MicroHorror

Jackson, his boots slipping against the wet clay, edged his way up to the lip of the shell crater. He knew he was taking a chance moving before the sun had set, not that he’d seen it all day; the sky was leaden, the drizzle incessant, but he couldn’t bear to spend another minute with the dead trooper and the unblinking eyes that seemed to be forever watching him. He would take his chances in no-man’s land and, if fortune favored him, make his way back to his own lines.

He peeked over the muddy rim of the crater; all around there were corpses, some caught up in tangles of barbed wire fencing, others lying in the mud dead from the shot that felled them. Then there were those who had been less fortunate, wounded, and no doubt worn down by a loss of blood; they had drowned in the thick, gray slurry which covered the battlefield.

Jackson hauled up his rifle; he hadn’t fired it this day and was unsure if he would be able to. His fingers were numb from the cold and the rifle was covered in a slick coating of mud, but it would do as a lever to help drag him out of the hole. He raised his arm and drove the rifle, bayonet first, into the ground.

As soon as he cleared the crater, a burst of gunfire sent him rushing, as best as he could, for the remains of an old farmhouse. There were no more than two walls left standing but it was on high, dry ground and offered cover.

Standing in front of what was once the front door was a figure; Jackson saw it as he tried to run through the boggy ground, his boots sinking into the mire with each stride he took. The figure made no attempt to raise its rifle or take aim at him; it just stood there, the tails of its trench coat flapping on a passing breeze.

It must be one of his own, Jackson thought, but the uniform, such a dark gray it was almost black, was unfamiliar to him. Regardless of this doubt Jackson pressed on; he was fearful that a burst of machinegun fire would find him, and then scythe him down if he lingered in the open for too long. Yet, if he had paused for a moment, he would have become aware that the guns had all fallen silent.

First one boot, then the other pulled free of the quagmire as Jackson stepped onto the hard ground in front of the soldier. “Hey, fella,” he called out. “What unit are you from?”

The soldier remained silent, his head bowed, face hidden from view.

Jackson wiped some of the mud off his rifle and brought the butt up to his shoulder. He took aim; he would fire if he had to but first he wanted to get a closer look and so, with steps that were cautious, he moved closer to the soldier.

“You,” Jackson said. They were now no more than ten feet apart. “What’s your unit?” Again, his question was met with silence.

Jackson lowered his rifle, stooped down and picked up a half brick that lay next to his right boot. He tossed it toward the soldier hoping that it would gain him a response. It did.

The soldier’s hand appeared from out of his trench coat pocket. It was stripped of flesh. He caught the brick in mid-flight. His skeletal fingers curled round and crushed it into dust. He raised his face to the day’s failing light.

Jackson screamed and dropped to his knees when he saw the skull, the empty eye sockets, the bared teeth. “No, please, I can’t be dead.”

The soldier looked down at him and said, “I am not Death. My name is Fortune.” He raised an arm and pointed out to no-man’s land. “I am here to tell you I offer no favor to this folly.”