SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

by Jonathan Maberry

  Jax stood and half bowed. “Retrieval or destruction, Yes sir.” And Gimp interrogation authorized.

  That’s more like it, he thought.

  ~6~

  Klaus Hoffman scribbled the note as quickly as he could, folded it once and dropped it into the box on top of the fossil. Picking up the tape gun, he set about sealing it, then writing a name and address on the top. He finished by plastering it with way too many stamps. He held it up and looked at the name he’d written. The only teacher he had ever listened to – Professor Matt Kearns. When it came to all things old, Kearns seemed to know everything about everything.

  “And no charge for this one.” He giggled with just a hint of panicked insanity. “My last good deed.”

  Hoffman looked at his watch. Half past four – he had to get back to Doris and check in before it got dark. She’d panic if she didn’t hear from him by nightfall. It was his idea that they split up, as he bet they were looking for a couple – at least this way, he could move quickly if he needed to.

  He jumped to his feet and walked to the door, placed his ear against it to listen for a second and then quickly unlocked the multiple bolts. He opened it an inch, and looked through the crack. He planned to run to the mail chute, throw in the package, and be back inside in fifteen seconds.

  A door at the end of the corridor opened and old Mrs. Silberman starting easing herself out – all tent-like, stained cotton dress and wiry gray hair, also in need of a wash. He slammed his door and leaned back against it, surprised at how his heart rate had jumped for nothing.

  “Calm down, calm down. Next thing you’ll be the one seeing goblins,” he whispered to himself.

  He laughed again as he let his eyes slide around the small decrepit room. The place was a mess, but it didn’t matter, he and Doris would move again by the end of the week. It only took Doris a few days before she said she felt like she was being watched. It was always the same – there was whispering going on in the walls and she was sure her place was bugged. Klaus sighed; he loved her, but she was driving him crazy, becoming more paranoid by the day – making him more paranoid by the day. The final straw was when she told him she thought she saw a goblin… a freaking goblin for chrissakes.

  He looked at his room again – all the windows were taped over with newspaper, the phone had been pulled from the wall, the power sockets taped over, and even the door keyholes blocked up. She’s paranoid, but I’m fine, he thought, giggling again.

  His one luxury was the ancient television that remained on day and night. He looked across to the old black and white box as the robotic newsreader reeled off the names of the latest drive-by shooting victims, domestic violence punching bags, and other assorted attacks on the human sheep of life. But the next story about a bizarre murder was like an ice pick to the back of the neck – Professor Julius Cohen, the head of paleontology at the University of Tübingen, was believed the victim of a bizarre execution. His remains were as yet formally unidentified, and it was expected that confirmation might not be possible given the state of the body.

  Klaus walked towards the television, the package still under his arm, and stood trance-like before the flickering screen. The final part of the story nearly made him double over. Cohen’s apparent murder brought the number of bizarre killings to three, as Julius Cohen now joined Professors Carl Ingram and Rudi Hokstetor as victims in what police were dubbing the Incinerator Murders.

  Klaus’ mouth hung open. He knew those men, knew all of them. He had sent each and every one of them a piece of the fossil skeleton. He flopped back into a ratty armchair and grabbed his head. Did he do that? Was it his fault they were dead? Was someone killing anyone who touched the bones? He knew that the complete skeleton was valuable but he didn’t think it was worth killing people for. He put the box down, and backed away from it.

  “Think, think.” He paced quickly around the small room. “Gotta get out.” He started filling his pockets with his wallet, phone, and keys when a knock on the door made him cry out. He quickly put a hand over his mouth and listened.

  The knock came again. “Klaus? Hello Klaus, are you there? Timmy Boy has got out of his cage again and I need your help. Klaus?”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. He exhaled. Old Mrs. Silberman and that parakeet would be the death of him. Do one good deed and suddenly you’re an adopted son… and one required to do everything from change light bulbs to recapturing bad tempered parrots that had more escape tricks than Houdini and a beak sharp enough to slice bacon.

  Klaus stayed where he was, thinking through his options. Should he scream at her to fuck off? That’d send a clear message. He grimaced; nah, much as he’d love for her to leave him alone, he wasn’t quite ready to be a total asshole. He eased himself down in the chair. He’d wait her out. The knocking continued. He looked at his watch again and rubbed his head, glaring at the door.

  C’mon, Mrs. Silberman, go home, willya? He needed to get the fuck outta here and find Doris. He suddenly had a bad feeling about this place.

  ~7~

  Heisen read through his notes. In the following days, more bodies had turned up – or better said, more bodies had burned up. The coroner had hinted at spontaneous combustion. Alcohol abuse, ball lightning, faulty wiring; all were listed as possible causes. But none of the suggestions actually explained the heat generated, the peculiar explicit targeting of individuals, nor the ability of the heat source to simply switch on and off.

  Funny thing was, Heisen was beginning to see a pattern. The closer he came to finding this Klaus guy, the more the ash trails began to pile up. Coincidence, or was there a link? Heisen bounded up the stairs, knocking once on the open door, holding up his badge and heading straight over to where Amos talked with some other uniforms.

  “Officer Amos; another nice day for a cookout?” Heisen raised an eyebrow and winked, but the older cop half turned, gave him a look like he’d just noticed dog shit on his shoe, and immediately went back to talking softly with his younger colleagues. Heisen waited, awkwardly.

  Finally, Amos issued instructions to his men and turned to him. “You would be the brains of the Kripo, huh?” Amos said as he sauntered away.

  Heisen followed. “Hey, lighten up will ya? I just…”

  Amos spun at him, stepping in closer. “You just what? Listen, Heisen, why don’t you shut the hell up, unless you’ve got some answers for us? You know; from all your de-tect-ing work.”

  Ed Heisen frowned, taken back by the animosity in the normally laconic police sergeant. The guy must have been getting his ass kicked by his boss. He held up his hands. “Okay, sorry.” Heisen motioned to the forensics guys moving about in the next room. “What have you got: another carbonized corpse?”

  Amos lips compressed, but he led the detective into the kitchen. Heisen smelled the odor that was becoming too familiar to him – ozone. Amos pointed to the corner.

  Heisen winced. “Christ.”

  The body, or partial body was laid out on the floor – the arms and legs were nothing but ash outlines, to the shoulders and hips, where the body was intact again. The head was still attached, but gruesomely, one eye, the ears and the nose were gone – seared away, but black and cauterized. As usual, there was no sign of blood, as if something had snap-burnt the limbs and facial features away.

  “Well?” Amos went down on one knee, and swept his hand over the body. “C’mon, tell me what you think?”

  Heisen crouched beside Amos to study the woman, or what was left of her. Mid-seventies, cheap cotton dress in need of a clean, nothing of value on her. Her hair was wiry and gray, and looked like it needed a wash. But it was her face that drew his attention – even though one eye, the nose and ears had been removed, he could see the mix of pain and fear still imprinted there.

  “Torture.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Amos jumped as the word floated in from behind them. Heisen spun to see the tall black-clad agent standing behind him, towering over them. His eyes moved over the old woman’s remains. He squat
ted beside Amos, not apologizing for startling the old cop. Amos swallowed, and shook his head, turned back to the crime scene.

  “Who are you?” asked Heisen.

  “Call me Monroe,” said the big man. He clasped his hands together on his knees. “In Iraq, we lost a man on a mission. When we finally found him… recovered his body, his bones had been broken, starting at the fingers and toes, the impact trauma moving slowly up to his hips and shoulders. Would have taken hours… been agony.”

  Heisen grunted. “I’ve seen that before as well – on the poor saps the Columbian drug gangs had their fun with. Pretty vicious stuff… especially to an old lady.” Heisen looked across at him and nodded. “Detective Heisen.”

  The big man looked at him for a moment, then nodded. He got to his feet, and yelled over his shoulder. “Carter, got a body in here.”

  “Wait a minute.” Amos frowned and turned. “Tortured?” He pointed at the partial corpse. “Agnes Silberman, seventy-seven, with arthritis in both hips and chronic diabetes. She’s on the freakin’ pension and lives by herself. Why the fuck would someone want to torture her? What the hell has this old lady got that someone would do that to her for?”

  Heisen, still crouching, looked at the dry scabbing on the wounds. “What has she got? Maybe not money, maybe nothing… or maybe she had information.”

  Another agent, Heisen assumed it was Carter, entered with a box case and immediately set to work sampling the air, examining the body, and even slicing away some of her skin at her arm’s cauterization line. He pulled out a probe, and lifted an edge of her dress. He let it drop, and then examined the ground beside her, leaning in close to a small outline pressed into one of the ash pipes that used to be a leg. He turned to Monroe. “Got something.” He reached into his bag, pulled out a small can, shook it, and then sprayed something that foamed up onto the small indentation. After a second it changed color and settled flat. He carefully lifted it out, and dusted off the excess ash. Carter stood and showed it to Monroe. Amos and Heisen tried to see around him. Monroe looked at it, his eyes narrowing. He waved it away. “Bag it.”

  Amos squinted at the object as Carter placed it into a small clear envelope. “Is that a footprint?”

  Heisen nodded. “Looks like one… if you’re about three feet tall.”

  “Kid maybe?” Amos responded, eyes following the bag as Carter took it back to the case he’s brought in with him.

  Heisen shrugged. “Sure it is, and why not. Some kid with a laser. You can get all kinda shit on eBay these days.”

  Monroe glared at them both.

  “Boss.”

  Monroe’s head whipped around at the sound of the voice. “Yo.” He turned back briefly to Carter. “Finish up.” Monroe left the room.

  Carter was down low, waving a small box around. He pointed it at Mrs. Silberman’s ruined corpse. Heisen knelt beside him.

  “Weird shit, huh?” Heisen said.

  Carter grunted, keeping his eyes on the small box. Heisen looked over his shoulder, and decided to try his luck. He nodded towards the small box. “Pretty unusual readings.”

  Carter grunted again, staying focused on the small illuminated screen. “Got that right. At least we identified it – xenon.”

  “Xenon? That’s the weird stuff used in flash lamps isn’t it?” Heisen looked back at Mrs. Silberman.

  Carter shook his head. “Not this type. This is 135. Normally Xenon is a gas that occurs in the Earth’s atmosphere. Consists of about eight stable isotopes, and five times that many unstable ones – pretty normal stuff. But 135 is different; it’s not naturally occurring. Used as the propellant for ion thrusters in spacecraft, it’s a neutron absorber in nuclear reactors, and is usually the result of nuclear fission. Nope, Xenon-135 should not be here at all.”

  Heisen stood. “Like I said; weird shit.”

  Heisen turned to Amos, grabbed him by the arm and led him out of the room. “Hey, have you looked in the other apartments yet?”

  Amos shook his head. “Next thing on the list.”

  “Good.” Heisen let him go. “One more thing; anything else weird in here?”

  Amos frowned.

  “Burn marks in odd places maybe?” Heisen asked.

  Amos’ frown unlocked. “Oh yeah, in the bathroom. Looks like the old bat set fire to something – big black oval on the wall.”

  * * *

  Monroe stood with Felzig in the bathroom. There was a three-foot black scorch mark on the wall under the sink. Felzig turned and raised her eyebrows, holding out the small reader in her hands. Monroe exhaled. “Let me guess, gamma off the scale, and more traces of Xenon 135.” She nodded. Carter and Benson joined them, and Monroe turned to Carter. “What could have done that?”

  Carter shook his head. “We’ve got HEL tech mounted on our destroyers. Those High Energy Lasers work at around a hundred kilowatts – that’d do it. Also some industrial lasers, but they’re not portable.” He shrugged. “Bottom line; nothing we’ve got.”

  Monroe stared back out into the hallway. “Well, someone or something is coming in and out, with some pretty high tech… and given what they did to the old woman, seems they’re here to play hardball.” Monroe turned away. “We can do that too.”

  * * *

  In the apartment down the hall, Heisen went quickly from room to room, stopping at one littered with packing tape and brown paper. On the debris strewn table sat an unsent package. He spun it around and read the label – Professor Matt Kearns. He ripped it open.

  “Alas poor Yorick.” He lifted out the skull, holding the brown relic up in his hands. He smiled. “Nice to finally meet you the elusive, Mr. Klaus.”

  Heisen put the skull down and dug deeper into the package, finding an envelope addressed to the professor. He tore it open and quickly scanned it. There was a brief introduction from Klaus, and then description of his find – a complete Neanderthal skeleton, plus one other item. Heisen frowned remembering the picture of Doris Sömmer holding the small metallic device. “One other item, hmm?”

  He turned slowly in the small room. There was a dark scar on the far wall. The curtains hanging beside it had been seared away in a perfect facsimile of the oval burn. Heisen looked back at the letter in his hands. It was signed ‘K’ and had a single mobile phone number at the bottom.

  He pulled out his phone and dialed. It answered after the first ring.

  “Hello Klaus.”

  ~8~

  It took Heisen most of the day and a dozen calls to convince the young man he was who he said he was. But eventually Klaus relented, and… spoke. The kid sounded at near mad panic stage, and after hearing about his girlfriend, he was close to disappearing for good.

  Heisen wanted to meet with Klaus. He sat on a park bench, waiting for his phone to ring. He looked up at the sky, watching the clouds lengthen and fragment, and he turned his focus inward, sorting through what he knew in his mind. Klaus and Doris had found something in Germany – a Neanderthal skeleton and something else, as yet undetermined. The kid wouldn’t give him any details over the phone, but confirmed they found something strange entombed with the fossil – something that didn’t belong there.

  Now, the girl was dead, many of the scientists that Klaus had sent bits of the skeleton to were dead, and his landlady was dead… and added to that, she died horribly. It was a trail a mile wide, and leading straight to Mr. Klaus Hoffman.

  If the group had just been hit over the head, or stabbed or shot, Heisen might conclude they were only after the skeleton. A find that one museum expert suggested could be worth half a million. Big money, especially considering you could get someone whacked for a measly fifty bucks these days.

  But the way the murders were executed defied belief. Forensic analysis and the subsequent Coroner’s report said that the incineration reached temperatures in excess of two thousand three hundred degrees. And the concentration meant that it was consistent with some sort of high intensity laser. But one that left no burn residue, just a nice n
eat cauterization.

  Nobody had any idea what type of device or weapon was used – even one from the military’s research and development arsenals. And the kicker was the throwaway comment by the Coroner – out of this world, she said, as she closed the book on the Sömmer girl’s inquest.

  “Out of this world.” Heisen repeated softly.

  He jumped when the phone rang in his hand. “Shit.” He quickly jammed it against his ear.

  “Detective Edward Heisen.” There was a pause.

  “It’s me.”

  Heisen breathed a sigh of relief at hearing the young man’s fear filled voice. “Hi Klaus. How you doing?”

  Several seconds of silence greeted his question, and Heisen thought he would ring off. But there came an intake of breath, a clearing of the throat and then Klaus came back on.

  “Not good.”

  “We can help you,” Heisen responded automatically.

  “Bullshit. No one can. There’s fucking little people after me… and they can walk right through the walls.”

  Heisen squeezed the phone as he concentrated. “What do you mean by little people?”

  “I’m not mad.” Klaus said softly.

  “I know you’re not. In fact I believe you. Tell me where you are, son.” Heisen felt he was holding his breath.

  The silence stretched again. “Wilson Street… number seventeen. Third floor, apartment 3B. It’s an old brownstone.”

  Heisen knew the area, and told him so. “It’ll take me twenty minutes to get to you. Stay inside and keep the doors locked.”

  “Are you shitting me? I’m never going outside again.” Klaus rung off.

  * * *

  Heisen pulled in to the curb and sat for a moment as he examined the dark brown building on Wilson Street.

  “Little people,” he said to the windscreen as he searched for anything out of the ordinary in the building’s third floor windows. “Fucking little people.”

  If he’d had the conversation in an Irish bar he would have got the joke. But the weird oval burn holes, the even weirder way people were being killed, and the tiny footprints left behind in Mrs. Silberman’s ash outline – those tiny, perfect footprints – he didn’t think it was a kid for a second. The foot was too narrow – like an adult’s, but much smaller. Something was seriously weird and it was no joke.