Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

Soon, a shout from over their heads echoed through the empty barn.

"Nothing up here, Sarge. I did find somebody’s stash of old Playboys though." There was a long pause and then, "Hellooooooo, Miss October."

"Ok, fine. Leave the stroke books and get back down here. We’ll take fifteen to rest and finish reloading before we head off for the next farm."

Slider rejoined the men after a couple of minutes and the group soon fell into a congenial conversation.

"Look," Ray Dog said to Slider. "I ain’t sayin’ shit ’bout the effectiveness of your goddamn shotgun, you simple Jersey Fuck. I’m only sayin’ you shouldn’t be steppin’ up and standin’ in front of my ’60."

"Will youse all listen to this fuckin’ mulignane?"

"Careful with that mulignane shit, Cuz, or I’m gonna have to hang my size fifteens in your lily white ass."

The team laughed, having been longtime by-standers to this ongoing debate. Ray Dog was always complaining about having to check his fire because Slider would step into his firing line time and time again. He said Slider did it to take credit for his kills. Slider’s position was that The Dog thought of his weapon in the same way that he thought of his dick—big, black and mighty deadly. He felt he needed to show a little of what a white boy could do to help him out.

The dispute had been going on for as long as they’d been on the patrol.

As the two men argued and the rest of the squad listened amusedly, a small almost invisible door moved slightly on its hinges in the shadows at the back of the barn. It wasn’t anything anyone would have noticed unless they’d been looking right at it, but it did indeed move.

"Listen, White Bread, all I’m sayin’ is that if you ain’t careful, you’re going to get the smoking end of this bitch straight in the ass."

Again, the door shifted. This time though, it came off the door frame and opened slightly. Over the din of the men’s conversation, no one noticed or heard a thing.

Except Masterson.

The squad leader cleared his throat suddenly, and made a circular motion with his finger that told the men to continue talking. The men immediately raised their weapons and looked around in response. Masterson raised a finger and pointed into the shadows at the back of the barn.

"Shit, man, you know my ass is exit only," said Slider, continuing the ruse, as they all caught on to what was going down.

The small door continued to slowly swing open and deep in the shadows four dirty fingers slowly slid into view. As one, the team snapped their weapons to a firing position and waited for Masterson to give the go-ahead.

An older man slowly stepped out from behind the door. His face was smudged with dirt and sweat, his clothes matted with a dark oily substance. His expression was tired and his skin sallow. His cheekbones jutted out and gave him the appearance of someone who hadn’t eaten in days, maybe weeks. He looked like something out of Auschwitz as he raised his eyes to meet Masterson’s and slowly opened his mouth, yellow teeth flashing in the half-light.

Just as Masterson gave the signal to fire, Lance saw that the man’s pupils were clear and unclouded by Death.

"Dumb fucks," shouted Masterson. "Smoke ’em!"

Before Lance could say anything, the other five men opened fire. Bullets tore their way through the old guy and splintered the wood of the wall and door. Huge holes opened up in the wall, which only made the other rounds’ passage to whatever lay beyond all that much easier. The Mossberg blew pizza pan-sized craters in the wall while the M-60, the SAW, and the smaller rifles threw up a hailstorm of metal. The sound inside the enclosed barn was deafening and as the MP-5 and the Bushmaster all fell on empty, the team heard Lance shouting.

"Wait! Wait! Wait!" he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "Ohhh, you stupid motherfuckers! You stupid, stupid motherfuckers!"

The men all looked around, dumbfounded.

"He wasn’t fucking dead, man!" Lance cried out. "He wasn’t fucking dead!"

With the set of double doors in the front open and the Volkswagen-sized hole now blown in the rear, the wind soon blew the thick gunpowder smoke clear. The men all stood trying to sort out what the fuck Lance’s trip was.

"Say wha…?" Ray Dog questioned now looking small and uncertain somehow.

Lance ran up to the bullet-decimated wall and bent to check the man’s already rapidly cooling body. He waved his arm in an attempt to clear a bit more of the choking smoke.

"This guy wasn’t one of Them, you fucking assholes!" He ran his hand over his face, pulling his features into distortion. His eyes quickly welled up with tears as he cried out, "Oh, fuck… oh, God!"

Masterson stepped over to the now dead man and bent to check to see if what Lance was saying was true. They all felt their hearts sink when they saw the look that passed over his face.

Lance stood up and continued rubbing his face with his hands.

"Oh, God…" he cried. "You stupid fuckin’ fucks!"

He turned and kicked at the last remaining boards and stepped into the area beyond the shattered door. The place looked like the OK Corral. Bullet holes and splintered wood were everywhere.

Lance knelt down, trying to get beneath the last of the smoke. He coughed and continued to fan his hand back and forth in an effort to try and see more clearly. As the smoke finally dissipated, what he saw behind the obliterated wall was something that would haunt him until the day he died.

Lying on the floor were what was left of the dead man’s family: a woman about the same age as he’d been, a girl who looked to be about seventeen, a boy who was twelve if he was a day, and a smaller kid who couldn’t have been more than eight. The artillery had torn them into bits. Large, gaping wounds still bled and at even the most cursory of glances, it was evident that they were now just as dead as their patriarch.

Despite his best efforts to control his rising nausea, Lance vomited into the hay.

For a long time, no one spoke. Masterson walked away from the group and sat on some bales of hay, looking pale and flustered. He sat there for a long time and looked deep in thought as he regained control and considered all of the possible ramifications of this little fuck-up.

Finally, Masterson spoke up as he stood and began gathering his gear, "This place is clear, Gentlemen. We report it as such."

"Sarge," Lance shouted, "we just murdered these people!"

"Casualties of war, Son," Masterson said and the words sounded as if they tasted bitter in his mouth. "You ladies are to finish reloading. We move on to the next ranch in five."

The men all stood around and looked confused and a bit repulsed. Shooting zombies was one thing. This… This was something else entirely.

"Are we clear on this?" Masterson said and his gaze addressed them all sternly, especially Lance, and never wavered. "Gear up! You heard me, we leave in five."

"You can’t be serious?" Lance said unbelieving.

Masterson turned on him. He took a menacing step forward and none of them—Lance in particular—failed to notice how his hand drifted toward the pistol he kept holstered at his side. His eyes narrowed and his jaw grew noticeably more taut and firm.

"Son, we have a job to do here and we’re going to do it. Nothing is going to bring these people back, you hear me? This was a mistake," he said through clenched teeth. "A mistake that never happened."

Lance started to open his mouth to respond, but he felt A-Rab’s hand on his arm as if to say, "Some fights aren’t worth dying over, kid."

"Now… are we clear, soldier?"

Lance closed his mouth and reluctantly nodded.

"Good. Like I said, Ladies… Pack your shit. We leave in five."