The Ghost Soldier
Matthew Ryan Fischer
One foot was dragging now. His head fell forward or side to side;
whenever he tried to lift it, it grew too heavy to maintain. Shoulders slumped,
arms drooped, eyes closed. He moved forward on instinct more than anything
else.
A man in uniform. His woman by his side. His army behind him. His
ranks had changed and grown. The dead to one side, the undead to the other. The
ghosts of former soldiers spread out amongst the ranks.
Somewhere in the distance he could hear his master’s voice. They
had been summoned, and like a good solider, they had answered. A fog covered
the earth as they made their way past the graves, new soldiers joining as they
went. They had laid their guns down as they swore allegiance. Their master
smiled, then tasked them with destroying the living. Those that would come to
challenge him, and those in town, still asleep in bed. All must perish, so the
master’s plans could prevail.
The crows followed. The crows watched. Some of them came and
pecked at their eyes, their hands, their feet. He would swat them away, but
they would always come back. His flesh ripped and torn, his uniform soiled,
they came and went and came again, always with fresh attacks. Why did they hate him? His mind was too far gone
to fathom reasons why.
A new voice came. The mistress of his master. With her voice came
new orders. The enemies had arrived. The army turned, a battle to begin, a
battle to be won.
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