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cautious steps towards the slumped form, keeping his rifle aimed at Wilson. He shook Brookes gently by the shoulder, “Brookes. Wake up. Come on. Your Sarge’s back. I’m here for you.”
    Brookes’s head rolled over to one side. His eyes were glazed, sightless white marbles. The wound in his throat opened up. It was a tattered, lipless mouth, blood running out from it in glistening rivulets.
    Wilson’s breath snagged in his throat. The wall thumped into his back as he retreated straight into it. Smithy ran his fingers over Brookes’ face, pulling down the eyelids. He ran a cursory finger over the torn flaps of the neck wound. Brookes’ rifle was on the floor. Smithy could see the boy’s outstretched hand. He had been reaching for it when he died. Smithy bit his lip, his tear ducts prickling.
    He turned his rifle on Wilson.
    “You did this.”
    Wilson blanched.
    “You did this, you cowardly bastard. I should have known you would. I shouldn’t have left you alone with him. You done for him and then you were going to do for me too. That’s why you came after me, you cunt. Don’t you fuckin’ move, Wilson. I’m going to do to you what should’ve been done a long, long time ago.”
    The rifle clicked as Smithy readied it. There was no time to run. Wilson closed his eyes. He waited for the bullet to strike home.
    Nothing happened.
    Wilson opened his eyes. Smithy was looking past Wilson. Something was behind him. He could feel the skin on the nape of his neck pebbling cold. The Private turned slowly around.
    It was coming towards them.

Chapter Nine
    Its eyes were pools of absolute obsidian. Black howling portals of hell. Black as an ocean under a moonless night sky. The eyes froze the two soldiers where they stood. The scrawny naked thing cocked its head on one side, looking at them. A curving smile sliced across its thin, scabrous face. It showed them teeth that were cracked with decay. Splinters and needles, dark yellow and deep brown. Its fingernails were long and torn, clicking like hollow beetle shells.
    It stepped forwards.
    Then it fell.
    It fell apart.
    Wilson could not believe what he was seeing. The figure hit the ground in pieces. Hairy moving pieces. Squirming, shrieking pieces. A milling, verminous mass that came surging towards the two soldiers.
    The paralysing gaze was broken. They turned to run. The rats were already under their feet. Writhing forms clustering, tripping them. They kicked and stumbled their way towards the steps. Tiny bones crunched underfoot. The vermin shrieked in unholy chorus. Wilson scrambled up the steps of the crypt, ahead of Smithy. The moon bobbing in crazy eights above him. He lunged towards the opening.
    A scream pierced the air. Hands grabbed onto Wilson’s legs. He was pulled back down the steps. Smithy had fallen. He was dragging Wilson down with him. The moon bobbed away. Abandoning him to the rats and the shadows. Wilson’s front teeth cracked down on stone. Breaking, then slicing into his bottom lip. He spat out pieces of bloodied enamel. Turning his head, he saw what was making Smithy scream.
    “Brookes! You let me go! That’s an order!”
    His torn throat flapping away, Brookes stared up at Wilson with glassy eyes. There was no life there. An emotionless grin cut its way across the dead boy’s face. Brookes had Smithy by the legs. The old man was thrashing about, tugging at Wilson, trying to use him as leverage to pull himself free.
    Smithy’s voice broke, “Brookes, for pity’s sake, let me go.”
    Rats swarmed over Brookes. Shredding his flesh as they passed. The corpse didn’t flinch. The timbre of Smithy’s screaming changed, rising high.
    The rats had reached him.
    Wilson’s eyes swelled as he realised the rats would soon be upon him too. His stomach began binding itself into strangling knots at the thought. Feeling Smithy’s fingers slackening, Wilson kicked himself free. Smithy pawed the air, grasping at Wilson, reaching out to him for help.