Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

Somehow he had avoided getting injured himself. The men looked up to him and none of them had missed that he was in the heart of the combat. They knew he hadn’t stood behind the lines and watched them take the damage. No, he had come out to the assistance of all when the damned Indians had attacked.

Being as he was in the middle of town when the attack took place he should have expected some sort of coalition of townsfolk, but he was caught flatfooted. The men who came before him were dressed, as gentlemen should dress, in proper suits with vests and with matching shoes. That was an accomplishment at least half the time; at least it had been since he crossed into areas across the Mississippi from home. That said, they needed a good wash and not a one of them seemed familiar with the idea of shaving. The facial hairs were long and the facial expressions were dour.

They’d been droning on for a while now, long enough for him to get the gist. They wanted the soldiers gone. Or they wanted assurances, or they wanted the Indians dead. Something of that sort.

When he’d heard enough he raised one hand and the conversations stopped. “What exactly do you gentlemen want? Pick one thing. I haven’t the time to listen to every complaint you have. I need to report the deaths of my soldiers and I need to prepare your town for any more possible Indian attacks.”

A black haired man sporting the most impressive mustache Folsom had ever seen, spoke. As his lips moved, his mustache jittered and jumped. It was nearly mesmerizing. “There wouldn’t be any Indian attacks if you’d left well enough alone.” The man leaned forward and planted his hands on the long oak table the captain had commandeered to act as his desk. “We had us an understanding. We didn’t piss on them and they didn’t come along and try to kill us. You notice how they only went for soldiers? There was a reason for that.”

Folsom stood and gave the man his best hard look. It was a good one because the fellow took two paces back, shaking his head. “Do you know who I am, sir? Do you even begin to know why I am here? I’m here because I was called here by one of your own. A telegram was sent to Washington, D.C. and that in turn was considered and then acted upon. I am the result of that telegram.”

“And who the hell sent it?” The mustache trembled with righteous indignation. Folsom knew the man he was speaking to had eyes, but he had not yet been able to focus on them enough to consider the character they might reveal.

“Allucius Sheppard.” Folsom reached into his jacket pocket and fumbled out the original paper. “Says here he’s the mayor of this town.”

The mustache tightened for a moment and then trembled even more. “Al? Al Sheppard not only isn’t the mayor of anything, he’s dead!” Several voices murmured their agreement. “The damned fool drank himself to death. Passed out and choked on his own regurgitation. And besides, he was never in charge of a damned thing around these parts.”

Folsom felt a flush run into his cheeks. “Be that as it may, I have my orders to get rid of the red man in this area and I intend to follow those orders.” He leaned onto the table and heard it creak threateningly under his weight. “I’ve spent time listening to your concerns, gentlemen. Until I hear otherwise, my duty is to remove the Indians from this area and keep your town safe. Good day.”

“We were already safe!” Mustache shook his fist and looked like he might even consider using it against Folsom but decided at the last moment not to get himself shot. “Leave us to our own devices, sir! We have to live here when you’re done with your damned orders.”

The man turned his back and stomped away before Folsom could respond, and after a brief hesitation the rest of the sorry lot followed suit.

Folsom settled back behind his desk and started composing his explanation of the day’s events. Colonel Hartshorn would want to know what had happened and he’d need to offer a proper defense. The loss of so many and that on top of being caught unawares, was not going to sit well. Folsom dreaded the shit storm that would surely be coming his way.

He had no idea.

Lucas Slate squinted at his reflection in the dusty mirror. The clothes were nice, a gift from Crowley, and they fitted properly. The tailor had a suit that was supposed to be picked up and never was — the man had died, apparently — and while it took a bit of waiting while the adjustments were made, the final result was worth the patience.

Crowley eyed him critically enough to make him wonder if the man had ever spent time as a tailor himself. Finally he nodded his satisfaction and counted out coins for the man who’d sold the suit.

“There is a haberdashery at the edge of the saloon over that way,” the tailor said as he pointed vaguely, which, as the town had no proper streets, was the best that could be managed, “should you like a new hat as well.”

Slate stared at the man for a moment and then simply shook his head.

Crowley walked for the door of the shop after thanking the tailor.

Slate watched Crowley break into one of his smiles. “What?” Slate was slipping his hat in place and almost managing a scowl.

“I have seen men less devoted to their wives than you are to your hat, Mister Slate.”

“And had I a wife, perhaps I’d care less about my hat, sir.”

“I should rather not consider the ramifications of that statement.”

Slate reared back as if slapped and then chuckled. “You’ve a vile mind, Mister Crowley.”

“Now, tell me about the pale thing you saw before everything went mad.”

“He was tall and thin and pale. Looked to me as if he might be an Indian, but as washed of color as me.” Slate looked away. “He spoke to me in some language I have never heard, but I understood him. He said we would meet again.”

“You were pale when we met. You are an albino, after all, but you are a different sort of pale now.”

“How do you mean?”

Your skin lacked pigment before. Now it has more color to it, but that color is white. That’s really the best way I can put it.”

Slate nodded and pursed his thin lips. “He was too thin.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley looked puzzled.

“I mean I am thin, but I am still a possibility. He was taller than me and thinner than me. He looked impossible. His body is too thin and his arms and legs so very long and his head shape was thinner even than mine.”

Crowley stared at him for a long moment and finally nodded. “That thing we dealt with in Carson’s Point was a bit like that. But only a bit.”

“I never truly saw the thing but towards the end, and frankly I was a bit too unsettled by what was happening to me to much care at that point.”

“You touched a stone. The stone went into you. We’ve discussed that before, of course. We know that the stones were put into the — whatever the hell it might be’s — chosen victims and they changed, but it wasn’t the same as these things. These were sudden and the bodies didn’t stay changed.”

Slate looked at him. “Did they not?”

“No.” Crowley looked back just as hard, his face impossible to read past that damnable grin of his. “They became what they once were when they died. They were Indians, but we knew that.”

“Why do you suppose they attacked?”

Crowley shrugged. “I neither know nor care. Humans do stupid things to humans all the time, Mister Slate. I don’t allow myself the luxury of paying much attention.”

That was a lie and Slate knew it. They discussed many things on their travels and inevitably what they talked about most was the state of the world around them as gleaned from various newspapers. Crowley bought them and read them insatiably. Still, he did not call the man on his lie.