SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

by Jonathan Maberry

  Crowley shrugged. “I neither know nor care. Humans do stupid things to humans all the time, Mister Slate. I don’t allow myself the luxury of paying much attention.”

  That was a lie and Slate knew it. They discussed many things on their travels and inevitably what they talked about most was the state of the world around them as gleaned from various newspapers. Crowley bought them and read them insatiably. Still, he did not call the man on his lie.

  “And the soldiers? How do you feel about them being here, Mister Crowley?”

  “I’ve never much taken to soldiers. Been one before, fought in my share of wars and followed orders, but I’ve never liked it. Soldiers are expected to follow orders, no matter how foolish those orders might be.”

  Crowley paused a moment and then asked, “And you? Do you side with the Indians?”

  “No sir, I do not. I side with the people on the streets who are getting caught up in this conflict. I knew what those men intended when it came to the squaws.” He shook his head. “I do not believe that women should be misused.”

  Crowley nodded.

  “And you, Mister Crowley? Do you side with either group?”

  “The Indians were minding their own business. The army was sent by someone. They do not, as a rule come without orders. They are summoned. So one is doing what they have always done and the other is following orders from elsewhere. I can’t say as I much care either way.”

  “You keep saying that sort of thing, and yet, here you are, grinning and wading into conflicts.”

  Crowley’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “My pale companion has gotten himself into trouble and asked for my help. What is a man to do?” His plain face looked around the shop for a moment and then back to Slate. “How does the suit feel?”

  “Like proper clothing, and I thank you for it, Mister Crowley.” Slate ducked his head briefly for a moment, feeling an unaccustomed flash of shame. “I fear I cannot possibly pay you back any time soon.”

  Crowley waved it aside. “I have the money to spare and you have lost all you owned before we met. As we are traveling together for the present time, I can hardly expect you to settle into life as an undertaker again, though I imagine you could have made fair compensation this particular day.”

  “Just the same.”

  “Should I decide you owe me, Mister Slate, you may rest assured you’ll be informed of such debts. Until then, merely accept that under our current circumstances I do not mind investing in your clothes.” He snorted. “Besides which, you were beginning to look too much like an Indian and I need to not confuse you for any other white-skinned Indians we might encounter.”

  “Do you suppose that’s a strong likelihood?”

  “You’ve run across one already and I am fairly certain you are looking forward to a second encounter.”

  “What makes you say that, Mister Crowley?”

  “Because you have a need to understand your place in the universe, Mister Slate.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I have known my place in the universe for a very long time, Mister Slate. And we are still looking into your position.”

  Neither spoke of what might happen when that position was known.

  * * *

  Finding rooms proved challenging, but not impossible. Apparently having a giant albino looming over your shoulder made people more willing to find space for a man in a negotiating mood. The rooms were comfortable enough, and as an added bonus seemed bug free.

  In the morning, Crowley looked at the growth on his face, and trimmed the hairs down to manageable levels rather than shaving them away completely. He knew it wouldn’t last but for the next few days at least he had a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache to fight off the cold.

  When he came downstairs, Slate was already waiting for him, and the small gathering of tables were all filled except for the one where the albino waited. His hat had been mended and looked mostly like it had in the past. Crowley chose not to feed into his obsession and ignored the thing completely. Within twenty minutes they’d eaten and after ten minutes more they were on their way.

  “Where are we going, exactly?” Crowley asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “I’m off to find the other one like me. You are along to keep me out of trouble.”

  Crowley nodded. “I seem to remember something about that.”

  “As it was your idea, I should hope so, sir.”

  Despite the violence of the day, before the crowds were moving about, many of them looking to buy wares and others looking to sell. It was distinctly possible that there were even more wretches moving into the town.

  There were soldiers everywhere they looked, though for the moment none of them seemed to be causing too much trouble. Crowley had no doubt that would change soon enough.

  Folsom had made clear his intention to clean the Indians from the area for the safety of all involved, regardless of how the people felt about that. As it had been Indians starting the shooting the day before – excluding what Slate had accomplished all by himself – it seemed perfectly reasonable to expect the captain and his men to be as prepared as possible.

  A pickpocket tried to steal from Crowley. He stopped the attempt without causing a scene. It was a bad time to be a thief and a worse time to be a child. He decided to let someone else deal with handling the young boy with the grabby hands. The things they’d been bothered by the day before were far more worrisome. Besides which, Crowley kept most of his money hidden where it would never be found. A moment later he changed his mind, and contemplated going after the kid and teaching him a lesson, but it was too late. The would-be thief was long gone.

  * * *

  He watched the other Skinwalker from a distance, and noted the man who walked with him. They were both powerful, as was expected of any Skinwalker, but the one with him, the smiling man, he was a different sort of powerful. He carried himself with confidence and he smiled at almost everything. Not a pleasant smile but a baring of teeth, a warning that the man was deadly beyond most people’s reckoning. Where they walked, people scattered away from them, perhaps without even being aware of it.

  The Skinwalker was aware, of course. That was why he was following them. They were dangerous and they could well be dangerous enough to cause him harm. He would find out soon enough.

  The wind blew and whispered its secrets and he listened as he had learned to long ago. The stories of the wind were all about the Indians coming toward the town. There had been a great deal of blood spilled and the Apache in the area wanted to settle the matter. They did not wish to talk any longer. There is a point where anyone can lose hope of a simple resolution and that time had come and passed.

  All around him people moved and milled and sought desperately for what would make their lives complete. An urchin moved toward him, furtive and worried. He bumped into a man in front of the Skinwalker and plucked a few coins from his victim’s pocket. A moment later he was bumping into a young woman and apologizing even as he lifted a small item from her bag. And then he bumped into the Skinwalker, mumbled an apology and continued on with a small silver nugget the Skinwalker had been carrying for the last three days.

  The silver meant nothing to him. He had taken it from a dead man he found on his way to the town. The corpse had been torn open by what at first glance appeared to be wolves, but the Skinwalker knew better. He could smell shapechangers and found the notion amusing.

  The fact that the boy took it merely meant that he had managed to catch the old sorcerer’s attention. That was enough.

  A whispered word as he crouched and grabbed at the soil. The arid earth crumbled in his hand and he spat into it, rubbed it between his fingers and his palm until it became a doughy mass. He stood just long enough to throw that simple lump at the thief, striking him on the back of his neck. The boy reached reflexively for what hit him and the old man smiled and continued on his way. Only a few seconds later the screams started as the boy fell to the ground, swelling and choki
ng and trying to breathe. It was not the first time he’d spread a sickness and it would not be the last. This was a minor one and would only kill a few, but it would leave them all afraid.

  Somewhere behind him a woman screamed as the boy’s flesh rotted away and spilled his bodily fluids into the street. Up ahead, far enough along that they did not seem to notice, the other Skinwalker and the strange creature walked on.

  * * *

  Crowley noticed Slate cock his head to the left. “What is it?” he asked.

  “That damn song again,” Slate replied. “Every time I hear it something goes wrong.”

  “You are hearing a summoning spell. Whatever this thing we’re looking for is, it summons energies and what I can only call demons, even if they don’t feel like the ones I’m used to.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “I’ve been testing your limits, Mister Slate. Seeing what it is you might be capable of, but I have my own abilities.”

  “You’ve never much discussed what they are.”

  Crowley cast a sideways look in Slate’s direction. “We don’t much talk about what happens if I decide you are a threat. We both know the answer already, yes?”

  “Of course.” Slate nodded, but his voice remained soft and dry. “I might be a threat and you might need to eliminate that threat. We’ve already seen a little of what something like me can do. If I don’t maintain control, I understand what you’ll have to do and I condone it.”

  “Do you?”

  Slate looked at him and his mouth trembled for a moment. “I’ve no desire to become the sort of monster I was raised around.”

  “You were raised around monsters?”

  “I was raised an albino and a mulatto in an area where many considered that a sign of the Devil, sir. Had my family not had a certain level of influence I’d have been killed. As it was, I remained locked inside my house most times to avoid a beating. There are all sorts of monsters, Mister Crowley. Not all of them cast spells or have fangs.”

  Crowley nodded. “Agreed. Very well, Mister Slate. A few facts for you. I can see the dead. I can communicate with them. Mostly I choose not to.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because the dead are not of interest to me. They are dead, and often they make demands when they know they can be heard. I am not interested in their demands and I have no desire to be plagued by them any more than I have been in the past.” Crowley’s face grew troubled for a moment.

  “Are the dead around here?”

  “Some. Not as many. Not too many have died here yet, though I imagine that’s to change soon.”

  “Are there any dead around us now?”

  “Oh, yes.” He looked past Slate’s shoulder at the faint ghostly image of Molly Finnegan and nodded slowly. She looked at him, implored him, would have begged if there was enough of her left, but there was not. Something had stolen most of her away in Carson’s Point, not too long ago, and left just enough to ensure he was haunted by her. He had not yet resolved to destroying that remnant or sending it on to whatever lay beyond this realm. If he didn’t think about it, he could tell himself she wasn’t suffering. Sometimes, most times, really, he didn’t much like himself. He promised himself that he would release her soon. Very soon. Just not yet.

  “What else do you see that you do not speak of, Mister Crowley?”

  “I see a lot. I hear just as much. I heard the spell that was cast. I’m still trying to understand it. I know that it came from behind us, but so do you.”

  Slate nodded in agreement. “I do indeed. I’ve been trying to decide how to handle it.”

  “Well, perhaps you should confront your enemy and be done with it.”

  “Is he my enemy?” Slate’s voice carried an uncertain note.

  Crowley stopped walking and stared hard at him. “I should imagine he is. He’s killed several people with his actions, and a few moments ago he killed a young boy who was seeking enough to stay alive in this hellhole.”

  “Did he?” Slate shook his head. “How do you know that?”

  “Because currently the dead boy is standing over his rotten remains and screaming his rage into the skies. You cannot hear the dead, Mister Slate, but I can and I do.”

  Slate closed his eyes and nodded. “Then I suspect he is, indeed, my enemy.”

  Crowley heard the sound of gunfire and screaming from the far side of the small town, same as they had the day before. The screams were not pain or suffering. They were war cries. “Well, things are likely to get confusing right about now.” Crowley spat the words, but again his smile crept out.

  “I suspect you are right, Mister Crowley. And should I confront my enemy or wait?”

  “It might be that the fighting won’t reach us.”

  Slate nodded again and spun hard on his heel, moving back the way they’d come.

  Crowley watched him, watched the crowd that had turned toward the sounds of dying part before Slate as easily as calm waters part before a ship’s prow, and watched also as the small shape he approached unfolded itself from a stooped position.

  Lucas Slate was taller now than most of the men around him. He was taller than Crowley by a few inches, though they had only recently stood almost the same height. Crowley had once stolen a suit of the man’s because it fit well enough to allow it. As tall as Slate was, the thing that stood before him was taller by almost a foot. How it had hidden itself in so small a form was a mystery that Crowley would try to solve later.

  The thing was the same color as Slate, a white that seemed too vibrant for the cadaverous shape. It had long white hair tied back in a braid, and wore clothes that looked like rawhide but that Crowley knew immediately were human flesh.

  It had a very long body and a long face, eyes as dark and black as pitch and as shiny as polished glass. When the nightmare smiled his gums were gray and his teeth an unpleasant shade of yellow.

  Slate and the thing spoke to each other, and Crowley listened and understood not a word of it. In the distance a dead boy kept screaming his outrage at being murdered and further away still, the gunfire continued in sporadic bursts.

  * * *

  The Indians came in hard and fast, and this time there were more of them and they were better organized.

  Folsom’s men were doing their duty, guarding the town, and none of them took their task lightly. The day before had been reminder enough that their work was dangerous.

  So when the red men came, the alarm was quickly called. Folsom stepped outside and prepared himself for the battle. The men were ready and so was he, and by God, he’d see the savages pay for their bloody assault.

  The men rallied quickly and he called for them to assume the various posts he’d laid out the night before. They were ready and they were more than willing after seeing their companions taken down. One or two might well have been worried about whatever sort of monsters the Apache had brought with them the day before, but they rallied just the same and he was proud of them.

  Captain Folsom walked away from the hotel and headed for the sounds of combat, his heart pounding with the thrill of combat. He was not afraid. The Lord had blessed him with a brave heart and a noble purpose. He would see the day through and take no prisoners. The savages had earned a quick death for their troubles.

  Up ahead of him, Sergeant Barnes had taken a position on top of a two-storey mercantile, firing as quickly as he could into the crowd below. The man was hell with a rifle, and with each shot, an Indian dropped, but damned if it didn’t seem there were endless numbers of them this time around.

  He had dealt with the Lakota before but never with the Apache until the previous day. They did not seem cut from the same cloth. They seemed more determined to stand their ground and take whatever it was they wanted.

  “Fowler! Where is Sergeant Fowler?”

  “Sergeant Fowler is on the other side of town, standing his ground and waiting, sir!” The man that spoke to him was just out of his sight, but he recognized the voice of Priva
te Herbst. The voice was as distinct as the man himself, a red haired brute nearly as strong as an ox. He turned to bark an order at Herbst and saw the private’s body jerk twice, saw the blast of meat and bone that came off his left shoulder and then saw the man hit the ground, screaming.

  Damned foolish of him to look away from the conflict. He looked back toward the crush of Indians charging into town and the chaos of people getting away from them. The civilians ran, as well they should. The soldiers stood their ground.

  Folsom drew his revolver and took aim at the closest savage, a lean old man on a black horse. The old man saw him and charged, riding hard to reach him. The bullet Folsom fired caught the old man in his thigh and blew through the leg and the horse under it with ease. The old man screamed, the horse screamed, and both collapsed in a sliding heap. Neither was dead, but he intended to remedy that. One step closer, and the bullet from the next Indian caught Folsom in the chest, tearing through the rib above his heart and then through the organ itself. He tried to aim his weapon but his traitorous fingers dropped it. The pain, when it showed up, was as large as a mountain and crushed his chest in its grip. Folsom tried to scream, tried to do anything at all, and managed only to fall backward and land hard on the ground. The horse and rider stomped over his body as they continued into the town, followed by several other natives.

  * * *

  Crowley watched on from a distance, his face calm and almost expressionless, his eyes intensely focused. Slate did his best to ignore the man, which, considering the nightmare in front of him, was not that difficult.

  “You have questions,” the thing said. It was a statement rather than a question. Again it was spoken in a language other than English, one completely unknown to Slate, but he understood just the same.

  “What are you? What am I?”

  Those vile teeth flashed and the impossibly thin, tall man chuckled. “You were given a seed. It was planted in your body. I do not see it.” It stared for a moment and then pointed to the small bump almost perfectly centered in its own forehead. When he touched it the skin parted like an eye blinking and for just an instant a greenish-gray stone showed before the skin sealed itself again. “It would be similar to this, but not exactly the same.”