Snarklings Swarm the Snarkometer, 50
The bodies rotted for two days in the 105-degree heat. Judd Stone swiped sweat from his eyes and gazed across Half Moon Valley. The coral ridges and mesas loomed on all sides. The stench sickened him. He could never get used to the smell of death. Twenty Marines lay scattered before him, swarms of fat flies buzzing above their bloated corpses. The coconut trees that once covered the hillsides resembled splintered posts, defoliated by the naval and artillery fire.
Stone's good buddy, Private Emery Snowfield, lay between two black stretcher bearers, his exposed viscera crawling with maggots. Sons of bitches. Stone shook his head. Thievin' sons of bitches.
Glancing down, Stone spotted his canteen next to three empty ammunition cans. He snatched the container and shook it. Not even a gulp left. After screwing off the top, he drained the last drops into his mouth, tried to swallow, gagged and coughed.
A slight movement to his left startled him and he dropped the canteen. Within two seconds he whipped his M-1 to his shoulder and panned the barrel across the draw.
Eyes wide and ears attuned, he inspected the carnage for an infiltrating Jap. His heart thumped in his throat. When the black stretcher bearer rolled over, he almost fired. Josiah Jones opened his eyes and lifted his chin.
"What the hell?" Stone whispered.
The tall Negro reached his hand toward him, Jones' dull stare like a mannequin's eyes.
"You're dead!" Stone yelled. "You thievin' sonovabitch. You're dead!"
Ok, you've got me. I'm reading on.
Notice dear Snarklings that there is MUCH unexplained. There is much undescribed but that which is described reaches right into our hearts and twists. It's also got more than just visual. We smell and hear what is going on.
This is good.