The Attack of the Dead Men

Sensitive content: graphic depiction of combat-based violence

“Osowiec Fortress will fall today. For days it has stood proud while pounded by our artillery shells, but that ends now. Those filthy Russian bastards will face the wrath of our superior technology!”

I sit in a trench, covered in mud, ash, and dirt. A blood-soaked bandage is loosely wrapped around my left calf, just as dirty as the rest of me. I was struck by shrapnel yesterday during a counter-barrage, but many were more injured in the attack than me, so here I am, sitting in a trench instead of the comfort of a hospital bed. The wound is not pretty. The raw, scorched red of the surrounding flesh indicates a nasty infection, along with the disgusting pus oozing out of it. Yet I must fight, even though every step I take is a painful limp. I use my rifle as a cane.

My commanders have ordered us to attack today, for the wind is blowing towards the fortress, and we know the Russians do not have gas masks. 

Gas. My commanders say it is our only chance to secure the fortress for ourselves. I know more, though. I overheard a conversation that the gas is not the same. Something has changed about it, but I am nothing but a lowly soldat, so I know better than to ask.

Even though the Russians are my enemy, I fear what may happen to those men.

My kameraden prepare the gas batteries. I do not help. We wear gas masks and are told to cover all our skin. The fortress looms in the distance, strong and tall, illuminated by the morning sun. The land between us and the Russians is desolate and barren, covered with rotting trees and broken barricades. 

The batteries open, releasing yellow clouds of pure death upon our enemy. The smell of horseradish fills my nose. Slowly, like a stalking reaper, the plumes of gas slither over the land toward the concrete building. The bright flash of flares offends my eyes. Our signal to attack. 

My brothers in arms charge forward, many almost gleeful at our near-ensured victory. I limp behind them. If I desert, I may be executed, so I limp. I hear harsh orders, urging me to move faster. I do, but a searing pain shoots from my calf to my thigh, making me grit my teeth. The looming threat of execution keeps me moving. 

A tap on my shoulder startles me.

“Need a hand?” a masked man offers in a deep, powerful voice. He is broad, standing half a foot taller than me. I wrap my arm around his shoulders. I often forget the kindness of men on the battlefield. He helps me trudge towards the fortress, almost keeping up with my healthy kameraden.

As we move closer, I see what horrors we have wreaked upon the opposing soldats. The yellow smoke has brought pain and suffering to our enemy. Unable to scream through their burnt and melted throats, they make guttural noises—horrible sounds that burble up from their stomachs. Moist coughs followed by wet slaps of blood and flesh hitting the ground are evidence that the gas is doing its job. Unusual faint pops scatter across the battlefield, like weak popcorn. It doesn’t sound like gunfire. I know it. This isn’t my first battle. The noises sound fleshy.

Our army waits. The screams and coughs slowly fade away, like the gas that killed them, signaling us to march. We move forward as one, unafraid and powerful. The beat of boots bashing into the ground is a song of victory and death. 

I need a break. My leg feels like it is going to fall off, so I crawl down into a trench and sit once again. This time, bodies lie around me. 

Now I know why my commanders told us to cover our skin. What isn’t covered by their uniforms or by the urine-soaked rags they have tied to their faces in the mistaken belief that these would protect them has erupted into boils and exploded, like grenades of blood. They have no more skin. I see their bare muscles, raw and flaccid. These young men were the first to face what we have done. 

Whoever made this monstrosity of a weapon is a genius—but a psychopath. 

I hear screams again. These shrieks are different. Ones of fear and panic, not hurt. A jolt of adrenaline forces me to my feet. I step over the corpses carefully to investigate the sounds, but I am interrupted by a violent twitch of one of the dead. His arm flies toward my injured leg and strikes the wound directly. I fall to the wooden floor of the trench, breathing heavily while writhing in sharp, aching pain. Then the sound of a hard thud behind me, followed by a heavy grunt caught my attention. I turn to see the man who helped me walk, kneeling on the ground and clutching his gun like it is his last earthly possession.

“Verdammter Scheißkerl! They are rising! They are rising!” he yells, his voice booming in my ears.

“The dead Russians?” I reply, now as panicked as he. “That’s impossible! They don’t have skin!” 

“One of them grabbed me! His filthy piss-covered hands grabbed me!” He rises to his feet and moves forward cautiously. I follow him, peeking above the trench beside him. Our soldiers are running back to our base, all our determination to win lost at this very moment. Behind them, figures wearing green and beige, smeared with blood, shamble towards them.

We are several trenches behind enemy lines. Crossing to safety means encountering these dead men.

“What is your name?” I ask the man beside me.

“Adler. Yours?”

“Kurt. I cannot walk across this land safely. I suggest you go without me. You are much too kind to die with me.” I would only slow him down, and I didn’t want any more blood on my hands.

He moves his head like he is going to speak but decides against it. With a simple nod, he walks away, following the trenches. 

I stay where I am, watching as the bodies near me begin to twitch. No, not twitch. Move intentionally. Hands flat on the ground to push themselves up. Feet steady to walk. Legs striding to stagger. 

These are not the acts of the dead. 

Three men in front of me, gory and filled with anger, stalk towards me. I aim my rifle and fire at the nearest one. He falls once more, a new wound through his heart. My hand shakily approaches the bolt of my gun, grabbing it and yanking with all my strength. Nothing happens. The bolt is jammed with dirt. Stuck. Scheiße. 

Two more of these slaughterous creatures are still moving toward me. I stumble backwards, my injured leg nearly useless in my attempt to escape. A new shot of searing pain sears my nerves with every step, making me slower than the dead shuffling. My weapon is no longer any weapon now. Just a dangerous cane. I use it to help me, following the path of my friend. I move faster with the added support. Hope fills my heart, a grace that seldom happens on the battlefield.

Through the maze-like path of the trenches, I limp, filled with determination to beat these Russkis. Another corner. I turn it. Dead end and four dead men before me. 

They are tearing apart Adler, each of them holding down one of his limbs. He writhes and wriggles and makes muffled sounds, his mouth covered by the bloodstained digits of one of the monsters. They snatch off his mask. His dark hair is stained with his own blood, his green eyes are filled with fear, and his strong features are struck with terror and agony. Their hands force their way through the skin and muscle of his torso, reaching in and tearing out his entrails. Gore spurts out from my comrade’s body, covering me and his attackers. I stand there shocked, unable to help. 

The others still stalk me from behind me. I am stuck, unable to move forward or go back. 

My shaking hands grasp my gun and jam the bayonet into a zombie’s eyeball—for that is what they are, I now realize. Blood flies from his face and splatters on the gas mask I wore. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he drops. It is no help to Adler though. He is dead and I am next. 

His assailants turn to me, their eyes hungry for revenge. I didn’t gas them. I don’t deserve this.

“I’m sorry! Please! No more of this! Please!” I scream, begging for their forgiveness—begging for my life.

Now the two men behind me caught up. Five of the dead in total surround me. I jab at them with my blade, quick movements to keep them guessing. Useless. They grab me. Their peeled, muscular hands hold me in place. I shriek. For my mother. For my father. For God to forgive me and save my life. 

But God does not listen. 

Their nails claw at my skin, working their way down, the sensation a million times more agonizing than my leg. Piss-soaked cloths cover their mouths and noses, but I can see their eyes. Empty. Hungry. Angry. Fingers tear into my flesh, bringing me into a previously unknown world of hurt. 

My legs, arms, and torso are being mangled. Skin is ripped off my body, making me look like them. A hand tears off my mask and shoves itself into my mouth, grabbing my jaw before yanking it off with unnatural strength. I scream louder, now gurgling on my blood as it poured like a waterfall.

My vision is encircled by darkness, slowly working inwards. Force leaves my mutilated body. My heartbeat slows down, like a drum slowly being destroyed with each strike.

Bump… ba dum… bump…

The pain lessens into a dull ache. I feel no need to breathe. I am calm. Ready.

Bump… ba dum… bump… ba dum… bump…

I go limp.