointed to his ears and mimicked the firing of a pistol. The men nodded, one of them handing him a canteen.
Boylan took a sip and looked around at the chaos.
There were dozens of dead on the ground, a few on the tank itself. A gunny walked over to the Lieutenant, who was just starting to struggle up, arms rising, mouth opening, eyes dead. The gunny kicked the Lieutenant back to the road, and put the boots to him.
Gunnery Sergeant Warren B. Jones
“Who did we lose?” Jones asked, wiping the Lieutenant’s brains off of his boots and onto the grass.
Mason shook his head. “Addison, Franz, and Kenyan.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Jones sighed. “Who’s the tanker?”
“Don’t know yet. One of the other guys inside fired off his sidearm, Corporal can’t hear right now. I’m hoping twenty, thirty minutes he’ll be able to let us know.”
Jones nodded. “That Lieutenant was a fucking idiot. We could have ridden that pig all the way into Seoul.”
Mason nodded his agreement. “You want me to check for ammo from these other Marines?”
“Yeah, see if there’s anything worth scrounging. Just be safe, though, Mason.”
“Always, Gunny,” Mason replied, and slipped away.
Quinn came jogging up, face pale. “Gunny, we’ve got more of the dead approaching from the town, maybe six or eight. Hard to count. And there’ll probably be more behind them.”
Jones nodded. “Take Ellery and Liskow, finish them off. Any dead Marines you find walking around, you check them for ammo, okay?”
“Aye aye, Gunny.”
Jones turned and saw Gordon climbing on top of the tank, buttoning it up, the dog looking out from his blouse. Jones shook his head, thinking, That boy’s crazy.
The new Marine, a corporal, stood by himself taking small sips from a canteen. He kept looking from corpse to corpse to corpse. His eyes finally fell upon the Lieutenant who hadn’t listened to Gunny, and the Corporal’s gaze stayed fixed upon the officer’s crushed skull.
Jones walked over to the Marine, saying, “Can you hear me yet?” and pointing to his own ear.
The Marine shook his head.
Jones pointed to the dead Lieutenant.
“Asshole!” the Marine said loudly.
Jones smiled, chuckling.
“Tough way to die, though, Gunny!”
Jones nodded his agreement. Mason came over, a pair of full satchels over his shoulders.
“Good news, Gunny,” Mason said. “Got quite a bit of ammo for the carbines. Even a few clips for the .45s.”
“Good.”
“These guys were part of the 1st, too,” Mason added after a minute. “I saw Charlie Reddeker over there. Somebody literally chewed his ass off.”
Jones shook his head. “You think of all the different ways that you can buy it when you’re out in the field, and hell, Mason, you and I’ve seen a lot of men die. I never thought I’d be eaten alive though.”
“Me neither, Gunny,” Mason said. “I can tell you, though, I’m not planning on it.”
“Same here, Mason,” Jones said. He looked around at the carnage, his Marines slowly gathering around him. “Everyone listen up. We’ve got a few more rounds. We’ll spread them out, and same deal as before, make damned sure that every shot you take counts. Remember, these fuckers are dead, but they can still see us, hear us, and they can fucking smell us too. First strike you make is a silent strike, second, only if necessary, is noise. Got it?”
The Marines nodded in unison.
“Okay, we’re sticking to the road. I’d rather get caught in the open by some regular old commies than in the woods with a bunch of dead ones looking to fricassee my balls.”
Corporal Robert E. Boylan
Sound slowly returned to Boyl
an’s words, and he caught the last part of the Gunny’s speech. The sergeant next to him tapped Gunny on the shoulder, and motioned towards Boylan.
Gunny walked over. “Can you hear me, Corporal?”
“Aye aye, Gunny,” Boylan nodded.
“Why were you traveling alone on this road?”
“We threw a track earlier and the rest of the unit moved on ahead.”
“Not this way, Corporal.”
Boylan blinked. “Are you serious, Gunny?”
“’Fraid so. We were actually hoping for you all to come along a little earlier. We’ve been having a hell of a time with the dead.”
“So they really are dead?” Boylan asked, looking around. “I wasn’t just freaking out because it was combat?”
“Not at all,” Gunny said, giving him a tight smile. “They’re dead, and tough to kill the second time around. But they can be killed. You’ve got to put a round in their heads, or you’ve got to crush the fucking head. Got it?”
“Aye aye, Gunny.”
“Your whole crew gone?”
Boylan looked at the Lieutenant on the ground, listened to the banging of the dead inside of the Sherman, and nodded. “Yeah. Looks like it.”
“Okay. Do you remember where you broke down before?”
“Five miles back, maybe?”
“Okay, we’re going to backtrack, see if we can’t find where the rest of your unit disappeared to. Maybe if we can meet up with the armor we can get the hell out of this fucking situation.” Gunny looked over at the Lieutenant. “So, how new was he?”
