The Forgotten Call

Whistling cut through the cold night air, slipping between the tombstones and echoing off the weathered marble figures. The moon hung heavy in the sky, its reflection shimmering on the surface of a man-made pond, rippling with the chill of the autumn wind.

Clyde Bowman staggered through the graveyard in his old military Battle Dress Uniform. His boots crunched on dead leaves, and the neck of his beer bottle clinked against the rusted chains of an old iron gate as he passed. He took a long pull, the bitter taste coating his throat, and broke into an old battle hymn, his voice raw and slurred with drink.

“Raise your voices, let them hear!” he sang, his breath steaming in the cold air.

“The war drums echo, the end draws near!”

He finished the line with a sharp whistle, the sound cutting through the air, the song feeling more like a challenge.

A sharp gust cut through the graveyard, rattling the twisted branches and sending brittle leaves skittering across the cracked headstones. The wind coiled around Clyde’s boots, clinging like the breath of something long dead, but he took another swig of his beer, his mind adrift on old memories.

“To the earth we fall, our banners laid,” he bellowed, stumbling over a crooked gravestone.

“Our bones to dust, our debts repaid.”

His voice echoed through the cemetery, distorting his words, reverberating off the stone angels and crumbling mausoleums, each word vibrating in a twisted way through the damp, midnight air. With his speech slurred, the words came off as an insult. Beneath the cold, damp earth, a thousand bone fingers twitched, the hollow sockets of long-dead warriors flickering with the dull, green glow of ancient rage. The ground trembled, the fractured stones shifting as the dead stirred to the sound of the long-forgotten call. To the long-dead warriors below, the broken syllables rang like an ancient call to arms, a command from a time when their bones still marched across blood-soaked fields.

Clyde staggered, catching himself on the chipped corner of a weathered tomb, chuckling as the world spun around him. He chalked it up to the beer, the echo of old wounds, and the ghosts of a dozen long-forgotten battlefields.

“Raise your glasses, drink to peace,” Clyde slurred, his voice cracking as he staggered back, one arm thrown wide in a clumsy salute.

“The battle ends, the warriors cease.”

The wind howled through the graveyard, rattling the twisted branches above and whipping dry leaves into a spinning vortex around him. The ground beneath his boots trembled, the tombstones shuddering as deep, grinding cracks split the earth.

A massive branch snapped from a nearby oak, crashing to the ground in a shower of splintered wood and brittle leaves. The impact sent him sprawling backward into a headstone.

He blinked, swaying as the world tilted around him, his head ringing from the sudden impact. He felt the cold, damp stone against his back, the name “Henry Franklin – May 3rd, 1929 – Oct 10th, 1990” etched into the cracked marble above his shoulder.

A groaning, bone-deep creak rose from the ground two rows from him, and he turned just in time to see a gnarled, skeletal hand clawing its way through the damp, broken earth. Its fingers curled like the roots of a dead tree, and the bone was stained with dark soil.

The hand flexed, cracked knuckles popping like gunshots, and a second bony arm broke the surface, sending a fresh spray of dirt into the air as the long-dead warrior began to pull itself free.

Clyde stumbled back, his heart thundering in his chest. The beer bottle slipped from his grasp and shattered against the headstone behind him. The ground beneath his feet shuddered, a low, rumbling quake that split the earth and cracked the stone paths around him.

Bony arms punched through the freshly broken soil all across the graveyard, fingers curling against the cold night air. The wind whipped into a frenzy, shrieking through the twisted branches above, carrying with it the guttural moans and hollow screams of the long-dead.

Skeletal warriors pulled themselves from the earth, their armor rusted and crumbling, their empty eye sockets flickering with a cold, green fire. Rusted swords clanged against shattered shields, the iron screech of metal on metal rising above the wind as the dead shook off centuries of dirt and decay.

Rows of undead soldiers formed up on either side of the graveyard, the clattering of their bones like the rattle of ancient war drums. At the head of each line, towering skeletal figures raised cracked, tattered banners, their symbols still faintly visible beneath the layers of rust and grime.

Two skeletal generals emerged from the ground, their hollow sockets locking onto each other across the broken stones. Their rusted armor clinked as they stepped into the open. They stood in silent challenge, their swords raised high, daring the other to make the first move.

Clyde, still on his back against the headstone, felt his breath catch in his throat, his drunken haze lifting just enough for the fear to set in. He scrambled for something, anything to defend himself, his shaking hands closing around the jagged neck of his shattered beer bottle.

The dead warriors stood frozen for a moment, their ranks perfectly formed, their commanders waiting for a signal, the air alive with the promise of violence.

And then, with a single, unspoken command, the generals lowered their blades, and the two armies surged forward, their clattering charge echoing through the cold night air. The ground shook beneath the weight of a thousand bony feet, the impact cracking headstones and sending loose dirt cascading down the freshly broken graves.

Clyde found himself surrounded, the skeletal warriors crashing past him, their rusted swords slicing through the darkness. Without thinking, he swung the jagged remains of his beer bottle, smashing it across a leering skull. The brittle bone shattered, the skull collapsing in a spray of splintered teeth and dust.

The skeleton crumpled to the ground, its rusted breastplate clanging against the stone, and Clyde stumbled forward, his hand closing around the hilt of a rusted sword half-buried in the dirt. He swung wildly, the blade catching another skeleton across the jaw, the head snapping free and clattering to the ground as the bones collapsed in a dry, brittle heap.

An arrow whistled past his head, the feathered shaft slicing a thin line across his cheek before ricocheting off the chipped wing of a stone angel perched atop a nearby tombstone. Clyde ducked, his heart hammering in his chest, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

The air filled with the screech of rusted metal on bone, the crack of splintering ribs, and the bone-rattling clank of ancient armor. Clyde swung his stolen sword in desperate arcs, bone fragments and rust flaking off with each impact. He staggered forward, his boots crunching through shattered femurs and broken ribs, the bodies of the dead piling up at his feet.

A towering skeletal warlord, its cracked skull crowned with the rusted remains of a twisted iron helm, turned its empty sockets toward Clyde, the green flames flickering within them narrowing like a predator locking onto its prey. It raised a massive, chipped blade, the weapon still bearing the notches and scars of a hundred forgotten battles, and took a step forward, its foot smashing a shattered ribcage into powder.

Clyde, still drunk but now wide-eyed with panic, met the warlord’s gaze, his grip tightening on the rusted blade in his hand. Blood trickled down his cheek, mixing with the sweat and dirt caking his face, his breath fogging the air as he braced for the charge.

The warlord’s jaw clacked open, the bones grinding together in a silent, mocking laugh, and it leveled its blade at Clyde’s chest. The two charged, their swords clashing in a burst of rust and sparks, the force of the impact reverberating up Clyde’s arm. Their blades locked, the ancient iron grinding together as they pushed against each other, each struggling for leverage.

The warlord twisted its blade, its hollow eye sockets flaring with a cold, green light as it leaned in, its breathless jaw clacking inches from Clyde’s face. With a sudden, violent motion, it raised its bony leg and drove its knee into Clyde’s chest, the force sending him sprawling backward over a shattered headstone.

Clyde hit the ground hard, the wind driven from his lungs. He barely had time to roll to the side as the warlord’s rusted blade came crashing down, the ancient metal striking the earth where his head had just been, splintering the stone beneath it.

Rising to his feet, he slashed at the warlord in a futile attempt as the warlord parried his strike. Before he could recover, the warlord lunged forward, its bony hand snapping out and closing around his throat, the fingers digging into his flesh like iron claws.

Clyde’s eyes bulged as the warlord lifted him off his feet, his boots scraping against the crumbling headstone behind him. He felt the sharp, brittle bones of the warlord’s hand cutting into his neck, the cold, unyielding grip choking the breath from his lungs.

With a sudden, savage motion, the warlord reared back and drove its bony fist into Clyde’s face, the impact snapping his head back and sending him crashing to the ground in a heap, his vision swimming as the world spun around him.

Blood trickled from his nose, dripping onto the shattered stones beneath him as the warlord stepped forward, its empty sockets flaring with a dull, green fire. Clyde spat a tooth onto the ground, his breath coming in ragged, gasping bursts, his fingers scrabbling for the hilt of his fallen sword.

Before Clyde could reach his fallen weapon, he felt the icy, jagged tip of the warlord’s sword pierce his chest. The blade punched through flesh and bone, its rusted edge grinding against his ribs as the warlord leaned in, driving the ancient iron deeper into his body.

Clyde’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as the pressure built, the pain exploding through his chest like a spreading fire. He felt the cold, unyielding metal scrape against his spine, the jagged edges biting into his lungs, his pulse hammering in his ears like the war drums he had once marched to.

The warlord twisted the blade, its hollow eye sockets flaring with a dull, green fire, and Clyde felt the world tilt around him. His legs buckled as the strength drained from his limbs. As the warlord turned and walked away, Clyde’s world went dark, and his heart stopped.

As the battle raged on, a cool wind swept through the graveyard, carrying with it a thick, creeping fog that coiled around the cracked headstones and shattered monuments. The mist enveloped the clashing skeletons, their rusted blades flashing in the moonlight before disappearing into the swirling gray.

Where Clyde had fallen, his blood pooling beneath him, his body began to shudder. His flesh shrank against his bones, the skin splitting as sharp, white fragments pushed through muscle and sinew. His ribs cracked free, his jaw clacked open, and his eyes sank into empty, hollow sockets as his bones clawed their way to the surface, the last remnants of his flesh sloughing away like old, rotting cloth.

The rusted remnants of his armor twisted around his skeletal frame, his hand clenching around the hilt of his shattered sword. His jaw snapped shut, his hollow eyes locking onto the warlord who had cut him down, the dull, green flames in his sockets flaring to life.

The fog thickened, swirling faster as it consumed the battlefield, shrouding the shattered bones and splintered shields in a dense, swirling haze. The warlord, its cracked, iron helm rusting into place against its skull, turned back toward the remains of Clyde’s flesh, its empty sockets narrowing as it registered the newly risen warrior.

Without a sound, the two charged, their rusted blades clashing with a bone-rattling crash as the fog swallowed them, their final, violent charge lost in the swirling mist.

The wind howled through the graveyard, the fog spinning faster, the clattering of bones and the screech of iron on iron growing muffled, then silent.

As the fog slowly began to thin, the graveyard returned to stillness. The shattered headstones stood crooked and silent, the ancient trees swayed in the breeze, and the only sign of the battle that had raged just moments before was the crumpled, skinless corpse of Clyde, his bones ripped from his body, his empty chest cavity facing the moonlit sky.