Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

A door at the end of the corridor opened and old Mrs. Silberman starting easing herself out — all tent-like, stained cotton dress and wiry gray hair, also in need of a wash. He slammed his door and leaned back against it, surprised at how his heart rate had jumped for nothing.

“Calm down, calm down. Next thing you’ll be the one seeing goblins,” he whispered to himself.

He laughed again as he let his eyes slide around the small decrepit room. The place was a mess, but it didn’t matter, he and Doris would move again by the end of the week. It only took Doris a few days before she said she felt like she was being watched. It was always the same — there was whispering going on in the walls and she was sure her place was bugged. Klaus sighed; he loved her, but she was driving him crazy, becoming more paranoid by the day — making him more paranoid by the day. The final straw was when she told him she thought she saw a goblin… a freaking goblin for chrissakes.

He looked at his room again — all the windows were taped over with newspaper, the phone had been pulled from the wall, the power sockets taped over, and even the door keyholes blocked up. She’s paranoid, but I’m fine , he thought, giggling again.

His one luxury was the ancient television that remained on day and night. He looked across to the old black and white box as the robotic newsreader reeled off the names of the latest drive-by shooting victims, domestic violence punching bags, and other assorted attacks on the human sheep of life. But the next story about a bizarre murder was like an ice pick to the back of the neck — Professor Julius Cohen, the head of paleontology at the University of Tübingen, was believed the victim of a bizarre execution. His remains were as yet formally unidentified, and it was expected that confirmation might not be possible given the state of the body.

Klaus walked towards the television, the package still under his arm, and stood trance-like before the flickering screen. The final part of the story nearly made him double over. Cohen’s apparent murder brought the number of bizarre killings to three, as Julius Cohen now joined Professors Carl Ingram and Rudi Hokstetor as victims in what police were dubbing the Incinerator Murders.

Klaus’ mouth hung open. He knew those men, knew all of them. He had sent each and every one of them a piece of the fossil skeleton. He flopped back into a ratty armchair and grabbed his head. Did he do that? Was it his fault they were dead? Was someone killing anyone who touched the bones? He knew that the complete skeleton was valuable but he didn’t think it was worth killing people for. He put the box down, and backed away from it.

“Think, think.” He paced quickly around the small room. “Gotta get out.” He started filling his pockets with his wallet, phone, and keys when a knock on the door made him cry out. He quickly put a hand over his mouth and listened.

The knock came again. “Klaus? Hello Klaus, are you there? Timmy Boy has got out of his cage again and I need your help. Klaus?”

Oh for fuck’s sake. He exhaled. Old Mrs. Silberman and that parakeet would be the death of him. Do one good deed and suddenly you’re an adopted son… and one required to do everything from change light bulbs to recapturing bad tempered parrots that had more escape tricks than Houdini and a beak sharp enough to slice bacon.

Klaus stayed where he was, thinking through his options. Should he scream at her to fuck off? That’d send a clear message. He grimaced; nah, much as he’d love for her to leave him alone, he wasn’t quite ready to be a total asshole. He eased himself down in the chair. He’d wait her out. The knocking continued. He looked at his watch again and rubbed his head, glaring at the door.

C’mon, Mrs. Silberman, go home, willya? He needed to get the fuck outta here and find Doris. He suddenly had a bad feeling about this place.

Heisen read through his notes. In the following days, more bodies had turned up — or better said, more bodies had burned up. The coroner had hinted at spontaneous combustion. Alcohol abuse, ball lightning, faulty wiring; all were listed as possible causes. But none of the suggestions actually explained the heat generated, the peculiar explicit targeting of individuals, nor the ability of the heat source to simply switch on and off.

Funny thing was, Heisen was beginning to see a pattern. The closer he came to finding this Klaus guy, the more the ash trails began to pile up. Coincidence, or was there a link? Heisen bounded up the stairs, knocking once on the open door, holding up his badge and heading straight over to where Amos talked with some other uniforms.

“Officer Amos; another nice day for a cookout?” Heisen raised an eyebrow and winked, but the older cop half turned, gave him a look like he’d just noticed dog shit on his shoe, and immediately went back to talking softly with his younger colleagues. Heisen waited, awkwardly.

Finally, Amos issued instructions to his men and turned to him. “You would be the brains of the Kripo , huh?” Amos said as he sauntered away.

Heisen followed. “Hey, lighten up will ya? I just…”

Amos spun at him, stepping in closer. “You just what? Listen, Heisen, why don’t you shut the hell up, unless you’ve got some answers for us? You know; from all your de-tect-ing work.”

Ed Heisen frowned, taken back by the animosity in the normally laconic police sergeant. The guy must have been getting his ass kicked by his boss. He held up his hands. “Okay, sorry.” Heisen motioned to the forensics guys moving about in the next room. “What have you got: another carbonized corpse?”

Amos lips compressed, but he led the detective into the kitchen. Heisen smelled the odor that was becoming too familiar to him — ozone. Amos pointed to the corner.

Heisen winced. “Christ.”

The body, or partial body was laid out on the floor — the arms and legs were nothing but ash outlines, to the shoulders and hips, where the body was intact again. The head was still attached, but gruesomely, one eye, the ears and the nose were gone — seared away, but black and cauterized. As usual, there was no sign of blood, as if something had snap-burnt the limbs and facial features away.

“Well?” Amos went down on one knee, and swept his hand over the body. “C’mon, tell me what you think?”

Heisen crouched beside Amos to study the woman, or what was left of her. Mid-seventies, cheap cotton dress in need of a clean, nothing of value on her. Her hair was wiry and gray, and looked like it needed a wash. But it was her face that drew his attention — even though one eye, the nose and ears had been removed, he could see the mix of pain and fear still imprinted there.

“Torture.”

“Jesus Christ!” Amos jumped as the word floated in from behind them. Heisen spun to see the tall black-clad agent standing behind him, towering over them. His eyes moved over the old woman’s remains. He squatted beside Amos, not apologizing for startling the old cop. Amos swallowed, and shook his head, turned back to the crime scene.

“Who are you?” asked Heisen.

“Call me Monroe,” said the big man. He clasped his hands together on his knees. “In Iraq, we lost a man on a mission. When we finally found him… recovered his body, his bones had been broken, starting at the fingers and toes, the impact trauma moving slowly up to his hips and shoulders. Would have taken hours… been agony.”

Heisen grunted. “I’ve seen that before as well — on the poor saps the Columbian drug gangs had their fun with. Pretty vicious stuff… especially to an old lady.” Heisen looked across at him and nodded. “Detective Heisen.”