Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

“Ho! Dragoons, out!” The dragoons swung into their saddles and rode out of the fort and into the darkness of the Indian night. The guards fired a few shots as the enemy approached the gate and then pulled it shut.

I paced the wall, trying to see through the gloaming. A distant popping of musket fire; the clash of steel; screams of men. The enemy shuffled towards the sounds in the gathering night, seemingly attracted to the noise. When the outriders grew quiet — I assumed on reconnaissance — the enemy near the walls returned their attention to us.

A quick patrol of the walls and the enemy was still pouring in on three sides: north, east, and west. They were wandering into the south ditch but not at near the same rate as the other sides. They were packed in tight, some trampled by their comrades.

A pounding of many hooves racing for the fort got my attention. The patrol was coming back!

“Open the gate!” I yelled down. The guards obeyed and the dragoons thundered through. Captain McKee was at the back, following one of his men who dragged an enemy soldier behind him on a rope.

I ran down to the parade ground. McKee stepped down from the saddle and unbuckled his helmet.

“What did you see?”

His face was grim. “Bloody thousands. It’s hard to get an accurate count, of course. It’s dark, but my God… must be over a hundred thousand. You’ve got a great bleeding horde around the fort, thick as flies, and more coming in from the north in droves. They’re not in formations; they’re just coming on. We couldn’t reach the head of their column. It’s just too far, and they’re too scattered. And there’s something else…” he nodded towards the prisoner.

The men were formed in a circle around the enemy. They jeered and baited him, throwing rocks and punches. McKee shoved some men aside and we took in the captive.

On the surface, he was indistinguishable from the thousands of the sultanate’s troops. Dark skinned, light-colored robes, and boots of fine leather. His manner, however, was nothing less than demonic. He growled and tugged at the rope, trying to reach any man he could. His skin and uniform were dirty, almost as though he had clawed his way out of a grave.

“Look, Nick! His chest!” McKee pointed.

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Those look like musket wounds,” I said.

McKee drew his cavalry saber, heavier than my own, and stepped forward. The man lunged at McKee, but was brought up short by the rope. McKee swung downward — a brutal stroke — audibly shattering the prisoner’s knee. When the monster went down, McKee chopped again, breaking its back. Yet, it gave no yell of pain, no scream at having its bones broken. It lay on the ground, clawing at the air, and slobbered with eager mouth at the big Scottish captain.

McKee put his boot on the creature’s throat, for it was no man. Now that it was on the ground and relatively still, the wounds that should have killed it long ago were obvious. Two big musket-ball holes pierced its chest, and gray bones were exposed from where it had been dragged along the ground. The eyes held no spark — soulless.

“It’s a demon,” I said.

McKee nodded, gripped his saber with both hands then drove it with brutal strength through the creature’s skull. It shuddered as thick black blood welled up around the shining steel. The blade was wrenched out with a scream of steel on bone. The creature finally lay still.

McKee wiped his sword on the dead man’s robe. “Aye, ‘tis a demon. But demons die, same as men,” he said.

Those men who had born witness to the kill muttered prayers, to God or any divine being that might listen. They would take help from wherever it came.

I pulled McKee aside. “How do we fight such an army? Is it the dead of India in its entirety?”

“I don’t know, lad. With the men, with our guns and swords, with our lives, if need be.”

“But… how many men have we killed?” I thought of the monkeys. “And beasts?”

“The butcher’s bill may be more than we can pay, lad,” said McKee. “But we’ll send him home with bulging pockets all the same.”

A sudden volley of musketry from the eastern wall seized our attention. Sergeant Stuart was already running along the wall towards the men who were frantically re-loading. “What the hell do you—”

A guttural roar shattered the night.

Two huge, dark shapes clawed over the wall and leapt at the line of soldiers. The men scattered, screamed, as the beasts growled, bit, and slashed with long, wicked claws.

Soldiers leapt from the wall, risking broken limbs as the monsters cleared the fire steps.

“Tigers,” said McKee in a voice filled with both awe and dread.

My own throat turned dry and hot as we watched the tigers chase the last of the men off the fire step. Sergeant Stuart, madman that he was, stood at the south-east corner screaming a challenge to the beasts. One of the tigers, terrifying in its speed and ferocity, rushed the man and his whirling halberd.

The other tiger preferred the prospect of a chase, and left the string of dead and dying men on the wall to pursue those in the parade ground. It took a graceful leap and landed on a man, snapping his back and tearing out his throat in one fluid motion.

It roared, and the blood of dead men poured from its mouth.

The sight of it bearing a man to the ground shook me from my stupor. I drew my saber and yelled above the noise of battle. “To me! Form a line!”

My voice cut through the din. Men ran to me. I grabbed some stragglers and dragged them into the line, forming up near the south gate, twenty or so men, when the tiger in the courtyard took notice of us. It dropped the man it was shaking and roared again, baring its exposed ribs and rippling shoulder muscles.

It had no skin, no organs. It had been shot and skinned and left for dead. I had no time to wish the hunters had thought to take the teeth and claws.

It charged.

“Aim! Fire!” I yelled at the men, signaling with my saber.

A roar of musketry blasted the charging beast, tearing exposed muscle and shattering ribs. It checked the tiger’s charge but a little, breaking its stride but failing to stop it.

“Receive charge!”

The men in the thin front rank dropped to one knee and drove the butts of their muskets into the ground. Their bayonets formed a glittering wall of steel.

The tiger crashed into them at a run, roaring, claws slashing. A dozen bayonets pierced it, releasing torrents of blood, both fresh and rotten. The animal howled as it seized a man and dragged him, screaming, into its waiting jaws.

I ran to the tiger’s side and hacked its back with my saber. My arm shook from the impact as its spine shattered. Its back legs sank to the ground, but it continued savaging its victim, shredding flesh. I reared back and with a desperate yell, brought down my saber again and severed the spine completely. My third blow took it just behind its head.

The beast crumpled to the ground, the dead man hanging from its jaws.

The second beast fell with a thud beside us. Dead.

Sergeant Stuart called down from the parapet. “I put down your cat, Lieutenant. It were a bit bitey!”

I gaped at the sergeant — this man who had fought a tiger single-handed on the wall. His halberd was covered in gore, and the man looked like he’d been bathing in the leftovers of a butcher’s shop.

“Sergeant Stuart! If you prefer to take care of the rest of our enemies, please feel so inclined!” I called back.

“ Sor , arrangements could be made!”

The men laughed — it felt good to be alive.

Blasts of musketry sounded from the north wall, and then from the east and west. I ran up to the fire step and looked out. The wandering dead, previously aimless, now seemed purposeful, as if lead by an unknown force. They scrabbled at the walls, attempting to breach the fort. It was a grisly sight: rotten limbs coming apart on the raw timbers; bloat bursting under the pressure. And as they swarmed, they trampled one another under foot.