Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

Somewhere behind him a woman screamed as the boy’s flesh rotted away and spilled his bodily fluids into the street. Up ahead, far enough along that they did not seem to notice, the other Skinwalker and the strange creature walked on.

Crowley noticed Slate cock his head to the left. “What is it?” he asked.

“That damn song again,” Slate replied. “Every time I hear it something goes wrong.”

“You are hearing a summoning spell. Whatever this thing we’re looking for is, it summons energies and what I can only call demons, even if they don’t feel like the ones I’m used to.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I’ve been testing your limits, Mister Slate. Seeing what it is you might be capable of, but I have my own abilities.”

“You’ve never much discussed what they are.”

Crowley cast a sideways look in Slate’s direction. “We don’t much talk about what happens if I decide you are a threat. We both know the answer already, yes?”

“Of course.” Slate nodded, but his voice remained soft and dry. “I might be a threat and you might need to eliminate that threat. We’ve already seen a little of what something like me can do. If I don’t maintain control, I understand what you’ll have to do and I condone it.”

“Do you?”

Slate looked at him and his mouth trembled for a moment. “I’ve no desire to become the sort of monster I was raised around.”

“You were raised around monsters?”

“I was raised an albino and a mulatto in an area where many considered that a sign of the Devil, sir. Had my family not had a certain level of influence I’d have been killed. As it was, I remained locked inside my house most times to avoid a beating. There are all sorts of monsters, Mister Crowley. Not all of them cast spells or have fangs.”

Crowley nodded. “Agreed. Very well, Mister Slate. A few facts for you. I can see the dead. I can communicate with them. Mostly I choose not to.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the dead are not of interest to me. They are dead, and often they make demands when they know they can be heard. I am not interested in their demands and I have no desire to be plagued by them any more than I have been in the past.” Crowley’s face grew troubled for a moment.

“Are the dead around here?”

“Some. Not as many. Not too many have died here yet, though I imagine that’s to change soon.”

“Are there any dead around us now?”

“Oh, yes.” He looked past Slate’s shoulder at the faint ghostly image of Molly Finnegan and nodded slowly. She looked at him, implored him, would have begged if there was enough of her left, but there was not. Something had stolen most of her away in Carson’s Point, not too long ago, and left just enough to ensure he was haunted by her. He had not yet resolved to destroying that remnant or sending it on to whatever lay beyond this realm. If he didn’t think about it, he could tell himself she wasn’t suffering. Sometimes, most times, really, he didn’t much like himself. He promised himself that he would release her soon. Very soon. Just not yet.

“What else do you see that you do not speak of, Mister Crowley?”

“I see a lot. I hear just as much. I heard the spell that was cast. I’m still trying to understand it. I know that it came from behind us, but so do you.”

Slate nodded in agreement. “I do indeed. I’ve been trying to decide how to handle it.”

“Well, perhaps you should confront your enemy and be done with it.”

“Is he my enemy?” Slate’s voice carried an uncertain note.

Crowley stopped walking and stared hard at him. “I should imagine he is. He’s killed several people with his actions, and a few moments ago he killed a young boy who was seeking enough to stay alive in this hellhole.”

“Did he?” Slate shook his head. “How do you know that?”

“Because currently the dead boy is standing over his rotten remains and screaming his rage into the skies. You cannot hear the dead, Mister Slate, but I can and I do.”

Slate closed his eyes and nodded. “Then I suspect he is, indeed, my enemy.”

Crowley heard the sound of gunfire and screaming from the far side of the small town, same as they had the day before. The screams were not pain or suffering. They were war cries. “Well, things are likely to get confusing right about now.” Crowley spat the words, but again his smile crept out.

“I suspect you are right, Mister Crowley. And should I confront my enemy or wait?”

“It might be that the fighting won’t reach us.”

Slate nodded again and spun hard on his heel, moving back the way they’d come.

Crowley watched him, watched the crowd that had turned toward the sounds of dying part before Slate as easily as calm waters part before a ship’s prow, and watched also as the small shape he approached unfolded itself from a stooped position.

Lucas Slate was taller now than most of the men around him. He was taller than Crowley by a few inches, though they had only recently stood almost the same height. Crowley had once stolen a suit of the man’s because it fit well enough to allow it. As tall as Slate was, the thing that stood before him was taller by almost a foot. How it had hidden itself in so small a form was a mystery that Crowley would try to solve later.

The thing was the same color as Slate, a white that seemed too vibrant for the cadaverous shape. It had long white hair tied back in a braid, and wore clothes that looked like rawhide but that Crowley knew immediately were human flesh.

It had a very long body and a long face, eyes as dark and black as pitch and as shiny as polished glass. When the nightmare smiled his gums were gray and his teeth an unpleasant shade of yellow.

Slate and the thing spoke to each other, and Crowley listened and understood not a word of it. In the distance a dead boy kept screaming his outrage at being murdered and further away still, the gunfire continued in sporadic bursts.

The Indians came in hard and fast, and this time there were more of them and they were better organized.

Folsom’s men were doing their duty, guarding the town, and none of them took their task lightly. The day before had been reminder enough that their work was dangerous.

So when the red men came, the alarm was quickly called. Folsom stepped outside and prepared himself for the battle. The men were ready and so was he, and by God, he’d see the savages pay for their bloody assault.

The men rallied quickly and he called for them to assume the various posts he’d laid out the night before. They were ready and they were more than willing after seeing their companions taken down. One or two might well have been worried about whatever sort of monsters the Apache had brought with them the day before, but they rallied just the same and he was proud of them.

Captain Folsom walked away from the hotel and headed for the sounds of combat, his heart pounding with the thrill of combat. He was not afraid. The Lord had blessed him with a brave heart and a noble purpose. He would see the day through and take no prisoners. The savages had earned a quick death for their troubles.

Up ahead of him, Sergeant Barnes had taken a position on top of a two-storey mercantile, firing as quickly as he could into the crowd below. The man was hell with a rifle, and with each shot, an Indian dropped, but damned if it didn’t seem there were endless numbers of them this time around.

He had dealt with the Lakota before but never with the Apache until the previous day. They did not seem cut from the same cloth. They seemed more determined to stand their ground and take whatever it was they wanted.

“Fowler! Where is Sergeant Fowler?”