A Fistful of Zombies: 12 Zombie Tales

by Dane Hatchell

  “They eat people. Did you know that? It’s an ancient ritual. Sometimes just the livers. Sometimes whole bodies.” Buzzard had spoken in a whisper.

  “Go on. Get out. You’re shitin’ me.”

  “No, no I’m not. Two days ago I was next to one of them Navajo code talkers after he took a message. I asked him what it said. He told me that the Japanese were coming out during the night at Hill 382 and eating the soldiers.”

  “Dead soldiers?”

  “No, they were eating Marines—alive!”

  Hart shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would they eat someone while they’re still alive? Why not just kill the guy first?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’re all hopped up on sake. But think on this, why is it that they’ve been calling this hill ‘Meat Grinder’? Sure, we’re losing soldiers on this front, but not any more than the others. They call it Meat Grinder because the Japs are eating us alive out here.”

  The two finished digging in silence. As tired as Hart was, the very thought of the Japanese eating an American made his blood boil. He wanted to kill every Japanese man, woman, and child with his bare hands.

  The air was heavier at night and combined with the volcanic ash in the air to form a sulfur tasting film. The two rinsed their mouths thoroughly with a small amount of water before sitting down to eat.

  The night’s menu was meat and spaghetti, much to Buzzard’s delight. His Grandmother’s spaghetti was his favorite thing in life to eat. She would make it for him on his birthday. His mother’s spaghetti he could take or leave. The C rations were a far cry from tasting as good as his mom’s, but it was the best the military had to offer.

  “You know, Buzzard, I think they put something in this food that keeps us from taking a crap,” Hart said. He swallowed the last of his caramels, and fired up a cigarette to finish off his meal. “I’ve been here a week and I haven’t taken a dump since we hit the island.” Hart stayed low in the foxhole, being careful to hide the glow from his cigarette from the enemy.

  “You sure do a lot of thinking. What are going to do when you get out? Go to college and be an inventor or something?” Buzzard finished the last of his coffee and chose the gum over the cigarette from his C rations. The fresh mint taste reminded him of the first time he kissed a girl back in high school. She had just stuck a stick of gum in her mouth when he surprised her from behind and stole a kiss.

  The still of the night and the satisfaction of a finished meal calmed the insides of the two men. The two hunkered down in the foxhole and let the hardships of the day slip away. Tuning out reality, the two found a special place in their mind where there was no fear, and then fell into a blissful state of rest that only near exhaustion could bring.

  *

  The first shots came from the east. Hart and Buzzard awoke to a Tommy gun rattling out a twenty round clip. Tommy guns were used in close combat. That meant the enemy was upon them.

  Hart went to stand, but Buzzard grabbed him by the arm so he would stay down. Buzzard needed to wake up and get his bearings, and figured Hart did too. Sometimes fate only allowed one mistake in a wartime situation. He didn’t want to lose his life, or his friend, in an overzealous reaction.

  More shooting erupted from behind. It sounded like small arms, but then guns of all calibers came alive around them. The enemy had made their move in the cover of darkness using hidden tunnels to spring up among them.

  “What do we do?” Hart said to Buzzard, who peered above the foxhole.

  “I can’t see much, just muzzle fire. We have to wait for the Japs to get close enough for us to shoot. We don’t want to hit other Marines.”

  Hart’s pulse raced. War was different in the daytime. He felt like he had a better chance to defend himself. If he died, at least he could see it coming. Not like this, not when he feared every direction his back was turned could loom as a target for a harbinger of death.

  The night lit up from star shells fired from U.S. battleships offshore. The burning shells parachuted slowly down to Earth. Designed to reveal the enemy in the cover of darkness, it also revealed the Marines position from the mountains. If this was a suicide mission, the Japanese guns on the hill would soon open fire.

  Hart looked up from his foxhole and saw a Marine bayonet an advancing Japanese soldier in the chest, directly in his heart, and pushed to hold him at bay. The Japanese soldier pressed forward, arms outstretched, and fingers clawing toward the Marine. The Marine hesitated for a moment, as if fear had frozen him. The Japanese soldier ripped the rifle from his hands.

  The gun fell to the ground and left a hole from the bayonet in the Japanese’s chest. It didn’t bleed, and it didn’t stop the enemy soldier. He grabbed the Marine by his arms and tore at his throat with bare teeth.

  Hart had heard many men scream in pain and cry as they fell into the gaping jaws of death. But never had he heard a scream made of fear such as this.

  The Japanese soldier voraciously bit off chucks of flesh as the Marine futilely tried to fight him off. Hart was just about to leave the foxhole and go to his aid when the Japanese soldier turned his way.

  The enemy’s expression radiated sheer evil. A ghastly snarl contorted his face. Blood dripped from his chin like a wild beast after a successful hunt.

  Hart became paralyzed. His mind couldn’t make his body move.

  Buzzard squeezed off two rounds from his M-1 rifle. The sharp sound broke the clutch of Heart’s fear. He rolled over in time to see an enemy soldier coming straight for Buzzard. Buzzard quickly fired two more rounds. Hart witnessed the bullets finding its target directly into the soldier’s chest. The bullets didn’t stop him.

  More screams from Marines in agony went up into the night, coming from all directions.

  The advancing Japanese soldier ended up on Buzzard’s bayonet. Just like the other Marine. As with the other Japanese solider, all it did was slow his advancement.

  This enemy soldier was close enough for Hart to get a better look. He looked nothing like any living man he had seen before. His face was rotting on one side, exposing his skeletal jaw and cheekbone. His shirt was shredded rags. Where he stomach should have been, was just a maggot infested pit. The enemy was more dead than alive.

  Hart’s need to help Buzzard pushed the fear aside enough for him to charge forward with his rifle and stab the abysmal soldier with his bayonet.

  The two pushed together with their combined might, finally sending the zombie backward, and onto the ground. They had him pinned down like a wounded beast in a trap. The soldier fought to free himself but wasn’t able to overcome the resolve of the two Marines.

  “What the hell is this thing?” Hart said.

  “I don’t know. But it ain’t alive,” Buzzard said, straining.

  “How can it not be alive?”

  “Look at it! It’s not breathing. It’s not bleeding. It ain’t got no guts! It’s dead!” for the first time, Buzzard sounded desperate.

  “What’re we going to do?” asked Hart.

  “I don’t know. We could cut it into pieces. That might kill it.”

  Hart pulled out his .45 Colt side arm and shot the Japanese solider three times in the head. The soldier’s head slammed to the ground and back up at each bullet’s impact. He steadied his hand, ready to fire again, but the soldier moved no more.

  Hart reveled in victory. “Yeah!” and turned toward the fallen Marine that was first attacked. The adrenaline pumping through him from fear now invigorated him with bravery. The enemy could be stopped. He was going to make each one pay, or die trying.

  The undead Japanese soldier feasted on the intestines of the dead Marine. It fed like a starved wolf gulping down food out of a bowl. Hart felt his spaghetti churn in his stomach and come up his throat. He tried to swallow to keep it down and dry heaved as he pulled the trigger on his rifle.

  The zombie soldier never looked up, with two of the three shots hitting it in the head. A putrid mass of festering gunk spilled out as the bullets b
roke its skull like an eggshell.

  Hart bent over and gave back his dinner to the volcanic ground of Iwo Jima. Never in his life had he imagined such vile horror as this night had brought. His eyes watered, snot flowed out of his nose and dripped down his lips. He dry heaved again, with nothing left to offer.

  “Look out, behind you!” Buzzard cried. A trap door concealed with scrubby grass on top flipped up off the ground behind Hart. Another zombie emerged from a tunnel, with only one objective in mind. Buzzard raised his rifle to shoot, but was afraid of hitting Hart.

  Hart instinctively spun around at the warning, and dropped to one knee.

  The enemy stood waist high in the tunnel, crawling its way out not even three feet away.

  Hart lunged forward and rammed the bayonette through the zombie’s left eye. He didn’t know if the creature had screamed or not, for he let out a cry of rage that echoed off the surrounding hills. The bayonet went all the way through the skull and poked out the backside of its head. Hart twisted the blade back and forth, grinding his teeth with a half-mad smile on face. “Take that, you fucker!” He lifted the butt of his rifle until the zombie’s head went so far over its back that he heard the snap of its spine breaking. He then walked around the creature, until the head twisted off the body.

  Hart lifted his M-1 high in the air with the zombie’s head still on the blade. “Take a picture of this! Put it right next to that picture of the American flag being raised at Mount Suribachi! Send it to Japan and tell them we’re coming there next!”

  Buzzard was wonderstruck at the transformation of his friend. He had gone from a happy-go-lucky mama’s boy to a fearless warrior in just a few minutes. He began to worry for his friend’s sanity.

  To Buzzard’s left, a flame spewed out and lit a zombie on fire. The body lumbered forward until one of its legs gave out and collapsed to the ground.

  Flamethrowers! The perfect weapon. It could reach over twenty yards. Much easier to use than trying to sight in a head shot. Once the jellied gasoline hit its target, it was going to burn, and there was nothing that could stop it.

  Another whoosh of flame and another walking dead torched, left to wander in the darkness until its demon within no longer had a vehicle to animate.

  The Marines were winning and now on the offensive. Burning napalm flooded the exposed tunnels, incinerating any of the walking dead still climbing to the surface.

  Buzzard grinned and gave a rebel yell of victory, and then a scream of terror as a zombie from a tunnel emerged from behind and bit him in the neck.

  Hart had been watching the fire show when he turned at Buzzard’s cry. It was already too late. The zombie was on Buzzard’s back, gnawing greedily at his delicate flesh.

  Hart yelled for the creature to get off as he ran as fast as he could to his friend’s aid. He threw his M-1 to the ground and pulled out his .45, placed it right to the zombie’s head, and fired until it clicked empty.

  The zombie hit the ground motionless. Hart turned his buddy over, and removed the helmet from his head. “Buzz, talk to me.” He looked for signs of life in his eyes. Hart then scanned the area frantically. “Medic! Medic!”

  Buzzard coughed.

  “Buzz! Thank the Lord you’re alive! Hang in there. Stay with me. I’m going to get you some help.”

  The attack slowly wound down. The gunfire finally stopped. An occasional flamethrower still lit up a target. A medic close by came rushing toward Hart as he cried for help.

  The medic dropped to his knees, sliding next to Buzzard. He turned on a small flashlight, examined the warrior’s eyes, and felt for a pulse. It was weak, but it was there.

  “Was he shot?” the Medic asked. He looked even younger than Buzzard, Hart thought.

  “No, that damn dead Japanese bastard tried to eat him.” Hart couldn’t have said it with any more disgust.

  “Not good. That’s not good,” the Medic’s voice trailed off. “I can’t help him.”

  “He’s alive, ain’t he? Do something!” Hart grabbed the medic by the shoulder. “You help him or I’ll . . .”

  Sgt. Packer stepped in and cut Hart’s threat short. “Hold on soldier. I give the orders around here.”

  Hart rose to his feet and looked the Sgt. in the eye. “But he’s alive, sir!”

  “Son, there’s something you don’t understand. I don’t understand it either. But your friend is gone. He’s been bit by those dead Japanese, and he’s going to turn out to be just like them if we don’t take care of him,” Packer grimly said.

  “Well, then let’s take care of him. Get him the help he needs,” Hart pleaded.

  Packer unholstered his .45 and shot Buzzard in the heart.

  Hart was stunned and fell immediately down to the side of his friend. “You monster! How could you do that? You just killed him!” Hart broke down and cried uncontrollably.

  “No, son. He was already dead. And he’s going to wake up and become one of the walking dead if we don’t take care of him. Buzz is gone. What wakes up later, won’t be Buzz. It would eat you just as soon as look at you. Now, pull yourself together. We got to gather all those bitten and burn them before they wake up. Here, I’ll help you carry Buzz to the pile.”

  Hart looked around. Marines carried their dead companions and placed them side by side on the ground. It was an unfit end for the heroes who sacrificed themselves for those at home, and for the free world.

  Once all the bodies were collected, the company gathered around them in reverence. Silent prayers went out as the flame throwers torched the bodies.

  The purifying fire released the caged souls from their infected bodies.

  * * *

  The sun rose on the cloudless morning of March 10th, in Los Alamos, New Mexico. The hands on the large white faced clock, hung precariously on the wall, pointed to 9 AM. The room was barren of creature comforts save for the most basic. This consisted of a serviceable table with enough chairs to accommodate each member of the atomic bomb Target Committee.

  General Groves had appointed J. Robert Oppenheimer as head of the Target Committee. He and eight other scientists, along with four representatives from the military, were given the grievous tasks of choosing which two cities of the Imperial Nation of Japan would be the first to feel the destruction of America’s new atomic weapon.

  General Farrell had the floor and had been going over every gruesome detail of the series of photographs the other members studied.

  Oppie flipped one by one through each photograph. Horrific photos of stiff-walking, decaying Japanese soldiers in various encounters seemed to stare back at him. Many photos showed the zombies eating their American adversaries. His gaze darted to his civilian colleagues, and met with head shakes of disbelief. Dr. Wilson excused himself. It didn’t stop the committee from hearing him vomit in the hall.

  Oppie waited for the General to finish his briefing. “So, the Japanese have figured out a way to reanimate their dead with a virus?”

  “Yes, sir. The Emperor had his top biologist working on a solution to fill the need for experienced Zero pilots. The virus was successful at reanimating the dead, but did not deliver the results the Emperor demanded. The creatures that emerge are nothing more than lobotomized eating machines. The living flesh of humans is their only craving,” the General said. “If they can perfect the virus and reanimate thinking, reasoning warriors, well, it would greatly complicate things for us.”

  Oppie rose from his chair. “General, where is the manufacturing facility for this virus?”

  The General opened a cardboard tube lying on the table, removed a map, and rolled it out for all to see. “There are two facilities manufacturing the virus. Here,” he tapped his index finger on the map, “Hiroshima. And here,” he tapped the map again, showing the next location, “Nagasaki.”

  Oppie raised both of his palms to the air. He turned to those on his left, and then to those on his right. “As I see it, the only targets for us to consider are these two cities. Is there any need for fu
rther discussion?”

  No one said a word. Then, one after another, each said no. The targets had been chosen, for reasons none could have ever imagined before the meeting.

  J. Robert Oppenheimer felt peace unlike he had felt since the day he convinced Robert Wilson and the other scientists at that meeting months before to continue the Manhattan Project until completion.

  The world was unknowingly at risk from a virus that could potentially destroy all of mankind. It would be the power of the atom that would wipe that threat clean.

  Robert Wilson referred to the atomic bomb as, ‘This horrible thing to come.’ But it would be that same destructive force he feared so greatly that would save America and the free world.

  The End

  Dead Coup d’État

  The sun was just beginning to set on the horizon and brought with it a close to the first day of October. A gentle breeze cool and crisp carried a falling leaf to the ground. The darkness of night slowly smothered the last light of day.

  Three members of the Third United States Infantry were in the final stages of the Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns in Arlington Cemetery. The cemetery closed to the public at 5 PM, but the ceremony would continue even with no audience present.

  The impeccably uniformed Relief Commander and the relieving Sentinel met the Retiring Sentinel at the center of a black matted path, in front of the seventy nine ton Tomb sarcophagus. The three soldiers turned in unison and together brought their right feet up and stamped them sharply back to the ground. Now facing the west end of the memorial, their three arms snapped up in salute.

  Engraved in the white marble:

  ‘Here Rests In Honored Glory

  An American Soldier

  Known But to God’

  The ritual to honor the fallen dead had not been interrupted since its inception in 1937. It continued twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and at the minimum of once an hour. The motto of the Tomb Guards being: ‘Soldiers never die until they are forgotten, Tomb Guards never forget.’