SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

Back in post-op it appeared that the doctors and nurses had run off. Half of the gooks were gone, too. The ones too sick to skedaddle were jabbering away at each other in their squawking, whining language. Burtoni and McKay were flanking Young, both armed and alert, watching the doors. McKay was a broke-dick dog, less fight than a Frenchman, but Burtoni was all right.

The sarge spotted the kimchi brat and called him over. He met them at Young’s cot. Young was passed out again and sawing logs.

“What happened?” Burtoni asked. “We heard shots—”

“No time,” West said. “I don’t know what’s going on but I want us armed. Me and Cakes are going to the armory, or at least to get our rifles. I want you and McKay to stay here with Young. Lee, you tell these men everything you know about the gangshi.”

The kid’s eyes widened, as much as they could. “The old story? Is it true?”

The sarge shook his head. “I don’t know. Could be.”

One of the gooks hong-yong-songed to the kid.

“He says to tell you we heard the bells,” the kid said.

“Hey, I heard a bell,” Burtoni said, looking all serious, and McKay nodded. “Right before the screamin’. Like two, maybe three times.”

Cakes hadn’t heard shit, but he didn’t hear so good anymore, not since the last time he’d pulled combat time. Goddamn mortars.

“They ring the bell to let the people know it is time, to keep inside,” the kid said.

“Who does?” the sarge asked, reloading. He carried an old Victory Model 10, a .38 revolver from WWII. “These priests?”

The kid nodded.

“So if we stay inside, we’re safe?” Burtoni asked.

“I — don’t know,” the kid said. “My family did not believe these things.”

“Ask around,” West said, snapping the cylinder home. “If anyone shows up to evac the patients, bug out with them. If we’re not back and the situation gets worse—”

He didn’t get to finish. The doors flew open and two enlisted guys ran in, their eyes wild. One of them, a corporal, had wet his pants. They scrambled to pull the doors closed, shouting out useful information.

“There’s something out there!” The one guy yelled. “It killed Major Underwood, I saw it!”

“There’s more than one!” Yelled Pee Boy. His eyes rolled in his fool head. “They’re everywhere! Bullets don’t stop ‘em!”

We’ll just see about that. Cakes had yet to meet anything that could survive a .45 to the face, and it just so happened he was a crack fucking shot. He led the way to the door, pushed past the two fumbling ladies. He held up his M1911, still fully loaded. He had one more loaded box magazine in his right leg side pocket. A total of fourteen rounds.

He looked to the sarge. West was nodding at him, holding up his revolver. The ugly MP had said southeast. Opposite corner of the camp, back by where they’d come in.

“At least you didn’t shit ‘em,” Cakes said to the corporal, and pushed open the door, ready for anything.

* * *

Burtoni watched Cakes and the Sarge run out and swallowed, felt a dry click in his throat. He didn’t like this one tiny skosh. Liked it less when he heard more weapons firing and somebody yelling for help. He thought he heard Cakes’ voice and then bam-bam-bam, close enough to make his ears ring. There were maybe ten ROKs still in the tent, three of them out cold, the rest getting more and more clanked up. What the fuck was happening?

Young was still sacked out, his eyes barely fluttering when the building had shook. Except for a tiny smile when they’d first arrived, he’d stayed unconscious.

“Ask one of ‘em if we’re safe in here,” McKay said to the kid, Lee.

Lee raised his voice and talked over the other Koreans. Burtoni had thought he was still a little kid but he acted older than he looked, repeating himself loudly until they heard him. Sounded like ooh-dee in-yo gi on da-naga.

One of the ROKs gabbled back at him. They went back and forth a couple of times, and two other ROKS joined in, then a third. None of ‘em were laughing no more and Lee listened carefully to each man before turning back to McKay.

“They say the gangshi will walk through walls to go home. They will steal a living animal’s chi — the life flow — to keep moving. In the day, they hide, they lie in caves or in the ground until the moon rises. No place is safe, unless you have… boho.” He scowled, searched for the word. “Ah, defense things?”

“So what are these defense things?” McKay asked, freckles like bloodspots on his young-looking face.

“Many things. They all say rice chaff. Ah, it must be sticky rice. He says mirrors will scare them away. He says the blood of a black dog or chicken eggs may stop them.” The kid pointed at each man as he spoke. “And he says you can kill them with fire or with an ax.”

“Swell,” said McKay. He was starting to look feverish. “And all we got is guns. This is a joke, right?”

“What do you do with the rice?” Burtoni asked.

“Outside, on the ground,” Lee said. He made a scattering motion with one hand.

“What, around the whole goddamn building?” Burtoni asked, and the kid nodded.