Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

“Hmm? Oh, nothing at all. But I keep hearing about raiding parties burning peoples’ homes down and taking their women. That’s a godless thing to do.”

“Are you a scholarly man, Mister Napier?”

“I like to think so.” He nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“Look into your history a bit better and you’ll find that raiding parties, houses being burned down, and women being taken from their families are not at all new notions. I don’t believe there’s a part of the world where it hasn’t happened for as long as there have been people.”

“Well, certainly not among civilized folks.”

Crowley smiled again and Napier got a nervous look on his face. “Whatever makes you think a few buildings brings about a civilized human being?”

Before Napier could answer, Lucas Slate walked into the room, looming over everyone in the place. Most of the conversations died in an instant. Slate’s voice remained as soft and cold and low as ever. Napier looked toward him and blanched. “Mister Crowley,” said Slate, ”I believe I’m going to need your assistance.”

From outside the tent a slowly growing sound caught Crowley’s attention. It was a noise he’d known for many, many years and one he never had much affection for: the sound of many men on horseback. Like as not, they were men in uniforms and their intentions would not be much to his liking.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Mister Slate?” Crowley did his level best not to smile, but it wasn’t easy for him.

“There were a few men in uniform decided they had to take some ladies from this area without their agreeing to be taken. I intervened.”

Outside there were the noises of commands being barked and repeated, horses coming to a halt and whinnying their displeasure, and a few dozen men working quickly to become organized in a chaotic situation. In other words, soldiers in action.

Crowley sighed and placed his hat on his head. “And did your intervention result in injury or worse to the men?”

“Indeed it did, sir.”

“Well now, this should be something.”

The man pouring whiskey looked uninterested. Napier seemed eager to hear more. He also studied Slate with wide eyes. He stopped when Slate turned quickly and stared back just as hard. Might be things would have gone wrong from there, but a collection of Cavalrymen came into the tent before things could get worse.

Of course, them coming in rather took care of worsening matters all by itself.

Folsom looked around. They were an unpleasant lot to be sure. The tent was filled with people, and most of them were unwashed and underfed. Folsom looked at the crowd and found the man his soldiers had reported with amazing ease. The gaunt albino was as tall as he was thin and looked like death. He was dressed like a savage in rawhide, sported a coat made of some sort of animal fur, and carried two large pistols on his hips. Despite his uniform and the men behind him, Folsom hesitated for a moment. Then the Chinaman, Song, moved a bit to the side and a few more soldiers stepped into the tent beside them both.

Having an audience never failed to make Folsom feel the need to be brave. “You!” He stabbed a finger at the albino. “What in the name of God did you do to my men?”

The gaunt man looked at him. Next to him a smaller man with a feral smile looked in his direction with nearly feverish eyes. Most of the people were looking toward him, but what made those two different was simply that they were not afraid of him. Not in the least, and that was a worrisome thing.

The albino said, “I did nothing to your men that they did not provoke, sir.” He had a southern accent. Little existed that was more contemptible in Folsom’s eyes.

“I have four dead soldiers and a handful of men who swear you killed them. Attacking a soldier is a hanging offense.” Folsom stepped forward and Song moved with him, a graceful, silent man with the eyes of a cat. Song always looked like he was ready to pounce, to kill, though Folsom had never once seen the man strike first.

“And I repeat, Mister Crowley, I do believe I’ll need your help.” The albino murmured to the smiling man next to him, seemingly unable to speak louder than a whisper.

The man with him slipped forward and stood between Folsom and his prize.

“Don’t make this concern you, mister.”

The stranger’s smile grew broader and ice rimmed the inside of Folsom’s stomach. He had no idea why, but the man scared the hell out of him. Still, there were the troops to consider and justice to be handled.

“I know you. Henry Folsom. How’s your mother? Ruth, I believe?” The man did not speak. He purred. Folsom felt that cold in his guts spread. His mother had passed when he was only ten. How the man could possibly know her was a mystery. Still, he seemed familiar,

“I do not believe we’ve met before.”

“I know you. I know your father, Alexander. Your mother, Ruth. I knew your sister as well, Loretta.” The lean man looked away for a moment, his eyes staring past Folsom toward something only he could see. Folsom barely remembered his older sister. She’d been involved with a man in Boston. There had been a scandal, of course, though his father did his best to hide it. Loretta died and died badly. The thought was enough to twist his heart into a knot.

“And your name?”

The stranger smiled. “I’m Jonathan Crowley.”

Folsom backed up, his eyes growing wide. That was impossible, of course. He remembered Crowley. The man had seemed a giant to him when he was a child. He’d been tall and lean and he’d had the most terrifying smile.

“Good Lord.” Folsom’s lips barely moved. “How is that possible?”

Crowley’s smiled dropped as fast as it had shown itself. He ignored the question and countered with, “I expect your men might have told you one version of the tale. Why not hear the other version before you decide how to handle the situation, Captain?”

The request was reasonable enough, but Folsom did not like the tone of voice any more than he liked that damnable smile. He didn’t like the fear that seeing the man caused in him, either. “Your friend will have a chance to tell his side of the story when he stands trial.” He wanted to dismiss the man, planned to, in fact, but the man stayed where he was and damned if that smile didn’t come back and grow broader still.

Crowley’s brown eyes regarded him for a moment and then he shrugged. “He won’t be standing trial. He has things to do and so do I.” That was the end of the argument as far as Crowley was concerned. His tone said as much. Folsom looked closely at the man for the first time and shook his head. “Sir, you should take yourself away from this situation before it grows any worse. I have witnesses that say a man with skin as white as snow killed four of my men. I see exactly one man with skin as white as snow in this area, sir. In fact I’d hazard there are no more albinos for a hundred miles in any direction.”

“Would you indeed, sir?” The albino’s face crept into a strange smile as he spoke. His eyes glittered under lids at half-mast.

“Have you seen yourself?” Folsom asked. “Your skin is as white as milk.”

“Indeed it is. Has been my entire life. I did, however, have a conversation with another man not long before I saw your men, and he was just as pale as me.”

The smiling man laughed; it sent shivers down Folsom’s spine. “Well now, I would hazard a guess you might be mistaken, Captain.” His tone was dry and mocking and Folsom found him distasteful in the extreme. That damnable laugh, however, echoed in the back of his mind, brought back thoughts of his sister, and how he’d felt when he found her body.

No. The past was just that, and he’d not let the grinning fool confuse him with what had to be half-truths or blatant lies. How he knew about Folsom’s family was irrelevant.