Ravens pick and tear at something in the sand, their
sickening calls announcing death. They fight, biting and clawing at each other
and tearing flesh from a bloody lump laying half buried in the sand. A volley
of artillery rounds roars in to land a hundred meters from the birds with a
thrump. Startled, they take to the air screaming and reveal the body of a young
German soldier. He lies dead on the ground, eyes open in horror, blood dripping
from his mouth, body desecrated by the birds and war. The blood leaches into the
sand making a dark pool under his mouth. The sand moves under the pool, just a
quivering that causes a ripple in the pool of blood.

He’s just one of many dead laying in awkward and gruesome
poses and baking in the desert sun. Craters mark where artillery has walked
over and destroyed a German mechanized infantry unit. Burning trucks and tanks
loft thick black smoke into the sky. Charred corpses hang from trucks and are
sprawled on top of tanks with mouths frozen open in horror. Broken, shredded
bodies lay butchered on the ground. The artillery has done its job efficiently,
but not completely.

The survivors march away from the burning remains and fallen
comrades on the battlefield to snake between tall sand dunes and into a desert
canyon. Some are wounded, others dazed, and all are scared. The soldiers look
around nervously. Death is near and they can feel it. Military discipline is
breaking down as the soldiers realize that they’re being hunted.

Silent shadows move along the tops of sand dunes stalking
their prey. A group of Bedouin fighters quietly set up an ambush and wait for
the Germans where the canyon deepens. The Bedouin leader, Yusif, peers down at
the Germans below. His face is weathered but dignified with deep sunbaked
wrinkles making him look older than his thirty years. He signals to his men to
take aim.

A young German soldier looks up to the tops of the dunes. He
sees nothing, but he can feel them and nervously fingers the trigger on his
weapon. He looks to his friends marching around him; he can see the fear in
their eyes. His lip quivers, and he holds back tears. A bullet cracks the skull
of his forehead with a wet thwack, and he falls back dead. The desert calm is shattered
by the crack of rifles. The Germans scatter as grenades explode and men fall
screaming. It’s chaos; the famous German efficiency has evaporated and broken. Those
not wounded run.

The surviving Germans race though the canyon and find
themselves in an abandoned archeological camp. The canyon ends in sheer walls;
there’s no place to go. Empty tents flutter in a ghostly wind and equipment
lays scattered in the sand. Shell-shocked, the Germans look around, unsure what
to do. The gunfire intensifies behind them. Several men panic and start to
scamper up the canyon walls. The German Captain, Muller, watches the men go;
his foot moves to follow, to run again. He stops and looks around at the scared
faces gazing at him; many of them are just boys. The tightness in his gut
threatens to push the contents out as it intensifies. He looks to the tops of
the canyons and the men scrambling up. Muller draws himself up and pushes his
fear down, “We stay together,” he commands.

Screams from the ambush behind them are silenced by single
rifle shots. Excited shouts in Arabic are drawing near as the hunters close.

Something catches Muller’s eye; a stone archway emerging
from the side of the canyon that has been unearthed in the dig. Crude wooden
planks hold back the dirt on either side of the archway and a tunnel leads into
the ground.

Muller stares at it, his jaw twitching, as the desert wind
picks up around him. The howl of the wind sounds like a haunting scream. It’s
surreal and sickening and grabs hold of him as he gazes motionless at the
archway.

A bullet cracks over his head, snapping him from the moment.
He shakes his head to clear his mind and points, “Over there, it looks
defensible.”

Muller leads his men through the archway and underground to
find an ancient vaulted temple held up by Greek style pillars. Life size
statues, half-man, half-animal line the walls. Torches give off an eerie,
fluttering light that illuminates elaborate hieroglyphics covering the walls. A
large marble statue of a beautiful man stands in the center. His details are
exquisite: long flowing hair and a boyish face that seem to be flesh and not
stone.

A young British soldier, Radcliff, hides in the shadows
clutching a talisman on a chain in his hand. He’s unshaven, dehydrated and his
tunic is pock marked with shrapnel holes. He bares his teeth in hatred as the
Germans enter the chamber but sinks back to the darkness and out of sight.

Muller looks around the room, turns in a circle assessing
his surrounding; there are no exits, just the eerie faces of the statues
staring at him under the flickering torchlight.

Radcliff watches silently from the dark his hand stroking
the chain around his neck lovingly, his eyes burning with hatred.

Muller can hear the shouts of the approaching Bedouins
outside. He quickly moves to the end of the room where there’s a round stone
block that looks like a door, “A way in, there has to be a way in,” he
frantically feels around the stone block, “Nothing!”

Radcliff quietly moves from the shadows, unnoticed in the
darkness, and slips in amongst the Germans. He quickly moves to the marble
statue in the center of the room and slips the necklace over its head. Arab
voices echo through the room from outside.

Muller gives up on the doorway, “Defensive positions!” he
calls.

The men prepare for their last stand; weapons are checked
and grenades are readied. As Muller turns away from the stone, there's a metallic
click behind him. He looks over his shoulder to see the stone rolling aside. Muller
turns back to gaze down a dark torch-lit tunnel going deeper into the ground. A
cold wind blows from inside, and Muller hears an eerie scream that locks him
into a trance. Unsure if the scream is a result of the wind or some warning in
his mind, he sets his jaw and nods to himself, “Inside! Quickly!”

The Germans rush into the tunnel with Radcliff taking up the
rear. The door begins to roll shut after them. Screams and gunfire come from
down the dark tunnel, cut off when the stone door slams shut.

Gun ready, Yusif walks into the temple. He follows the
Germans' tracks to the stone door and stops. Camir, an elderly man, steps up
behind him, “Several escaped into the desert,” he reports in Arabic.

“Leave them. They’re dead already,” Yusif says clinically as
he runs his hand across the stone door. He leans in, pressing his ear against
it and listens. He hears a low rumble of a grenade exploding and a
blood-curling scream.

Camir pulls the necklace from the statues and holds it out
to Yusif. He looks down at a talisman on the chain and then up to the beautiful
face of the statue, “So, it begins.”

Heat, noise, and dirt. An American convoy moves through the
open desert like an endless line of ants. Jeeps and trucks fight for space with
camels and donkeys as they all move along a dirt road. Vendors have set up
tents along the roadside, and American troops jump from moving trucks or fall
out of line to pick through items looking for souvenirs.

Matty, a young soldier from New York, picks through jewelry
boxes on display in a tent. A sly soldier from Chicago, Pilch, comes up behind him,
“I knew you was a fairy.”

Matty holds up a gold jewelry box, “What? It’s for Katie.”

Pilch slings his long sniper rifle over his shoulder and takes
one of the boxes off the table and looks at the intricate inlaid cloisonné
symbol on its cover. The Vendor smiles at Pilch taking in interest in his
wares. He has rotting crooked teeth and flies seem to constantly orbit his face
attracted to an unholy smell wafting from his body.

“She’s six months old now, right?” Pilch inquires trying to
wave away the smell of the Vendor from his nose.

Matty smiles, “Seven next week.”

Pilch holds the box up to the Vendor, “Hey, how much?”

The Vendor looks at Pilch with a stupid grin and holds up
four fingers.

Pilch reaches for his wallet, “Four? You want four dollars?”
he smiles at the price, “Okay.”

“Wait a minute!” Matty objects.

“Ahh, he’s got plenty!” he indicates the piles of boxes on
the table. Pilch pulls out four one-dollar bills. The Vendor, sensing an overly
eager customer, shakes his head ‘no’ and points to a five-dollar bill in
Pilchs’ wallet and holds up four fingers.

Pilch holds up a five-dollar bill, “Four of these?”

The vendor stupidly nods his head.

Pilch shakes his head in disgust, “Fuck off!”

Matty pulls out his wallet, “Well, I’ll take one.”

“For twenty bucks?”

Matty hands over the money and takes his box, “Yeah, it’s
real gold!” he smiles at Pilch, “She’s gonna love it,” and Matty cradles his
box as he heads down the road to catch up with his unit. Pilch looks at the
boxes and then to Matty disappearing into the crowd, “Alright, gimmie one.”

The vendor chatters in Arabic and hands over a box while
bowing awkwardly. Pilch sticks it in his pack and heads off.

As the Americans disappear into the crowd, the vendor’s
stupid smile fades and he speaks in perfect English, “Bloody wankers. I never
made this much in London.”

Chapter 2

Boots race across the sand, fast. A tall well built soldier,
Clint, runs hard, no weapon, no shirt, sweaty, frantic. His boots kick up sand;
his breath comes in gasps of exertion.

“I got ‘em. I got ‘em,” someone yells in the distance.

Clint turns and looks back, eyes wide. He grits his teeth as
a football lands on his chest.

An Army encampment is set up along the road. A group of
soldiers plays football near their tents.

Smith, a young soldier with a thick New Orleans accent, is
the quarterback, “Fuckin’ perfect!” he jumps up and down in a victory dance as
Clint holds the ball high in the air.

Matty and Pilch walk past the game and into the camp.

Clint holds up the ball, waving to them, “Texas A&M, All
American, baby.”

Matty smiles as Clint and Smith collide into a bear hug. He
notices trucks unloading new troops and supplies. His smile drops when he sees
body bags being tossed into the empty trucks.

Pilch looks to another soldier, Lewis, who sits on an
oriental rug meditating with incense burning around him. Lewis starts chanting,
and Pilch shakes his head, “That guy ain’t right in the head.”

Matty stares as body bags are roughly tossed into the trucks,
no care given to the occupants. A towering man blocks his view as he comes
their way.

Pilch stares at Lewis with a look bordering on disgust, “What
a moron.”

“Uh . . . Pilch.”

“Just look at ‘em.”

“Pilch!” Matty barks, and Pilch looks over to see Sergeant
Monte storming up to them.

“Where the hell you two been?”

Oddball, the platoon screw-up and general ass kisser,
scurries up behind Monte, “Yeah, where you two been?” he says in a whinny
sniveling voice, interrupting Monte.

Monte glares at Oddball.

Pilch smiles, “Matty stopped to do a little shopping. I hung
back to make sure he caught up.”

Embarrassed, Matty struggles to get the gold box into his
pack. Pilch puts an arm around him and helps him shove the box into his pack, “Just
trying to help you look after the men Pal.”

“Pilch, I believe precisely jack of the shit that comes out
of your mouth.”

Oddball takes a step toward Pilch, “Yeah, this ain’t no
vacation, ya’ know. The new L-T’s back and . . . ”

Monte smacks Oddball in the back of the head, “Shut up.”

Pilch looks across the football game to where a young
lieutenant talks to Platoon Sergeant Pender and Yusif.

Pilch looks curious, “What’s the score, Monte?”

Monte steps forward and pushes Pilch in the chest with a
finger, “That’s Sergeant to you.”

“What? You was just a corporal, like me.”

“Long time ago.”

“Long time? It was two days ago!”

Monte comes nose-to-nose with him, “Like I said, a long time
ago.”

Pilch and Monte stare each other down.

Matty tries to break the tension, “We going back out, Sarge?”

Pender calls out, “Monte, bring ‘em in.”

Monte breaks his gaze with Pilch and looks to the football
game, whistles loudly and waves the men in. The football game breaks up, Lewis
rolls up his rug, and men crawl from tents. Monte spins and with Oddball in
tow, he moves back toward Pender. Matty looks to Pilch with a quizzical worried
expression. Pilch gives him a shrug. Matty shakes his head, “Why you gotta push
him like that?”

Pilch smiles with one eyebrow raised, and Matty can see the
wheels turning in his crafty head.

The platoon gathers before Pender with the usual muttering
and complaints that comes with being in the Army. Johnson, a tall lanky Texan, squats
next to Pilch and Matty.

“Who’s the Arab?” Margrave asks.

Pilch cocks his head and looks at him with malice, “Who the
hell are you?”

Pilch assesses the new recruit; a baby face that shows he
couldn’t be more than a few months out of high school and a uniform so new
there isn’t one stain or tear on it.

Johnson comes to his aid with his thick Texas drawl, “Fellahs,
meet Margrave. He’s from Texas. His pa’s a preacher, so ya’ll be nice.”

“Howdy,” Margrave says with a bashful wave.

“Did you just fucking wave at me?” Pilch says in shock.

Margrave looks down embarrassed.

“I’m Matty, from Brooklyn.”

Margrave perks up, impressed, “New York?”

Pilch looks to Johnson shaking his head with a smirk, “You
grow ‘em smart down there, don’t ya?” and he takes a drag on his cigarette and
blows the smoke out toward Margrave, “Nah, Brooklyn, Ohio.”

Matty smiles, “Don’t mind Pilch; we just ignore him most of
the time.”

Pilch turns to Johnson, “Thought we agreed not to get to
know the new guys.”

“But he’s from Texas.”

“Yeah,” Margrave says drawing the word out in his Texas
drawl, “Abilene,” he whines.

Pilch rolls his eyes, “Abilene. Well, that changes
everything.”

Pender clears his throat. The men look up, ready for a
briefing or lecture like they have many times before, “Alright, listen up,” he
gestures to Yusif, “This is Yusif, the local Bedouin Commander; his men hit a
German company yesterday.” Johnson pulls a bag of chewing tobacco out and
offers it to Margrave as Pender continues, “A squad of Kraut survivors is holed
up in a bunker. We’re going in to clear ‘em out.”

The men groan; Johnson spits a mouthful of chew into the
dirt, “So we’re the cleanup crew again?”

Pender eyes him with a look that tells Johnson to tread
lightly, “We can’t have a Kraut squad wandering around in our rear Johnson.”

Pilch shakes his head, “Why can’t the damn A-rabs go clear
‘em out? They shot ‘em up.”

Some of the men nod in agreement.

Pender looks to Pilch, “Shut your mouth, Private.”

“I’m a Corporal,” Pilch protests.

“Not for long,” Pender advises him.

Monte looks to Yusif, “What kind of bunker we talking about?”

“It is an ancient temple,” Yusif reports with a slight
accent.

Oddball perks up, “Like with buried treasure and stuff?”

Yusif shakes his head, “No. Not like that.”

Oddball looks to the men, “We do a little digging and who knows?”

Clint nods in agreement, “We should bring shovels.”

Smith smiles, “We got shovels, moron,” and he taps the
entrenching tool on his pack.

Johnson chimes in, “I spent a summer mining copper out in
Wyoming.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Oddball replies excited.

“It is not like that!” Yusif snaps.

All eyes turn to him.

“Alright, Moses. Keep your turban on,” Pilch says.

“Pilch!” Monte snaps, and he clams up.

Pender continues, “Now, I know we all like Lieutenant Groves,
but he’s gone, and we ain’t getting him back. I got a letter from him. He’s in
England and . . . well they couldn’t save his leg, so he won’t be back. This
here is Lieutenant Harris, our new platoon leader.”

All eyes turn to Harris. He looks the band of boys over with
obvious disdain, “I’m only going to say this once; I run a tight platoon, and I
run it by the book. I don’t like what I’m seeing already. I don’t like the
whining, I don’t like the grumbling, and I don’t like the lack of discipline.
It will stop. Weapons inspection in fifteen. We move out in thirty.”

Monte steps forward, “You heard him, girls! Strip ‘em and
clean ‘em!”

Despite the passionate speech by Harris, the men grumble.

BOOK: Rise of the Undead 1943

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