SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

by Jonathan Maberry

  The thing still had two legs and two arms, yet beyond that he would have been hard pressed to say what might seem humanoid about it. The body was wrong. Too broad, and covered in wiry fur. The head seemed to grow directly from the torso, and while he knew the thing must surely see, the only features that made any sense were the teeth that filled a mouth far too large for the rest of the hellish shape.

  The thing roared again and Folsom aimed and fired, and then fired twice more. His aim was true, and a hole blossomed in the center of the demon’s chest. It stepped back and then fell back and landed in the dirt, rolling and thrashing, slamming into the shuddering, dying horse, which once again let out a scream of panic and pain.

  His men did their best to get away from both shapes, but even as they tried to escape, the other horsemen were coming and they, too, changed. While Folsom was busy trying to kill the first nightmare, a pack of equally-unsettling things dropped from their horses, snarling, bleating, screaming, and attacking the members of the Cavalry.

  They were none of them the same. Each was a different form of nightmare; some thickset and low to the ground, others long-limbed and far too tall for a human. The horses fled, kicking and screaming up a hellish noise, crushing everything that got in their way as they made as much distance as they could from the hellish things.

  The only thing they had in common was that each and every one of the nightmares was, indeed, as white as snow. They were ghostly, horrid things that scared him to the point he thought he’d piss himself.

  The thing he’d shot got back up. It wasn’t completely white anymore. There was a lot of blood spilling from the wounds he’d put in it, but that didn’t seem to be enough to stop it. There was no face, just that damnable mouth full of fangs as it screeched and leapt at him.

  And then the pale white man he’d been ready to lock in irons pushed past him and fired a shotgun blast into the open mouth of the thing. The barrel was just past Folsom’s face and he felt the detonation as much as he heard it. After that he wasn’t hearing much of anything. His ears seemed too stuffed with cotton to make sense of the words spoken.

  Just the same, he understood the gesture when the albino swept him aside and fired the second barrel of his weapon. The thing he shot did not get up again. They were tough, but they were not indestructible.

  Crowley was next, moving past him with no sign of a weapon in his hands and that mad grin of his spreading across his face.

  His hearing was coming back enough that he heard the words from the smiling man’s mouth. “What are they, Mister Slate?”

  The gaunt man shook his head. “No idea, Mister Crowley, but I believe they are connected to whatever is drawing me here.”

  One of the things, too thin and too tall and reaching for a private who was screaming and staring down at the stump where his hand had been, turned its attention to the man named Slate and let out a sound like a cat hissing, if that cat was the size of a bear.

  Crowley stepped around the gaunt one and blocked the oversized hand that reached for the albino. He struck hard enough that the nearly-skeletal thing reared back in shock. It was almost twice as tall as a man and had a face that was stretched and thin and filled with teeth the size of knives.

  “No. I don’t think you want to do that.” Crowley kept smiling.

  Folsom shook off his confusion and decided to handle the matter. The revolver kicked when he pulled the trigger and he watched the left half of the thing’s neck explode in a gout of crimson that splashed both of the men.

  Slate flinched as the thing screamed and clutched at the wound. That made Folsom feel a little better about his own fear.

  Crowley stepped in closer and kicked the spindly leg of the thing with the heel of his boot. Bones snapped and the ghostly white demon fell as surely as if struck by an axe.

  Folsom felt something touch his leg, and almost shrieked. He looked down and aimed his Colt at the source of whatever was touching him. It was Song. Half of the Chinaman’s face had been carved into bloody red trenches and his eye was missing. He clutched at Folsom’s pant leg and let out a sound. And then he died.

  Folsom shook his head, angrier at the loss of the heathen than he would have ever expected. “That’s enough of this madness!” he roared, and all around him the soldiers stopped their panic, or at least calmed it down. They were soldiers and they were used to combat. What they needed, what they always needed, was someone to lead them. “Kill these damned things!”

  To make his point he aimed at the next of the things close enough for him to hit, and fired. The shot went astray and only clipped one overly large ear on the beast. When it looked at him, really looked at him, Folsom knew he’d made a horrible mistake. He’d have apologized if he could have found the words, but it was on him far too quickly. Folsom let out a yelp as clawed fingers ripped into his coat and the beast lifted him into the air, baring impossible teeth and roaring directly into his face.

  Folsom aimed his weapon and fired, and nothing at all happened.

  He tried again.

  Nothing.

  “Well, damn.” It was all he could think to say.

  * * *

  The captain was staring at his death, and Crowley was tempted to let it take him. As a boy he’d been a scared, confused little thing. As a man he smacked of too much cocky attitude and too little common sense. Worse, he was actually making himself useful. It was easier to ignore men who were useless and cocky about it.

  Still, at the moment there were other considerations, like the damned things chewing their way through a dozen soldiers. They were monsters, yes, but nothing he’d ever seen before. They did not reek of the demons he was used to, and they were not spirits in any sense he was familiar with.

  When he’d come to the New World he’d done so to study these exact sorts of creatures. There had been a definite excitement in finding new and interesting beings in a land he had never been to before.

  That excitement had not changed. Adding to it was the sheer variety of shapes that these creatures took. They were, he had no doubt, of similar ilk. They had to be.

  Even things that ran in packs seldom liked to mingle with different creatures.

  That was the part that made him smile.

  Crowley saw Lucas Slate grab the thing holding the captain and haul it backward by the scruff of its bullish neck. It let out a yowlp of surprise and so did the Cavalryman. The good news for the captain was that it let go of him. That was also the bad news for Slate. The thing he was holding onto moved like a sack of cats held over a roaring fire. It twisted and whipped its arms in wide arcs and screeched as it turned on Crowley’s companion, and both of them stumbled back and fell.

  Before Crowley could get to them, they were lost in the crush of people.

  A soldier aimed for the area where they’d fallen and Crowley knocked him aside, throwing off his aim as he waded into the crush of flesh. People moved and thrashed and pushed in and out of his view. Crowley ignored them all, save to push them aside. Somewhere ahead of him, not but a few feet to be sure, but in the press of struggling bodies it might well have been miles, his companion was down on the ground and fighting.

  When the bullish thing flew through the air, it was as limp as a sack of horse dung. The thing trailed blood, and as it rose into the air, Lucas Slate stood, covered in the same crimson stains and looking truly enraged.

  His shirt had been torn apart and deep cuts ran along the left side of his muscular chest. Those cuts bled, a reminder that he was still at least partially human despite his appearance.

  Slate looked around and stooped long enough to grab his fool hat from the ground. That hat had seen better days and likely would have been thrown away by most people, but the battered old thing with its dusty band and the broken feathers sticking from the same went back on Slate’s head before he looked around and the rage faded from his expression.

  It was a calmer expression he wore as he reached for his Navy revolvers and started aiming.

 
Crowley had the good sense to stay well away from the man as he pulled the triggers. The first bullet blew a hole through a white, scaly thing with too many eyes, and also took the hand from one of the Cavalry. The creature flopped to the ground and twitched. The soldier fell to his knees and screamed. By the time those two things had occurred, Slate had turned his attention to the next target and fired with that same dead expression on his face. Boom! The creature fell. Slate’s mouth twisted into a feral snarl and he fired again. The bullets from his weapon were a reminder that death could be sudden and violent. Another explosive noise and the Indians and the soldiers alike were quickly backing away from Slate. He stood taller than any of them and he looked like the Grim Reaper ready for the harvest. The only things that didn’t run were the white nightmares around them. They should have fled but it seemed beyond them to reason that well. Instead they charged toward Slate and he fired again and again until the last of them fell at his feet.

  Through it all, Jonathan Crowley watched with his eyes narrowed to slits and a grin frozen in place.

  When the final beast had fallen, Lucas Slate looked at Captain Folsom and shook his head. “I do not currently feel inclined to go with you for trial.” Both of the weapons were still in his hands and the barrels of the Navy six-shooters were smoking in the cold air.

  Folsom stared at the spectre before him for ten heartbeats without responding and then finally he said, “Currently, I do not feel much inclined to argue the matter, sir. We have all of us had a day already.”

  “Indeed.”

  Folsom called for his men to gather the dead and the wounded. His voice was weaker than before and his hands shook. That did not make him a coward in Crowley’s eyes. It merely made him human.

  He rather envied the soldier that.

  * * *

  Folsom sat in his newly-appropriated office in town. He thought about the day’s events. All told, if you counted the Chinaman – and he did – he had lost seven men, and the number of wounded was higher still.

  Somehow he had avoided getting injured himself. The men looked up to him and none of them had missed that he was in the heart of the combat. They knew he hadn’t stood behind the lines and watched them take the damage. No, he had come out to the assistance of all when the damned Indians had attacked.

  Being as he was in the middle of town when the attack took place he should have expected some sort of coalition of townsfolk, but he was caught flatfooted. The men who came before him were dressed, as gentlemen should dress, in proper suits with vests and with matching shoes. That was an accomplishment at least half the time; at least it had been since he crossed into areas across the Mississippi from home. That said, they needed a good wash and not a one of them seemed familiar with the idea of shaving. The facial hairs were long and the facial expressions were dour.

  They’d been droning on for a while now, long enough for him to get the gist. They wanted the soldiers gone. Or they wanted assurances, or they wanted the Indians dead. Something of that sort.

  When he’d heard enough he raised one hand and the conversations stopped. “What exactly do you gentlemen want? Pick one thing. I haven’t the time to listen to every complaint you have. I need to report the deaths of my soldiers and I need to prepare your town for any more possible Indian attacks.”

  A black haired man sporting the most impressive mustache Folsom had ever seen, spoke. As his lips moved, his mustache jittered and jumped. It was nearly mesmerizing. “There wouldn’t be any Indian attacks if you’d left well enough alone.” The man leaned forward and planted his hands on the long oak table the captain had commandeered to act as his desk. “We had us an understanding. We didn’t piss on them and they didn’t come along and try to kill us. You notice how they only went for soldiers? There was a reason for that.”

  Folsom stood and gave the man his best hard look. It was a good one because the fellow took two paces back, shaking his head. “Do you know who I am, sir? Do you even begin to know why I am here? I’m here because I was called here by one of your own. A telegram was sent to Washington, D.C. and that in turn was considered and then acted upon. I am the result of that telegram.”

  “And who the hell sent it?” The mustache trembled with righteous indignation. Folsom knew the man he was speaking to had eyes, but he had not yet been able to focus on them enough to consider the character they might reveal.

  “Allucius Sheppard.” Folsom reached into his jacket pocket and fumbled out the original paper. “Says here he’s the mayor of this town.”

  The mustache tightened for a moment and then trembled even more. “Al? Al Sheppard not only isn’t the mayor of anything, he’s dead!” Several voices murmured their agreement. “The damned fool drank himself to death. Passed out and choked on his own regurgitation. And besides, he was never in charge of a damned thing around these parts.”

  Folsom felt a flush run into his cheeks. “Be that as it may, I have my orders to get rid of the red man in this area and I intend to follow those orders.” He leaned onto the table and heard it creak threateningly under his weight. “I’ve spent time listening to your concerns, gentlemen. Until I hear otherwise, my duty is to remove the Indians from this area and keep your town safe. Good day.”

  “We were already safe!” Mustache shook his fist and looked like he might even consider using it against Folsom but decided at the last moment not to get himself shot. “Leave us to our own devices, sir! We have to live here when you’re done with your damned orders.”

  The man turned his back and stomped away before Folsom could respond, and after a brief hesitation the rest of the sorry lot followed suit.

  Folsom settled back behind his desk and started composing his explanation of the day’s events. Colonel Hartshorn would want to know what had happened and he’d need to offer a proper defense. The loss of so many and that on top of being caught unawares, was not going to sit well. Folsom dreaded the shit storm that would surely be coming his way.

  He had no idea.

  * * *

  Lucas Slate squinted at his reflection in the dusty mirror. The clothes were nice, a gift from Crowley, and they fitted properly. The tailor had a suit that was supposed to be picked up and never was – the man had died, apparently – and while it took a bit of waiting while the adjustments were made, the final result was worth the patience.

  Crowley eyed him critically enough to make him wonder if the man had ever spent time as a tailor himself. Finally he nodded his satisfaction and counted out coins for the man who’d sold the suit.

  “There is a haberdashery at the edge of the saloon over that way,” the tailor said as he pointed vaguely, which, as the town had no proper streets, was the best that could be managed, “should you like a new hat as well.”

  Slate stared at the man for a moment and then simply shook his head.

  Crowley walked for the door of the shop after thanking the tailor.

  Slate watched Crowley break into one of his smiles. “What?” Slate was slipping his hat in place and almost managing a scowl.

  “I have seen men less devoted to their wives than you are to your hat, Mister Slate.”

  “And had I a wife, perhaps I’d care less about my hat, sir.”

  “I should rather not consider the ramifications of that statement.”

  Slate reared back as if slapped and then chuckled. “You’ve a vile mind, Mister Crowley.”

  “Now, tell me about the pale thing you saw before everything went mad.”

  “He was tall and thin and pale. Looked to me as if he might be an Indian, but as washed of color as me.” Slate looked away. “He spoke to me in some language I have never heard, but I understood him. He said we would meet again.”

  “You were pale when we met. You are an albino, after all, but you are a different sort of pale now.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Your skin lacked pigment before. Now it has more color to it, but that color is white. That’s really the best way I can put it.”


  Slate nodded and pursed his thin lips. “He was too thin.”

  “What do you mean?” Crowley looked puzzled.

  “I mean I am thin, but I am still a possibility. He was taller than me and thinner than me. He looked impossible. His body is too thin and his arms and legs so very long and his head shape was thinner even than mine.”

  Crowley stared at him for a long moment and finally nodded. “That thing we dealt with in Carson’s Point was a bit like that. But only a bit.”

  “I never truly saw the thing but towards the end, and frankly I was a bit too unsettled by what was happening to me to much care at that point.”

  “You touched a stone. The stone went into you. We’ve discussed that before, of course. We know that the stones were put into the – whatever the hell it might be’s – chosen victims and they changed, but it wasn’t the same as these things. These were sudden and the bodies didn’t stay changed.”

  Slate looked at him. “Did they not?”

  “No.” Crowley looked back just as hard, his face impossible to read past that damnable grin of his. “They became what they once were when they died. They were Indians, but we knew that.”

  “Why do you suppose they attacked?”