Fight the MonSter: Find a Cure for MS

by Doug Dandridge

  “We don’t have time for this,” said Mallory, looking back at his men. “We’re going through the swamp. I want us in Fort Myers by tomorrow morning.” He spurred his horse on, looking first ahead, then back at his men, who continued to sit their horses without moving.

  “You heard the Captain,” yelled out Clark, moving his horse forward. “Lessen you want to be captured, you come along now.”

  There was still some muttering, but everyone moved forward to follow their leader. Mallory looked back to catch one last glimpse of the slave, shaking his head as his eyes followed the progress of the white soldiers. Maybe I should have given you your freedom was his last thought as the slave faded into the darkness. But what would that have done. If you had run away, the damned Rebs just would have caught you, and there would be another hanging around here.

  Mallory at least had one good reason to enjoy the night. The day had been hot as hell, and humid as only a torturing demon could make it. A hard afternoon rain had eased some of the heat, but it had come back with a vengeance, and with renewed humidity. The troopers all wore their ponchos against that hard rain, and were still soaked to the bone. But the night was clear.

  The moonlight shone on the water on both sides of the path. There was no telling how deep that water was. It could be mere inches, or enough to drown a horse and rider. The frogs were putting out an orchestra of sound, punctuated by the grunting of several bull gators.

  Mallory cursed as he swatted the side of his face, crushing the mosquito that had sought an easy meal. A multitude buzzed around him, looking for an opening. The curses of the other men told that they were also targets of the blood sucking insects. He would be damned glad when he could get out of this place. Everything here either wants to bite you, eat you, or suck the blood out of you.

  “What the hell is that?” called out one of the men, Private Colston.

  The Captain looked back to see the man pointing into the swamp, then let his eyes follow the finger to see a glowing, something, out in the swamp. He couldn’t tell what it was, only that it was longer than it was wide, and it seemed to glide along the surface of the water. As suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. He wasn’t sure if it had gone behind some heavy brush, or simply faded away.

  “It’s a ghost, I tell you,” said Private Norris, his voice shaking in fear.

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” hissed Sergeant Clark. “It was just some swamp gas. I seen such things many times back home.” The Sergeant looked back at Norris. “And keep your damned voice down, you idiot. You want the Rebs to hear us?”

  “Light a torch, Sergeant,” ordered the Captain, looking ahead at the path disappearing ahead into the darkness. “We need some illumination here.”

  “The Rebs might see it, sir,” cautioned the NCO.

  “If they’re close enough to see it, we’re dead anyway,” said the officer. “This is their country, and you know they know these roads like the backs of their hands. We need to get out of here as fast as possible, and to do that we need to see. So light the torch.”

  The Sergeant grunted and pulled a pre-made torch from the small bundle hanging from his saddle. He struck a match, then set fire to torch. Now the road was visible for at least a hundred yards ahead. He handed the torch to the Captain, then lit another for himself. The Captain had only ordered one, but let it go, since the two torches seemed to do the job.

  Mallory looked off the road to see a multitude of glowing eyes looking at him. He felt a shiver go up his spine as he imaged the minions of hell behind those eyes. Get a grip on yourself, Joseph. You get through this and you’ll get home, and won’t Marie be happy then.

  “Just gators, sir,” said Clark, looking out over the swamp.

  “They’s hanging low in the water, only their eyes and nostrils above it.”

  Something made a coughing sound further out, and the Captain felt another shiver.

  “A painter,” said the Sergeant. “Nothing to worry about, sir. Just a big cat, looking for something to eat. We got nothing to worry about. It ain’t gonna come near to this many people.”

  And he’s the bumpkin, thought Mallory of his Sergeant. While everything out here make me, the educated man, want to piss my pants.

  ****

  The day hadn’t started out that bad. They had found a cattle drive to hit, and had ridden at the drovers in overwhelming numbers. Seventy-three Union cavalrymen against the twelve men driving their cattle up the peninsula, heading for the railheads in Georgia, where the beef would be sent further north to feed the Army of Virginia. Now that Texas was cut off, Florida was really the only source of beef for the Confederacy.

  The sunlit grasslands had sounded to the crack of revolvers, a rifle or two from the cowboys. The acrid smoke of black powder filled the air, and the screams of the wounded and dying continued after the pops of firearms stopped.

  They had killed most of the cattlemen, but had almost emptied their revolvers in the process. They used up most of the rest of their cylinder loads shooting the cattle, making sure that the Rebs wouldn’t get any nutrition from this meat as the carcasses rotted in the subtropical heat. And that was when the Rebel cavalry had struck.

  We still should have been able to drive them off, thought the Captain, remembering the sight of his men cut down by Confederate revolver fire as they frantically attempted to reload their weapons. His men had shot back at the fifty or so Rebs that had come at them, then drawn sabers and charged, not having the time to complete the reload of their cap and ball weapons. The Rebs had come at them sans swords, two revolvers in each man’s hands, blazing away, then holstering their pieces and drawing a fresh pair as they rode.

  Twenty-three men had broken through the Rebs and ridden on. The Rebs had shot down two from behind, and two more had succumbed to their wounds on the way here. I guess the damned saber is obsolete, thought the Captain, remembering the feeling of his sword cleaving through the shoulder of a Reb lieutenant. Most of his men had not been as lucky, as revolvers proved much more deadly than blades. We need to load up on pistols, just like the Rebs are doing.

  “Why the hell is it so cold,” complained Sergeant Clark, breaking into the Captain’s thoughts.

  “It’s night, Sergeant,” replied the Captain, shivering as he noticed the cold himself. “And we’re in a marsh.” In Ohio it was not unusual for even a summer night to become a bit chill.

  “It don’t get this cold in January, sir. And this here is August. Hottest month of the year.”

  Mallory shivered again, then stared ahead as a deep mist started rolling out of the swamp to both sides to cover the road fifty yards to his front. He looked back past his men to see the same thing happening behind them. That doesn’t make sense, he thought. Mist could only move when there’s a breeze or wind. And it can’t be blowing from both sides at once.

  “At least the damned skeeters are gone,” said one of the men from about the middle of the line.

  Mallory thought for a moment, concentrating on his ears. And, sure enough, the constant buzzing of the mosquitoes was gone. And there’s no gator grunting, and the frogs are silent. He looked out over the swamp to his right, which was not yet covered with mist, and was surprised that the eyes of the gators were no longer there. He looked to the other side and saw the same thing.

  “Clark,” he said, looking back at his Sergeant. “Where in the hell are the gators?”

  Clark looked confused for a moment, turning his head from side to side, covering both sides of the swamp. “Hell if I know, sir. I’ve never done heard of anything spooking gators. They’re too damned stupid to be scared. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it.”

  “Maybe we should turn around and go back,” said another of the men.

  “That’s just plain stupid, Wallace,” growled the Sergeant. “We’d be most like to take longer going back than ahead.”

  “There it is again,” yelled one of the men, pointing out to the swamp to the north.

  T
he Captain started to turn in his saddle to see what his man had spotted, and his horse whinnied and shied at something. A snake, he thought, peering down at the road right in front of the horse. He patted the mare on the shoulder to calm her, and could feel her trembling in terror.

  You don’t wanna go in that there swamp, boss man, had said the black they had encountered before entering this nightmare. I sure wish I hadn’t.

  The sound of a gun going off behind brought him back to the here and now. The acrid smell of black powder filled the air, and the trooper cocked his pistol and fired another shot.

  “What the hell you shooting at?” yelled Clark, reining his horse around and trotting it back down the line.

  “There was a face, in the swamp,” said the panicked trooper, waving his pistol in the air. “All pale, and bloated.”

  “I don’t see nothing,” said Clark, stopping beside the trooper and looking out over the swamp. He looked at the soldier with an expression of distaste on his face. “Don’t go firing your piece until the Captain orders it. OK?”

  Mallory’s horse reared at that moment, and he turned in time to see a huge moccasin lowering itself from the moss covered branch overhead, its mouth open, showing the cotton colored interior that gave it its name. It started to lunge at the Captain, and he pulled his saber and slashed at it in one motion.

  His saber went through the place the snake had been as it faded away before his eyes. He shook his head, knowing that he was tired, but not that tired. Not tired enough to be seeing things.

  “The hell with this,” yelled the man who had fired into the swamp. “I’m getting the hell out of here.” He turned his horse and spurred it into a gallop, heading back the way they had come.

  “Simpkins,” yelled the Sergeant. “Get your ass back here. Deserter.”

  The man paid no attention, pushing his horse on as the mist closed up around him, hiding him from sight. The horse screamed a moment later, followed by the scream of the man.

  The horse came galloping back out of the mist, its saddle empty.

  “Everyone form up, close,” ordered Mallory, watching the horse come running back up to the column and huddle against one of the other mounts, eyes wide in terror. “We’re going down this path by twos, and make sure you can see the men in front of you. I want everyone close enough to be able to grab the tails of the horses in front of him. Me and Sergeant Clark will watch the front, the men in the very rear keep your eyes peeled for anything coming up behind us. Everyone else, get focused on the swamp, whichever side you’re closest to.”

  “We ain’t getting out of this,” cried Norris. “The haunts are going to come out the swamp and take us.”

  “You just shut your mouth, Norris,” yelled back Sergeant Clark. “I won’t hear no talk like that, you hear me?”

  Mallory was not so sure they were going to get out of here either, but he was really glad to have Clark by his side. At the moment he didn’t know what to say to his men. Anything he said would sound false. But I don’t believe in ghosts, he thought, not sure what else could be causing what was going on around them. There has to be another explanation.

  The Captain felt his lips moving before he realized he was praying. He wasn’t even sure he believed in God, but his body was on automatic at this point, doing what it used to do when he was a frightened child.

  “Dear God, look after your children,” he prayed, not sure that prayer would work, certain that it couldn’t hurt. He looked back at the men, then started as he caught something moving out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head back quickly, afraid that something was sneaking up on him. Nothing.

  Mallory looked away again, something telling him that there was something there. He moved his head and eyes slowly, until whatever it was appeared again, something hanging down from the trees up ahead, swinging in the cold breeze. He swung his head back and whatever it was disappeared. The Captain looked away again, feeling the chill down his spine increase. As his visual field shifted the... thing, was back, and he thought he detected some more, further down the road.

  The Captain looked again as his horse stopped in its tracks, refusing to move further down the path. And this time the objects did not disappear. No, they were revealed in all of their grizzly horror.

  Bodies, a dozen of them, six on each side of the road, swinging by ropes thrown over the branches of the trees that lined the path. The clothing was little more than rags, the flesh was falling off the bones. And one of them opened its eyes and stared into those of the Captain, while it raised an arm and pointed a finger at him.

  “My God,” said Clark behind him, seeing the same tableau. The men started to shout, some to scream, and the mist came rushing out of the swamp to enclose them in its frigid embrace.

  The screaming went on for minutes, man and horse, until a deathly silence fell again over the haunted swamp.

  ****

  Lieutenant Travis Rudolph, First Florida Cavalry, Confederate, sat his mount as he watched the orange ball of the sun come rising over the pines. The waters of the swamp to both sides of the road glistened with orange fire.

  “What in the hell possessed them to go into that unholy place?” commented Jasper Purvis, Rudolph’s sergeant. The Sergeant was running his hand over the stock of the Henry repeating rifle that had come his way on a frightened Yankee horse.

  Rudolph looked back at the quartet of horses that had come running out of the swamp during the night. The beasts had been shivering and literally foaming at the mouths, running up to the neighing horses of the Confederate company, seeking comfort. They had calmed over the hours, but Rudolph would be surprised if they could force those horses back into the swamp. It was obvious they had had enough of that place.

  They waited through the morning as the sun rose higher into the sky and the heat of the day started to build. Rudolph knew that other men from his regiment would be coming through the other side after being alerted in the night. But, unlike the Yankees, they would wait for the cleansing light of day before venturing into that deadly place.

  “Here they come,” alerted Purvis, pointing at the entrance to the swamp.

  Rudolph nodded as he watched the score of Confederate cavalry come riding out from between the trees. One of the horsemen spurred ahead when he saw his waiting compatriots, holding up a hand.

  “Not a sign of them,” announced the other lieutenant, who had ridden with his men from the other side. “We found a couple of horses wandering on the other side with Union furniture. But not a sign of them Yankees.”

  And there never will be, thought Rudolph, shaking his head. “What an awful way to die.”

  “Ain’t no good way,” said the other officer. “Though, if I could, I would rather pick the living to do me in. No telling what happens to you after the dead gets to ya.”

  5

  Yes, Rindy,

  There is a Santa Clause

  By TW Brown

  Rindy Farmer peeked out from the shadowy doorway. This house had been a good find, sitting all by itself on a hill looking out over a vastness that everyone was pretty sure must be somewhere in Wyoming. A steady rain continued to fall, adding to the gloom felt by everybody the past few days. Nobody could be absolutely certain, but the general consensus placed it to be sometime in December. This would be the third Christmas since them. Most folks called them zombies, not Rindy. That was the nickname she had given her little brother Zimbalist—named after some long dead television star that her dad liked when he was little.

  When her parents brought him home the first day and told her the name they had picked, she wrinkled her nose in distaste. From that day, he’d been ‘Baby Zombie’ to her. He was dead now.

  Both times.

  Same as her parents.

  At age twelve, Rindy Farmer had been trapped in a bathroom while her mom, dad, and little brother clawed at the door. Then, the soldier came. His name was Morgan, and he had shot each of them in the head.

  He saved Rindy.

&nb
sp; Over the next two years, she traveled with Corporal Morgan. He taught her to shoot. He also taught her not to shoot. Noise always brought more of them. That was why he also taught her how to use a knife, a spear—for jabbing, not throwing—and a bow and arrow. He showed her how to search a room and then secure it after ensuring an escape route existed.

  He taught her other stuff, too. He taught her how to tell if a can of food was bad, how to make fire with a flint and the blade of her machete. And he taught her how to hide.

  “Never trust anybody,” Corporal Morgan said time and again. “Especially men.”

  “You’re a man.” Rindy had pointed out the obvious the first time.

  “Yep,” Corporal Morgan agreed. “And my daughter was about half your age.”

  “They got her?”

  The corporal nodded. “But not everybody had daughters. Some men will see you differently.”

  Rindy knew what Corporal Morgan wasn’t saying…was too embarrassed to say. The past few years, she had seen gruesome examples of exactly why he had given that warning.