Whistling Past the Graveyard

by Jonathan Maberry

It was an arrogance that cost them dearly. And yes, it would have made a glorious song. A battle song. A death song that would be remembered long after our bones were dust. Alas.

  Each of the Riders was a veteran of countless battles. Old maybe, but deft and clever and ruthless. They laughed as they fought, delighting in the expressions of shock on the faces of much younger men who learned too little and too late that wisdom and experience often trumps youth and vigor. They came at us in that narrow defile and we took them, shouting our ancient songs of war as the blood ran like a brook around our ankles.

  But there were one hundred thousand of them. Though they sent not a single man who could stand before the least of us, they had men to spare and no sword arm can fight without fatigue forever.

  I saw Kinto Kan fall, his body feathered with arrows but his own quiver empty and the dead heaped around him—two score and six to be his slaves in death. Ben Bendark, known as Thark-Killer before the Warlord forged the alliance, swung his war axe, that great cleaver of a hundred tavern songs, and the head of a pirate jed flew from his shoulders. I never saw where it landed. Bendark gave a wild cry of red triumph even as spears pierced his chest and stilled his mighty heart. He fell next to his brother, Gan, who smiled even in death, his mighty hands clenched forever around the shattered throats of the men who killed him.

  Hadro Henkin, the sword dancer from Gathol, leaped and turned and cut men from the saddle and slipped between spears and left a path of ruin behind him. He made it nearly to the chariot of the jeddak himself before a dozen spearmen converged and brought him down. His best friend, Zeth Hondat, screamed like a banth and threw himself at the spearmen, cutting them down one-two-three-four. Seven fell before the jeddak raised a huge curved sword and cut Zeth nearly in twain.

  These things I saw and more. The waves of pirates were as limitless as the dunes of a desert. An ocean of spears and swords, but Dwar Guntha had chosen our spot well and we held the high ground while they were forced into a narrow killing chute. We slaughtered five times our number. Ten times. More. And still they came. As I parried and thrust, cut and slashed, I could not help but compose our song in my head. Despite the melancholy musings of last night, this was a glorious end. This was such an end that perhaps the pirates themselves would write the song. Not a hero’s lament or stirring death song, but a tale of desert demons who it took an army to overthrow. We would be the monsters to frighten children on dark nights, and that would please Dwar Guntha. It was a way to strike once more into the heart of our enemy.

  In a moment’s brief reprieve I called to him. Guntha bled from a dozen cuts and leaned heavily on his saddle horn.

  “What a song!” I cried.

  “Sing it with your blade,” he laughed, and they were on us again.

  Then I saw three things occur in close succession, and what a wonder they were to behold.

  First, I saw the fresh wave of pirates swarm toward us. These were burly men, not the foot soldiers or light skirmishers; these were the cream of their cavalry on fresh thoats, led by the fierce jeddak in his war chariot. Dwar Guntha reared up on his thoat, the reins flying free, a spear in one hand and his ancient sword in the other. With a cry so fierce and powerful that it momentarily stilled the war shouts of the pirates, Guntha thrust the spear deep into the roaring mouth of the chariot’s lead thoat, and as the beast fell the chariot tilted forward to offer the jeddak up to Guntha’s sword. The blade caught red sunlight and then flashed down, cleaving gold circlet and black skull even as the jeddak thrust his own great blade forward into Dwar Guntha’s chest. Guntha’s blade snapped as he predicted it would, but only on a killing stroke. His last, and a masterful one it was. The pirates could never reckon this day’s victory without counting a terrible cost.

  Dwar Guntha fell, and that was the second thing I saw. He fell and as he did so the entire battle seemed to freeze into a shocked moment. The pirates recoiled back as if the sight of a hero’s fall and their own champion’s death stole the heart from them.

  And then I turned to see the third thing, and I knew then why the entire army of pirates has stalled in this moment.

  The sky was full of ships.

  Hundreds of them. Thousands. The great combined host of Helium and the Tharks, together in a fleet such as no man has seen in the skies of Barsoom in fifty thousand years. I do not know how our scout reached the capital in time. Perhaps he found a patrol in their airship and flew like a demon wind to spread the news and sound the alert. I will never know, and do not care. John Carter had come, and that was all that mattered. He had come…and with the greatest force of arms this world could yet muster. Here, to this barren place by a forgotten outpost. Here to fight the last battle. Whoever won this war would rule Barsoom forever.

  John Carter, warlord of warlords, grown wise in his years, knew this and he brought such a force that the pirates howled in fear.

  But…ah, they did not throw down their weapons.

  I will honor them enough to say that, and to say that they made a fight of it that will make songs worth singing.

  Yet, my heart was lifted as I looked up and saw a fleet so vast that it darkened the skies.

  Or…was it my eyes that grew dark?

  I felt a burning pain and looked down to see the glittering length of a sword moving through me below my heart.

  I laughed my warrior’s laugh and I slew my slayer even as the air erupted with the barrage of ten thousand airships firing all at once.

  And the voice of the singer faded, even to his own ears.

  -4-

  It was a cold night in Helium. The moons were like chips of ice in the black forever that stretched above the royal palace.

  John Carter drew his cloak more tightly around him. He was still a tall man, still strong, though great age had slimmed him. Slender and hard as a sword blade.

  He leaned a shoulder against a pillar and looked out over the city. Even this late there was the sound of music and laughter. The sounds of peace. How long had it been thus, he mused. So many nights of so many years without the clang of steel on steel? He sighed, content that his people lived without fear, and yet secretly craving those old days when he and Tars Tarkas rode out to face monsters and madmen and hordes of bloodthirsty enemies.

  Those were memories of a different world than this.

  He heard a sound behind him and saw Kestos, the singer, gathering up his scrolls after a night of composing songs for a pending festival. When the young man noticed Carter watching, he bowed.

  “My prince,” he said nervously, “I did not mean to disturb you…I’m just leaving—”

  Carter waved it off. “No. Tarry a moment, Kestos. Tarry and entertain an old man. Sing me a song.”

  “Of what would you have me sing, my prince? Of the spring harvest? Of the dance of the moons above—”

  “No. Gods, no. Kestos, sing me one of the old songs. Sing me a song of heroes and battle.”

  “I…know but a few, my prince. I can sing of your victory over the—”

  “No. I know my own songs. Sing to me the death song of Dwar Guntha. That’s a good tale for a night like this.”

  The young man looked embarrassed. “My prince, I am sorry…but I don’t know that song.”

  Carter turned and studied him. “Ah…you are so young. To not know the great songs is so sad.”

  “I…I’m sorry…”

  Carter smiled. “No. Sit, young Kestos and I will sing you the song. Learn it. Remember it, and sing it often. Some songs should never be forgotten.”

  And as the moons sailed through the black ocean of the sky, John Carter, Warlord of all Barsoom, sang of the last charge of the great Free Riders.

  And such a tale it was. All of the heroes were tall and handsome, all of the enemies were vile and dangerous, and each of the heroes slew a hundred and then died gloriously upon a mountain of their foes.

  Or, so it goes in the song.

  Author’s Note on “Chokepoint”

  If you’re at all famili
ar with my work you’ll know that I have a special fondness for my life-impaired fellow citizens (aka zombies). This is one of my favorites of the zombie stories I’ve written. It was written as the lead story for issue #2 of The Univited, a webzine of horror stories.

  This story is technically a sequel to two of my novels, Dead of Night and Fall of Night, which are—in their way—prequels to George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead. You don’t need to have read either of those novels in order to read this; nor do you need to be familiar with that landmark movie. Though, come on…you should watch Romero’s flick. It’s a piece of history and it started the entire zombie genre.

  Chokepoint

  -1-

  The lieutenant said to hold it.

  So we’re holding it.

  Chokepoint Baker: five miles up a crooked road, fifty miles from the command post, a hundred miles from the war.

  They dropped us here three days after what the radio has been calling First Night.

  Couple days later, I heard a DJ out of Philly call it Last Night. But the news guys always do that hysterical shit. If it’s going to snow, they start talking about blizzards; two guys shove each other outside a Wal-Mart, and it’s rioting in the streets. Their amps are always dialed up to eleven.

  Guess that sort of thing’s infectious, because we got rousted and rolled before dawn’s early light.

  As we climbed down off the truck, Lieutenant Bell took me aside. We’d known each other for a while and he usually called me Sally or Sal, but not that day. He was all Joe-Army. “Listen up, Corporal,” he told me. “The infection is contained to the west side of this river. There are two other bridges; closest is eight klicks downstream. We’re spread pretty thin, so I can spare one fireteam per bridge. This one’s yours.”

  The bridge was rusted steel that had once been painted blue, a lane of blacktop going in each direction. No tollbooth, no nothing. Pennsylvania on one side, New Jersey on the other.

  “You think you can do that, Corporal?”

  I grinned. “C’mon, Loot, a couple of Cub Scouts could hold that bridge with a slingshot and a wet fart.”

  I always cracked him up, drunk or sober, but now he just gave me the look. The officer look.

  I straightened. “Yes, sir. We’ll hold it.”

  “You are authorized to barricade this bridge. Make sure nothing gets across. Nothing and no one, do you understand?”

  For what? Some dickheads rioting on the other side of the state? I wanted to laugh.

  But there was something in his eyes. He lowered his voice so it was just heard by the two of us. Everyone else was handing empty sandbags and equipment boxes down from the truck. “This is serious shit, Sally. I need you to do this.”

  I gave a quick right-left look to make sure no one could hear us. “The fuck’s going down, man? You got the bug-eyes going on. This is a bunch of civilians going apeshit, right?”

  Bell licked his lips. Real nervous, the way a scared dog does.

  “You really don’t know, do you?” he asked. “Haven’t you been watching the news?”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen the news.”

  “They aren’t civilians,” he said. “Not anymore.”

  “What does that—?”

  A sergeant came hurrying over to tell us that everything was off-loaded. Bell stepped abruptly away from me and back into his officer role. “Are we clear on everything, Corporal Tucci?”

  I played my part. “Yes, sir.”

  Bell and the sergeant climbed back into the truck and we watched its taillights through a faint smudge of dust. My guys—all three of them—stood with me. We turned and looked at the bridge. It was rush hour on a Friday, but the road was empty. Both sides of the bridge.

  “What the hell’s going on?” asked Joe Bob—and, yeah, his actual name on his dog tags is Joe Bob Stanton. He’s a redneck mouth-breather who joined the Reserves because nobody in the civilian world was stupid enough to let him play with guns. So the geniuses here decided he should be an automatic rifleman. When they handed him an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, he almost came in his pants.

  I shook my head.

  “Join the Navy,” said Talia. “See the world.”

  “That’s the Navy,” said Farris. “We’re the National damn Guard.”

  “That’s my point,” she said.

  “C’mon,” I said, “let’s get this shit done.”

  It took us four hours to fill enough sandbags to block the western approach to the bridge. Four hours. Didn’t see a single car the whole time.

  At first that was okay, made it easier to work.

  Later, though, none of us liked how that felt.

  -2-

  I was the Team Leader for this gig. Corporal Salvatore Tucci. I’m in charge because everyone else on the team was even greener than me. Army Reserves, man. I’m in technical college working on a degree in fixing air conditioners, and I’m the most educated guy on the team. Cutting-edge, 21st century Army my ass.

  A lot of the guys who enlist are dickheads like Joe Bob.

  The other two? Farris is a slacker with no G.E.D. who mops up at a Taco Bell. They made him a rifleman. And our grenadier, Talia? Her arms and her thighs are a roadmap of healed-over needle scars, but she doesn’t talk about it. I think she maybe got clean and signed up to help her stay clean.

  That’s Fireteam Delta. Four fuck-ups who didn’t have the sense to stay out of uniform or enough useful skills to be put somewhere that mattered.

  So here we are, holding Checkpoint Baker and waiting for orders.

  We opened some M.R.E.s and ate bad spaghetti and some watery stuff that was supposed to be cream of broccoli soup.

  “Dude,” said Farris, “there’s a Quiznos like three miles from here. I saw it on the way in.”

  “So?”

  “One of us could go and get something…”

  “Deserting a post in a time of crisis?” murmured Talia dryly. “I think they have a rule about that.”

  “It’s not deserting,” said Farris, but he didn’t push it. I think he knew what we all thought. As soon as he was around the bend in the road he’d fire up a blunt, and that’s all we’d need is to have the lieutenant roll up on Farris stoned and A.W.O.L. On my watch.

  I gave him my version of the look.

  He grinned like a kid who was caught reaching in the cookie jar.

  “Hey,” said Talia, “somebody’s coming.”

  And shit if we didn’t all look the wrong way first. We looked up the road, the way the truck went. Then we realized Talia was looking over the sandbags.

  We turned.

  There was someone on the road. Not in a car. On foot, walking along the side of the road, maybe four hundred yards away.

  “Civvie,” said Talia. “Looks like a kid.”

  I took out my binoculars. They’re a cheap, low-intensity pair that I bought myself. Still better than the ‘no pair’ they issued me. The civvie kid was maybe seventeen, wearing a Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt, jeans, and bare feet. He walked with his head down, stumbling a little. There were dark smears on his shirt, and I’ve been in enough bar fights to know what blood looks like when it dries on a football jersey. There was some blood on what I could see of his face and on both hands.

  “Whoever he is,” I said, “someone kicked his ass.”

  They took turns looking.

  While Talia was looking, the guy raised his head, and she screamed. Like a horror movie scream; just a kind of yelp.

  “Holy shit!”

  “What?” Everyone asked it at the same time.

  “His face…”

  I took the binoculars back. The guy’s head was down again. He was about a hundred yards away now, coming on but not in a hurry. If he was that jacked up then maybe he was really out of it. Maybe he got drunk and picked the wrong fight and now his head was busted and he didn’t know where he was.

  “What’s wrong with his face?” asked Farris.

  When Talia didn’t answer, I lower
ed the glasses and looked at her. “Tal…what was wrong with his face?”

  She still didn’t answer, and there was a weird light in her eyes.

  “What?” I asked.

  But she didn’t need to answer.

  Farris said, “Holy fuck!”

  I whirled around. The civvie was thirty yards away. Close enough to see him.

  Close enough to see.

  The kid was walking right toward the bridge, head up now. Eyes on us.

  His face…

  I thought it was smeared with blood.

  But that wasn’t it.

  He didn’t have a face.

  Beside me, Joe Bob said, “Wha—wha—wha—?” He couldn’t even finish the word.

  Farris made a gagging sound. Or maybe that was me.

  The civvie kid kept walking straight toward us. Twenty yards. His mouth was open, and for a stupid minute, I thought he was speaking. But you need lips to speak. And a tongue. All he had was teeth. The rest of the flesh on his face was—gone.

  Just gone.

  Torn away. Or…

  Eaten away.

  “Jesus Christ, Sal,” gasped Talia. “What the fuck? I mean—what the fuck?”

  Joe Bob swung his big M249 up and dropped the bipod legs on the top sandbag. “I can drop that freak right—”

  “Hold your goddamn fire,” I growled, and the command in my own voice steadied my feet on the ground. “Farris, Talia—hit the line, but nobody fires a shot unless I say so.”

  They all looked at me.

  “Right fucking now,” I bellowed.

  They jumped. Farris and Talia brought up their M4 carbines. So did I. The kid was ten yards away now, and he didn’t look like he wanted to stop.

  “How’s he even walking with all that?” asked Talia in a small voice.

  I yelled at the civvie. “Hey! Sir? Sir…? I need you to stop right there.”

  His head jerked up a little more. He had no nose at all. And both eyes were bloodshot and wild. He kept walking, though.