Cannibal Reign

by Thomas Koloniar

  “Can we all agree to wait until they come into the building?” Taylor asked through her tears. “Can we do that? I love you all so much!”

  “I like that idea,” Michelle said, gripping her son’s hand. “Okay, baby? We’re all going to heaven at the same time, so make sure you wait for Mommy.”

  “Okay, Mom,” the little boy said, seemingly unafraid.

  West began to recite from the Twenty-third Psalm: “ ‘The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in—’ ”

  Without warning Lynette let go of her husband’s hand and sprang to her feet, dashing for the front of the store, gripping a flashlight.

  West let go of Taylor’s hand and jumped up to chase after her, but Price all but tackled him in the doorway.

  “Price, what the hell are you doing?”

  “You can’t catch her,” Price said, hearing Lynette scampering over the barricade. “Your place is here, Sean. She’s my wife . . .”

  Lynette ran down the street and froze at the corner, shining the flashlight on a disbelieving horde of barbarous-looking men, who for a moment might have believed they were seeing an angel with flowing blond hair, were it not for the grenade she gripped in the opposite hand.

  “Catch!” she said, lobbing it into the air over their heads and turning to run back toward the pharmacy.

  “Fuckin’ bitch!” one of the men shouted as they scattered in the dark, none of them having any idea where the grenade would land. When it did land it rolled beneath a car where two men had taken cover, wounding them both upon detonation and prompting their comrades to move in and finish them off quickly in accordance with the laws of the wild.

  Lynette stumbled in her dash for the pharmacy and was caught from behind by her hair and shoved into a lamppost, knocking the flashlight from her hand. She struggled to keep her feet, tussling in the blackness with a surprisingly weak and apparently shorter man, gnashing her teeth lest she accidentally spit out the capsule of cyanide she still kept in her mouth. She slashed with her fingers, found the soft gelatinous orb of the attacker’s eyeball and grabbed him close, thrusting her thumb into the socket to claw it out. The man screamed and reeled away, but as she turned to run once more, she was struck by a vicious uppercut from an unseen fist that fractured her jaw, dropping her to her knees. She was not even remotely aware of the broken slivers of glass in her tongue as she fell forward onto her face.

  Her body was lifted in the darkness as four men attempted to haul her off across the street, all of them thinking she was merely unconscious, but Price shot them down from behind then turned the carbine on the rest of the mob, which had reformed and was on the move. He was struck by a hail of bullets, the men trampling his body in their renewed assault on the pharmacy, kicking and pounding at the barricade to get inside.

  “Not yet!” West told the women, breaking away from their prayers, his instinct for survival overriding all common sense as he grabbed his carbine and leapt into the doorway, firing into the mob at forty feet.

  The attackers screamed and pulled back onto the walk, returning his fire.

  Outside, the street erupted in a fusillade of automatic weapons fire and the attackers fell back from the pharmacy in confusion. West stood listening as the gunfire reached a crescendo, then he slammed the storeroom door and moved to cover the bodies of his wife and children with his own, shouting for everyone to spit out their capsules of cyanide.

  Seconds later there was a cacophony of rapid 40mm cannon fire followed by the roaring sound of an 850 horse power Motoren-und Turbinen-Union diesel motor as it went rumbling past the building toward the corner.

  “In here!” they heard Marty shout from the front of the store. “They’re in here!”

  “Who brought the forty mike mike?” Danzig mumbled through a fog of morphine, his head resting in Jessie’s lap where they hid behind the counter in the porn shop.

  “Jack!” Veronica shouted toward the front of the store. “What’s going on?”

  Forrest climbed painfully up into the showcase and stole a quick glance west toward the corner. “Jesus Christ!” he said jumping back down and landing painfully on his bad ankle. “Everybody spit those fucking capsules out! Melissa!”

  “I already did!”

  “Is it the goddamn Marines or what?” Kane asked, sticking his head down from a crawl space in the ceiling. He and Forrest had decided that he would be the last one left alive, surviving them all just long enough to rain their last six grenades down upon their attackers after the shop had finally fallen and filled up with the enemy, an enemy that might rape the bodies of the women.

  “Everybody stay ready,” Forrest cautioned, girding himself for the next onslaught, an old instinct telling him the fight was not yet over. “Kane, get down here!” he said, dropping to a crouch and shouldering his carbine.

  A mob of men came pouring from three different apartments across the street, maybe twenty in all, hurling a grenade at the shop front.

  Forrest and Kane fired into them even as the grenade exploded on the sidewalk. Laddie broke away from Melissa and bound past them, leaping over the bodies and out into the street, tearing into the first man he saw and ripping him screaming to the ground. The rest of the attackers recoiled in a moment of awe, astonished to see such a large dog, half expecting a pack of hungry wolves to come streaming out of the building.

  One of them raised his weapon to shoot the animal but his head instantly exploded as a 230 grain, .45 caliber bullet blasted through his brain and slammed into the man behind him, killing them both.

  Forrest stood defiantly among the many dying men at his feet, firing point-blank into the faces of the savages who would dare try to kill his son’s dog. Screaming as he charged into them, he grabbed up an empty carbine, swinging at their heads and splitting skulls as they reeled away in panic, their combat reflexes horribly degraded by starvation and disease.

  Not all of them had lost their wits. One was returning his fire and scoring hits on Forrest’s armor and limbs, tracking him as he pivoted to the right, about to squeeze the trigger to blow out his brains. But suddenly, and to his horror, the dog sank its teeth into his testicles, frenziedly ripping them from side to side.

  Kane smashed the man’s skull with the barrel of his carbine and grabbed the dog’s leash to haul him back inside. Glancing over his shoulder to see that Forrest had gone down, he dragged Laddie, snarling over the stacked bodies, and handed the leash to Melissa. He turned to dash out, but an unseen concussion grenade exploded just outside the window and hurled him back across the storefront into the counter, knocking him senseless. He tried to rise but collapsed and fell unconscious.

  Bleeding badly, Forrest rolled beneath the hull of a pickup truck and blacked out as the Marines came charging up the street, supported by a second EFV, its 40mm cannon blasting away at the apartment building and killing all who ran for cover; killing all who stood to fight.

  Veronica screamed for Michael and he abandoned his post in the back hall, running to the front and firing into the small group that sought to take cover inside the shop, killing a few and fumbling to reload. The women were about to put the capsules back into their mouths when they heard again the staccato blast of a 40mm cannon and the screaming of Marines as they surged past the shop. They were driving the few remaining killers before them toward the end of the block, where the other EFV and two more Marine platoons were waiting to gun them down.

  When the last barbarian fell, the Marines let out with a roaring “Oorah!” and the street fell strangely silent, save for the occasional coups de grace being delivered to a wounded, sneering cannibal.

  In the light of a magnesium flare held high above her head, Emory came through the Marines with a medical bag over each shoulder, spotting at once the bright red, white, and blue patch of the Eighty-second Airborne Division on the arm of a dead soldier stuffed beneath the rusted hulk of a
pickup truck. She ran toward it, grabbing the wrist and dragging the body out into the light.

  Forrest’s lifeless body was covered in blood, his face lacerated and his uniform torn to tatters.

  “Oh, no,” she whispered, taking a knee beside him as men of the Third Marines shuffled around her and into the porn shop, shouting for survivors. She heard the women screaming from within that they were alive, and a surge of excitement swept through the Marines.

  “They’re alive!” someone shouted. “Get Beauchamp!”

  “Corpsman!”

  “Hey, Emory! They’re alive!”

  With a heavy heart, Emory rose to her feet to go see who had made it.

  “Fuck you goin’?”

  She whipped her head around to see Forrest looking up at her through one very swollen eye. “Oh, Jesus!”

  “Can’t you see I need a fuckin’ medic?”

  “Corpsman!” ripped from her throat as she dropped to her knees, then tore into one of the med kits. “More corpsman up front!”

  “Who taught you to take a pulse?” Forrest mumbled, head spinning, his body coming alive with pain.

  “I didn’t bother taking your pulse,” she said, digging out the compression bandage she would have to apply to his leg to prevent him from bleeding to death. “You sure as fuck know how to play possum!”

  “Good thing. Else one’a those damn jarheads may’ve shot my ass.”

  “You’re probably gonna lose that foot,” she said, seeing that it was bent nearly forty-five degrees.

  “Figures.”

  Veronica was climbing out through the window of the shop now and screaming his name. “Jack! Jack!”

  “Here!” Emory called.

  “Oh, Christ,” he murmured. “Knock me out, Shannon. I can’t take her right now.”

  Emory smiled and took a syrette of morphine from the pocket on her upper arm. “See how good I follow orders?” She stuck him in the leg, and he was unconscious by the time Veronica and Melissa and the dog came scrambling around the rear of the truck.

  “Oh, my God!” Veronica shouted. “Is he alive?”

  “Just a little banged up.”

  “A little banged up!” She dropped to the ground beside them. “He looks like he’s been hit by a truck, Shannon!”

  Emory looked up to see Melissa gripping Laddie’s leash in one hand and covering her mouth in abject terror with the other, the sight of Forrest’s wounds shattering her. She punched Veronica in the shoulder, pointed up at the girl and gave her a shove. “How about trying to help!”

  “Oh!” Veronica shook off her own sense of shock and jumped up to grab Melissa into her arms. The girl stood bawling into her bosom as Laddie began to lick the blood from Forrest’s face.

  Gunnery Sergeant Beauchamp appeared and stood looking down. “This one gonna make it, Emory?”

  “He’ll make it, Gunny. We need to get him to the ship ASAP.”

  “They got one bad wounded around the corner,” Beauchamp said. “Medevac’s loading him up now. Five dead.”

  “Five?” The number had startled her.

  “Two men, two women, and a boy,” he said, then walked off shouting orders to his men.

  As Emory was finishing with Forrest’s IV a short time later, Marty squatted beside her on his haunches, face pale, eyes full of dread.

  “No!” she said, realizing her fear had come to pass. “Don’t you fucking tell me that, Marty!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, starting to cry. “Sean said he probably saved a lot of lives. Maybe everyone’s.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, making it hard to see what she was doing. A corpsman joined her and she asked him to finish for her and got to her feet. “Where is he?”

  “In a . . . in a bag on the sidewalk around the corner.”

  “Stay here.”

  She walked off through the milling Marines and made her way to the front of the pharmacy, where she knelt beside the largest of the five dark forms on the sidewalk. Taking out her flashlight, she drew a breath then unzipped Sullivan’s bag. She saw his shattered face and for a moment was sick to her stomach, certain she was going throw up and shame herself, but then a Marine called her name and pulled her back from the brink: “Emory! What do you want done with your dead?”

  “I . . . I . . . Can we take them aboard ship? Bury them at sea?”

  “Don’t see why not,” the Marine said, stepping back from the doorway as they were bringing Ulrich out on a stretcher to load him onto the EFV medevac.

  Erin and the baby came out right behind him. “Oh, my God, Shannon!” she called. “Thank God you made it, honey!”

  Emory waved and smiled mirthlessly, it never occurring to her that the baby in Erin’s arms was her own daughter. She reached into the bag to take hold of Sullivan’s hand. It was cold and lifeless and did not feel anything at all like the soldier’s hand it had once been. “I loved you,” she whispered. “Not the way you wanted, but I loved you.”

  She took one of his dog tags and sat there lost in thought until she heard the crunching of glass and looked up to see that the other bodies had already been loaded onto the deck of the EFV and the Marines were waiting for her. She tucked Sullivan’s arm back into the bag and zipped it up, then she got to her feet and stood away. “Gently, guys. Please?”

  “Sure,” one of the Marines said, crouching at the foot of Sullivan’s bag as another grabbed the handles at the head.

  Marty came up beside her and put his arm around her, and in return she slugged him. “Not in front of the Marines, you idiot!”

  “Sorry,” he groaned, holding his ribs.

  They watched until Sullivan was loaded and then walked around the corner, passing their snowcat on the way.

  “The bastards must have taken Liddy and Natalie,” Marty said. “Their bodies are gone.”

  “I hope they try eating them,” she muttered, feeling an emptiness she’d never known. “See how the bastards like cyanide poisoning.”

  Sixty-Nine

  The USS Boxer was now three days into her fourteen-day voyage back to Pearl Harbor. Forrest and his three wounded compatriots—Ulrich, Kane, and Danzig—all shared the same hospital bay, and though Ulrich had very nearly died of his gut wound, Dr. West and the Navy surgeon managed to repair the damage to his intestine. So far they were keeping septic infection at bay, and West was hopeful about Ulrich’s recovery. Forrest had only just managed to keep his foot, and the ankle would need to be operated on again once they arrived in Hawaii. His other many wounds were healing satisfactorily.

  During the evenings, the curtains were pulled around their beds and their wives or sweethearts were permitted to spend the night at their sides if they so desired.

  The unmarried women aboard had of course quickly become the belles of the ball, and by the end of their third day at sea, Captain Bisping felt it necessary to call a meeting with them in the pilots’ ready room.

  “Ladies,” Bisping began, pulling the door to the room closed. “I understand that you have all been . . . alone for some time now, and I can appreciate what that must have been like for you. However, I must remind you that this is a warship and there are certain activities that are forbidden aboard a man-of-war—and all for very good reason.”

  A few of the women snickered, and Bisping looked to Emory for help. “Am I not making myself clear?”

  “In other words, guys, the captain doesn’t want anyone getting laid aboard his ship.” The women started to laugh. “How’s that, sir?”

  “That’s fine, thank you,” Bisping said dryly. “So . . . if you ladies are unable to restrain yourselves for the remainder of the voyage, I will have to confine you to a smaller area of the ship, forbidding you to mingle with the crew. And this would be as much for your own safety as for any other reason.”

  “Damn!” said Maria two. “All we
did was trade one military dictator for another.”

  Again the women started to laugh.

  “Does that mean you cannot be trusted?” Bisping asked, cocking an authoritative eyebrow.

  “They can be trusted,” Emory said, looking hard at the others. “He’s serious about confining us, you guys.”

  The others rolled their eyes but no one made any argument.

  “So are we all in agreement?” Bisping asked them.

  “Yeesss,” they said in practiced unison.

  “Thank you,” Bisping said with a smile. He left the room, but was not far down the passageway before he heard his name called.

  “Captain Bisping?”

  He turned to see Andie coming toward him. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “We haven’t met formally,” she said, offering him her hand. “I’m Andie Tatum.”

  “William Bisping,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Bisping is an English name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am, though my family’s lived in the States for generations.”

  “You’ve been a Navy man all your life, I assume?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Is there something I can do for you? I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a ship to run.”

  Andie hesitated for a moment then thought, to hell with it. “I’ve noticed you don’t wear a wedding band, Captain, and I’ve been wondering whether there is anyone waiting for you back at Pearl?”

  “Excuse me?” he said, startled.

  “I apologize for being so forward. Especially after that, um, announcement you just made. It’s just that I’ve hesitated before and ended up wishing I hadn’t. Being lonely isn’t easy and it makes you do things you wouldn’t otherwise.”

  Bisping swallowed. “Yes . . . I suppose it does. To tell you the truth, Andie, I haven’t really . . . Well, I lost my wife and two daughters to the asteroid. So, no, there’s no one waiting back at Pearl or anywhere else.”