falling to the ground.
Wilson turned, gaping at the scene that was unfolding before him. They were rising from where they had fallen, the dead men of the trench, pawing at the air. The ground sighed and murmured to itself as they clambered to their feet. Their flesh running like melting butter, reshaping into forms shambling, skinless and raw. Pus was leaking from the hanging folds of their faces. They were snatching and tearing at Bone. Their fingers were mummified, covered in coiled wrappings of cured human skin. They were kneeling over Bone, stabbing into him with their fingers, tearing at him with those quivering maws. The tableau was coloured macabre, the shades of an abattoir, cast over it by the rolling hood of gas hanging overhead.
Bone screamed, snapping Wilson back to reality. He could feel blood hammering in his ears. He had to save Bone. Rescuing a superior officer, it would go in his favour. Clenching the crucifix tight in his hand, he charged in. Striking out. The acrid stench of burning flesh stung his nostrils as the crucifix made contact with the fruit-soft substance of the creatures. They howled and gibbered. Viscous muck ran from the wounds he was making. Their ruined faces seemed to hang, slack with sadness, as Wilson attacked them. Blood-flecked secretions spattered Wilson’s face, stinging his eyes. He struck again and again with the crucifix. The creatures retreated.
Wilson reached out to the prone Captain.
“Come on, sir, we’re going to have to run for it.”
Bone’s revolver went off.
One bullet smacked into Wilson’s thigh. A second hit him in the shoulder, burying itself deep enough to scrape on bone. Wilson shouted, falling to the ground. The third bullet shot past his ear. Through the buzzing haze of pain, he heard Bone ranting, “A coward, Wilson. That’s what you are. A coward dies many deaths. A brave man dies but once. You will not cheat me of my death. You will not make me become as you are.”
Still, Wilson reached out a shaking hand to Bone. Bone was aiming the barrel of his revolver right between Wilson’s eyes.
“Don’t do this, sir.”
“Farewell, Private Wilson. Hell awaits.”
The gas reared up, rolling over Bone in a tidal wave. Its diaphanous folds embracing him. Wilson could hear the wet sound of the older man gurgling as the gas went gushing down his throat, eager to drink his insides dry. Bone’s body bucked violently, writhing from the violation.
Wilson saw no more.
The monstrous creatures were swarming around him. A mummified hand snatched at him. Wilson roared, batting it away. He had dropped the crucifix when he was shot. His fingers slippery with mud, blood and tainted fluid. He reached out for it. Clicking skeletal hands grabbed him, dragging him away from it, forcing him over onto his back. Wilson squirmed as they held him down. He felt the barrel of a revolver being pressed into the top of his head. He felt the cool metal hollow digging into the skin. He heard the percussion of it being cocked, a thunderclap, shaking him to the core.
“No! Please!”
He tried to bite his way free, gnawing at the fingers scrambling over his face. His teeth sank into the dried skin with ease but they did not seem to feel pain from his bites.
The hammer of the revolver cracked home.
…a coward dies many deaths, a brave man dies but once…
Wilson closed his eyes, hoping that he had been brave enough this time.
The bullet powered through skin and then the bone of Wilson’s skull. It went smashing into the brain beneath. Sending a gout of blood and colourless matter streaking back out of the entry wound. Wilson could smell his hair burning. The air above him was blurring into the colour of dawn. Wilson’s head was released. It flopped to one side. His eyes were still and glassy. His mouth fell open, slack. He could feel rats sniffing at the wound in his skull. He could feel them poking their noses inside. Tiny claws and teeth were scrabbling away at the edges
Wilson turned, gaping at the scene that was unfolding before him. They were rising from where they had fallen, the dead men of the trench, pawing at the air. The ground sighed and murmured to itself as they clambered to their feet. Their flesh running like melting butter, reshaping into forms shambling, skinless and raw. Pus was leaking from the hanging folds of their faces. They were snatching and tearing at Bone. Their fingers were mummified, covered in coiled wrappings of cured human skin. They were kneeling over Bone, stabbing into him with their fingers, tearing at him with those quivering maws. The tableau was coloured macabre, the shades of an abattoir, cast over it by the rolling hood of gas hanging overhead.
Bone screamed, snapping Wilson back to reality. He could feel blood hammering in his ears. He had to save Bone. Rescuing a superior officer, it would go in his favour. Clenching the crucifix tight in his hand, he charged in. Striking out. The acrid stench of burning flesh stung his nostrils as the crucifix made contact with the fruit-soft substance of the creatures. They howled and gibbered. Viscous muck ran from the wounds he was making. Their ruined faces seemed to hang, slack with sadness, as Wilson attacked them. Blood-flecked secretions spattered Wilson’s face, stinging his eyes. He struck again and again with the crucifix. The creatures retreated.
Wilson reached out to the prone Captain.
“Come on, sir, we’re going to have to run for it.”
Bone’s revolver went off.
One bullet smacked into Wilson’s thigh. A second hit him in the shoulder, burying itself deep enough to scrape on bone. Wilson shouted, falling to the ground. The third bullet shot past his ear. Through the buzzing haze of pain, he heard Bone ranting, “A coward, Wilson. That’s what you are. A coward dies many deaths. A brave man dies but once. You will not cheat me of my death. You will not make me become as you are.”
Still, Wilson reached out a shaking hand to Bone. Bone was aiming the barrel of his revolver right between Wilson’s eyes.
“Don’t do this, sir.”
“Farewell, Private Wilson. Hell awaits.”
The gas reared up, rolling over Bone in a tidal wave. Its diaphanous folds embracing him. Wilson could hear the wet sound of the older man gurgling as the gas went gushing down his throat, eager to drink his insides dry. Bone’s body bucked violently, writhing from the violation.
Wilson saw no more.
The monstrous creatures were swarming around him. A mummified hand snatched at him. Wilson roared, batting it away. He had dropped the crucifix when he was shot. His fingers slippery with mud, blood and tainted fluid. He reached out for it. Clicking skeletal hands grabbed him, dragging him away from it, forcing him over onto his back. Wilson squirmed as they held him down. He felt the barrel of a revolver being pressed into the top of his head. He felt the cool metal hollow digging into the skin. He heard the percussion of it being cocked, a thunderclap, shaking him to the core.
“No! Please!”
He tried to bite his way free, gnawing at the fingers scrambling over his face. His teeth sank into the dried skin with ease but they did not seem to feel pain from his bites.
The hammer of the revolver cracked home.
…a coward dies many deaths, a brave man dies but once…
Wilson closed his eyes, hoping that he had been brave enough this time.
The bullet powered through skin and then the bone of Wilson’s skull. It went smashing into the brain beneath. Sending a gout of blood and colourless matter streaking back out of the entry wound. Wilson could smell his hair burning. The air above him was blurring into the colour of dawn. Wilson’s head was released. It flopped to one side. His eyes were still and glassy. His mouth fell open, slack. He could feel rats sniffing at the wound in his skull. He could feel them poking their noses inside. Tiny claws and teeth were scrabbling away at the edges
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