SNAFU: Resurrection

by Dirk Patton

  Table of Contents

  The Shadows of Teutoburg

  The Deicide Machine

  Stains

  Ragnarok

  How Zeke Got Religion at 20,000 Feet

  Danny

  Conviction

  Failure to Extract

  Hunter

  The Crust

  Call Up the Dead

  SNAFU: RESURRECTION

  Publisher’s Note:

  This book is a collection of stories from writers all over the world.

  For authenticity and voice, we have kept the style of English native to each author’s location, so some stories will be in UK English, and others in US English.

  We have, however, changed dashes and dialogue marks to our standard format for ease of understanding.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction.

  All people, places, events, zombies, virus-ridden infected, various other creatures, and situations are the product of the authors’ imaginations.

  Any resemblance to persons, living, dead, or in between, is purely coincidental.

  SNAFU:

  RESURRECTION

  Edited by Amanda J Spedding & Matthew Summers

  Cohesion Press

  Mayday Hills Lunatic Asylum

  Beechworth , Australia

  2018

  SNAFU: RESURRECTION

  Amanda J Spedding & Matthew Summers (eds)

  Acquisitions Editor: Geoff Brown

  Anthology © Cohesion Press 2018

  Stories © Individual Authors 2018

  Cover Art © Dean Samed 2018

  Set in Palatino Linotype

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Cohesion Press

  Mayday Hills Lunatic Asylum

  Beechworth, Australia

  www.cohesionpress.com

  Also From Cohesion Press

  Horror:

  SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

  – eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding

  SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

  – eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding

  SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

  – eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding

  SNAFU: Hunters

  – eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown

  SNAFU: Future Warfare

  – eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown

  SNAFU: Unnatural Selection

  – eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown

  SNAFU: Black Ops

  – eds Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown

  THE STORIES

  The Shadows of Teutoburg by Evan Dicken

  The Deicide Machine by Justin Coates

  Stains by Daniel Finley

  Ragnarok by Mark Renshaw

  How Zeke Got Religion at 20,000 Feet by John McNichol

  Danny by Dirk Patton

  Conviction by NX Sharps

  Failure to Extract by Kevin Wetmore

  Hunter by Steve Lewis

  The Crust by Justin Bell

  Call up the Dead by James A Moore and Charles R Rutledge

  The Shadows of Teutoburg

  Evan Dicken

  “Back in line, you miserable—” A javelin caught the third cohort’s centurion in the mouth, erupting from the back of his neck in a spray of blood. Quintus Pontius Varro struggled to lift his waterlogged shield, eyeing the mob of barbarians pounding down the hill toward him. Desperately, he cast about for the optio and found the man lying face-down in the trampled muck, pierced through with German darts.

  With its leadership down, the cohort descended into chaos. Spread out along the muddy road soldiers shouted and screamed, their calls lost amidst the high, unnatural barks of their ambushers. The barbarians were too close for pila, not that Quintus could’ve managed a decent throw in all this rain. Shouting desperately for his contubernium to form up, he shrugged out of his heavy pack and drew his gladius.

  The barbarians were close enough now for him to see their teeth and eyes, wild flecks of white swirling amidst the mud-daubed savagery. Otho stepped to Quintus’s side, the big man’s shield a welcome presence. The other six soldiers of Quintus’s unit struggled into formation, their kit in various forms of disarray.

  “Shields,” he shouted as the barbarians came crashing in.

  The blade of one of their long lances scraped across Quintus’s shield, and he jerked his head out of the way just in time to avoid losing an eye. Lunging forward, he hammered the lower edge of his shield into the barbarian’s knee. As the man stumbled, Quintus stabbed him in the neck, a quick, punishing strike that left the German twitching on the ground.

  There was barely time for Quintus to step back in line, let alone catch his breath. A barbarian in Roman chainmail stepped over the body of his tribesman, broad-bladed axe slashing down like a bolt from Jupiter. Although Quintus caught the blow on the curve of his shield, there was enough force behind the strike to numb his already exhausted arm. Driving his shoulder forward, he knocked the sword aside to give Otho a clear strike, and the big man obliged by punching his gladius into the barbarian’s side.

  The man’s mail would’ve turned almost any slash, but it was little proof against the tip of a fine Roman blade.

  A slash is a wasted strike. Stab deep, my boys, and kill.

  The admonitions of Quintus’s old weapons trainer rang through his muddled thoughts like the peal of a festival horn. He twisted to the left to cut the hamstring of a barbarian hacking at Rufinus. The German toppled forward and Rufinus finished him with a quick chop to the back of the neck.

  Quintus grinned through the sheeting rain. Slashes have their place, old man. His grin disappeared as a wave of howling barbarians crashed over them. Quintus cut and thrust at the shouting throng, blade licking out around the edges of his shield to cut exposed tendons and sink into flesh. Like his comrades, he used his shield to frustrate his attacker, but when Quintus struck, it was not at the man in front of him, but the one to either side. It was one of the many tricks that gave the Roman legionaries the ability to face the barbarians head on.

  Fight together or die alone.

  Not all his old trainer’s advice was misplaced.

  Rufinus fell, pierced through with a long-bladed lance. To Quintus’s left, Lamiskos quickly moved to dress ranks, but the line was already broken. A barbarian shouldered into the breach, a sword in each hand. Snarling curses, he hammered at Quintus and Lamiskos’s shields like a blacksmith pounding iron. Such was the man’s fury that it was all Quintus could do to keep his shield up, each blow jolting his shoulder and sending a painful tremor down his arm. Lamiskos cried out as the German’s blade carved a red slash down his thigh. The Tarantine infantryman stumbled but did not fall.

  Breath hissing through clenched teeth, Quintus swore to raise an altar to Jupiter Maximus if the god would see him clear of this battle.

  As if in answer to his plea a javelin sprouted from the huge German’s shoulder, his swing faltering. Ceorix, one of the Gallic auxilia assigned to Quintus’s contubernium, stepped into view, another javelin poised to throw. With a nod to the Gaul, Quintus pushed in, pinning the man’s wounded arm to his chest even as he stabbed his gladius down. Bright blood welled around the blade as it pierced the barbarian’s neck.

  The German fell back, spitting blood and teeth, and Quintus spun to take a spear thrust on his shield, warding Lamiskos. The Tarantine offered a grateful n
od but could manage little else before the barbarians were on them again.

  This was more than just a raid. There seemed no end to their opponents. More breaches opened along the ragged Roman line, the edges beginning to curl back like a bent bow. Soon the two wings would meet, and they would be well and truly surrounded.

  A glance up the road showed fighting as far as the eye could see, waves and waves of screaming Germans washing over the Roman units. It seemed impossible that three full legions could be overwhelmed so quickly. Just an hour ago they had been marching to quell a minor uprising. It had been such a trivial action that General Varus hadn’t even bothered with scouts, trusting Arminius and his German allies to guide them.

  As the line contracted and their casualties grew, discipline began to falter. Quintus and his men were no strangers to fighting barbarians, but the sudden ambush had put them on the back foot. If the hordes didn’t relent soon, they would die together here in the mud.

  The battle eddied as the battered legions formed up, beating back assault after assault. At Quintus’s call, his contubernium took shelter in the dubious safety of an overturned wagon. Of the eight soldiers under Quintus’s charge, only Otho and Lamiskos still stood, although the latter leaned heavily on Ceorix.

  “Decanus,” the Gaul met Quintus’s gaze. “We should withdraw.”

  Quintus took a shaky breath. “I won’t abandon the Seventeenth—”

  “Those are Sicambri.” Ceorix thrust his chin at a knot of tall, mustached barbarians that were ransacking a provisions cart, then he nodded at a line of warriors on the hill, their bare chests painted with swirls of dark colors. “And those are Marsi. I’ve also seen Bructeri, and Chauci, and Chatti as well – many, many tribes. Also, there is something in the air Decanus. Something that makes my skin cold.”

  “Yes, rain,” Otho rumbled, shaking his helmed head to spatter the rest of the squad with drops. “I don’t know about you, Decanus, but I’ve never run from a little water.”

  A cold fist clenched in Quintus’s breast as he surveyed the slaughter. Three legions, three, and they were being worn away like a dam on the Tiber. He’d seen tribal alliances before, but never like this. Could this be another Carrhae? Another Caudine Forks?

  “Sir.” Otho pointed his gladius at the crest of the distant hill.

  Quintus turned to see a formation of Romans descending towards them. No, their armor and helmets were similar, but they were not Romans.

  “Arminius,” Quintus said.

  A ragged cheer rose from the beleaguered legionaries at the sight of the German auxilia. But any shred of hope Quintus might have conjured that they were here to rescue Varus’s legions was dashed as the auxilia drew up and launched a hail of pila into their former comrades.

  “That bastard led us into an ambush.” Otho spat the words.

  “We need to withdraw.” Ceorix glanced at the sky, his face paler than usual. “Before it’s too late.”

  Quintus rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. Suddenly the close coordination of the German ambush made sense. Arminius had been raised in Rome, trained and trusted by the Senate. A close friend of General Varus, he had even been awarded the rank of equestrian – a privilege bestowed on very few barbarians. He knew their tactics and their fighting style.

  He knew how to beat them.

  “Decanus?” Otho asked.

  Quintus looked around, desperate for order. The cohort, the entire Seventeenth legion was being cut to pieces. There was nothing he could do, nothing any of them could do. And yet the idea of running stuck like a bone in his throat.

  He stepped from behind the wagon, sword in hand. “C’mon lads, let’s make these traitors regret—”

  Ceorix grabbed the straps of Quintus’s armor, dragging him back. “Stay down.” The Gaul’s lips drew back from his teeth like the snarl of a cornered wolf. “They come.”

  And Quintus suddenly felt it – the damp heaviness in air just before a storm rolled in off the sea.

  From the tree line atop the hill came a line of hunched shadows. Twice the height of a man, the things were long-armed with legs that bent backwards like a dog. They loped down the hill, crocodilian mouths open wide in snarls, eyes like flecks of obsidian in their triangular heads. There was a shambling grace to their movements, every step like the hungry lunge of a cat snatching prey. They hit the Roman lines like an avalanche. Armor crumpled like linen before the slash of their gnarled claws, their jaws crushing helm and skull alike. Quintus watched in horror as one of the things was pinioned by a scorpion bolt, but continued to charge, twisting the heads from the artillerists who injured it before finally collapsing to the bloody earth.

  “Ceorix, what are those things?” Quintus had to force the words through lips gone numb and wooden from the shock of what he'd just witnessed.

  “Ancient.” The Gaul flinched from the carnage, his eyes wide in the gathering gloom. “And powerful.”

  “How do we fight them?” Otho’s anxious question was almost lost amidst the screams of dying men.

  “We don’t,” Ceorix's gaze flicked to the tree line, his muscles tense as if the Gaul was ready to bolt.

  They looked to Quintus. The decision sat like ashes in his mouth. As the squad’s Decanus, Quintus’s duty was to his men. He couldn’t ask them to face such abominations. Varus’s legions were doomed, but there were more legions across the Rhine, more men Arminius and his monsters could catch unawares. Someone needed to carry word of this betrayal across the Rhine so more Romans didn’t fall to the German chieftain’s sorcery.

  With a scowl that felt bone-deep, Quintus tossed his heavy, waterlogged shield aside. “We run.”

  * * *

  Quintus couldn’t decide which was worse, the Germans or the boggy, shit-filled forest they called home. The mud sucked at his sandals, dragging at every step like the clutching hands of the dead.

  “Emperor’s balls,” Ceorix cursed as a sling stone rattled off a nearby tree. The wiry Gaul knelt to snatch up a rock of his own and hurl it at the Germans, but the throw fell woefully short.

  Quintus squinted at their pursuers through the sheeting rain – eight shadows ranged among the distant trees, whooping and laughing as they lobbed shots at the Romans.

  Still, at least those who pursued them were human.

  None of the contubernium had inquired as to what had slaughtered the legions, as if even voicing the question would bring the crook-legged creatures shambling from the swamp. Quintus caught their anxiety in sideways glances, mumbled prayers to Apollo, and the white-knuckled grip they kept on their weapons. The memory plucked at Quintus’s thoughts like the strum of a poorly-tuned lyre, a dissonance echoing again and again.

  He shook his head. “Ceorix, what were those things?”

  The Gaul made a strange sign with his hands, fingers crooked as if to ward off a curse. “The Germans call them thurisaz, although I’ve heard the name has its roots farther north, where they are known as trolls.”

  “Where do they come from?” Otho asked.

  “Once, long ago, they were everywhere, but were pushed back.” Ceorix shrugged. “Now, the creatures dwell amidst shadowed cliffs, pits and caverns, places where the sun has never touched.”

  “You said they were pushed back,” Quintus said. “They can be killed?”

  The Gaul gave an irritated wave of his hand. “By heroes, gods.”

  “How did the heroes do it?” Quintus asked.

  The Gaul frowned. “Fire, enchanted blades, dropping a mountain on them…”

  “We don’t have any mountains or magic.” Otho flicked a spray of rainwater from his fingers. “And we can’t set any fires in all this damp.”

  “There must have been a dozen tribes back there. It seems impossible, but Arminius has forged the Germans into a coalition, and I think these trolls have something to do with it.” Quintus ran his tongue across his teeth, gathering his thoughts. “If we can reach the Garrison at Aliso before Arminius, we can warn the prefect.”
>
  “What good will that do?” Ceorix asked. “Even if they do hold out, most of the legions are in Illyria with Tiberius.”

  “The first and fifth legion are south of the Rhine.” Otho slapped the hilt of his gladius. “I’d wager those trolls wouldn’t fare so well in a stand-up fight.”

  “I aim to find out,” Quintus said. “Although our first concern is staying alive.”

  As if to punctuate Quintus’s point, there came the whir of a sling from behind. He hunched his shoulders, but the rock just hissed by, accompanied by a chorus of derisive hoots from their pursuers.

  “Why don’t they just advance and be done with it?” Otho rumbled, shifting to get a better grip on Lamiskos. The young Tarantine was badly injured, but was struggling along without complaint, jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

  “Why risk battle when you can let the land do your killing?” Ceorix spat into the mud.

  “Barbarians are all cowards,” Otho said, then blanched, glancing at the long-haired auxilia. “I didn’t mean—”

  Ceorix waved the insult away. “I am running away, aren’t I? If this rain would just let up, I’d show them their mistake.” He gave the string of his bow an irritated flick. The Gaul was the squad’s best hunter. Quintus had no doubt he could see off their attackers with some well-placed shots, but the constant rain had left the sinew string of Ceorix’s bow slack and useless.

  Conversation lapsed as the Romans continued to struggle through the knee-deep mire. Quintus knew it was futile to run; they’d discarded most of their equipment and still the damned Germans hounded them like wolves.

  “By Jupiter, I’d give Ceorix’s left arm for a hot meal,” Otho said.

  The Gaul snorted. “Wager your own limbs, ox.”

  The laughter that followed was weak, forced. Quintus felt the hopelessness of their situation settle on his shoulders like a sodden cloak. The squad looked to him for leadership – he was their Decanus, a veteran evocatus with more than two decades of legionary service, and yet none of his experience had prepared him for the unnatural horrors that had slaughtered his legion.