***
(Journal entry—Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)
The scouts have returned. Today is the day. I will not wait for Terry or Gibbon. I will not wait for more guns. We will surround and attack the village on my command. Reno will approach from the south, Benteen on my far flank. The scouts are uneasy, as are many of the officers, but I remain supremely confident. I believe the savages will see our dust coming, will hear the thunder of our horses, and they will flee. There is not an enemy walking this earth that can defeat the Seventh.
(Personal letter—Captain Frederick Benteen, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)
The fool! It’s already been decided: we attack today. No cannons, no Gatling guns, no reinforcements from General Terry. Custer, once again, the impatient fool. I dared to question the great one’s decision to split up the regiment into three, and his only response was typical Custer arrogance: “You have your orders.” The men are exhausted. Why not at least allow us another night’s rest and to engage at dawn instead of midday? I’m sure we will emerge victorious, of course, but at what cost? Custer is without conscience. He cares only of the newspaper headlines and his own perverse sense of immortality . . .
(Personal letter—Trumpeter Thomas J. Bucknell, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)
Dearest Court,
The orders came down just minutes ago. We will attack the village in an hour’s time. I’ve heard rumors of almost a thousand Indians, perhaps more. Please know how much I love and cherish you if I am unable to make it home to your arms. Please know that I tried my very best.
With all my love,
Thomas
P.S. Give my momma a hug when you next see her.
(Journal entry—Private John Papp, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)
I overheard my sergeant talking about the camp this morning. Lodges as far as the eye could see. Too many ponies to count. We’re all going to die in this valley. Every last one of us.
(Personal letter—Private Andrew J. Moore, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)
I’ve never seen so many Indians. May God have mercy on us all.
(Battlefield note dictated by Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer to runner, Trumpeter John Martini—June 25, 1876)
Benteen.
Come on. Big village. Be quick. Bring packs.
P.S. Bring packs.
(Personal letter—Corporal Henry M. Cody, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)
In the event that someone finds this upon my almost certain death . . .
Bloody Knife is dead. Major Reno is incompetent. He ordered us to retreat and fight on foot in the timber and now we are trapped here and dying. I can hear the dull roar of gunfire in the distance, presumably Custer’s companies engaging. We are badly outnumbered and have but one chance at escape. To ride through their lines. Otherwise it will be a massacre. Reno is no longer giving orders. God help us.
Regretfully,
Corp. Henry M. Cody
(Battlefield note given to runner—written by Major Reno, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)
Need reinforcements. Ammunition. Outnumbered but holding timberline. Something wrong with these savages. Bullets do not stop them. Men are being eaten alive. Chaos. Hurry.
(Personal letter—Captain Otto Hageman, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)
We are fighting monsters. How do you kill your enemy if they are already dead? They are toying with us. I saw Custer fall . . .
(Battlefield note given to runner—written by 1st Sergeant James Butler, Seventh Cavalry—June 25, 1876)
G. Custer is gone. Killed in the first moments of battle. Heavy casualties. Send men and guns. Surrounded.
***
(Journal entry—Sergeant James T. Riley, Seventh Cavalry—July 1, 1876)
Strict orders have been given by General Terry not to speak of this but I feel as though I must record my thoughts lest my head burst with the horrid reality of what I recently witnessed.
On June 28, my men and I were tasked with burying the bodies of the massacred Seventh Cavalry. It was a dreadful duty, as most of the bodies were bloated and blackened by the sun, and mutilated beyond recognition. Even poor Thomas Custer was not spared the indignity, as his head was crushed flat and he was only identifiable by the crude tattoo located on his left shoulder. As for the legendary George Custer, he was one of the very few that remained without disfigurement. Only his eardrums had been punctured. Perhaps most strangely, he died with a smile on his face, as if he knew his heroic death would cement his legacy once and for all.
As is usual procedure, a casualty count was completed, and it appeared as though many of the bodies were missing. Perhaps as many as three dozen with no explanation. When I questioned the other officers, I was greeted with backs turned, heads held close, and conspiratorial whispers. I am quite certain that one or more of these officers held the answer close to their lips but simply did not feel comfortable sharing that answer with me.
But yet that wasn’t the worst of it. Amongst the gruesome mutilations we encountered on that field overlooking the Little Bighorn were crudely amputated arms and legs, disembowelment, sliced off noses and ears and penises, and of course missing scalps to a man. One body inexplicably held one-hundred-and-five arrows. Another was posed with the trooper’s severed arms laid out in place of his missing legs, which were never found. But none of these travesties troubled me as deeply as the many throats I came upon that appeared to have been ripped open . . . no, that’s not entirely accurate or truthful . . . they appeared to have been chewed open. And, still stranger, all of these particular corpses were as pale as a winter snowfall. Seemingly drained of every last drop of their blood. What kind of savage could inflict such a wound?
***
(Personal letter discovered after his death—Private Christopher Criddle, Seventh Cavalry—November 19, 1907)
To Whom It May Concern,
I pray this letter is duly noted upon my passing and its contents are taken in the spirit in which they were written–as my absolute truth and atonement.
Most here in Springdale know me only as an honest storekeeper. No spouse, no family, a handful of unremarkable details regarding my past. Just a solitary man in his later years who loves his books, root beer floats, and the striking of a fair bargain.
What they don’t know–and what would certainly come as a shock to each and every one of them–is that in a former life and faraway place I was once a Private in George Custer’s famed Seventh Cavalry. It was long ago and I was a very different man then. Young and angry and desperately in need of discipline and acceptance. In short order, the Seventh became my home, and I came to adore everything about this choice of life. Until the Little Bighorn, that is.
Yes, I was with Custer at the Little Big Horn. I knelt no more than ten yards away from him when he was felled by a gunshot to his temple. Minutes later, his brother Thomas went down at my feet and followed George to whatever awaits us all after this world.
But how could this be, you ask? There were no survivors at the battle of the Little Bighorn. The newspapers claim it was a massacre. It was and I did. Survive, that is. Thanks to simple dumb luck and the unexpected aid of one generous soul–whom I will never mention, not even here in my final testimony–I not only was able to survive the battle with only a minor wound to my shoulder, I was also able to disappear, my body and mind after that day incapable of returning to a life of soldiering.
So, yes, I admit I am a deserter. A fugitive at large. Although I am quite certain that no one realizes this fact–not then, and not now. From what I have come to understand, many of my fellow troopers were missing from the field that day. Many others mutilated beyond recognition. Somewhere on that grassy knoll, I am certain there is a wooden cross with my name scrawled upon it.
I, alone, know the details of that day. I saw the Indians stream by the hundreds out of those hidden gullies. I heard a shocked Custer bark his orders and the bugles blow retreat. I was there whe
n we realized we were cut off and surrounded, when we dismounted to make our final stand. Most of the men fell to arrows and spears and bullets at intermediate range, but as the battle raged, more and more resorted to taking their own lives. The air became filled with gun-smoke and screams. It was hard to hear if any further orders were being given, harder still to see clearly. That’s when the creatures came. They crawled on their bellies through the high grass like snakes, their bloody teeth bared, their black eyes unblinking. I watched as trooper after trooper were dragged to the ground with incredible strength . . . their throats ripped open by razor-sharp teeth . . . and drained of their blood. I tried to kill the savages but my bullets had no effect on them.
For decades, I have never been able to find the proper words to put a name to the monsters I witnessed in that God-forsaken valley. And then, several years ago, I heard about an Irish writer by the name of Bram Stoker who had recently published a sensationalistic novel entitled Dracula. The book told the story of a night creature who drank the blood of his victims and cursed them to the eternal life of the undead. These creatures were given a name: vampire. I was able to acquire a copy of this book a short time ago from one of my contacts in Boston. Stoker’s tale was set across the ocean in Europe, a far cry from the dusty plains of the American West, and there were of course many other differences from what I experienced at the Little Bighorn. But there were also a multitude of striking similarities, enough so to convince me that Stoker’s book might not be merely a work of fantastic fiction.
I’ve never spoken or written of that fateful day at the Little Bighorn until now, and I will never make mention of it again. If only it was as easy to erase it from my conscience. I dream of them, you see. With their dark, hungry eyes and protruding, razor-sharp teeth. Sometimes, I find myself sketching their hideous faces on the backs of bills of sale while standing at the counter in my store.
When I realize what I am doing, I inevitably crumble these drawings and toss them into the trash bin or watch them burn in the flames of my fireplace at home. But it doesn’t matter. The faces always come back to me in my nightmares. I cannot ever forget them. So many mornings I wake up drenched in sweat and terror, my hands clutching my throat, protecting the soft flesh and holding in my screams. Then, I wash myself and dress, and head to the store, where I greet the townsfolk with a tired smile and a nod of my head and perhaps a few pleasantries. And each time the bell above the door rings, signaling the arrival of a new customer, I glance nervously from whatever task I am performing and pray that I don’t see those strange, dark eyes or razor-sharp teeth, that whatever those creatures were, they haven’t decided to journey East in their quest for fresh blood.
So, there you have it. My truth. I alone survived the Battle of the Little Bighorn. And on those long and lonely nights when their faces visit my dreams, I wish to God I hadn’t.
Sincerely,
C. Criddle
***
(Personal letter discovered after his passing—Ronald Bakewell—February 9, 2018)
. . . and so I leave the final decision in your worthy hands, Byron. History is yours for the changing. Or not. No one should judge your either decision. Just remember our old motto from University days: nothing holds more power than the truth.
Yours in admiration and friendship,
Ronald Bakewell
RED MOON
Michael Paul Gonzalez
“Fellas. That’s the moon. The god-damned moon!”
“You keep saying that, Buzz.”
“You’re not impressed? You landed on a bigger moon you didn’t tell me about, Neil?”
“When my wife bends over to fold the laundry,” Armstrong retorted, bringing a nervous chuckle out of Collins.
“You’re only saying that because she can’t hear you right now,” Aldrin giggled.
“You got that right.”
“Just for that, I’m going first. We’re all switching seats.”
Collins spared a glance from his instrument panels out the side of the lunar orbiter.
“What do you think, Collins? You want to go down there, let me fly this thing around the moon instead?” After an uneasy silence, Aldrin asked. “What’s gotten into you anyway? You’ve been pretty quiet.”
“This is a special mission of national and international importance,” Collins said, almost robotically.
“We know,” Armstrong laughed. “Space rocks. Research. Good of humanity. We’re going down there to become god-damned legends.”
“First men on the moon!” Aldrin shouted, slapping his thigh.
Collins let out a sigh. “No, it’s . . . I’m supposed to wait until we’re in lunar orbit to tell you this. There’s no easy way to it, so I’ll just say it. Aside from President Nixon and a handful of higher-ups in agencies that don’t officially exist, you’ll be the only ones with the knowledge I’m about to share. I’m supposed to swear you to secrecy, but I won’t. Time’s wasting and there’s nobody in the world who will believe what I’m about to tell you.” Collins locked in his trajectory and flipped down two switches, turning to face them. “Exploring the moon is not your primary objective. You’re going down there to go hunting.”
“Beg your pardon?” Armstrong said, sharing a glance with Aldrin.
“You won’t be . . . you aren’t the first men down there.”
“Mike, come on . . . ”
“Buzz, there are men down there. Sort of. Your job is to make sure you’re the only men that come back. Gentlemen, your primary mission from this point forward is to locate and terminate three Soviet operatives. Cosmonauts.” Collins paused and swallowed. “Werewolves.”
Aldrin barked a short laugh, then choked it off, looking at Armstrong.
“You feeling okay, Mike?”
“We’re on a controlled entry here, fellas. We have little time for explanation and no time for debate.”
Collins reached under his seat and popped open a small panel, pulling out a metal box. “This mission was compartmentalized. Need-to-know. Until now, you didn’t need to know. You each have one of these boxes under your seat. Pull it out.”
Collins opened his box to reveal a large metal wrist brace. Mounted to one side was a long barrel with a large cartridge box behind it.
“What the hell is that supposed to be?” Aldrin asked.
“What’s it look like to you?” Collins replied.
“It looks like that prototype bolt driver they had us working with in case anything broke while we were down there.”
“The very same. And now it’s driven by a big pressurized gas canister. Brace your feet. Wait for your target to charge you. Let ‘er rip,” Collins stared at the two other men. “It’s a gun.”
“You’re serious about—now just what in the deep blue hell is—” Armstrong’s brow creased, his eyes meeting Collins’ in the eerie silence. He flicked on the radio.
“Houston, Eagle. How do you read now?”
“Roger. Five by, Neil.”
“Houston, we might have a situation on the CSM here. Collins is saying—”
“Collins, you started early?”
“Roger that, Houston.”
“This was supposed to wait until dark side, Collins, and—”
“Pardon my French, Houston, but this is a lot of shit to dump on a couple of guys before they go to walk on the god-damned moon, and I need to get it done so I can get busy helping them land on said god-damned moon, and if you have a problem with the way I’m running the mission at this point, feel free to fire me and send up a replacement.”
A long silence, punctuated by the occasional click and ping of metal.
“Copy that, commander. Aldrin. Armstrong. Collins has command. You don’t have to like this situation. You don’t have to believe a word of what he tells you. But you WILL do as he tells you. Copy?”
Armstrong and Aldrin looked at each other.
“Houston,” Aldrin’s voice cracked. “Houston—Jesus I hope this is off the national record—Collins
is claiming there are . . . werewolves on the moon. Can you confirm—”
“Collins is incorrect. There’s no such thing as werewolves. These are Soviet agents.”
Aldrin sighed and looked at Armstrong. Houston broke in again.
“More accurately, these are Soviet Lupine Lunar Mutations.”
“Is it April first?” Armstrong muttered.
“Handy of them to wait until after we did the TV shot to drop this on us,” Aldrin said.
Collins flipped a switch and killed the radio. He opened a small panel in the box on his lap, withdrawing two slim pamphlets.
“We’ve got about twenty minutes until you need to go strap in the lander. My recommendations are to take ten of those minutes to read through those pamphlets, take the next five minutes to familiarize yourself with the guns, and take the last five minutes to pray to whatever god you hold dear.”
Armstrong unbuckled from his seat and drifted down towards the lunar lander module. Aldrin followed suit.
“You’re staying up here to wait for us, right?” Armstrong asked.
Fantastic Tales of Terror Page 11