SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest
Jeremy Robinson
Table of Contents
Foreword
Badlands
SD Perry
Of Storms and Flame
Tim Marquitz & J.M. Martin
In Vaulted Halls Entombed
Alan Baxter
They Own the Night
B. Michael Radburn
Fallen Lion
Jack Hanson
Sucker of souls
Kirsten Cross
The Bohemian Grove
Weston Ochse
After the Red Rain Fell
Matt Hilton
The Slog
Neal F. Litherland
Show of Force
Jeremy Robinson & Kane Gilmour
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest
Publisher’s Note:
This book is a collection of stories from writers all over the world.
For authenticity and voice, we have kept the style of English native to each author’s location, so some stories will be in UK English, and others in US English.
We have, however, changed dashes and dialogue marks to our standard format for ease of understanding.
* * *
This book is a work of fiction.
All people, places, events, T-rexs, Triceratops, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to persons or dinosaurs living or dead is purely coincidental.
SNAFU:
Survival of the Fittest
Edited by Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
Cohesion Press
Bendigo, Australia
2015
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest
Geoff Brown and Amanda J Spedding (eds)
ebook(ASIN) - B00Y3X86OC
Print - 978-0-9943029-3-9
Anthology © Cohesion Press 2015
Stories © Individual Authors 2015
Interior Art by Montgomory Borror 2015
Cover Art by Dean Samed/Conzpiracy Dean 2015
Internal Layout by Cohesion Editing and Proofreading
Proofreading by Sarah Bentvelzen
Set in Palatino Linotype
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Cohesion Press
Bendigo
Australia
www.cohesionpress.com
Foreword
SNAFU.
Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.
That, I think, says it all when it comes to military horror. Soldiers fighting for their lives, and at times for the lives of innocents, against supernatural or unearthly creatures.
Military writing has been around for as long as the written word, and likely for longer, although we only have a few surviving examples of such.
The idea of military speculative fiction (specfic) may seem like a subject not worth spending a whole lot of time talking about. After all, doesn’t it seem rather self-explanatory? It’s about the military, any branch, and it’s about horror, fantasy, or science fiction. However I believe military specfic is deeper than that. While it may very well be escapist literature to characterise all of the romanticized visions we have of the military, it can also be a hard-hitting commentary on current events and politics.
Beowulf and Homer’s Odyssey are both examples of early recorded military speculative fiction, although I’m not sure they were designed to be this. The cultures of the time believed in the gods, and sometimes the monsters, of Odyssey.
Precursors for military specfic can be found in ‘future war’ stories dating back at least to George Chesney’s story ‘The Battle of Dorking’ (1871) which was a speculative fiction piece, describing a successful German invasion of Britain.
Other works of fiction followed, including H.G. Wells’s “The Land Ironclads.” Eventually, as science fiction became an established and separate genre, military science fiction established itself as a subgenre. One such work is H. Beam Piper’s Uller Uprising (1952). Robert A. Heinlein’s Starship Troopers (1959), more recently a series of films, is another work of military specfic, along with Gordon Dickson’s Dorsai (1960), and these are thought to be mostly responsible for popularising this sub-genre’s popularity among young readers of the time.
The Vietnam War resulted in veterans with combat experience deciding to write specfic, including Joe Haldeman and David Drake. Throughout the 1970s, works such as Haldeman’s The Forever War and Drake’s Hammer’s Slammers helped increase the popularity of the genre, as did Harry Harrison with the Deathworld series. Short stories were also popular, collected in books like Combat SF, edited by Gordon R. Dickson. This anthology includes one of the first Hammer’s Slammers stories as well as one of the BOLO stories by Keith Laumer and one of the Berserker stories by Fred Saberhagen.
This anthology seems to have been the first time specfic stories specifically dealing with war as a subject were collected and marketed as such. The series of anthologies with the group title There Will be War edited by Pournelle and John F. Carr (nine volumes from 1983 through 1990) helped keep the category active, and encouraged new writers to add to it. I wanted to add more.
When I started Cohesion Press, I already knew I wanted to publish SNAFU. It was in my mind before anything else. I’ve always loved this style of book, with a strong emphasis on plot and action.
Our first anthology, simply titled SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror, was released just over a year ago. I asked four writers I repected. Four writers whose work mirrored my vision. A year later, Jonathan Maberry, Greig Beck, James A. Moore, Weston Oche, and a great collection of emerging writers made up that inaugural volume. We hoped it would do well when we set it free in the world, and it did. Now, three SNAFUs later, comes Survival of the Fittest. I hope you enjoy it.
I’ll leave the series co-editor to talk about the stories within.
Geoff Brown – August 2015
* * *
As far back as I can remember I’ve had a fascination with monster stories, of the things that hide in the shadows waiting to pounce. I loved that rush of fear, of being forced to push past it to discover what lay ahead and whether the protagonist would defeat the monster, whether they would survive. Who would be the victor?
When you add a keen interest in military documentaries and military fiction, I jumped at the chance when Geoff asked me to come on board as co-editor for the SNAFU series. Who wouldn’t want to work with authors on stories that combined two of the best genres of fiction that would have readers wondering ‘what fresh hell is this?’
Wars and conflict are a part of our world, of humanity’s history whether we like it or not. No matter your culture or creed, combat sits and weighs heavily in our past. Even before the written word there are pictorial and oral records of battles, some of which are woven through our mythos.
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest takes the warfare between monsters and military to the next level. Being reduced to that heart pounding, sphincter-clenching fear when facing a monstrous unknown; with your ammo dwindling and next-to-no options… how do you survive? At what cost?
The monsters here have been pulled from the abyss, summoned by dark magic, or are those that have lain dormant just waiting for the opportunity to wreak havoc. Pitched against elite forces and your (not-so) ordinary grunts, what will some sacrifice to save themselves, their brothers and sisters in a
rms, humanity? That’s the soul of the stories that lay ahead.
Each takes a different look at war, police actions, black ops and para-military, but with each taking place in different eras (epochs even). It’s both modern warfare and historical hostilities that make up this edition, of the finality of an epic battle when there is seemingly no way out… or back. It’s that thread of determination and sacrifice that binds these stories together. Whether it’s fighting one’s way through a gamut of nightmares made real, the horror-filled realisation of battling against an inconceivable and perhaps indestructible creature, or finding yourself up against something you thought was a work of fiction, it’s the fealty of the combatants, their courage and vulnerability, that highlights the best of humanity (regardless of how ‘human’ those soldiers are).
Now don’t get me wrong, the monsters in these tales hold their own, often with their own stories to tell, and our authors have taken these horrors from all spectrums of imagination and mythos – so much so that like the warriors facing off these foes, I was unsure what awaited me. What you think you may know, what these soldiers think they may know pales in comparison to the truth of what lurks in the shadows, what hides beneath your feet, or what awakens when the bell tolls.
And toll it does. SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest is just that. The question you have to ask yourself, is that soldier or hellion?
So sit back, keep your weapons close, and let our authors unleash their monsters...
Amanda J. Spedding – August 2015
Badlands
SD Perry
October, 1952
In Korea, October was the only month that didn’t eat a bag of dicks, in Sergeant Edward West’s humble opinion. Between the sweltering deep green of the monsoon season and the icy slide into brutal winter, there were a few short weeks of relief. The leaves start to change, the humidity drops below fifty per cent, the days are mild. The ever-present stink of kimchi and human waste seem to ebb. It was only West’s second October in Korea, wasn’t like he had a whole lot of evidence, but he thought two was enough to say. He’d be out before a third, thank Christ, FIGMO whether the talks went on or not – the big R was scheduled for January.
And then what? Factory work? Management? Car sales? He walked slow, his handful of boys strung out in front of him. The gung-ho young West who’d proudly signed up for WWII was long gone, mislaid in the cold winter and spring of 1945 somewhere between Marche and Mauthausen. He’d gone home broken, an old man still in his 20s. Civilian life was a depressing horror show; blind, idiot smiles everywhere he looked. He lost a couple of jobs, drank too much. When Uncle Sam had called him up in ’50 with a better pay grade for a little police action over in Korea, he’d listened. Like a fucking idiot.
At least here you’re doing something useful. Keeping his guys in one piece, that had to count for something.
Burtoni held up his hand and everyone froze. West listened, scanned the stand of trees to the north, the low foothills east; it was rocky, hilly terrain anyway, but this close to the mountains there were spider holes and tunnels. He heard a scratching, rustling sound, low and close…
Young grinned, pointed two o’clock, and then they were all grinning.
“Mole?” drawled Cakes. His real name was Earl Dupree but everyone called him Cakes, short for Jonnycakes. The kid was a hillbilly. He was also a mouth with a temper, and built like a tank. He never got shook, and was a bear cat with an M1 Garand.
Burtoni took a step back, peered at the small, furry ass of whatever creature was clawing into a rise of leaf-strewn dirt near a stunted maple. “Shrew.”
Private Young wrinkled his nose. “It’s a vole.”
“What the fuck’s a vole?” Cakes glared at Young. “You’re shittin’ me, a vole?”
“I shit you not,” said Young, holding up two fingers. If anyone was still a boy scout, it was Davey Young. “It’s a gray red-backed vole.”
Burtoni chuckled. “You made that up.” His accent was all Brooklyn. That was dat. The voice matched his narrow face and quick eyes. West liked him out front for the walk. “It’s gray an’ red, anybody coulda come up with that.”
The medic, Kelly, raised his eyebrows at Young.
Young shrugged. “My girl sent me a book.”
Addison spoke up. He rarely did, a family man counting the days. Addy had two children already and a third on the way. “A book on voles?”
“On nature of the Korean Peninsula,” Young said. “Like, wildlife and trees.”
“Aw, you and your gook thing,” Cakes sneered, and thumped him on the shoulder.
“Alright, dry up,” West finally interrupted. “We’re standing here like targets.”
They started walking again. West heard birds, the rustling of trees, the shuffle of their feet. Thoughts of the future were set aside; he’d been lulled by the season, the routine, an hour’s walk north and back, uneventful for months. They were reserve and currently too far from the DMZ to have to worry about the hordes attacking, but he should have been paying attention. The commies were a sneaky bunch.
Brilliant red leaves scattered by from a stand of maples a quarter mile away, on a breeze that smelled like smoke. Behind them, a sound, a patter. Footsteps.
West turned, brought up his rifle. Three people had suddenly appeared at the top of a low, rocky rise southwest of their position, not fifty feet away.
Goddamn Korean topo!
“Backs in,” West said. “Burtoni, Addy, watch our six.”
It was two old people and a boy, maybe eight or nine years old. They carried sagging, tattered packs and were filthy, hatless and sunburned. The boy was skinny as a slat cat. When they looked down and saw the soldiers, they froze.
“Hey, Mac,” the boy called, holding up a hand. He spoke briefly to the old people. Grandparents, looked like. They raised their hands, both of them stepping closer to the child.
West relaxed a little bit, trusting his instincts. North Joes sometimes dressed up like refugees, but not these people. “You speak English?”
“Number one, Mac,” said the boy. He lowered his hands slightly. “South Korean. KATUSA, Mac, ROK number one, USA!”
“Anybody see anything?” West said, keeping his voice low, and got a mumbled chorus of negatives. “Keep watch. Cakes, keep these fine people covered. Young, you’re with me.”
“Hooah,” another gentle chorus. Heard, understood, acknowledged. Cakes moved out to flank them.
The threesome hadn’t moved, which meant they had to walk up a slight rise to meet them. West kept his own carbine easy. He smiled up at the boysun, watched him smile back. The kid’s smile was wide but didn’t touch his eyes.
“Sarge, if you think I can talk to them…” Young began.
“Zip it. You’re who we’ve got.” Young was always practicing with the kids in the village southeast of the 33rd’s base camp. They’d been waiting for a new interpreter since they lost Billy J to Seoul in August, and West couldn’t bring himself to tap one of the ROKs, not with Cakes on the walk.
They stopped in front of the trio. West looked at the elderly couple. The old man blinked. The old woman’s mouth quivered. They looked a thousand years old.
“Where are you coming from?” West asked the boy, gesturing back the way they came.
“Keigu at MASH, GI Joe, eighty-leven,” the boy said. “Clean for you? Take out trash, laundry? All the officers I do. Cheap, Mac, good deal. The best.”
“You know where the 8011th is?” West asked Young.
The PFC shook his head. “They’re supporting 5th Division and that regiment from Australia,” he said. “North of Yanggu, maybe? They could be closer.”
Long walk. “Where are you going?” West asked the boy.
He raised one bony arm, pointed northeast. “Ch’alu’un. Home.”
West knew there were a couple of small villages out that way, goat herders or something, locals who’d gradually filtered back since the talks had stalled.
The old man looked over
his shoulder, back the way they’d come. He sang his strange tongue at the boy, his tone anxious.
“What’s he saying?”
Young frowned, listened. “Uh, he says they have to go, they have to hurry… they have to get home before the light of… before the moon rises? I think.”
“Where’s the fire?” West leaned down a little, smiled at the boy again. The kid’s shining dark eyes seemed fathomless. “Why now?”
Boysun didn’t answer, and the old woman started talking. West didn’t need an interpreter to catch her desperation, her fear. Her old voice broke as it rose and fell.
Young was frowning. “Something – about a bell? Then, you have to let us go… Jabi, jabi... Mercy? I think mercy.”
West’s adrenaline machine started back up. They were in a hurry, all right. What were they running from?
Young stammered his way through a sentence. The old man said something, Young said something. The old man repeated himself, slowing his words down.
“Come on,” West said, starting to feel impatient. They’d been standing still for too long.
“I don’t know,” Young said. He tilted his helmet back, wiping at his brow. “He says that the priests are waving their lanterns, something like that. Then… gangshi? I don’t know the word. He says we should go home, too.”
“Try again.”
Another stilted exchange, and Young shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sarge. He just keeps saying it’s not safe and you have to let ‘em go.”
“Some superstitious thing?” It sounded right, home before dark, priests waving lanterns. West remembered when one of the ROKA kids back at base had flipped his wig over someone whistling at night, saying that it attracted spirits.
“You got me, sir.”
Behind them, Burtoni. “Hey! We got—”
