SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

by Jonathan Maberry

  The kid, he’s game, and he blasts it again, and it does that thing with his head, and I want to warn him, but my mouth is so dry, and I can’t get a sound out. Not a word. And [NAME REDACTED], he dies because I can’t even talk. The thing spits at him, like, but it’s that green fire again, and the kid goes up like a torch. He’s burning and screaming, and thrashing around, and the green flame is covering him, and the screams are getting weaker...

  OSS: Do you need some water?

  MARINE: What I need, they don’t let me have in here, brother. But yeah, water will do. *sounds of movement, liquid, gulping* Thanks. You’re OKAY, even if you just want to hear this damn story, like everyone else.

  OSS: Have you told many people?

  MARINE: *choking laughter* Enough to land here. But who am I going to tell who doesn’t think I’m totally crazy? *sound of drinking* Yeah. The kid, he dies. All burned up. The Jap, he knows what to do, like he was waiting for it. The Oni is burning the kid like kindling, and the Jap jumps at the thing, and it’s a high jump, and he swings that damn katana? Is that what you called it? Yeah, OKAY, katana, and it takes the damn thing’s head clean off. The head flies through the air like a basketball, and the fire on the sword, it burns brighter, like it’s celebrating. Maybe it was. The Jap, he yells something, like a war cry, sounding all triumphant, you know?

  OSS: And what did you do?

  MARINE: Well, there’s a war going on, right? And he’s a Jap, even if he did just kill a demon, or an Oni, or whatever it was. And if he’d been faster, [NAME REDACTED] might have lived through it all. But he wasn’t, and [NAME REDACTED] was dead, and the Oni, it turned back into that smoke and drifted apart, like when my granddaddy used his pipe to make smoke rings. You ever see that? A big smoke ring, and something hits it, and it just breaks apart?

  OSS: What happened next?

  MARINE: Right, yeah. So, he killed a demon. But we’re at war, see? And the kid just died. So the Jap is turning, and facing the sun, and talking or praying or whatever the hell he was doing. And I pulled my rifle off my shoulder and I shot the son of a bitch like I shoulda oughta done when I first saw him. And all that grace? It was gone. He fell like a sack of potatoes. Just fell on the ground like.

  OSS: And what did you do?

  MARINE: Hell, what could I do? I took his pistol and his sword for trophies, like. And I found his pack nearby, and his damn little tent, and wrapped up [NAME REDACTED] in it and I sorta carried him, sorta dragged him back to the boat. I’m not sure they believed me about what happened. No, not the Oni, I wasn’t that dumb. I told him we surprised a Jap who had a flamethrower, and [NAME REDACTED] got too close.

  OSS: Did you tell anyone?

  MARINE: *bitter laughter* Yeah, I had to. The boys, they saw I was acting screwy when we left. They thought I was shell-shocked or something, so they made me talk to the shrink. And he, he just kept asking me what happened over and over, and he knew when I was lying, I swear. So, finally, I broke down, and I told him what really happened. And now I’m here in the bug house. Preacher always said, “The truth will set you free.” Not this time, huh?

  OSS: Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.

  MARINE: Yeah, that and a nickle would get me a cup of coffee, if they let me drink coffee in here. Am I ever getting out of here? Really?

  OSS: I don’t know.

  MARINE: Well, thanks for not shining me on, anyway. *sound of chair scraping* I don’t know what else I could’ve done. We’re at war. He was a Jap. He could do things a normal guy couldn’t. I had to shoot him. Didn’t I?

  OSS: That’s not for me to say. But thank you again for telling me this.

  INTERVIEW ENDS

  – – – – –

  Recommendations: The Marine can’t be allowed to share this story. Someone might believe him at some point. He needs to be silenced. The sword has already been recovered from his effects, and our experts have it now. They disagree as to whether or not it’s a normal sword. It’s better if it’s kept out of the wrong hands.

  This file needs to be sealed and categorised TOP SECRET at least.

  Cold War Gothic

  Weston Ochse

  SAN FRANCISCO

  JULY 18, 1969. PAST MIDNIGHT

  We called for the Box Man a little after midnight, once the police released the crime scene. It took him an hour to get here. We kept him in an out-of-the-way warehouse with some of our other less savory tools. I’d often forget we even had him at our disposal, then once I’d see him again, I’d wonder how in the hell someone could forget something like that.

  Harvey brought it into the home on a leash attached to a metal box completely covering the Box Man’s head. Rusted, riveted, and made of old iron, the weight of it made the Box Man move like a hunchback, favoring one side over the other as he tried to keep the incredible weight upright yet still manage locomotion. A fine mesh screen covered the mouth and eye areas. The only other opening was a circular door on the very top of the box from where he was fed and from where he began his divinations.

  I stood over the place where the body had been. There were still bloody marks where the assailant had bludgeoned the victim.

  Harvey stood beside me and stared at the blood. “Who was it?”

  “Doctor Charles Adams. Nuclear scientist from Lawrence Livermore Labs. When the police ran his name, they saw it was flagged and called us.”

  “Do we know what he was working on?”

  I shook my head and turned to Harvey. He was younger than me by ten years and an up and coming officer. His blue eyes still held the excited patriotism mine had once held. With his blonde hair and youthful appearance, he’d fitted right into the Haight-Ashbury scene in 1967, helping to uncover several attempts to kidnap and possess several young scientists either working on or destined to work on military projects. He was a good kid. I hoped I wasn’t going to get him killed. I seemed to have a habit of doing that.

  “I put in a call. They’re sending over a liaison. We have a meeting at eight A.M.”

  Harvey glanced around the room. “Did you find any I can use?”

  I pointed to a corner high above the bedroom door where a flat tangled web could be seen.

  “Common house spider.” He handed the leash to me and looked around for something to stand on. “Wish it was a black widow. They don’t miss a thing.” He shoved a chest-high bureau beneath the web, knocking over several books and a bottle of cologne, which thankfully didn’t break.

  “But then you’d have to deal with all the drama,” I added. The Box Man had shuffled away from the sound of the bureau skidding across the wooden floor. I jerked on the leash and it returned to its position at my side, hunched over with its hands close to its chest. “Better off with the house spider. It’s straight forward and no nonsense.”

  “Just so. If you’ve gotta do something, you might as well do it in style.” He climbed up on the bureau and pulled a glass Gerber baby food jar out of his pocket, removed the top, and scooped the spider from the web.

  I turned to the Box Man, trying to make eye contact through the wire mesh. “Listen, you do it right, I’ll reward you with rats.”

  It giggled and stuttered. “Ra-ats. Ba-ats. Ca-ats. Momma says yum yum.”

  Although it had once been a middle-aged man, it now had the high-pitched voice of a little girl. No matter how many times I heard it I got chills. “No cats and no bats, Boxie. Just rats.”

  Harvey came up and held out the glass jar where a startled spider now sat, legs arched, prepared to defend itself. “Ready?”

  “Why not?” I twisted open the screw that kept the door shut on the top of the box. The door opened, revealing the scarred top of the Box Man’s head. Whisps of oily brownish-gray hair shot up in lonely clumps around massive scarring. “Spider’s coming, Boxie.”

  “Mamma says yum yum.” It made slurping sounds.

  I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose.

  Harvey dumped the spider onto the Box Man’s head, then I closed the door, m
aking sure to tighten the screw.

  I released the leash and stood back.

  “It tickles. Tee hee.” Then the Box Man jerked. “It bites. Bad spidle. Bad bad spidle.” It began to gyrate, jerking its head left, then right. “Spidle wants to play.”

  It twisted fully around, almost crashing into me. I was barely able to step aside. Instead, it crashed to the floor where it slammed the metal box several times on the ground.

  A gleeful laugh was followed by slurping sounds.

  I glanced at Harvey as he glanced at me. He shrugged. I did as well. Sometimes this worked and sometimes it didn’t.

  I gestured at Harvey.

  He bent over and put his hands on his knees. “Can you hear me?”

  The Box Man twitched on the floor, minute jerks of its legs and arms.

  “We need to speak with you.”

  The Box Man stilled.

  “You’ve been killed. We need your help finding the—”

  The Box Man sat straight up. “Brown and brown and brown and brown,” it said in a deep voice.

  I felt elation at the connection, but knew this was only the beginning. How much did the fragment remember, and could it communicate, were the big questions now.

  Harvey glanced at me grinning. “What’s brown?”

  “All brown.”

  “Brown and brown and brown and brown?”

  “Yesss. Brown and brown and brown and brown.”

  I wrote it down on my pad and nodded for Harvey to move on.

  “Tell us what happened.”

  It was silent for a moment, then it said, “Broken eyes.”

  I wrote that and circled it twice. I should have known.

  “Tell me about broken eyes.”

  “Broken eyes made me dream. Man with bat hit me hit me hit me hit me hit me hit me hit me--”

  Harvey smacked the side of the metal box with the flat of his hand, stopping the fragment’s loop.

  “Doctor Adams, concentrate.”

  “Kwaj… X-ray flux… Kwaj… X-ray flux… Kwaj…”

  Harvey was about to hit the side of the box once more when it let out a blood curdling scream, which resolved into sobbing.

  “Prison. Plop plop fizz fizz oh what a relief… I’m dying… can’t breathe… my face is… broken… Plop… plop… fizzzzzz…”

  Then the Box Man fell onto its side and was silent.

  Harvey stared somberly at the creature curled up on the ground. “Those last minutes must have been terrible.”

  “He was bludgeoned. We’re just lucky we have what we have.”

  “Make anything of it?” he asked.

  “Garbled ghost talk. We’ll give it to Nancy and see what he can come up with.”

  Harvey grinned. “You know he hates it when you call him Nancy Drew.”

  I matched his grin with one of my own. “I know. That’s why I do it.” I nodded to the Box Man. “Take it home and feed it. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  SAN FRANCISCO.

  JULY 18, 1969. HALF PAST EIGHT

  Our offices were on the third floor of the old Transamerica Corporation offices, in a triangular building on the corner of Columbus and Montgomery. I had a corner office whose window was filled with the construction of what promised to be a two-hundred and sixty meter pyramid. As unpopular as it was to the local populace, who feared a repetition of the giant forest of skyscrapers in New York City, the Transamerica Pyramid was important to the defense of America. In addition to protecting against Soviet agents stealing American technology, Special Unit 77 was also charged with the protection and facilitation of the pyramid’s construction. I’d once thought this gig was going to be a snoozer. Little had I known when I arrived that I’d be so busy my wife would find a better life with our milk man.

  My telephone buzzed. I depressed the blinking square button and waited.

  “Your eight o’clock is here.”

  I went to my door and opened it. I had seven men on the floor, and ten desks. The empty desks were for the three I’d sent to work the construction site. I hardly saw them, but had reports on my desk each morning. The others were filled with my agents, including Harvey Goldsmith and Chiaki Chiba, our resident genius whom I referred to as Nancy Drew.

  My appointment stood at the reception desk speaking with our receptionist, Doris Morgan. The matronly woman was our own special Cerebus. She had the sole ability to tell if someone meant someone else harm. She was perfect for the job, not to mention she could type. I bee-lined to the desk and stuck my hand out to the young Japanese woman waiting for me.

  “David Madsen, chief of Special Unit 77.”

  She shook it firmly. “Rachel Nakamura from Lawrence Livermore.” She narrowed her eyes as she glanced around. “I was under the impression that this was a military unit.”

  “It is. We are. We just don’t promote it.” I turned to Doris. “Any news?”

  She had a friend who worked at Houston space control. Ever since Apollo 11 lifted off two days ago, all eyes were on the sky.

  “Nothing new. They’re due to touchdown in two days. Fingers crossed.” She held up crossed fingers.

  I did the same, then gestured for Ms. Nakamura to follow me. On the way back to my office, I also pointed at Harvey and Nancy Drew, who both stood and hastened to join me. “If we were to come to work in uniform, we’d have the dregs of Haight and Ashbury on our doorstep with signs and singing flower child songs.”

  Harvey frowned. “Careful, now. You’re talking about my people.”

  I made it to my desk and gestured for everyone to sit. Since there were only two chairs, Nancy stood in the back, a notepad against his chest. He had close-clipped black hair and the drawn face of someone who looked as if they never slept. He wore a cardigan over a button down shirt and khaki pants, and looked more like a teacher than the stone cold killer he really was.

  Ever since his undercover stint, Harvey had gone to wearing bright colored clothing. His bright yellow button down was tucked into jeans. He wore docksiders on his feet.

  I wore my usual blue Oxford shirt tucked into khaki pants and Johnston & Murphy shoes. I also wore a safari jacket because I liked its myriad pockets.

  As Rachel sat, it was clear she that she was still bothered by our uniformly non-military appearance. I grabbed a framed picture from the corner of my desk and handed it to her. “This is me and General MacArthur.”

  She took the picture and stared at it. “Gaijin Shogun. When was this taken?”

  “Inchon. 1950. I was a buck lieutenant then and was showing him some destroyed North Korean T-34 tanks. There was sniper fire all around but he was cool as could be. I’d jump every time a round would go off. At least I did until he said, you know they’re aiming at me, right? If they can’t hit me, what makes you think they’ll hit you, lieutenant? I learned more from my interaction with him than I did in the next ten years.”

  She regarded me with a smile. I could tell she had a Caucasian father. “Do you bring out this business card often?”

  “Only when someone comes in here with expectations we can’t match.” I held out my hand and she gave me back the picture. I placed it back in its place of honor. “I’m Colonel David Madsen, but everyone calls me Madsen. That’s First Lieutenant Harvey Goldberg beside you, and behind you is Gunnery Sergeant Chiaki Chiba, but you can call him Nancy Drew.”

  Harvey gave her a youthful grin.

  Nancy Drew gave me a withering look, then bowed and said, “Ohayou Gozaimasu, Nakamurasan.”

  She stood and returned his greeting. They spoke for a few moments in Japanese, then she sat down and returned her attention to me. “I think I understand now.”

  I glanced at Nancy Drew, but he kept his eyes pinned to the floor. “Let’s talk about Doctor Adams.”

  “I’m afraid there’s not much to talk about. His work was highly classified, as you understand.”

  I gave her my patented do-you-take-me-for-a-fool look. “I can assure you that we have the appropriate cleara
nces.”

  “Even so, I’m not at liberty to discuss what he was working on.”

  “My mission is to determine who killed him and why, Ms. Nakamura. Without knowing what he was working on, it’s going to be terribly difficult for me to complete my mission. For all I know, Doctor Adams is the first of many scientists being targeted.”

  She paused as if she were considering, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  I turned to Harvey. “What do we have so far?”

  He grinned as he turned to face her. “X-ray flux,” he said, and her face paled immediately. “The LIM-49, or the Spartan, is a three-stage, solid-fuel, surface-to-air missile with a W71 nuclear warhead capable of delivering lethality to thirty miles. It delivers an X-ray flux to incoming enemy missiles, frying their electronics, causing the target missile to lose target lock and fall from the sky. You tested one last month at Kwajalein Atoll in the South Pacific.”

  Her jaw had dropped to the point where she had to force it closed. She turned to me. “How could you– did he have papers?”

  “If he had papers with him, they are no longer there. My guess is his killer has them.”

  “But you already know.” She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “You must tell me how you know.”

  I nodded to Harvey.

  “We discovered long ago that ghosts are drawn to webs, much like dreams are drawn to dream catchers. Once in the web, the spiders eat the ghosts. We have a Box Man who eats spiders. He told us.”

  She stared uncomprehendingly, then stood. “If you’re going to treat me like this, then—”