SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

“No, use it like a mirror!” Burtoni screamed. He held up his own tray, shook it. “Like a mirror!”

Cakes didn’t seem to hear, banging the tray into the creature’s face again and again. Another of the things moved in. Cakes gave up on the tray, dropping it, taking a Willie Pete out of his shoulder bag. The Sarge waved them all back.

“Fire in the hole!” Cakes yelled.

Burtoni stumbled backwards, yeah, burn that mother, he thought—

— and then his thoughts were strange, running together, and Lee was shouting and dancing around, something was wrong.

Burtoni turned and there was a middle-aged man with a bad haircut and a bullet hole in one temple in front of him, staring at him, its peeling white fingers brushing against the front of his shirt.

“No,” Burtoni breathed, unable to believe it, unable to move or think anymore because the thing was pulling him away, stealing him from the world and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t goddamn fair, he should have bugged out when he had the chance.

* * *

“No, no, no!” West screamed. The monster had Burtoni and it was already too late, the kid’s long, wolfish face was collapsing inward, his quick eyes rolling back in his head. In a few seconds he was a husk on the ground.

Cakes pulled a pin, threw, pulled another one. The world exploded in a fountain of bitter white and West shielded his eyes, his heart torn up. The ganghsi burned, hopped and melted, collapsing silently as the fire ate their rotten skin.

“The buildings, chogie!” he shouted, ducking away from the brilliant light, running for Lee. He never should have let the kid come, he wasn’t thinking straight.

Cakes ran with him and they caught up to Lee, flanked him, heading for the hooches. Behind them, the phosphorous hissed and muttered. Dim figures flitted through the trees, flickered through plumes of white smoke and the dull orange of burning fat. More of them were coming.

They reached the first raised shack and ran past it, West pointing them north, there was a clearing past another of the small buildings — and there were people in the clearing, ten, a dozen of them, men, sitting around a fire. They wore homespun robes of dull brown. Behind them was a tall, narrow building, presumably the temple.

West looked back and saw more of the creatures hopping after them. They’d be dead ducks in the time it took for one of the things to do its impossible jump. No time for recon or diplomatic talks.

“Back us up, Cakes,” West said. It was all he had time to say as they ran into the clearing, chased by the gangshi. West moved in front of Lee and stopped at one of the sitting men. He pointed his revolver at the man’s head.

The man was older, his face lined and careworn. He stared into the fire. All of them just stared into the fire, completely ignoring West, not moving an inch.

“Lee! Tell them to stop these things or I kill this one!”

Lee shouted at them, his voice harsh, threatening. The men didn’t look away from the fire, but one of them spoke briefly. A man about West’s age, sitting on the other side of the fire. His voice was a monotone.

Lee blinked at West. “He says go ahead. He says they are already home.”

“Sarge!” Cakes’ voice was an urgent stage whisper. West turned and saw that a half dozen of the gangshi had gathered behind them, at the outermost edge of the fire’s flickering light. They clumped together, dead and stinking, their arms outstretched… but they didn’t come any closer. Couldn’t, maybe.

West looked helplessly at the circle of men, still aiming at the older man’s head. He didn’t want to shoot the guy, didn’t want to kill anyone, only wanted them to stop whatever it was they were doing.

“Ask them why,” he said. “Why are they doing this?”

Lee asked, and another of the men spoke, not looking away from the fire. Lee translated as the man droned, his voice steady and toneless, firelight dancing in his blank eyes.

“In every war for a thousand years people have died here, victims of needless slaughter. Innocents, monks and priests, healers, men who have refused to take up arms. The stones are washed in their blood. They called the Master, who speaks for them now. He is their channel. They cry for the killing to stop.”

West shook his head. “So… you sent out dead men to kill more people?”

Lee spoke for him, and another man took up the narrative. “The Master tell us that when everyone has gone home, the wars will end. There will be no more bloodshed, here or anywhere.”

West stared at the circle of motionless men, unable to believe what he was hearing. “That’s what you believe? That what you’re doing here will stop war, forever? That we’re all just going to change?”

The men didn’t answer when Lee stopped speaking, staring into the fire, but one, two of them shifted, breaking their perfect stillness. West looked back. The gathering gangshi edged closer, as though the circle of protection cast by the firelight had shrunk. Cakes held up one of the grenades, looking to West for a signal.