SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

“You don’t understand,” another of the men said finally. “You don’t belong here. You should go home.”

“Jesus please-us, are these gooks numb in the head?” Cakes muttered.

“Have you been out there?” West asked, not realizing how angry he was until he heard it in his voice. “Have you seen what you’ve done?”

He jabbed a finger at the gangshi, still edging closer. There were three more of them, their dead faces staring, their arms reaching. More of the sitting priests shifted. He could see that their concentration was breaking. One of them stole an uneasy glance at the dead.

“You made monsters out of your own people,” West said. “You called up their sad sacks of bones and turned them into killers.”

More of the priests were looking now. The firelight flickered, painting the dead faces in strange light. One of the gangshi hopped forward a tiny step and two of the priests were suddenly on their feet, backing towards the narrow temple building.

One of the sitting men snapped at them, his voice urgent, but neither responded, still backing away. He repeated his command, added something in a rising shout.

“He tells them return to the circle,” Lee said. “Return or we are all lost!”

One of the sitting priests pushed up on his knees. From under his loose shirt, he pulled a small hammered blade, held it up. “Naneun nae insaeng ui maseuteo leul boho!”

Before he’d finished speaking a second man was doing the same, a third, their words overlapping, two more knives held up.

Lee was pale. “I protect the master with my life.”

“Oh, shit,” West said, as all three of the men cut their own throats and fell, blood spurting out into the ground. One of them hadn’t cut deep or far enough and was pumping a narrow stream of blood across a few of his fellow priests. He flopped around on the ground, spraying like a fountain. Blood hissed into the fire.

Most of the priests were on their feet and many held knives but they didn’t seem to know what they wanted to do, whether to join their suicidal brothers or run for it. West looked back and saw the gangshi hopping forward, entering the clearing. Whatever the priests had been doing to keep the dead men at bay, they weren’t doing it anymore.

* * *

“Here they come!” Cakes shouted, and threw the M15. Lee saw it hit one of the gangshi in the chest and turned away, saw his own shadow black on the ground against the sudden brilliance of hissing white light.

“Move, move!” The sergeant shouted, pushing Lee towards the temple. Lee ran. Three of the priests ran with him. He saw a knife on the ground and scooped it up, pushing past one of the priests who’d frozen, who hadn’t decided to stay or go.

The temple door was open. The trio of robed men ran inside, calling for their Master. Lee stopped outside and turned back, searching for Sergeant West and Cakes in the chaos, fountains of light and smoke and the silent, glowing dead, hopping and freezing, blurring as they darted forward.

Around the fire, two of the three men who’d killed themselves rose, their bodies stiff, their arms stretched out. The third rose a moment later as the first vibrations shook the world. The priests unable to choose were falling now, fed upon by their dead brothers. Lee held his metal tray out to the grisly scene, blocking it from view.

Lee heard Cakes before he saw him, cursing more than Lee had ever heard anyone curse, taunting the gangshi. Lee saw how far away from the church they were and felt his chest go tight. It was too far.

The sarge fired his revolver into the crowd of gangshi, trying to cover Cakes as the private threw more grenades, but the bullets did nothing. The gangshi were too close and there were too many of them and Cakes was retreating too slowly. Lee opened his mouth to cry a warning but then there was a blur of green light and it was too late.

“I got this one, Sarge!” Cakes shrieked and stepped into the creature, popping rings on the M15s in his arms. He reached out and grabbed a second dead man, his grenades spilling to the ground.

Sergeant West turned and ran for the temple, his face a mask of hard-jawed determination, his eyes anguished. Behind him, Cakes screamed, enveloped by white light. Smoke billowed over the gangshi, the clearing, the world.

Two of the priests tried to close the door but Lee kicked at them, brandished the cheap knife he’d picked up, and then West was pushing through, knocking one of the priests to the ground.

Lee turned and looked at the church, finally. It was a single room, bare except for some rolled mats. It was cold and smelled of decay. At the far end, an old man was lying on the floor, lamps burning by his head and feet. The priests hurried to him, casting frightened looks back at West and Lee. There were only three of them now.