Prompt: Write a short story that could have the title "The Valley of Fear." (Word count: 258)
The sergeant picked up his bugle, lowered it. “Gentlemen.” His voice barely a whisper, yet his words were heard by the entire company. “It’s time.” He rubbed the corners of his mouth. “And it’s been my honor.”
One hundred twenty-seven men walked into the fog-shrouded Valley of Sommerstadt. None expected to walk out the other side. The five bodies that did walk into the village proper three days later were not quite human anymore.
“Can you see anything?” The voice carried through the fog. Detached from any soldier, it spoke the minds of all. No reply was necessary or forthcoming.
Things were moving, certainly, but what, no one could tell. Large, hulking forms not native to central Germany; at least, not native for eons.
“Snake crawled across my boot.” The words echoed through the company in too many voices. None of the speakers or listeners believed it was a snake. To think otherwise, however, was madness.
The first screams were mercifully brief. The prolonged sounds of cruel chewing, on the other hand....
“Courage, men.” There was no mistaking Sergeant Prescott’s voice. No disobeying, either. The march continued.
One man brought out his tin whistle, began playing “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” Another joined him on snare drum. Suddenly every man imagined himself the third marcher in Willard’s Spirit of ’76, lacking a drum but marching proudly.
The things in the fog made short shrift of this impudence.
But, still, the men marched.
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