Then the boom of cannonfire and the crack of muskets shifted as the battle lessened near us and intensified further downfield.
Sergeant Lewis stepped up beside the boy, patting him on the shoulder as if to say that enough was enough. The boy smiled up at him. Lewis smiled back, his chin not smashed after all.
I looked again, looked to where the sergeant still sat, slumped over, a dark gory bib of blood covering him from his ruined jawbone clear down to his belt.
Yet there he stood, by the boy, whole and unharmed.
There also stood Mullins, cheerful while at the same time his own body sprawled dead and face-down in the mud.
Not Carey, and not Jed Brubaker, both of whom were badly hurt… Tad missed it, frantic as he was trying to save his brother’s life… Thomas, Dobbs and I all saw them and agreed.
We saw the three of them walk off together, until they vanished into the haze of smoke and mist rising from the battlefield.
The six others of us survived. The war went on.
But Little Johnny Jump-Up never fired again.
Covert Genesis
Brian W. Taylor
Staff Sergeant Solomon Watkins understood something strange was happening when the pilot, Captain Ruiz, said, “What’s that?” A heartbeat later a bright flash of bluish light – it reminded him of lightning – flooded through the cockpit and into the cargo hold. The metal frame of the C-17 vibrated and hummed all around him, like someone tapped a tuning fork. He pushed himself up in his chair and saw lights on the instrument panel flickering and flashing before going dark.
Watkins pulled his seat belt tighter when the co-pilot, Lieutenant Bigsby, yelled, “We’re hit!” It was all he could think to do to keep his mind off the fact that they were in real trouble.
The roar of the engine turbines subsided until clacking to a stop. All of them. At the same time.
“What’s going on up there?” one of the Delta Force guys shouted from the rear of the aircraft.
Watkins ignored him and listened as the pilots flipped switches, mashed buttons, and anything else they were trained to do during engine failure.
“Whatever hit us took out the electrical systems,” Captain Ruiz said to the co-pilot, his voice even, calm. “We’ve got to try and jump-start her.”
The C-17 went quiet. The aircraft swayed on the edge of a great and terrible fall. It was like sitting at the apex of the tallest hill on the tallest roller coaster Watkins had ever been on. He willed the pilot to find some kind of solution and get the engines running. Gravity, however, would not be denied. It wrapped invisible hands around the nose of the aircraft and pulled. Watkins’ stomach felt like it pressed against his throat.
“Mayday, mayday… radio’s fried too,” Lieutenant Bigsby said, unable to conceal his concern. “We’re dead in the air.”
Through the small window Watkins saw how the dying embers of the sun shone red on the clusters of Sugar Maples, White Cedars, and Eastern Pines of the Adirondacks below. It reminded him of a bloody and jagged smile coaxing them lower into its waiting maw. His mouth went dry.
“Strap in, we’re going down!” Captain Ruiz shouted over his shoulder.
Watkins clutched the armrests and was thankful he hadn’t wandered from his seat. A short distance away his friend and electrician, Sergeant Treadway, caught off guard by the sudden power outage, flailed before slamming into a Humvee as the aircraft lurched downward. His death was heralded by the sickening crunch of skull on metal. Blood sprayed as Treadway’s corpse rag-dolled backward, flailing end over end – a human tumbleweed.
Clouds parted as the aircraft was spit from the sky, hurtling downward faster and faster.
Anything that wasn’t strapped down took to the air. A helmet ricocheted off the windshield of the Humvee leaving a spider-web crack. The jet engine mechanic, Lopez, was praying. Her lips moved as she crossed herself. Treadway’s corpse thudded onto a supply crate then floated sideways into Lopez who shoved it away. Watkins watched as gravity guided it, blood and all, straight at him. Unable to move, he waited.
“Level up!” Ruiz yelled, no longer calm. “Pull damnit, pull!”
Treadway’s mouth seemingly parted in a death-defying smile as the body slammed into Watkins. He kicked at the corpse but it rolled up over his leg and along his chest, pinning Watkins to his seat. He tried to grab it – to push it down, securing it under his feet – but slipped. This wasn’t the way Watkins wanted to die – strapped to a chair, pinned under a corpse, and possibly crushed by cargo or blown to bits. Their mission seemed pretty straight forward: recover and repair a downed C-17. He should have known something was amiss when the Delta Force squad boarded. Routine R and Rs almost never included heavy firepower. At least not Stateside.
The plane groaned like an injured beast as their descent hastened. Watkins could actually hear air rushing over the frame of the plane. Treadway shifted, jerking up. The force of their two skulls connecting sent stars washing over Watkins’ field of vision. Everything became one giant blur. He felt something warm rolling down his scalp. His eyes rolled up as the familiar coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils, his dead friend still grinning as if pleased with his actions.
The last thing Sergeant Watkins heard before unconsciousness settled over him was, “Brace for impact!”
* * *
Something hurt. Pain was a good thing. It meant Watkins was still alive. He took in a breath and winced as fiery pain stabbed at his mid-section. His ribs, he realized, were likely broken. He sat there a moment clearing the cobwebs from his mind. From somewhere nearby came the crackling noise of what Watkins assumed was fire, followed closely by the pungent smell of cooked meat. Please, God, don’t let it be me. He remembered Treadway’s corpse and opened his eyes.
Much of Treadway’s flesh had been charred black and crispy. The chairs to Watkins right were still smoldering. Thankfully, it looked like Treadway had shielded him from the blaze. Watkins grimaced, pushing what was left of his friend away. The corpse slid down the walkway until coming to rest on some kind of metal case. Where once Treadway’s face had been was an unrecognizable mess of melted flesh. Smoke wafted from his empty eye sockets, lending a hellish vibe to the already chaotic scene. Treadway’s dog tags had been fused to his flesh. There was no way Watkins was going to try and dig those out.
Where had everyone gone? The better question was why had they left him strapped to a chair in a burning wreck?
Watkins disengaged his seatbelt and stood, careful not to shift his broken bones too much. He had to steady himself on the nearest seat as the floor seemed to be on an incline. It wasn’t just the floor he realized, but the entire aircraft was askew, like it was lying on its side. One look at the windows and the earth poking through the broken glass confirmed his suspicions. He struggled his way over a row of seats toward the cockpit. The first thing Watkins noticed was a trail of blood.
The cockpit had collapsed under an ancient White Pine where the aircraft had scraped to a stop. Captain Ruiz had been folded in half as the instrument panel pressed his legs up. Watkins felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one. The other side of the cockpit was relatively clear of damage or debris. No Lieutenant Bigsby. The trail of blood looked like it originated from the co-pilot’s chair and trailed off toward the rear of the wreckage.
Watkins turned and noticed a giant crack toward the aft section of the aircraft. A sizeable gap had opened up where the tail tried to pull away at some point during the crash. The metal creaked as Watkins stepped past the blocked front entrance. No way to get through the rolled over door.
Further along the belly of the aircraft Watkins noticed two bodies pinned under a Humvee. They were Delta Force judging by their attire. It looked like the vehicle broke from the cargo straps and crushed them against the wall. He thought about trying to retrieve dog tags when the C-17 shifted. It whined in protest as it rolled toward the right. Watkins scrambled away from the wayward vehicle. He looked from the Humvee to the corpses and couldn’t help
but feel thankful that wasn’t him. The poor bastards probably never saw it coming. The aircraft eased to a stop, the floor leveling out some. A HK416 assault rifle – he knew because he made it a point to ask one of the Delta Force guys, Haley from California – slid from under the Humvee and came to a stop after hitting Watkins’ boot. He wasn’t sure why he grabbed the weapon. All he knew was that it didn’t feel right leaving it behind. Other than a scuff on the butt, the weapon seemed ready for action.
After the aircraft settled, Watkins knew he had to get the hell out of there before it rolled back to its normal position. If that happened, he’d be a stain under the Humvee too.
A bang came from outside the wrecked aircraft. It droned through the silence like a ghost through a graveyard. Another bang. Watkins followed the sound in the direction of the right wing.
The banging continued in regular intervals. Someone was out there.
Watkins double-timed it through the cracked fuselage. He emerged to find several rows of sugar maples cut in two by the crashed aircraft. The trail of chaos was at least a mile long. It was easy to see where the C-17 first hit by the giant divot in the ground. Skid marks were clearly visible at regular intervals until the aircraft clipped the outer edge of the Adirondacks. Watkins could see the matte grey-blue paint of the left wing some distance away in the vegetation where it had broken free.
He turned his attention to the source of the noise. There were two people, one on top of the wing and another below the inboard engine. It looked like they were trying to knock it down.
Something didn’t seem right. Why wouldn’t they be helping the injured or salvaging supplies from the wreckage? They definitely should have moved the bodies to a more stable location until contacting Command for rescue.
Watkins crouched and inched along the outer fuselage, watching. One of the Delta Force guys was lying on his stomach hitting the engine with a long chunk of metal. The engine swayed, spewing fuel on the ground below. If the fire reached it, well, Watkins didn’t want to think about what would happen.
“Hey, dumb ass, what are you trying to do, kill us?”
The person on the ground turned at the sound. There was no mistaking Sergeant Lopez as she faced Watkins. Her long black hair had fallen from what was left of her bun, blood sticking long black strands to her face. Her arm hung loosely at her side like it was broken. She definitely needed medical attention. Why hadn’t Watkins thought to look for a first aid kit?
Watkins took a step closer. “You okay, Lorena?”
Lopez tensed, her eyes darting from Watkins to the engine with a frantic energy – looking at him with what he’d thought was longing. No, it was something more. She had the look of an addict, of need, just like his cousin back home in Trenton. She inclined her head and narrowed her eyes. It was almost like she was unsure what to do. Her eyes moved around and Watkins could almost see her brain working with thought.
“It’s me, Solomon. What happened to you?”
Lopez’s lip curled up in a snarl. A low growl rumbled from her chest and up to her throat just like a dog.
Watkins stopped, tensed. As Lopez’s eyes moved, he thought he noticed that her sclera weren’t white. He stared. The next time her eyes moved toward the engine he was positive. Each sclera was blue – the color of electricity – instead of white. Weird.
Think as he may, Watkins couldn’t come up with anything that would turn a person’s eyes that color. No disease, condition, or sickness… nothing. This whole scene seemed a little too surreal. Maybe he was still strapped to the chair in the C-17 in a coma. Maybe he was dead. That would make more sense than what he was seeing.
Lopez took a step toward him, spewing a guttural challenge; her eyes no longer unsure but wild and threatening, soulless.
“Don’t move, Lorena.” Watkins raised his weapon.
Without warning Lopez raged toward him, screaming at the top of her lungs. Watkins watched dumbfounded as her head ballooned outward with each step. His legs seemed to know what to do before his brain. He slowly backed up until a large stump stopped his retreat. Lopez kept coming. She was about twenty yards away and closing fast.
Watkins could see her scalp rippling. It looked like two shapes were moving, almost scrabbling around between her skull and scalp. Faster and faster the lumps moved around the circumference of Lopez’s head until she abruptly dropped to her knees, clutching her skull. She was less than ten yards away and her screams of agony echoed off the mountainside.
Watkins instinctively pointed the gun at her.
Lopez reached a hand toward him, the snarl replaced by a look of confusion, pleading. Under her skin the two lumps sped faster and faster. Watkins actually heard her skull crack. Lopez screamed one last time, clawing at the ground, pulling herself closer to Watkins. Then, incredibly, her head burst apart like a piñata at a kid's birthday party. Instead of candy, bone, brains, blood and… something else rained down.
Watkins jumped back, pain knifing through his ribs. His mind raced, trying to comprehend what he'd just witnessed. This wasn’t supposed to happen. People’s heads didn’t just explode. He was only a mechanic sent to fix an aircraft. Nobody was supposed to die.
He looked down at the body and saw a quick flitter of movement. Watkins leaned forward for a closer look. It was difficult to pinpoint through the remnants of Lopez’s head, but eventually the thing slithered onto her back.
It looked like some kind of black worm, about two inches long with barbed pincers. Its polished body reflected what was left of the light and reminded Watkins of obsidian. He took a few tentative steps forward. The thing – because he had never seen a worm like that before – stopped moving and almost seemed to be waiting. Another emerged from the carnage that used to be Lopez’s head, moving through the grass toward Watkins. Nasty little buggers.
“Back away. Slowly,” a voice whispered from behind. “They don’t live long without a host.”
Watkins wanted to turn and see who the voice belonged to but didn’t. It was nice to hear a real, human voice. He moved back with steady, even steps while watching the black worms. They were moving faster now slithering around in circles, probably looking for a new brain to explode. Why weren’t they going for the idiot banging away at the engine?
As if on cue, the Delta Force guy smashed the engine one more time. A moment later it crashed onto the ground below, jet fuel pissing from the broken manifolds.
Lopez’s worms had slowed. They raised their tiny heads to the sky and opened their pincers, screeching. With a buzz and an arc of what looked like electricity they exploded.
“What the hell were those things?” Watkins turned and saw a soldier dressed in head to toe black crouched near the crack in the fuselage. The soldier motioned him back.
“The worms? I wish I knew.” He pointed to what was left of Lopez, “That your friend?”
Watkins crouched and nodded.
“The same thing happened to a couple of guys from my squad. We call them screamers. Next time put a bullet through the host’s head before they get too close. The worms will still bust out but at least they won’t get inside you. I’ve seen one slither up a guy’s nose. It isn’t pretty.”
“Got a name for him too?” Watkins asked pointing to the Delta Force soldier who was pressing a shard of metal the size of a small book into his stomach. There were already pieces of metal covering his arms. His eyes shone with the same electric-blue light as Lopez’s.
“Those would be ironhides. They stick metal all over themselves like homemade armor. Even seen one pick up a gun and shoot another man down.” The soldier took two silent steps forward and fired. The bullet struck the infected soldier in the eye. As the fresh corpse fell, three worms broke free from the confines of his head. “RIP brother.”
“Who are you?”
The soldier smiled. “I’m Chen. We were sent to investigate a... discovery.” Chen looked up at the darkening sky. “C’mon, let’s get away from here before more freaks show up. The worms see
m to be able to communicate. That screeching you heard was a call for help.” He looked inside the wreckage. “That Humvee operational?”
“Beats me,” Watkins said with a shrug. “I didn’t have time to find out as I was falling out of the sky and crashing, not to mention all the weird shit going down after I woke.”
Chen looked from the Humvee to Watkins. “We’ve got to find out. That’s probably our best chance at getting the hell out of here in one piece. There’s a naval base not too far south of here. Edgerton Springs.”
Chen crept through the tear in the fuselage, Watkins staying close.
Chen glanced through the passenger-side window. “Steering lock. If we can find the loadmaster, we should find the keys.”
“He’s not here.”
“Duh,” Chen said. “I just want to make sure the Humvee isn’t fried.”
Chen tried the Humvee's door. It opened. He looked around a minute before releasing the hood. “Take a look and tell me what you see.”
Watkins walked around to the front of the vehicle. To his surprise everything looked in order. The battery didn’t have any char marks like he thought it would. “Looks good,” he whispered back.
Careful to make as little noise as possible, Watkins eased the hood down.
“I want you to stay here while I get the others,” Chen said, inspecting his weapon. “I’ll be back in five.”
“But you just said we should get out of here. What do you want me to do?”
Chen pointed to the open Humvee. “I want you to get in and be quiet.”
A feeling of dread settled in the pit of Watkins’ stomach. He eyed the corpses suspiciously before looking back at Chen. “I’m just a mechanic.”
“C’mon, there’s nothing to be scared of. Those guys won’t be getting up anytime soon.”
“You don’t know that,” Watkins snapped.
The smile faded from Chen’s face. “Look, I move faster alone. You’ll only slow me down. And, besides, someone has to stay with the Humvee.”
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror Page 4