Free Marine Summer: Year 2041 by B. E. Wilson Page A

foaming like the dogs Buckley had just shot, howling like a wolf. He attacked Johnson, driving his thumbs deep into his eye sockets. Johnson’s screams made me weak in the knees. I watched his legs jerk as Allen rode him. As Allen’s jumped off Johnson, Buckley put a round in his shoulder, but it didn’t faze him and he charged at us. I pulled my ax, swinging it behind my head then hurling it at him as Buckley fired two more rounds into his chest. The ax stuck from his nose to his neck, dropping him to his knees.
    “Nobody go in that cabin!” Buckley ordered, walking up to Allen and kicking him over.
    I felt paralyzed, watching as Sarge put his foot on the man’s chest. Grasping the handle, he dislodged the axe. The ripping sound it made weakened my stomach as he pulled it free.
    “Here,” he said to me, holding the ax up. “Don’t touch the blade; find something to wipe it off with.”
    Parts of Allen’s flesh were hanging from the edge of the ax. I felt myself wanting to gag as I retook possession of it. I let the blade drop into the snow and dragged it. Pulling a bandana from my coat pocket, I wiped it off, throwing the bandana in the fire afterwards.
    “Don’t put that thing away just yet,” he told me. “Let’s see what’s behind door number one,” pointing to the cabin.
    The cabin was stuffed with rations, enough food to keep our platoon for a year or so.
    “Well, that must be the green. Check out that can of beans,” Buckley said.
    I started to reach for the can, but he quickly grabbed my hand.
    “You don’t want to do that. You saw what it did to Allen,” he cautioned.
    “Yeah…”
    “This place is a trap. They sprinkled that powder on everything. Do you see it?” he asked me.
    “See what?”
    “Everything’s open, every can, every fucking package. Whatever this green shit is, it drives people crazy, they go completely insane.”
    “Wait a second, Sarge, then how come the two out there haven’t killed each other?”
    He pondered for a second, “Good question. Let’s go ask them.”
    Roy and Mark, if those were their real names, were propped up against a log by the fire. Buckley walked up, pulled out his pistol, and placed it directly against the smaller man’s forehead.
    “How the fuck are you two still alive?”
    “Whatever do you mean, sergeant?” Roy playfully asked.
    “This is what I mean. I’m going to ask you first, fuck-face, and if you don’t answer I’ll kill you where you sit. Then I’m going to ask you, doughboy, and if you don’t answer, you’re dead too. And guess what: I don’t ask more than once!”
    “Don’t say nothing, Mark!” Roy said.
    “Shut it, asshole,” Buckley whipped the man in the side of the face with his pistol, knocking him over.
    “Wyatt!” Mark cried out, his voice sounding more normal.
    “Wyatt, is it? Hmmm, you boys been lying to me,” Buckley said as he put the gun back to the smaller man’s head. “So, how are you still alive?”
    Not heeding the Sarge’s orders, the man began to act crazy again. “The aliens did it! It’s the green—the green—the green!”
    Boom. Buckley pulled the trigger. It was like slow motion for me, seeing the man’s head jerk back, exploding blood, flesh, and brains onto the frozen white ground behind him. Steam rose off the matter and into the cold winter air.
    “Morgan!” the other man screamed, starting to weep. “No, no, no,” he cried.
    “I told ya, I only ask once!” Buckley said, now forcing the pistol under Wyatt’s chin.
    “Please don’t kill me,” he begged. “He was my brother…Morgan,” he whimpered, trying to catch his breath, “Morgan James.”
    “Well I’m truly sorry about your brother. But this isn’t a game. How the fuck are you still alive?”
    Sobbing and sniffling, Wyatt confessed, “Please forgive us. We knew it was wrong, but we made a deal with them.”
    “Made a deal with who?”
    “The visitors, the aliens,” he hung his head in shame. “They said