Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

Grant dreamed of the Button Game. He played by himself within a cloud. Every time he opened his hand it contained a wooden button with a petroglyph animal carved into it: a buffalo, a deer, a fish, a thunderbird, a rabbit, and a wolf. Grant placed them into groups, but he kept rearranging them because the groups didn’t fit together. The buffalo, deer, rabbit, and wolf seemed to match because they all had four legs, but that left the fish and the thunderbird by themselves. The fish lived in the sea. The thunderbird wasn’t real. Grant tried again. He put the deer, fish and rabbit together because they weren’t a danger to man, but that left the buffalo and wolf together and the thunderbird alone once more. Grant found himself growing frustrated with the strange logic of dreams. The carvings had to fit together. Next, he put the buffalo, deer, fish, rabbit and wolf together. That felt right at least. Shrugging, Grant put the thunderbird with them, which felt exactly right. It wasn’t a satisfying feeling, however. It frightened him.

When Grant awoke, the sun was an hour into the sky. He rubbed his face and grimaced at the gummy slime that had collected at the corners of his mouth. Thirst burned in his throat and turning around to check on Paulson awoke a deep ache in his back.

Paulson was gone.

Grant wobbled to his feet, his pistol drawn and his hand on his saber.

“Relax. I’m over here.”

Grant spun on newborn-colt legs. Paulson sat with his feet dangling into the cleft that descended from the rock formation’s summit.

“I was waiting for you to wake up,” Paulson said. “I’m going down to get food and water. You all right to cover me?”

Grant tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. He nodded instead.

“Back in a minute.” Paulson lowered himself out of sight.

Grant holstered his pistol. His mouth started to water at the thought of food, which loosened his shriveled tongue. He willed Paulson to be quick. The idea of gulping from a canteen was joy, peace and celestial choirs. He scanned the surrounding area and saw no signs of danger. The sun’s morning light was tranquil rather than torture. The horses still stood in their makeshift corral, waiting. The whole world stood there, waiting.

It’s going to be all right, Grant told himself.

They could reach the Yellowstone by dusk, and if they made it through the night, they could make it through the day. Below, Paulson reached the horses. He moved with quick, furtive movements, grabbed his canteen and food pouch and heading back the way he had come.

Grant kept his eyes peeled for the enemy, and movement arrested his attention. It took him a moment to realize what he saw — thirty yards away, black feathers flitted above the surface of the grass.

Feathers! Headdresses! Indians!

Grant raised his rifle and stopped himself from pulling the trigger.

It wasn’t Indians. Rather, buzzards fed on Jack’s horse. Faint sounds of tearing flesh reached Grant’s ears. A familiar dizziness spiraled up from the base of Grant’s skull, like when they discovered Jack, and he looked up into the sky and saw a bird disappear…

A buzzard hopped out of the tallest grass. Its legs, bald head and beady eyes appeared more reptilian than avian. It ruffled its feathers and shook a piece of dangling meat from its beak. It cocked its head, as if hearing something. A moment later it exploded into the air with a squawk that sounded afraid. Five of its mates followed.

Just like that, gone .

Jack gone …Breckenridge gone …Webster gone …

Torn meat on a beak…

Jack was torn apart…

Compelled by instinct, a subconscious urge and the fear of the buzzards, Grant looked up and realized why the thunderbird button of his dream belonged with the “real” animals. The bird he had seen flying through the air when they discovered Jack was no hallucination. It only appeared to fly low due to its huge size. The bird was actually high enough to fly behind the clouds, making it look like it disappeared.

Now the thunderbird dove for Grant, a creature with a wingspan of at least twenty-five feet — white, leathery and with a tail. A horn grew out of the back of the creature’s skull. The wind whistled over its wings as they pivoted at muscular shoulder joints, and an overpowering smell of carrion and snake brought tears to Grant’s eyes.

“Paulson—!”

The thunderbird snatched Grant’s arm in a reptilian talon, lifting him airborne. The sun shone through its wings, revealing bony structures. A broken-off arrow stuck out of the creature’s ribs, showing it had been a man eater for some time. The bird cocked its head and measured Grant with a slit-pupil gaze. Its beak clicked open and shut hungrily.

“No!” Grant shrieked, imagining that beak picking him apart the way it had Jack, Breckenridge and Webster.

Gunshots crashed from below, and Grant felt the thunderbird shudder as bullets slammed into its flesh.

Earth and sky switched places.

Grant’s stomach flip-flopped.

Sight became a spinning blur.

Crashing impact.

Bouncing off rubbery flesh.

Bitter mouthful of grass.

Crawling.

Paulson ran toward Grant and drew his revolver.

Wounded and grounded, the thunderbird still continued the hunt. It folded its wings and scurried after Grant. Six-inch talons perforated the soil. A cross between a roar and a squawk emitted from its throat, and its beak went before it like a knight’s lance.

“Look out!” Paulson cried and fired his Colt.

Blood burst from the thunderbird’s breast, and a third nostril appeared in its beak.

Grant tried to run, but his feet entangled. He screamed as the thunderbird lunged toward him like an egret going after a fish.

Paulson grabbed Grant by his collar and yanked.

The thunderbird stabbed the ground between Grant’s legs. Its beak clacked like a pair of two-by-fours slammed together.

Gun empty, Paulson drew the saber from Grant’s belt.

Giant chicken feet stomped on either side of Grant’s face. His vision was blocked as the bird clambered over him, and vile skin rubbed against his face. Amid the madness and the muffling, the creature screeched and went limp. Grant became soaked as the creature’s bowels let go.

Shrieking, Grant wrestled out from underneath the acrid wet and stink. Free, he snatched up handfuls of grass and rubbed his eyes and nose clear. He peeled off his jacket and flung it far from him.

The thunderbird was dead, Grant saw, and Paulson would soon be joining it. Paulson had managed to stab the saber through the creature’s throat, but it had put its beak through his chest. It stuck out of Paulson’s back, red with blood. Paulson’s eyes were half-lidded with the pain.

Grant saw there was nothing he could do for the man, so his gaze slid to the thunderbird. Part of him refused to accept it, but seeing was believing. He did one better than the farmer in the newspaper, and if he was a college professor, he’d be wiping egg from his face. To think, what academics called extinct, Indians called by name.

And then it fell into place for Grant. His opportunity for fame and fortune had finally, literally, dropped out of the sky.

What would a university pay for such a specimen? Better yet, what would regular people pay to see such a thing?

A vision of a signboard swam into Grant’s skull.

See Jonathon Grant’s Terrifying Thunderbird! $1!

Even the best stageshow couldn’t compete with that…

“You’ll never be able to carry it whole,” Paulson whispered. “Slow you down too much. Not good in this territory.”

Grant was taken aback at how Paulson had divined his thoughts.