Free The South Will Rise Again by Jeffrey Kosh Page A

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.
    The shrills became even pitcher, as the ghoulish thing sunk its ravenous teeth on the man’s throat, tearing away a mouthful of dripping wet flesh. Cries ceased as, finally, death prevailed on will, and the poor survivor left this maddened world for the other.
    May the Almighty have mercy of his soul.
    Aghast by the hellish sight