The South Will Rise Again

by Jeffrey Kosh

  THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN

  by

  Jeffrey Kosh

  First Edition

  Copyright 2012 Jeffrey Kosh

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B007QI2GJW

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part or parts of this publication may be copied, recorded or otherwise reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE

  DEDICATED

  QUOTE

  THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN

  EXCERPTS FROM SPIRITS AND THOUGHT FORMS

  Introduction

  Kamp Koko by Night

  BIOGRAPHY

  Dedicated to

  Heaven Liegh Eldeen, Lori Lopez, Gregory Miller, Awi Jaresinyo, and Sean Page

  Thanks for your support

  "We'll fight them, sir, 'til hell freezes over, and then, sir, we will fight them on the ice."

  A Confederate soldier at Gettysburg, in The Civil War by Shelby Foote

  The South Will Rise Again

  Mists …

  The young soldier stood up from where he had fallen; shaking off his head, as if trying to wipe away the horrors he had been witness of.

  Around him there was only smoke, the stench of gunpowder, and the sounds of the dying.

  The battle had ended and only Death reigned supreme on that combat field.

  When he had joined the rebellion he had no idea that war would be like that.

  Horrors upon horrors upon horrors.

  Mutilated bodies were everywhere to be seen, partially concealed by the clouding fog of hundred spent gun-shells. Blood covered the once-verdant grass and what once were men now appeared as broken dolls, set aside by a capricious child. Discarded weapons pockmarked the ground and pieces of equipment, mostly damaged beyond repair, added to the forlornness.

  Had they won?

  Had they lost?

  He looked around, yet saw no one to ask that question.

  Only the dead.

  Nevertheless, he had survived the ordeal; somehow … someway.

  Colin Jefferson lay nearby. Crows were eating away his past from what remained of his cracked head, while disgusting bloated flies already were unloading their progeny inside the stumps of disclosed flesh.

  What had happened? He couldn’t recall, he tried frantically to summon up his last memories, yet only mists responded to his beckoning.

  But he remembered his family.

  Yes, they were safe now; the battle was away from their homes. His wife … his daughters.

  What if he was wrong? What if the enemy had won and now they were marching toward his hometown, slaughtering everyone on their path, or doing worse things to them?

  One of the large birds eyed him with craving, but opted to bump on an unmoving morsel.

  No. That’s not the right way. First thing first: try to get up.

  He tried to move the left leg. It didn’t work. He tried again. No way.

  He could just stand there, a sitting duck in the middle of a carnage field. So, he resorted to yell, calling out for any other survivor, but before his voice could escape out of his parched mouth, a terrible thought invaded his mind. What if the ‘eventual’ survivor was one of the enemies? Or worse; what if there were enemies still prowling around, looking for the dying to slash their throat in a fast and swift stroke. Nope. Better to wait and try to evaluate the situation before doing anything stupid. If God, in His grace, had opted for him to survive, he had no right to unravel the Lord’s will. The mists continued to swell on the desolate battleground, when he succeeded in moving both legs.

  The Will of God.

  He stood up, as a bamboo cane flailed by wind, staggering back and forth, unable to regain a stable stance. From that new position he could get a better look at his surroundings. There were dark mounds everywhere. Yet only the momentary parting of the constant mists allowed him to ascertain those were not mounds but corpses, already inflated by decomposition gases. He had never seen - or even imagined - so many dead people.

  There! Something had moved. No, just another of those damned flying ghouls.

  He had to do something, he could not stay there staggering and dazed as a beaten up pugilist.

  He moved one foot, then another. It worked! He was walking again. Nonetheless, he could not run or keep a sturdy gait; he could just stumble and shuffle, as an oldster does in his last waning days. Those hideous little black monsters flew away, scared by his movement.

  He smiled to this tiny victory.

  Again that blurred movement to his left. He turned, slowly; sure it was another of those pesky beasts. Yet, this time, his dry eyes spotted something larger; a dark shape, yes, hidden by that cursed fog, but standing on two legs, erect as only God’s creation could do.

  He moaned, involuntarily, and took notice the mysterious visitor had no hurried his pace to get at him. No, he kept the same shuffling gait, inching its ground like a stalking predator. He wasn’t a rescuer, nor an ally. No, it had to be one of those damnyankees, enjoying the terror he was feeding to him, slowly savoring his next kill, like a cat does with a wounded mouse.

  The soldier glanced around, frantically searching for an instrument of death; something which could defend him from that villainous attacker. He spotted a saber, discarded by the pale hand of an empty-sockets soldier; his gray uniform decorated by red flowers of blood.

  Reaching the weapon wasn’t easy. He tried to bend his stiff knees, but they refused to collaborate, and when he exerted his will to those spiteful articulations, they tricked him, and he fell again on that blasted field, face-first into the bloated belly of his dead companion.

  Immediately, he forced himself to regain control of his wrecked shell, clawing away from the horror that once had been a fellow compatriot.

  His eyes ran nervously back to the lurching figure. He was closer. Although still hidden by the shifting mists, the wounded soldier could clearly discern the enemy’s approach. Stumbling, yet resolute, the shadowy figure continued his course, never pausing, but so unnerving in his silent lurch. The crows cawed then fluttered away, disturbed by the enemy’s gait.

  He rose again, although awkwardly, clutching at the bloodied blade as a kid hugging his favorite teddy bear. Hanging to mere survival instinct alone, he stood the grounds.

  He shall not pass.

  Yet, the enemy halted its pace, stopping by one of the fallen corpses, ignoring the living for the allure of the harmless.

  What is he doing?

  Then he heard it clearly; at first a low moan, so fleeting he mistook it for the wind. Next came a chilling cry, as something who was still alive protested its pain from an unseen harm. The cry became a shrilling scream, causing the survivor to shudder, and a single gasp escaped his mouth. He forced himself to get a better look of what was happening betw
een the enemy and what had reasonably been an unfortunate comrade.

  He had been right.

  The enemy was scouring the fields, looking for the still breathing rests of brave Confederate fighters, and bringing on them further afflictions. This was not a merciful reliever of suffering, but a real monster of sadistic needs.

  The young soldier gripped the chivalry blade with both hands and then gathered all his failing courage.

  I will not allow it! This abominable monstrosity must be stopped, at the cost of my very life.

  That single step called for more than he expected, as the right leg trembled, then gained the ground. The left soon followed, with same pathetic results. Yet, he didn’t give up; a step after the other, slow and clumsy, he reached out of the mists.

  Only to partake to further horrors.

  The enemy was a monster indeed. Whatever that obscene and unholy creature was, it for sure was not human. Or no longer one. The thing was dressed with a bloodied and rangy uniform of the Confederates (surely it had stolen it from one of his victims) and had arms and legs as any other men. But here the similitude stopped, as the beast looked like something more apt to the coffin than to the breathing air. Its grayish skin was shriveled and encrusted by a moldy growth. The hands - those terrible hands - were akin to those of a predator of the darkest jungle, as they were bony and clawlike, and twitched nervously on the flesh of the squawking survivor. Worms and other vile varmints wriggled on its shoulders, and thinly, long, and unkempt hair cascaded out of a maggoty officer’s hat. Nonetheless, what really shocked the valiant soldier was not its appearance, but its deeds. In fact, the beast who walked as a man was distinctly feasting on the still breathing victim.

  The shrills became even pitcher, as the ghoulish thing sunk its ravenous teeth on the man’s throat, tearing away a mouthful of dripping wet flesh. Cries ceased as, finally, death prevailed on will, and the poor survivor left this maddened world for the other.

  May the Almighty have mercy of his soul.

  Aghast by the hellish sight of that cannibal fiend, he screamed. Yet, only a mournful and cold moan escaped from his harsh lungs.

  What’s was that? Me?

  That auditory effect was more akin to howling hounds than the speech of a child of God. Maybe his throat had been seared by the scorching fires of battle. Perhaps his vocal chords had been damaged beyond repair, turning him into a mute witness of man’s cruelty.

  His dire thoughts were scattered away by an unexpected hailing.

  “As you were, soldier,” uttered the munching demon.

  The monster was able to talk.

  The survivor staggered backward, surprised by that chilling hiss, followed by those awful gulping sounds.

  The milky-eyed creature raised its bloody muzzle toward him. “Aye, mate, do not expect speech to return so quickly. It takes time. And patience. And practice.”

  Then returned its interest to the gory entrails.

  The brave soldier left out another moan, then looked down at his uniform; that shredded rag punctured by hollows and desiccated body fluids. There was a large gaping hole where his heart used to be.

  Forgotten memories flooded his misty brain at once, and he finally left hold of the weapon and fell on his knees.

  How had he been so foolish? How had he deluded himself believing he had survived the onslaught? He had not felt the thumping rhythm of his beating heart inside the chest from the very moment he had opened his eyes on that cursed battlefield.

  As he reached down, into his mangy uniform, to touch with living (unliving?) hand what now he knew to be forever gone, he heard the raspy voice of the cannibal fiend speaking again.

  “Welcome back to the living, soldier.”

  He raised his own milky-white irises toward what was once General Arthur Ernest Mitchell of the 113th cavalry regiment of the Confederate army.

  His own general.

  In Life.

  And Death.

  Again, the ghoulish monster spoke.

  “We won!”

  Excerpts

  From

  SPIRITS AND THOUGHT FORMS

  Tales from Prosperity Glades

  by

  Jeffrey Kosh

  INTRODUCTION

  Masks.

  This book is about masks.

  Hey, wait a minute, that’s not what’s on the cover! I’m sure you’re yelling that, right now. No, I didn’t cheat; I promise. This collection of short stories are all set in that creepy town of Prosperity Glades, and all of them are about spirits … and thought forms.

  Yet, it is also about masks. The masks we wear each day, those that other employ to hide their true feelings, and most of all, those that spirits wear to lure us into their clutches.

  Spirits, by their nature, are formless beings; in a way they are just memes. Each spirit represents something about human nature and human wishes. By the way, spirits are wishes made into flesh - or almost flesh. The term ‘spirit’ itself, refers to an entity that is incorporeal, not a being made of matter, although, in almost all cultural traditions and folklore, they are tied to the physical world and many are able to assume a material form.

  Spirits appear in different forms and types, and all human culture has a belief system incorporating them. In a way they are already … thought forms.

  In animistic cultures, spirits are present everywhere; in living and unliving matter. Items, constructions, even raw rock, are infused with spiritual or lifelike properties. Some Native American belief assign spirits only to living things; other believed that all of creation has a spiritual counterpart. As such, they can often inhabit totems, fetishes, and mostly charms and magical items. These kinds of spirits - also present in Shinto, Japan’s main religion - are thought as an ‘animating force’, akin to the human soul. Where Frankenstein’s creation life force did came from? Who is the individual settling in the mortal shell? It's the sum of all his parts; a mosaic of souls melting into an imperfect whole, like the Echo character in ‘Dollhouse’? Or it's the animating force of the brain; the mind of one of the deceased, in this case, like in Kenneth Branagh’s rendition, it must be Professor Krempe. Or is this something different: a being snatched out of its dimension, and infused inside a golem made of flesh. Yet, the creature has no clues about itself; it just exists and doesn’t seem to experience flashbacks as Echo does in many instances. It doesn’t remember a past life as a living being. Nope, it is rather like a Buddhist reincarnation; no memories, no regrets, just traits and déjà vu.

  I like to think at the Creature as something which never lived, never experienced our reality, it was just snagged from its world and placed inside human flesh, and by effect, it acts as an infant, yet with a higher ability for understanding its surroundings.

  Spirits are also thought as ‘Guiding Forces’, directing everything, from creation to destruction, from weather to the movement of the stars. Chinese ancestry worship claims that family heritage spirits protect and aid the descendants of each family with which they are associated, but can also hamper the family’s progresses if they become angry as result of perceived slights.

  Or spirits can be thought as ‘Higher Powers’ or divinities, and I know this is a touchy argument. In many cultures - Judaic-Christian included - all noncorporeal beings are spirits, even the most omnipotent of gods. Angels, Demons, Valkyries, the Courtesans of Celestial Bureaucracy; they are all servants of a Higher Power, and that being is itself a spirit. They often behave like that. The Lord of Old Testament made a pact with Abraham’s people …

  Plato, the Greek philosopher, envisioned a Realm of Ideals: a place containing the perfect archetype of everything existing in our physical world. Something like an infinite Universal Genetic Library, where archetypes are stored to be used as originals from where all copies belong. The same did Carl Jung, describing spirits from the Universal Unconscious.

  Here comes the ‘Thought Form’.

  Modern occult scholars describe a "thought form" as a kind of "artifi
cial spirit" created by the power of the human mind. A thought form can range in complexity from a simple emotional impression to a fully sentient and aware being, and in power from a minor servitor spirit to a deity. Some beliefs say all spirits are thought forms, created and sustained by human belief. This certainly fits with spirits drawing strength from mortal worship and veneration. And this is my vision of spiritual beings. They are ‘memoid’ creatures, like David Brin imagined them in his Uplift universe. Formless, archetypal creatures caused by emotions and beliefs. The haunted house becomes haunted if all people in town swap stories about its ghosts. The well becomes cursed if everyone in a range of a few miles believes it to be as such. They feed emotional essence to a spot, and it becomes that thing; holy or unholy.

  And they wear masks.

  Yes, they do. They assume the guise we want them to. They become the thing we worship … or dread.

  The Veiled Queen, Nemesis, the Smiling Monster, the Dying Road, and the Cloaked Man.

  They all wear masks.

  They use these masks to cloak their true nature, often too ugly to behold. The Veiled Queen is just a big lump of unearthly matter. Nemesis hides inside a human host.

  These five tales are all about masks, and thought forms, too. And all take place in Prosperity Glades, because - as you should already know, if you have read my novel ‘Feeding the Urge’ - there’s a weak spot between our world and the spiritual one, right in the middle of Grassy Swamp. And spirits - and thought forms - do thrive here.

  Each one of these stories happened in Prosperity’s bloody past: from 1647 to our times. As if visiting my beloved town with a time machine, you get the opportunity to meet old familiar faces (some before their eventual demise) and new acquaintances.