Michael Thomas - Night of the Nazi Zombies

“Strange, very strange,” muttered Harvey to himself. He turned to the Captain. “Any ideas?”

“Maybe…” Captain Scott thought for a moment.

“So, in your opinion the two unarmed men inflicted injuries on this guy with their mouths and hands?”

Harvey looked a little bemused, “Yes, it does sound a little odd but the evidence does support teeth and nail based injuries to the arms, throat and hands of the other dead man.”

“Could an animal have done this after they died?” asked Captain Scott.

I don’t think so; for starters the wounds are very, very recent. Second, the position of this group suggests to me that these two men attacked the other in hand to hand combat. They mortally wounded him with the throat wound here,” he pointed to the gash in the man’s throat.

“I would suggest that he was still able to drive them back with his weapon but then died from his wounds.”

The group said nothing for a moment. Smith broke the silence.

“Has his weapon been fired?”

“Good point,” said the Captain as he lowered himself to the dead man and checked his M1 carbine. He released the magazine and checked the breech. “Yeah, he used this alright, the mag is empty,” he smelt the barrel, “and the gun has been fired.”

The Captain looked confused, he spoke to the men, “Anymore bodies?”

They split up to look around. The three bodies had been found in a tight group around the tree stumps and the ground around it was a series of open trails through the small wooded area. The undergrowth was quite thick and could easily conceal something unless examined carefully. After the previous firefights the soldiers were careful not to dislodge anything or trigger any traps. Setting off a mine or booby trap was one of their worst nightmares, especially this far behind enemy lines. Help wasn’t a luxury airborne soldiers could expect. Clarke spotted the trail first, “Sarge, there’s a blood trail here!”

Smith looked towards Clarke then cocked his Sten gun. The two officers also drew their pistols, cocking them and then followed Smith. The blood trail continued a good twenty yards before disappearing into a series of large bushes on the edge of the wood.

“Cover me,” spoke Sergeant Smith as he pulled the foliage aside to look inside. At first he could see nothing, he moved closer.

Lieutenant Harvey could hear something, “What is that?”

The sound was like a ghost whispering to the men softly in the night. He kept quiet whilst he listened intently. He turned to Smith.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Yeah, sounded like somebody saying “help me” to me,” said Smith.

Smith placed his left hand on the bushes only for a bloodied hand to reach out. The voice called out again though this time more clearly, “help me!” it cried. Clarke shouted, “Fuck, Sarge!”

The two officers pointed their pistols into the bush but refrained from firing. Smith also refused to fire though out of choice or shock, who only knew. Clarke stepped forward and opened up the vegetation to help Smith withdraw the man. As Clarke and Smith pulled the man out it was immediately clear that he was another of the American paratroopers. This man had several bloodied bandages around his leg, as well as blood patches across his torso. The man was conscious, though obviously in a great deal of pain. Captain Scott knelt down to the man, “What’s your name son?”

“Martinez, Sir,” the wounded man replied.

He coughed then added, “Corporal Martinez, 101st Airborne.”

Lieutenant Harvey responded, “Another one of yours, Captain?”

He lowered himself, checking on the man’s wounds.

“Kind of, same division, not the same unit thought. Looks like this drop is going to shit,” answered the Captain.

Harvey checked the wounded man’s limbs then throat.

“No sign of the injuries that the other man sustained, apart from his leg.”

The officer started to redress the wounds as blood was seeping through them.

“What happened to your leg?” asked Captain Scott.

Corporal Martinez coughed again, then tried to lift himself to a sitting position. Clarke helped him and put him up against the nearby tree.

“O’Brian bit me in the damned leg,” he said, somewhat hysterically.

“Bit you?” asked Harvey.

“Yeah, me and Tony were looking for survivors when we found two of our guys back there.”

He pointed in the direction the men had found the other bodies. Martinez looked a strange combination of confused and surprised.

“There was something weird about them, really weird,” he added.

“What do you mean?” asked Harvey.

“Well, for starters they were staggering around, like they were drunk or something. We spoke to them but they just stumbled over to us. We thought maybe they were just messing with us, but then the one grabbed Tony and starting biting him in the goddamned throat!”

“What the fuck!” exclaimed Clarke, taken aback by the story.

Captain Scott interrupted Clarke, “Keep your damned voice down man!”

The Captain moved to Martinez and beckoned him to continue his account. The other soldiers crept forward, now all intrigued by what he had to say.

Martinez made himself more comfortable and then continued.

“Well, I shouted at this guy, but the next thing I know the other one is grabbing for me as well. I hit him with my M1 and he fell down, I hit him really hard. Tony was screaming so I ran to him and punched and kicked the guy off him. He was bad, man; he had loads of blood coming from his throat. He was a dead man, I was sure of it.”

Smith handed Martinez his canteen, he took several gulps, finishing the water and then dropped it to his side.

“Are you alright kid?” Smith asked.

Martinez attempted a smile, “Yeah, just about, my leg is killing me.”

The Captain added, “Carry on Corporal, what happened next?”

“Yes, Sir,” he responded.

“I tried to help Tony, carried him a short way but those two guys kept coming at us. They were slow, not running but they kept reaching out for us, and those mouths, fuck me, those mouths!”

The obviously traumatised Martinez muttered to himself for a moment before refocusing on the men. Clarke moved back to the group of bodies, checking their wounds.

“Sorry, uh, yeah, they tried to pull Tony off me and then I got pissed! I fired at both of them, good shots, square in the chest. Those shots just wouldn’t stop them though. I tried to get away but Tony was slowing me down, I had to drop him so I could aim properly. I emptied my mag into them and Tony did the same. I thought this time they were definitely dead. Anyway, I tried to help out Tony, put a dressing in his throat but he was just bleeding out too fast. He didn’t have long and the bastards attacked me again! The crazy bastards, this time they came for me! One of them got my leg, he just kept trying to bite my bloody leg off,” he pointed to his wounded leg.

“Bite your leg off? What did you do?” Captain Scott asked.

The soldier grinned.

“I used my little friend.”

He pulled out his pistol, a Colt 1911 automatic pistol. The M1911 was a single-action, semi-automatic, magazine-fed, handgun chambered for the .45 ACP cartridge. It was both reliable and powerful, the perfect sidearm for many Allied soldiers.

“I put a few rounds into the one that was biting me. A few hit the guy in the chest, but I could see they were not going to stop him. The last one I put between his eyes, that did the trick.”

Clarke came back, confirming the news on the bodies.

“Yeah, its like the Corporal said, the one guy died from major wounds, mainly to his throat, the other two died from gunshot wounds.”

“What about the other one?” asked the Captain.