SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

Burtoni reflexively fingered the small gold cross around his neck that his nonna had made him swear to keep on the whole time he was in Korea. This shit was way above his pay grade. “Unless one of you guys has got a half ton of rice in his pocket, that’s no good. What else?”

“What else nothing,” McKay said. “This isn’t for real.”

Outside, the cascading thunder of a half-dozen weapons fired at once. At least someone was getting organized while they were in here talking about zombie vampires and black dogs and rice. What the fuck was rice going to do, anyway? Burtoni couldn’t even imagine.

“If we can stay safe until morning, a rooster’s call is said to drive them away,” Lee said.

“So, what, only ten, eleven hours to go, right?” McKay asked, grinning. “No problem. We got enough of us here for poker.”

“Catch a clue, Freckles,” Burtoni said. “Something’s attacking, ain’t it? Lee, ask ‘em what else they got.”

More shots, and then that weird thing from before, like the air and the ground seemed to buzz for a few seconds. The ROK who’d flipped his wig before really started having kittens, he actually rolled off of his cot and tried to crawl for the door. One of his arms was in a cast, so it was slow going. An emergency air raid siren was blaring outside. The two guys who’d run in had retreated all the way across the long room and were holding each other like it was the end times.

“It’s a story, like the Sarge said,” McKay said, desperately looking around the room, and then the wall crashed in and everyone was shrieking.

* * *

West stepped out behind Cakes into a strung out parade of running soldiers, doctors, support staff, and a few ROKs. They were all headed different directions, shouting orders and questions at each other in passing, some saying it was a bug out, others that the North was attacking. Most of them weren’t panicking, yet, but it was a goddamn disorganized mess and it wasn’t getting better. No one was in charge. He heard the crack of a rifle, heard a woman cry out no, no, heard a Jeep start up and speed away. He looked to the hill in the north. The lanterns were gone.

He had a decision to make — step up to lead or focus on getting his own out — and no time to consider the pros and cons. He brought his fingers to his mouth and let out a sharp whistle, looking for attention. “Eyes over here, sweethearts!” he yelled, channeling his old drill sergeant.

The two or three men who even looked in his direction wore the bright blank eyes of the lizard brain… they were running and they were going to keep running. There was no decision to make, after all.

“Chogie!” he snapped, and Cakes got moving. They made it half the length of the tent before they saw the first one, jumping down a path that branched out from theirs. It was following a panicked guy who appeared to be wearing a ladies church hat, one of those pink pillbox jobs. A matching pink scarf was tied around his neck, and he had the unlit stump of a stogie clenched in his teeth. West just took it in, not arguing with what he was seeing anymore.

The lady-dressed Joe hit the main pathway and tore south, really jiving, arms swinging, nearly knocking down a pair of clerks, and West got a good look at the dead man when it jumped out into the intersection and hop-turned to follow its target. It wore the tattered remnants of a North Korean People’s Army uniform and was at least half rotten, knots and pools of black slime breaking up the pale glow of its remaining skin. Through the ragged, decaying holes in its clothing, West could see bone draped in rotten strings of meat. He could smell it, the rich, throat-clotting stench of a human body decaying in wet ground. It hopped again. The gangshi didn’t move like a man at all — it was like the kid’s pantomime, stiff, its arms held up and out, legs not bending. Other than a flex at the ankles, it didn’t seem to move a muscle but was somehow closing on the running man, a hop and then a blurry burst of impossible speed.

“Aw, what’s this hooey?” Cakes muttered, raising his sidearm.

In a second, the dead man was at the corporal’s side. The guy shrieked, tumbled and fell, his lacy topper tumbling to the dirt. He stared up at the monster.

“Go back to hell, ya gook devil!” Cakes yelled and fired, bam-bam-bam.