Rise of the Undead 1943 Read online

  Rise of the Undead 1943

  By David Presley

  Published by Mercurybar Productions Inc.

  Cover art by Luciano Fleitas

  Copyright © 2013

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  About the Author

  Tunisia, North Africa, 1943.

  Chapter 1

  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 roads
ide, 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.

  Chapter 3

  Smith, on point, leads the men through the canyon where the Germans were ambushed the day before. Dead bodies lay bloating under the desert sun, and equipment is scattered along the route. Pender and Monte follow close behind Smith, talking quietly.