O’Donnell screamed and managed to veer away but the dead soldier pivoted after him, its arms pointing at the short corporal. O’Donnell ran, and the dead man hopped towards him, its legs hardly bending. It shouldn’t have moved as fast and as far as it did but O’Donnell was getting away and then the thing was right next to him, close enough to touch him.
Underwood blinked. It had jumped forward like a grasshopper, almost too fast to see. It was stiff, its body straight, arms parallel to the ground, not shaking or wavering. It was a monster, a demon out of hell. She braced the M1911 and took aim.
“Oh, gee!” O’Donnell got out, and then he was screaming, and she fired, once, twice. The dead man was in profile, and the first shot was high but she saw the second round hit its ribs, the fabric of his shirt blown open, blood and flesh and bone pattering to the dirt on the other side. He should have gone down, why was he still standing, why was O’Donnell still screaming? There was some kind of deep vibration in the air and O’Donnell crumpled. His face had changed, his slight body somehow slighter. The dead man glowed brighter.
It sucked the life out of him.
The creature flexed its feet and was suddenly facing her. It hopped forward like a tin soldier that had been picked up and moved, its arms outstretched, its dead gaze unseeing.
She emptied her weapon, five more .45 caliber rounds, hitting it in the throat and again through the bridge of its nose. Tatters of skin and cartilage flew and she saw the goddamn holes open up in its body yet it hopped again, and a third time, and impossibly, it was right in front of her. She could smell the dead man rotting and the fresh wounds were sticky with clotted blood, almost black against the white-green skin. She could smell the heat of the rounds she’d fired, wisps of seared, decaying flesh. It stared past her with no expression, not seeing her, its jaw slack with death. It was a void.
Underwood screamed. She felt it pulling at her, drawing her life away, and she couldn’t move, trapped by whatever it was doing.
–eating me… it’s eating my life–
She could feel her body dying, the tendons and muscles tightening, shrinking, the breath being pulled from her lungs, the will to draw another one falling away.
Stitch, she thought, and was gone.
* * *
The sarge stood up and looked at Cakes. The dame in the corner was shook, all curled up in bloody whites.
“I may have seen a hopping dead man,” West said.
“No shit?”
The sarge shook his head. “I saw something.” He picked up a blanket and covered the nurse.
Cakes’ hand tightened on his weapon. The gooks were trash people, it made sense that they’d have some creepy crawlies they could hoodoo up. That stuff was for real, he knew it was, there were dark places and devils in the world. The hills of Kentucky were full of ‘em, why not a godless country like Korea? Outside, there was shouting. He heard what sounded like the blast of a .45, then another and then five more. Someone had emptied their pistol.
Two MPs charged in with their weapons drawn, barking questions. Before anyone could explain anything, the nurse with the big titties burst in and saw the dead geezers and got real upset, crying and talking about how they looked old but they weren’t, something had happened to ‘em.
“The kid, where’s that kid?” Sergeant West asked. He started back to the room with all the gook patients and one of the MPs yelled at him to stop, he needed to answer some questions. The MP had jug ears and buck teeth and a peeling sunburn on his chunky nose. He looked like he’d fallen off an ugly tree and hit every branch going down. He looked like someone’s butt.
The sarge turned around and laid it out fast. “You’ve been infiltrated, you understand? Report to your CO ASAP and tell him to push the panic button, now. Where’s your armory?”
Armory. Cakes felt something inside of him light up while Buttface stuttered out directions. He surely did love to prang a motherfucker, and how! Maybe the slant demons blew up or caught on fire or something.
Nurse Bazooms was helping the shook girl and the MPs finally clued in that something was happening outside – a man let out a yelp like he’d seen death coming, another weapon discharged, twice, then once more. People ran past the hole in the wall, going either way. Cakes could feel himself heating up, a strong, positive feeling that made his muscles twitch and his dick go half-mast. Korea was a dump and he hated Army life but clobbering gooks, that was good times.
Back in post-op it appeared that the doctors and nurses had run off. Half of the gooks were gone, too. The ones too sick to skedaddle were jabbering away at each other in their squawking, whining language. Burtoni and McKay were flanking Young, both armed and alert, watching the doors. McKay was a broke-dick dog, less fight than a Frenchman, but Burtoni was all right.
The sarge spotted the kimchi brat and called him over. He met them at Young’s cot. Young was passed out again and sawing logs.
“What happened?” Burtoni asked. “We heard shots—”
“No time,” West said. “I don’t know what’s going on but I want us armed. Me and Cakes are going to the armory, or at least to get our rifles. I want you and McKay to stay here with Young. Lee, you tell these men everything you know about the gangshi.”
The kid’s eyes widened, as much as they could. “The old story? Is it true?”
The sarge shook his head. “I don’t know. Could be.”
One of the gooks hong-yong-songed to the kid.
“He says to tell you we heard the bells,” the kid said.
“Hey, I heard a bell,” Burtoni said, looking all serious, and McKay nodded. “Right before the screamin’. Like two, maybe three times.”
Cakes hadn’t heard shit, but he didn’t hear so good anymore, not since the last time he’d pulled combat time. Goddamn mortars.
“They ring the bell to let the people know it is time, to keep inside,” the kid said.
“Who does?” the sarge asked, reloading. He carried an old Victory Model 10, a .38 revolver from WWII. “These priests?”
The kid nodded.
“So if we stay inside, we’re safe?” Burtoni asked.
“I – don’t know,” the kid said. “My family did not believe these things.”
“Ask around,” West said, snapping the cylinder home. “If anyone shows up to evac the patients, bug out with them. If we’re not back and the situation gets worse—”
He didn’t get to finish. The doors flew open and two enlisted guys ran in, their eyes wild. One of them, a corporal, had wet his pants. They scrambled to pull the doors closed, shouting out useful information.
“There’s something out there!” The one guy yelled. “It killed Major Underwood, I saw it!”
“There’s more than one!” Yelled Pee Boy. His eyes rolled in his fool head. “They’re everywhere! Bullets don’t stop ‘em!”
We’ll just see about that. Cakes had yet to meet anything that could survive a .45 to the face, and it just so happened he was a crack fucking shot. He led the way to the door, pushed past the two fumbling ladies. He held up his M1911, still fully loaded. He had one more loaded box magazine in his right leg side pocket. A total of fourteen rounds.
He looked to the sarge. West was nodding at him, holding up his revolver. The ugly MP had said southeast. Opposite corner of the camp, back by where they’d come in.
“At least you didn’t shit ‘em,” Cakes said to the corporal, and pushed open the door, ready for anything.
* * *
Burtoni watched Cakes and the Sarge run out and swallowed, felt a dry click in his throat. He didn’t like this one tiny skosh. Liked it less when he heard more weapons firing and somebody yelling for help. He thought he heard Cakes’ voice and then bam-bam-bam, close enough to make his ears ring. There were maybe ten ROKs still in the tent, three of them out cold, the rest getting more and more clanked up. What the fuck was happening?
Young was still sacked out, his eyes barely fluttering when the building had shook. Except for a tiny
smile when they’d first arrived, he’d stayed unconscious.
“Ask one of ‘em if we’re safe in here,” McKay said to the kid, Lee.
Lee raised his voice and talked over the other Koreans. Burtoni had thought he was still a little kid but he acted older than he looked, repeating himself loudly until they heard him. Sounded like ooh-dee in-yo gi on da-naga.
One of the ROKs gabbled back at him. They went back and forth a couple of times, and two other ROKS joined in, then a third. None of ‘em were laughing no more and Lee listened carefully to each man before turning back to McKay.
“They say the gangshi will walk through walls to go home. They will steal a living animal’s chi – the life flow – to keep moving. In the day, they hide, they lie in caves or in the ground until the moon rises. No place is safe, unless you have… boho.” He scowled, searched for the word. “Ah, defense things?”
“So what are these defense things?” McKay asked, freckles like bloodspots on his young-looking face.
“Many things. They all say rice chaff. Ah, it must be sticky rice. He says mirrors will scare them away. He says the blood of a black dog or chicken eggs may stop them.” The kid pointed at each man as he spoke. “And he says you can kill them with fire or with an ax.”
“Swell,” said McKay. He was starting to look feverish. “And all we got is guns. This is a joke, right?”
“What do you do with the rice?” Burtoni asked.
“Outside, on the ground,” Lee said. He made a scattering motion with one hand.
“What, around the whole goddamn building?” Burtoni asked, and the kid nodded.
Burtoni reflexively fingered the small gold cross around his neck that his nonna had made him swear to keep on the whole time he was in Korea. This shit was way above his pay grade. “Unless one of you guys has got a half ton of rice in his pocket, that’s no good. What else?”
“What else nothing,” McKay said. “This isn’t for real.”
Outside, the cascading thunder of a half-dozen weapons fired at once. At least someone was getting organized while they were in here talking about zombie vampires and black dogs and rice. What the fuck was rice going to do, anyway? Burtoni couldn’t even imagine.
“If we can stay safe until morning, a rooster’s call is said to drive them away,” Lee said.
“So, what, only ten, eleven hours to go, right?” McKay asked, grinning. “No problem. We got enough of us here for poker.”
“Catch a clue, Freckles,” Burtoni said. “Something’s attacking, ain’t it? Lee, ask ‘em what else they got.”
More shots, and then that weird thing from before, like the air and the ground seemed to buzz for a few seconds. The ROK who’d flipped his wig before really started having kittens, he actually rolled off of his cot and tried to crawl for the door. One of his arms was in a cast, so it was slow going. An emergency air raid siren was blaring outside. The two guys who’d run in had retreated all the way across the long room and were holding each other like it was the end times.
“It’s a story, like the Sarge said,” McKay said, desperately looking around the room, and then the wall crashed in and everyone was shrieking.
* * *
West stepped out behind Cakes into a strung out parade of running soldiers, doctors, support staff, and a few ROKs. They were all headed different directions, shouting orders and questions at each other in passing, some saying it was a bug out, others that the North was attacking. Most of them weren’t panicking, yet, but it was a goddamn disorganized mess and it wasn’t getting better. No one was in charge. He heard the crack of a rifle, heard a woman cry out no, no, heard a Jeep start up and speed away. He looked to the hill in the north. The lanterns were gone.
He had a decision to make – step up to lead or focus on getting his own out – and no time to consider the pros and cons. He brought his fingers to his mouth and let out a sharp whistle, looking for attention. “Eyes over here, sweethearts!” he yelled, channeling his old drill sergeant.
The two or three men who even looked in his direction wore the bright blank eyes of the lizard brain… they were running and they were going to keep running. There was no decision to make, after all.
“Chogie!” he snapped, and Cakes got moving. They made it half the length of the tent before they saw the first one, jumping down a path that branched out from theirs. It was following a panicked guy who appeared to be wearing a ladies church hat, one of those pink pillbox jobs. A matching pink scarf was tied around his neck, and he had the unlit stump of a stogie clenched in his teeth. West just took it in, not arguing with what he was seeing anymore.
The lady-dressed Joe hit the main pathway and tore south, really jiving, arms swinging, nearly knocking down a pair of clerks, and West got a good look at the dead man when it jumped out into the intersection and hop-turned to follow its target. It wore the tattered remnants of a North Korean People’s Army uniform and was at least half rotten, knots and pools of black slime breaking up the pale glow of its remaining skin. Through the ragged, decaying holes in its clothing, West could see bone draped in rotten strings of meat. He could smell it, the rich, throat-clotting stench of a human body decaying in wet ground. It hopped again. The gangshi didn’t move like a man at all – it was like the kid’s pantomime, stiff, its arms held up and out, legs not bending. Other than a flex at the ankles, it didn’t seem to move a muscle but was somehow closing on the running man, a hop and then a blurry burst of impossible speed.
“Aw, what’s this hooey?” Cakes muttered, raising his sidearm.
In a second, the dead man was at the corporal’s side. The guy shrieked, tumbled and fell, his lacy topper tumbling to the dirt. He stared up at the monster.
“Go back to hell, ya gook devil!” Cakes yelled and fired, bam-bam-bam.
All three were head shots and West felt a surge of triumph, nobody like Cakes! Rot and flesh exploded, and the back half of the thing’s skull actually fell off, landing at the feet of its victim. A gory mass of shattered bone and rancid flesh and matted hair was all that remained where its head had been, a misshapen, dripping bag sinking down to hang in front of the creature’s chest – but it was still standing, unwavering, its rotting arms stretched out and aimed at the howling cross-dresser. The man literally shriveled up, his cries rasping to silence, his skin wrinkling, and the air hummed and then the gangshi turned and was hopping west again, the bag of its head flopping against its breastbone, spilling gore like a paper bag full of sick. It was all over in seconds.
“Go!” West pushed Cakes, got him moving. Its head had gone, and it still got to the sad sack in the pink hat. It had eaten him up and hopped away. This was shit for the birds. “Try the knees next time!”
They ran, stopping at the open spaces, pushing past panicking soldiers. Weapons were discharged from all areas of the camp. The men were sloppy, disorganized, terrified, and West spared a dark thought for Sanderson. The doctors might be top-notch, but the CO obviously hadn’t run drills or maintained any level of training.
Somebody shouted that there was one by the mess and a small surge of stumbling enlisted and low-level officers nearly knocked them down trying to get away, stampeding like cattle. He saw a sergeant leading a handful of armed men west towards the center of the camp, two with combat shotguns, one with a rifle and a belt.
Praise Jesus, someone was putting up a defense!
West’s optimism was short lived. As he and Cakes passed the wide opening where their paths intersected, he looked down and saw three gangshi moving towards the soldiers, coming from the west. One was the man he’d seen busting out of the OR – thin and gangly, naked, his guts swinging in the breeze. Some kind of surgical vise had been secured in his belly, holding the flesh open. His face was the blank of death, and his whole body glowed that otherworldly green. The other two wore ROK fatigues and weren’t visibly disfigured but couldn’t be mistaken for living, with the pallid glow of their skin and their dead eyes and their weird puppet postures. As he watched, all
three hopped forward as one.
“Fire!” The captain pointed his own standard issue at the closest creature and opened up. Then they were all firing, and the gangshi hopped closer, oblivious to the damage, homing in on their targets. Their drooping faces showed no pain, no awareness, no mercy, not even hunger.
West didn’t wait to see what happened, he knew what was coming and they had to get armed and back under cover before the compound cleared out. They ran ahead, chased by screams from the soldiers.
The motor pool was lit up, Jeeps revving, gears grinding. A captain was organizing a handful of people to evacuate the patients, but he was mostly drowned out by the engines.
“Holy cow!” a private cried, his voice cracking. “Look at ‘em all!”
West turned and looked, out into the dark behind the compound. There were a dozen, two dozen of them, glowing, hopping dead men coming from every direction, heading in every direction. He thought of crickets, or locusts. They moved erratically, a small hop, a bigger one – and then a sudden blur of motion and the thing was twenty feet away from its last position. It hurt West’s mind to see them move. East and west, they hopped over the hills or behind the trees, in and out of sight. A handful filtered through the deserted village, stumbling right through some of the little hooches, their arms straight in front of them. Some were moving south; more were headed for the MASH.
“Armory,” said Cakes, and pointed to a small crowd in front of a Quonset. A corporal and three privates were handing out arms, mostly M2 carbines and boxes of cartridges. They were blocking the door. The air shook again with that deep, physically unpleasant sound. West thought maybe it was the gangshi feeding.
West pushed to the front. “We need something bigger. What else have you got?”
The corporal’s voice shook. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? What’s your armament?”
“I drive an ambulance,” the young man said. “Look for yourself, we’re bugging out.”
He and a handful of the soldiers took off running towards the deserting Jeeps.
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest Page 4