The full moon was well above the horizon when he heard Adkins call out from atop the train.
“I have movement to the east!”
The moonlight bathed the landscape, turning it nearly as bright as day. Mueller played his binoculars over the distant hills. Sure enough, a mass of figures, maybe a kilometer off, were moving slowly toward the legionnaires’ position.
“Man your positions,” Mueller shouted. The 20 remaining legionnaires scrambled to obey, relieved to have something to do to take their minds off the increasingly oppressive atmosphere. “Pick your targets before you fire. Fire at will. We have plenty of ammunition, so don’t worry about wasting it.”
Mueller jogged over to the train cab. Aziz’s crew were still waiting for the sun-baked metal to cool before attempting to patch the bullet hole in the pressure chamber. “Aziz!” Mueller called. “Get your crew working!”
“The metal is still too hot to touch,” Aziz called back.
“I don’t give a damn!” Mueller shouted. “You’re not going to get any more time for it to cool. Get started now!”
Aziz sighed and turned toward his crew. An argument in Arabic ensued, but the other two men eventually climbed up into the cab and began hauling out the patching equipment.
Mueller stopped next to the car atop which the mitrailleuse sat in a sandbagged position. Adkins was there.
“Adkins,” Mueller called up. “You direct the gun. Keep the bursts low and watch you don’t overheat the barrel.”
“Oui, sergeant-chef.”
Mueller made his way to the center of the ruined east wall. He would direct the fight from here. He scanned the oncoming mob with his binoculars. There was something odd about the formation. Most of the figures were bunched in a long column. On either side marched a file of a few hundred armed men. The latter appeared to be goading or herding the center column.
The column was about 500 meters out when Mueller heard a shot. One of the men in the left-hand file dropped. That shooter would’ve been Smith. He’d grown up in the rural United States and took pride in his sharpshooting abilities.
Another man in the file rushed to his fallen comrade and made some gestures. A moment later the fallen man stood up and joined the column in the center.
“What the hell was that?” Mueller mumbled to himself.
Smith fired again and then again. If he’d hit anything Mueller couldn’t see.
“Fuck!” Smith shouted. “I was aiming at the center column. Even Radcliffe couldn’t miss at this range!” A chuckle rolled through the legionnaires. Radcliffe was the worst shot in the company. Fortunately, he was in the other platoon. Mueller was heartened to hear the chuckle. It meant his troops were relaxed and optimistic about the coming fight.
“Fuck it,” Smith shouted again. He fired and another one of the outer file stumbled and fell. As before the other man ran over to the fallen. He made the same gestures, and the fallen man stood up and joined the center column.
What the hell was going on? Mueller asked himself.
“Smith!” Mueller barked.
“Oui, sergeant-chef!”
“Do you see that odd little fellow out there? The one with the bald head? The one who appears to be treating the fellows you’ve been shooting?”
“Oui, sergent-chef.”
“Shoot him.”
A second later, another shot rang out. Mueller grunted in satisfaction as the little man dropped like a rag doll. No one ran to his side; indeed the two flanking columns wavered for a moment before someone barked orders and they fell back into step.
When the on-coming columns were about 200 meters out, the mitrailleuse opened fire, raking the center column. At this range Mueller with his binoculars could see a number of figures in the column collapse onto the sand. A moment later the fallen figures began rising again and rejoining the center column.
This couldn’t be real.
Now all the legionnaires were firing. Figures in the advancing columns spun and dropped. The ones from the outer files lay still on the sand. The ones in the center rose up again without fail and rejoined their comrades. Some in the outer columns were returning fire, and bullets spanged off the caravanserai’s walls or puffed into sandbags.
With his left hand, Mueller held the binoculars to his eyes. His right hand gripped the barrel of his Gras rifle. The columns were only 150 meters out, and Mueller could begin making out the features of the oncoming attackers. He nearly dropped the glasses.
“Gott in Himmel,” he whispered. For a moment he stood frozen; then his 20 years in the Legion and the experience of dozens of firefights snapped him to his senses.
“Aziz, goddamit!” He yelled. “Get that piece of shit of a train working now!” Mueller could hear the edge of terror in his voice, and so could his men. Half a dozen turned to stare at him.
“What is it, sergeant-chef?” Smith asked. There was more than a hint of worry in his voice. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Don’t you fuckin’ mind, Smith,” Mueller barked. “Now get back to your work!”
Andrew Savinski was a good-natured eastern European (he would not tell anyone where he was from, though his accent screamed Poland) who had joined the Legion five years before. He was a bear of a man who normally carried and manned the platoon’s mitrailleuse. That was before a bullet had hit him square in the heart. Mueller had held the dying Pole and heard his last breath. He knew Savinski was dead. He’d seen the man’s body slip from the roof of the middle car and sprawl limply on the hardpan of the desert.
And now Andrew Savinski was in that center column shuffling his way toward the Legionnaires’ position. Mueller could see the Pole’s blood-stained blouse, black in the monochromatic light. And he saw his eyes, dead and unseeing, yet guiding him toward his former companions.
And it wasn’t just Savinski. Mueller had seen Lieutenant de Havries, and a couple of other familiar faces. And then there were the others.
Mueller lowered the binoculars and raised the Gras. He could see clearly enough to shoot, and his men knew what they were doing. He raised the rifle, opened the bolt and slid a round into the receiver, and then slid the bolt shut. Mueller rather liked the Gras. It was nearly identical to the Chassepot he’d been issued when he first joined the Legion, but the newer metallic cartridges were easier to seat and didn’t have a tendency to jam.
He braced the rifle on his shoulder and aimed at Savinski. The Pole was close enough now that Mueller could almost make out his face in the moonlight. He aimed at Savinski’s chest and took up the slack on the trigger.
The earlier chest wound hadn’t had any effect on the Pole, and it was obvious from the way the … men … in the center column kept getting back up that bullets wouldn’t work. Still, the rifle was Mueller’s tool, and its mere presence gave him some comfort. Almost as an afterthought, Mueller opted for a head shot. He raised his sights slightly and squeezed the trigger. The bullet popped off into the night.
Cursing lightly, Mueller inserted another round into the weapon’s receiver and raised it to his shoulder again. He adjusted his aim slightly and fired. He watched in grim satisfaction as Savinski’s head exploded and he dropped to the ground. This time he didn’t get up, though.
Mueller paused for a moment, but still the Pole lay there.
“Go for head shots!” Mueller shouted.
The Legionnaires shifted their aims. Most of them wouldn’t be able to hit a head-sized target at more than 100 meters, but a few might get lucky. More of the center column’s figures sprawled on the sands. A few got up, but several stayed down. The mitrailleuse raked the column sending even more figures sprawling.
“Holy mother-fucking God!” Smith cursed in English. Mueller brought the glasses to his eyes again. Smith had excellent eyesight befitting the best marksman in the company. Mueller’s eyes were older and not quite as good.
The front ranks of the center column consisted of what Mueller could only think of as “the recent dead.” Behind the
m came something else.
Mueller focused on one of the figures. Tatters of skin, dry as parchment, clung to the skeletal figure. A rusty iron helmet perched on its head and the remains of a chainmail shirt draped over its bony shoulders. Its right hand grasped the rusted remnants of a sword and the left held up half of a round shield, dry rotted and worm-eaten. A dim, green glow emanated from its eye sockets. Around it shuffled figures in more or less the same condition. As Mueller scanned back along the column the figures became increasingly skeletal, an army of the dead.
The volume of fire from the Legionnaires increased. The Gras was a single-shot rifle, requiring a new round be inserted into the chamber before firing. An average soldier could fire maybe six aimed shots per minute, with some making double that. Mueller’s Legionnaires were approaching the latter figure.
Someone was reciting the Hail Mary in Spanish. That would be Legionnaire Sanchez, Mueller absently thought, as he fired into the oncoming mass. He grunted as the grinning skull he’d aimed at shattered into a hundred pieces. The rest of the bones collapsed in a heap. Mueller could feel the terror trying to creep into his mind. He concentrated on his marksmanship to hold it at bay.
Ninety meters, 80 meters. The column kept coming. Dozens of bodies lay on the cold hardpan of the desert.
Fifty meters. “Feed me!” Adkins yelled to his loader as the mitrailleuse fell into a momentary silence.
The popping of rifle fire had become steady. Oddly, the sound seemed to soothe Mueller’s nerves considerably. The mitrailleuse stuttered back to life.
Thirty meters.
“Sergeant-chef,” Aziz called. “We have made the repairs, but we still do not have any water.”
Mueller snapped out of the almost hypnotic state he was in. It took a moment to realize what Aziz had just told him. He thought a moment more.
“There are two tuns of wine in the cars,” he shouted. “Use those!”
“Not in my engine,” Aziz shouted back. “It will ruin it!”
“I don’t fucking care,” Mueller yelled turning to fix the Arab with his stare. “If you don’t get that engine up and running in the next few minutes you and your precious engine won’t be around to care.”
Aziz turned to his assistance, and in a moment the three were off-loading one of the tuns of wine.
Mueller returned to his duties.
Twenty meters.
Shots began to go wild as the Legionnaires began to panic.
“Steady, boys,” Mueller shouted above the din. “You’re Legionnaires, not Frenchmen.”
That elicited a strained chuckle from his troops, but Mueller was pleased to see the fire become more accurate.
Ten meters.
The first of the walking dead had reached the barbed wire surrounding the ruins. Heedlessly they walked into it and quickly became entangled. Some of those following stepped onto the writhing bodies of their comrades, while others began to move down the wire as if looking for a break. If they continued they’d flank the position.
“Adkins, concentrate on those working around to the left,” Mueller hollered up to the gunner. “Eidleman, Smith, Adamski, you concentrate on those on the right.”
The press of bodies in the center flattened the wire there. The dead began to shuffle into the position. Mueller heard a hiss from the direction of the locomotive. That would be Aziz building up steam.
“By sections, fall back and mount the train,” Mueller called out. He jogged over to the ladder attached to the side of the nearest car and pulled himself onto the roof. He aimed at one of the figures shuffling up to the ruined gate and fired. The creature twisted as the round smacked its shoulder, but it continued coming on. Mueller reloaded and fired again. The round blew off the top of the thing’s head and it dropped like a ragdoll.
Legionnaires were scrambling up the sides of the cars. As each reached the top he began firing into the oncoming horde. Eight, nine, ten. Smith was up there now, popping away at the shuffling monstrosities. Eleven, 12, 13. Sanchez and Adamski set up on either side of Mueller.
Fourteen, 15…
The first of the walking dead reached the blocked gate. The car blocking the entrance was the center one, the one with the mitrailleuse. Adkins momentarily released the weapon’s spade grips, and pulled out his pistol. He shot the creature through the top of its skull.
Sixteen, 17, 18…
Mueller heard a chuff from the engine. Then he heard another, and another. The train lurched a quarter meter forward, sending men sprawling. Mueller grabbed Sanchez before the little Spaniard slipped off the roof.
Nineteen…
The train lurched again, but this time the men were ready for it. It continued rolling forward. Mueller saw his last man scramble up onto the roof. The dead were trying to find purchase on the sides of the cars.
Aziz aimed for a break in the caravanserai’s walls. The Legionnaires had placed a waist-high wall of sandbags at that point, and a number of the creatures inside the wire had begun clawing and climbing over it. The massive land locomotive hit the wall of sandbags, momentarily losing speed before pushing through it. Mueller was happy to see a number of the monsters disappear under the train’s treads.
Some of the dead were clinging to the ladders on the sides of the cars. A few had begun climbing. The Legionnaires clubbed and shot them down.
The last car cleared the caravanserai and a moment later rolled over the wire flattened by the locomotive.
Aziz slowly brought the train around until it was pointed west. Mueller made his way toward the locomotive, carefully jumping over the gaps between the cars. He reached the locomotive just as one of the dead, who had evidently been able to grab onto the vehicle, hauled itself onto the platform behind the cab. Mueller drew his revolver and emptied it into the monster. He then carefully lowered himself down onto the platform. He kicked the thing’s body, pushing it off under the slowly-accelerating train, before entering the cab.
“Good job, Aziz,” Mueller said, letting the exhaustion he felt edge into his voice. “Head toward Elaine. Let’s try to get as close as possible before this engine of yours craps out.”
Mueller sank to the floor of the cab, removing his kepi and running his hands through his close-cropped gray hair. “Raise the cruiser on the wireless and let them know we’re headed that way.”
The day’s events crashed down on Mueller. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cab’s wall.
“Sergeant-chef.”
Mueller opened his eyes. Aziz was standing over him. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows of the cab.
“Sergeant-chef,” Aziz repeated. “We are there.”
Mueller rubbed his eyes and climbed unsteadily to his feet. He noticed the silence in the cab. “We’re stopped?” he asked, uncertainly.
“The engine gave out,” Aziz explained. “But we are only 100 meters from the gates of Elaine. I’ve raised the cruiser. It will be here in an hour.”
Mueller stepped out onto the cab’s rear platform and swung down onto the ground. Legionnaires were climbing down from the train’s cars, yawning, stretching, and in a few cases, scratching. Caporal Adkins was quietly coaxing the men into the semblance of a rank. Mueller turned toward the outpost. He saw the figures of Legionnaires manning the walls. The gate was open; Mueller assumed to allow the train to enter. A figure was approaching the train. From the shoulder boards, Mueller assumed the man to be an officer. Mueller buttoned his blouse and straitened his kepi. He took a deep breath, brought himself to attention and marched toward the oncoming officer. From the rank tabs, Mueller could see the man was a lieutenant – probably the outpost’s commander.
The officer stopped, his head lowered as if he were contemplating his boots. Mueller marched smartly toward the officer. Other Legionnaires were filtering out of the gate, making for the train. Mueller heard Adkins call the platoon to attention.
Five paces from the lieutenant, Mueller snapped to attention and saluted. The officer was a short ma
n, maybe a meter sixty. Mueller focused his eyes on a point over the officer’s head. He noticed the men on the walls were beginning to leave their posts. The lieutenant must be running a lax operation, Mueller thought. The men on the walls should’ve remained to watch for attack.
“Sergeant-chef Karl Mueller reporting with a supply train for Outpost Elaine,” Mueller declared formally.
The lieutenant’s gloved hand rose as if to return the salute, but stopped halfway to his head. He raised his head to the sergeant-chef. Faint green orbs glowed in the eyeless sockets. Skin, dry as parchment, stretched across the man’s skull. The lieutenant’s skeletal grin seemed to mock Mueller.
The sergeant-chef stumbled backward, barely keeping his feet. He now saw the other Legionnaires approaching were in the same cadaverous state. He turned back toward the train. On the horizon he could see a mass of figures moving toward the outpost. The walking dead had followed the train all night.
“Madre de Dios!” Sanchez yelled. A skeletal hand had risen from the sand and grasped the little Spaniard’s ankle. Sanchez brought his rifle butt down on the arm, snapping it off as the rest of the corpse sat up, sand cascading from its head and torso.
Other corpses were rising from the sands around the train. Adkins was yelling for the Legionnaires to remount the train. Mueller watched in horror as two corpses grabbled Smith’s ankles, tripping the American and sending him sprawling on the sand. Another arm burst from the ground, grabbed the Legionnaire around his throat and pulled him face down onto the sand. Smith struggled vainly to free himself.
Adkins pulled his sidearm and shot one of the creatures through the head. The monster collapsed onto the sand, but another grabbed Adkins wrist and pushed it skyward. The creature’s free hand closed around the Caporal’s throat. Another corpse pinned the little Englishman against the side of the train car. Mueller fumbled his revolver from its holster. He shot the corpse holding Adkins’ throat. The creature collapsed onto the ground, but it was too late. The monster’s claws had opened the Caporal’s throat. Adkins slid bonelessly to the ground.
Monsters, Magic, and Machines (The SteamGoth Anthology Book 1) Page 2