“Kom igen grabbar! Gräv fortare! (Come on lads! Dig faster!)” I heard the officer scream, as he shot his flintlock against an undead being.
The murderous cold stabbed me through my layers of my uniform as I frantically plunged my shovel into the dense snow. Around me, my fellow soldiers were in a frenzy, their panicked breaths creating misty clouds in the icy air. The crunches of digging against the wintery powder echoed in the night, a chilling symphony of urgency. With each heave of the shovel, the snow yielded reluctantly, as if hiding secrets beneath its frosty surface. Our hearts raced in unison with the rhythm of our labor, driven by the desperate need to flee this godforsaken fortress in the godforsaken town of Vardø. Calm was a forgotten word.
I hated Finnmark. The region seemed to be in a year-round winter. And yet my hatred of the weather weather couldn’t overpower my fear of the chaotic world that we were suddenly plunged in.
As we dug, swarms of the undead started flooding the trench. Or at least what I would call the undead.
Their skin was a sickening shade of grey, devoid of the colour that the human had. Their eyes (if they had any) were lacked the soul of humanity. They reeked with as their body let off the disgusting odor of rotten flesh. And whilst most of them were slowly walking towards us, some that had red eyes lunged at us. Other carried gunpowder barrels and some carried axe. It was a miracle that we were still alive. That we weren’t dead on the floor or become one of them.
The undead probably numbered in the hundreds, and maybe in the thousands. We were just a small cohort of 20 soldiers with most of us, including myself, hailing from Sweden. But I can thank the lone Russian in our group; he’s probably the only reason that we were still alive, helping us clean and stitch up wounds with his expertise as a surgeon.
And then, amidst the chaos that enveloped us, the unmistakable sound of a fife and a drum punched the air again. I clenched my jaw in anger. Those cursed Danes, their whimsical tunes seemed like taunts in the face of the swarms of the undead piling their bodies onto us. They could have been helping us dig instead, and yet, they chose to play their dratted song. And to my horror, they brought a priest. What bloody use would divine intervention offer against such an unholy moment?
And finally, the digging stopped. We had reached the docks.
“Någon sätter på fyren! (Someone turn on the lighthouse!)” The officer commanded. But it didn’t feel like a command. Rather it sounded like a desperate plea feebly trying to cut through the howling winds.
I saw a lone Swedish Seaman that had climbed to the summit of the lighthouse, his blunderbuss rested in his hands.
FLASH!
The lighthouse stood tall against the backdrop of the night, its luminous glow painting the darkness with a dazzling glow. Its beacon, a heroic guardian, sliced through the obsidian expanse, a silent prayer cast upon the waves, imploring salvation from the depths of despair that engulfed their forsaken shores.
I smiled. I almost laughed. Hope surged through my veins, forcing the adrenaline to find a new home. It wouldn’t be long until I would go back to the safer places of Europe, untouched by the undead.
My eyes glazed back to my fellow compatriot standing atop of lighthouse, before looking back down. The only escape was blocked off by an overwhelming mass of the undead, and taking the stairs was death. I couldn’t completely see his face, for he was too high. But I could just barely see the mist above his mouth appearing and disappearing faster and faster as he breathed faster and faster in panic. I tried imagined myself in his position. It must have felt horrid; to know that you had no way to get out of the tower but death. I could almost feel the cold sweat beading down his forehead. I could almost feel the racing heart trying its hardest to burst out of his ribcages. I could feel the frantic thoughts waltzing in his mind.
And suddenly, he saluted. Hoping desperately that someone, anyone, would return the salute to him and give him one final sense of camaraderie as he gazed out into the Norwegian night one last time. I looked at him, my mind filled with grief of something that has not yet happened.
I could feel his tears, just as I could feel my own cascading down my own face. It was cruelly warm during a time of coldness.
And with a heavy heart, I returned his salute. It was a silent acknowledgement of the brotherhood that we, the Swedish soldiers, shared between us. A brotherhood developed against our enemies, both living or dead.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!
I sprinted to his side, the Russian surgeon keeping pace beside me. My heart pounded in my chest as I reached him, seeing the anguish etched on his face, contorted like a painting blurred by raindrops. His leg, twisted at an unnatural angle, simply emphasized the excruciating pain he was enduring, and a shattered bone protruding from was protruding his flesh. The Russian looked at me, and shook his head in defeat, language barriers torn apart by this small gesture.
BANG!
The deafening roar of my musket horrified me as I looked at my compatriot’s body lying on the cold ground, dead. I had just killed my own brother-in-arms in an attempt to put him out of his misery, forced to end the final embers of life flickering in him. But as much as I tried to believe I did something good, I had thrown away my virtues, honour and what made me human. I was no better than the surrounding undead.
…
The Danish drum drummed loudly, but was barely audible over the drum of what was volleys of bullets flying over the air, tearing through the flesh of the reincarnated. There were desperate pleas and curses as people tried to reload muskets, flintlocks and blunderbusses. There was the squelching sounds of sabers and axes cutting through the air as we held off the hoard on a small pier.
“Varför närmar sig inga fartyg!? (Why are there no ships approaching!?)” I heard a scream after what felt like a hours of fighting.
Suddenly the water splashed.
An arm popped out, followed by the rest of the body.
I almost dropped my musket at the sight of the emerging figures, barely visible and hiding in the night surrounding us.
Their skin was coloured a deep shade of purple that merged perfectly with the rest bodies. Their eyes glowed a luminous purple and was as bright as the lighthouse illuminating the surroundings. Clams, oysters and other shells and little symbiotes feeding off their body grew all around them, relishing on whatever the hell I was witnessing.
They lunged at us, desperately trying to grab our legs and drag us into the deep below.
“Reträtt! Gå tillbaka in i fästningen! (Retreat! Go back into the fortress!)”
But with hundreds of the undead standing in front of us, and with the new monstrosities still attempting to drag us into the sea, hope quickly dwindled like a dying flame, casting us into the abyss of despair.
And then, in the suffocating air of hopelessness, the Danish Priest emerged from the shadows. His weathered face etched with lines a renewed determination. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a weathered crucifix made out an aged oak, tightly clasping it in his right hand. He held the crucifix towards the undead, his face now etched with fury, shouting in a powerful command in the Danish tongue.
“Ved den magt, som er givet mig af den Almægtige, befaler jeg jer, mørkets modbydelige skabninger, at trække sig tilbage! I må hungre efter kød, men I skal ikke nyde de uskyldige! I Guds navn forviser jeg jer tilbage til helvedes dybder, hvorfra du kom!”
The undead recoiled in fear, as the crucifix seemed to shine a dazzling light of brilliance as we walked our way back, each step sending a wave of holiness guided by the priest. I could have sworn that the Holy Spirit seemed to whisper into my ear, offering reassurance and redemption. Giving me strength and solace to carry on in this time of darkness.
We walked back to the Vardøhus Fortress. A dramatic sense of irony washed over me like the waves washing over the shore. The lanterns in its small buildings seemed to welcome us like townsfolk, almost beckoning us to find refuge. We were so desperately trying to escape this one fortress, only to return to it to find refuge and salvation.
The officer did a count of how many of us remained. Our numbers had dwindled to 19 after the loss of the one seaman.
We stood in the middle of the fortress, constructing various defences against us. The undead persisted, the effects of the crucifix wearing away. But accompanying them were the new monstrosity, one that emerged from the deep sea that we desperately tried to escape to.
“Vad ska vi göra herr? (What are we going to do Sir?)” I asked the officer, quietly.
The officer looked down at the ground. For a person with so much power, that commanded so much respect, a person that always had a way to get out of any situation, he looked defeated for the first time. He sighed as he looked down at the ground.
“Försök bara överleva så länge du kan. (Just try to survive for as long as you can.)”
1 Officer, a Russian surgeon, two Danish musicians, a Danish priest, 5 infantrymen with muskets, 4 seamen with blunderbusses and 5 builders armed with axes and hammers.
The officer gritted his teeth, and we all crouched down behind the wooden walls that were hastily and poorly built.
“Här kommer de! (Here they come!)”
The rabid snarls of both the undead and the sea monstrosities grew ever louder we braced for the impending, and possibly never-ending hoard.
God help me.