Read The South Will Rise Again Online
Authors: Jeffrey Kosh
The South Will Rise Again
by
Jeffrey Kosh
First Edition
Copyright 2012 Jeffrey Kosh
All rights reserved.
ASIN: B007QI2GJW
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent. No part or parts of this publication may be copied, recorded or otherwise reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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EXCERPTS FROM SPIRITS AND THOUGHT FORMS
Heaven Liegh Eldeen, Lori Lopez, Gregory Miller, Awi Jaresinyo, and Sean Page
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"We'll fight them, sir, 'til hell freezes over, and then, sir,
we
will fight them on the ice."
A Confederate soldier at Gettysburg, in The Civil War by Shelby Foote
Mists …
The young soldier stood up from where he had fallen; shaking off his head, as if trying to wipe away the horrors he had been witness of.
Around him there was only smoke, the stench of gunpowder, and the sounds of the dying.
The battle had ended and only Death reigned supreme on that combat field.
When he had joined the rebellion he had no idea that war would be like that.
Horrors upon horrors upon horrors.
Mutilated bodies were everywhere to be seen, partially concealed by the clouding fog of hundred spent gun-shells. Blood covered the once-verdant grass and what once were men now appeared as broken dolls, set aside by a capricious child. Discarded weapons pockmarked the ground and pieces of equipment, mostly damaged beyond repair, added to the forlornness.
Had they won?
Had they lost?
He looked around, yet saw no one to ask that question.
Only the dead.
Nevertheless, he had survived the ordeal; somehow … someway.
Colin Jefferson lay nearby. Crows were eating away his past from what remained of his cracked head, while disgusting bloated flies already were unloading their progeny inside the stumps of disclosed flesh.
What had happened? He couldn’t recall, he tried frantically to summon up his last memories, yet only mists responded to his beckoning.
But he remembered his family.
Yes, they were safe now; the battle was away from their homes. His wife … his daughters.
What if he was wrong? What if the enemy had won and now they were marching toward his hometown, slaughtering everyone on their path, or doing worse things to them?
One of the large birds eyed him with craving, but opted to bump on an unmoving morsel.
No. That’s not the right way. First thing first: try to get up.
He tried to move the left leg. It didn’t work. He tried again. No way.
He could just stand there, a sitting duck in the middle of a carnage field. So, he resorted to yell, calling out for any other survivor, but before his voice could escape out of his parched mouth, a terrible thought invaded his mind. What if the ‘eventual’ survivor was one of the enemies? Or worse; what if there were enemies still prowling around, looking for the dying to slash their throat in a fast and swift stroke. Nope. Better to wait and try to evaluate the situation before doing anything stupid. If God, in His grace, had opted for him to survive, he had no right to unravel the Lord’s will. The mists continued to swell on the desolate battleground, when he succeeded in moving both legs.
The Will of God.
He stood up, as a bamboo cane flailed by wind, staggering back and forth, unable to regain a stable stance. From that new position he could get a better look at his surroundings. There were dark mounds everywhere. Yet only the momentary parting of the constant mists allowed him to ascertain those were not mounds but corpses, already inflated by decomposition gases. He had never seen - or even imagined - so many dead people.
There! Something had moved. No, just another of those damned flying ghouls.
He had to do something, he could not stay there staggering and dazed as a beaten up pugilist.
He moved one foot, then another. It worked! He was walking again. Nonetheless, he could not run or keep a sturdy gait; he could just stumble and shuffle, as an oldster does in his last waning days. Those hideous little black monsters flew away, scared by his movement.
He smiled to this tiny victory.
Again that blurred movement to his left. He turned, slowly; sure it was another of those pesky beasts. Yet, this time, his dry eyes spotted something larger; a dark shape, yes, hidden by that cursed fog, but standing on two legs, erect as only God’s creation could do.
He moaned, involuntarily, and took notice the mysterious visitor had no hurried his pace to get at him. No, he kept the same shuffling gait, inching its ground like a stalking predator. He wasn’t a rescuer, nor an ally. No, it had to be one of those damnyankees, enjoying the terror he was feeding to him, slowly savoring his next kill, like a cat does with a wounded mouse.
The soldier glanced around, frantically searching for an instrument of death; something which could defend him from that villainous attacker. He spotted a saber, discarded by the pale hand of an empty-sockets soldier; his gray uniform decorated by red flowers of blood.
Reaching the weapon wasn’t easy. He tried to bend his stiff knees, but they refused to collaborate, and when he exerted his will to those spiteful articulations, they tricked him, and he fell again on that blasted field, face-first into the bloated belly of his dead companion.
Immediately, he forced himself to regain control of his wrecked shell, clawing away from the horror that once had been a fellow compatriot.
His eyes ran nervously back to the lurching figure. He was closer. Although still hidden by the shifting mists, the wounded soldier could clearly discern the enemy’s approach. Stumbling, yet resolute, the shadowy figure continued his course, never pausing, but so unnerving in his silent lurch. The crows cawed then fluttered away, disturbed by the enemy’s gait.
He rose again, although awkwardly, clutching at the bloodied blade as a kid hugging his favorite teddy bear. Hanging to mere survival instinct alone, he stood the grounds.
He shall not pass.
Yet, the enemy halted its pace, stopping by one of the fallen corpses, ignoring the living for the allure of the harmless.
What is he doing?
Then he heard it clearly; at first a low moan, so fleeting he mistook it for the wind. Next came a chilling cry, as something who was still alive protested its pain from an unseen harm. The cry became a shrilling scream, causing the survivor to shudder, and a single gasp escaped his mouth. He forced himself to get a better look of what was happening between the enemy and what had reasonably been an unfortunate comrade.
He had been right.
The enemy was scouring the fields, looking for the still breathing rests of brave Confederate fighters, and bringing on them further afflictions. This was not a merciful reliever of suffering, but a real monster of sadistic needs.
The young soldier gripped the chivalry blade with both hands and then gathered all his failing courage.
I will not allow it! This abominable monstrosity must be stopped, at the cost of my very life.
That single step called for more than he expected, as the right leg trembled, then gained the ground. The left soon followed, with same pathetic results. Yet, he didn’t give up; a step after the other, slow and clumsy, he reached out of the mists.
Only to partake to further horrors.
The enemy was a monster indeed. Whatever that obscene and unholy creature was, it for sure was not human. Or no longer one. The thing was dressed with a bloodied and rangy uniform of the Confederates (surely it had stolen it from one of his victims) and had arms and legs as any other men. But here the similitude stopped, as the beast looked like something more apt to the coffin than to the breathing air. Its grayish skin was shriveled and encrusted by a moldy growth. The hands - those terrible hands - were akin to those of a predator of the darkest jungle, as they were bony and clawlike, and twitched nervously on the flesh of the squawking survivor. Worms and other vile varmints wriggled on its shoulders, and thinly, long, and unkempt hair cascaded out of a maggoty officer’s hat. Nonetheless, what really shocked the valiant soldier was not its appearance, but its deeds. In fact, the beast who walked as a man was distinctly feasting on the still breathing victim.
