Halloween Special
The creepiest thing I've written
On the spookiest day of the year, I thought I’d share what’s probably the closest thing I’ve written to actual horror. I’m a SciFi, Fantasy, and Alternate History writer, so horror’s not really my thing, but in this case I think I got pretty close.
This story is from my novel To Have and To Hold, and if you like this, check out the book here. This is a one-off scene in the middle of the book starring a lost lieutenant who gets in way, way over his head.
At 2,098 words, this made up about half of Chapter 12. This scene was one of those times when I was in a total flow state writing it. I got this whole scene down on paper (metaphorical paper, of course) in a single sitting and when I went to edit it I changed maybe a half dozen words. It remains one of the best times I’ve had writing in a long time.
Enjoy!
Efmaht Jungle
Near Casa’reshia Mountain Mine Site
Southeast of Processing Plant
Lieutenant Marshall Gooding was miserable, unhappy, and probably lost. Long past the point where he should have stopped the platoon for a break, he struggled to put one foot in front of another. As he slogged ahead, he seemingly caught every root, branch, or vine in his path, stumbling regularly. It didn’t help that it was after midnight and the miniscule light provided by moonless Efmaht’s night sky didn’t penetrate through the jungle canopy above. The light enhancing visors worn by his platoon were miraculous but required some ambient light in which to function. The deep shadows the humans blundered through hid even the most obvious of obstacles.
The omnipresent rain piled onto the difficulty, creating mud slicks and swelling small streams to an almost unfordable rush of dirty water. But the sixty soldiers of White Platoon, B Company struggled on through the inky, wet darkness, Lieutenant Gooding determined to push on while the platoon sergeant fumed helplessly.
Gooding scowled as a hand found his shoulder and the platoon sergeant gently pulled him out of line. The sergeant pushed his head unpleasantly close to Gooding, who resented the sergeant for the intrusion, among many other reasons. The older man’s voice was pitched low, to carry just to the lieutenant’s ears and no further, unwilling to add to the many, many risks Gooding was running with the platoon.
“Lieutenant, we need to hold up, find a place to bed down for the night, and get some rest. Once we’ve recovered a little, we can contact Command and get new orders. The men are exhausted, and if we continue like this, we’re going to have more injuries. We’ve already got two guys in stretchers from that fall, which means six guys ineffective. There’s no way we’re making the ambush site in time to emplace properly. Let’s just hole up and try again at the next opportunity.”
Gooding scowled at his platoon sergeant’s face, or at least where he thought it was, he could barely see a vague outline of the other man. This was the third time the possibility of a halt was brought up, and the young platoon commander was having none of it.
“Sergeant, since you can’t seem to get this through your head, we have orders. Those orders say we are to reach the ambush point, set up, and conduct an ambush on the Zuul patrol heading from the Ca’sareshia Mine to the processing plant at daybreak. Now, I’m not sure if you remember or not, but this platoon has been assigned security duties and menial tasks up to this point. For three weeks the rest of the Raiders and allied units have been conducting extremely successful harassing attacks that are driving the enemy nuts. This is our opportunity to get into the fight and earn the company another combat bonus. Which we will do, Sergeant. Are we clear?”
The only sounds were those of the jungle: the patter of raindrops making their way down through the leafy canopy, animals rustling in the branches above, and the far-off cackling call of some avian. The slight noises of a platoon of human infantry squelching past in ankle deep mud at agonizingly slow speed were almost inaudible in the dark. Gooding, expecting an immediate reply, opened his mouth to snap at the sergeant when he finally received a response.
“Understood, Lieutenant. I’ll move back to the head of the column and keep us on course.” Without another word he vanished into the night, just one more patch of undifferentiated darkness.
Gooding ground his teeth; rage slowly blooming in his gut. Since they arrived on Efmaht the platoon sergeant had been full of ‘helpful suggestions’ and ‘advice’ on how to run his platoon. This little trek through the jungle had solidified Gooding’s decision to request the sergeant be transferred out of the platoon. He couldn’t tolerate that kind of concerted effort to undermine his authority. Resolved in his course of action, Gooding pushed himself back in line. The soldier thus cut off cursed quietly to himself as he stumbled against the unexpected obstacle in his way.
The lieutenant distracted himself with thoughts of his upcoming conversation with Captain Gordon that would surely lead to his platoon sergeant’s relief. That pleasant prospect lifted his spirits somewhat and took his thoughts off his immediate struggles. So much so that he didn’t recognize the sudden, choked off scream for what it was.
He bumped into the soldier in front of him, drawing him rudely from the reverie. He started to demand the trooper keep moving when the sharp snap of laser blasts from ahead caused his thoughts to a screeching halt. As shapes all around threw themselves into cover, he stood stock still, brain unable to come to grips with the situation.
It wasn’t until the screaming began in earnest that his legs took control and acted of their own volition. He turned away from the greatest concentration of fire, the platoon’s right flank, and ran as fast as he could. His arms soon joined his legs in unconscious rebellion, tossing away the laser rifle and worming their way out of his pack straps, leaving it discarded in his wake. Unconstrained by the extra weight, he flew away from the battle, making it nearly ten meters before the treacherous jungle took its toll. A foot caught some obstacle in the darkness, sending him sprawling to the ground, helmet and visor tumbling away. He rose, spitting mud and leaves, before resuming his flight. Lungs bellowing in and out, desperately seeking oxygen from the thick, humid air, he made a halting, stumbling retreat directly away from his soldiers. His eyes, massively dilated in panic, actually allowed him to see a few obstacles in the flashes of laser fire from behind, when they weren’t blinking to clear rain or debris from one of his falls. His chosen route took him almost directly into a tree trunk, and as he pulled himself off the ground yet again, it sank in that he was alone in the jungle, far from his platoon.
Confused, he looked around him, seeing nothing, and stood up, shock now taking the place of panicked flight. As he turned in slow circles, attempting to reorient himself, the rapid cracks of weapons fire faded away, replaced by a handful of pitiful shrieks.
Now shrouded completely in darkness, bereft of his visor, and with no flashes of laser light to guide him, he stood in a black void; drenched, confused, and bubbling with panic yet again.
He hugged himself, trying to stave off tears of abject terror. His fractured mind prompted him to squat in place: sucking in deep, shuddering breaths in an effort to fight off the panic. He sat there for a time, unable to remember exactly how long. Slowly, the jungle sounds returned. Small insects buzzed around as the rain tapered off. Bird analogues cawed and chirped high overhead. The world returned to a semblance of normalcy.
As a measure of calm reasserted itself, he began to replay the events of the night in his head. He finally realized his platoon had walked into an ambush. Crouched, unmoving, in the deep jungle, his mind worked at the problem.
But how? How had they known where his men would be? They must have some sort of surveillance the Raiders hadn’t detected.
Or, he thought, what if we have been betrayed by a mole?
Yes, that seemed likely. How else could they have planned the ambush so precisely as to catch his platoon at such a vulnerable moment. Yes, that must be it. If that was the case, he must carry word back to Colonel Rawlings. This was hugely important; it couldn’t be trusted to Captain Gordon or any comm channel. He must get back to Command immediately if his information was to save the Company.
Gradually, his broken mind convinced itself he bore critical information, that a mole had infiltrated the human ranks, and waited to lead them all into disaster. Suddenly, the platoon’s plodding advance became not a problem, but a well-thought-out measure to detect and avoid ambush. Their brush with disaster hours prior when two soldiers stumbled down a washout, one breaking a leg and another an ankle became an enemy plot to sew obstacles in their path. His platoon sergeant’s repeated insistence on stopping for rest became an attempt to lure the men loyal to Gooding into a concealed ambush. Within a few moments, the entire night’s advance took on a sinister hue, one which only he could expose to Colonel Rawlings when he arrived back at the command post. And his own panicked, half-remembered flight from the battle became a noble, desperate attempt to warn his fellows of the dangers lurking in their midst. All he had to do now was sit tight until daylight, when he could make his way far more effectively than in darkness.
He was still there, unmoving, shattered mind trying to work out the identity of the undoubtedly real mole, when he saw the light. It was no more than a pinprick, some distance away, and glowing with an unearthly green hue. He stared, unsure if it was real or not, until deciding that it might offer him a tool to navigate in the oppressive darkness.
Rising from the crouch, he made a stealthy approach to the light. Every footstep was measured, every shift in balance calculated to make the least noise. He used every ounce of skill he boasted to execute the advance, leaving him only a handful of meters away from the light, concealed behind a branching fern. He waited a moment, listening for danger. He strained, wanting to ensure he was unobserved. Finally concluding he was safe he resumed the stealthy advance. Slowly approaching the light, he dropped to his knees, crawling the last two meters. His heart pounded in his ears, seemingly loud enough everyone on Efmaht could hear. His breath rasped through dry lips, shuddering as he tried to control the tremors threatening to overwhelm the shred of sanity he’d carved from the chaos.
The light had been difficult to see earlier, a result of the decomposing leaves shrouding it. Gooding carefully removed a handful of rotting organic matter and picked up the object, turning it over in his hands. It radiated a sickly green glow, somewhat diminished from when had first witnessed its brilliance. It was a short cylinder, no longer than a hand, and no thicker than his thumb. A viscous liquid gently rolled within as he turned it over and over, holding it close to his face for a better view. His shock-rattled mind struggled to come up with an explanation for what he was seeing, until, finally, it hit him.
“A chem light.” The whisper seemed as loud as a gunshot in the night. He dropped back into a defensive crouch, hands enclosing the chemical light rod and eyes whipping rapidly across the night, watching for any threats. But the green radiance of the chem light had ruined his night vision, at least for the moment. But with one sense blinded, another stepped in to fill the gap. His ears, now seemingly attuned to the silence, heard the faintest of scratches in front of him.
All motion stopped. His heart simultaneously froze in terror and began pumping with unprecedented rapidity. His body dumped adrenaline into his bloodstream, preparing to execute yet another flight response. But this time his muscles refused to act. He was rooted to one spot, unable to flee, unable to fight, unable to make any substantial response, save one. His fingers, locked in a death grip on the chem light, loosened. A few rays of green light leaked from his grasp, falling on a shape no more than a meter to his front.
In an emerald hue, Gooding’s eyes were able to pick out a few half-seen details: long, two pairs of fangs, top and bottom, dripping with lime-tinged saliva. A long snout topped with two reflective orbs locked on the prey animal cowering before it. Massive claws digging into the soft loam of the jungle, ready to anchor a leap onto a fleeing meal. And around it, more, nearly identical shapes, all creeping closer in the darkness. In short, a nightmare made flesh here for him.
In his last moments, Gooding was unable to muster a single coherent response. His mind, overwhelmed with terror, shock, and self-delusion, simply shut down. When the ghostly nightmare came for him, he couldn’t even scream.
What’s the creepiest thing you’ve ever read? What really stuck with you? Let me know in the comments.
Until next time, thanks for reading!