“Spare Parts” a Modern Horror Short Story by Barry Hoffman
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“Spare Parts” is the first of hopefully many more original politically incorrect Horror/Suspense stories, Gifts and Free Advice will be presenting exclusively by noted Horror/Suspense Writer and Independent Horror/Thriller Gauntlet Press Publisher, Barry Hoffman who’s writing has been praised by such noted authors as Robert Bloch (”Psycho”) and Richard Matheson (”I Am Legend” aka “Last Man on Earth, “The Incredible Shrinking Man” and numerous award winning Twilight Zone Episodes) and Publishers Weekly. Barry Hoffman has written numerous novels and short stories and his Gauntless Press has published such noted authors as Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Robert Bloch and Richard Matheson, to name a few. “Spare Parts” is from a collection of Short Stories by Barry Hoffman titled Love Hurts. You can order autographed copies of Love Hurts by writing Gauntlet Press at their website by clicking here
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Spare Parts by Barry Hoffman from the book “Love Hurts” published with permission from the author
Author’s note: Prior to the 2004 presidential election I attended a meeting of supporters for Bob Kerry, who had all but locked up the Democratic nomination. I was ambivalent towards Kerry, but felt he was far better than the alternative—George Bush. A soldier, who had served in Iraq was present. I had just one question—how did Senator Kerry plan on getting our troops out of Iraq when I saw no possibility of the two conflicting religious groups ever peacefully co-existing? The soldier skirted around the question (I still believe there is no answer) just as President Bush has since our “triumph” had turned to tragedy for our peacekeeper troops. Now in 2006 the religious tensions in Iraq have only worsened and threaten to turn into a civil war. Our response to this turmoil formed the basis for this story.
Madsen walked down the seemingly empty street with Mitchell by his side, their eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. “A good day to die,” Madsen told his buddy, who laughed.
“With you every day’s a good day to die,” Mitchell responded.
Death had visited the street the day before in the form of a suicide bomber. Drove his car into a crowded police station, killing himself and fourteen others.
Madsen had been patrolling the street just out of harm’s way. A severed arm had landed at his feet. A decapitated head had rolled close to Mitchell. A soccer ball, Madsen thought it looked like. He saw himself squarely kicking the head into an imagined net and an announcer yelling an exaggerated “Goalllll!”
As a newbie—god it seemed so long ago, Mitchell thought—he’d puked the first time he’d seen a dismembered body part. Oddly, now a grizzled veteran, he still had trouble holding down his lunch.
Today the street appeared deserted, but Madsen knew the enemy could return at anytime. Expect the unexpected was his credo.
* * * *
Madsen didn’t have to be in-country long to know the war could not be won,
no matter what his country’s president proclaimed to the contrary. Two intransigent religious elements refused to share power. For several hundred years one religious group or the other had held the upper hand. When in power each group had dealt ruthlessly with the other.
Madsen’s country’s leaders had the audacity to think a democratic peace could be brokered between the two antagonistic groups. An invasion had quickly ousted a dictator. Yet, two years after victory had been proclaimed chaos ensued.
Madsen had joined the army willingly. A troubled youth—at least one who got into trouble far too often—at eighteen he was a high school junior with no prospects nor goals; just a rage he knew would lead him to prison or worse. It was that or join the army and channel his aggressiveness into killing foreigners despised by the vast majority of his countrymen. He literally had been given a license to kill.
Up close and person the war was terrifying. With the dictator overthrown and the other religious group now in control the country was as divided as ever. The problem for Madsen and his comrades was you couldn’t easily identify friend from foe. Everyone had to be perceived as the enemy as a matter of self-preservation. The enemy no longer wore a soldier’s uniform. Someone you just shook hands with might well stab you in the back moments later. And even those Madsen’s country supported had no fondness for their protectors. They were invaders, after all. No one had asked they be liberated. A friend one day could be a deadly foe the next.
Madsen hadn’t dealt with the stress well. Actually, few had. He’d had an ulcer and migraine headaches. He suffered from depression. He had begun walking in his sleep—and once almost got shot by a sentry who thought he was an enemy infiltrator. He’d been a mess . . . like most of those in his unit.
On television the president of his country constantly talked of an “exit strategy” without providing any concrete timetable. “We’ll persevere until we’ve accomplished our objectives,” he’d said. “To leave with the job half done would be a disservice to our fallen soldiers.”
Yet daily more of Madsen’s comrades perished.
Popular opinion had turned against the war as two years stretched into four, then another eight as a new administration took over and found itself caught in an inextricable web. In truth, it seemed everyone knew a lasting peace was impossible, but the country’s leaders didn’t want to admit all the death and destruction from years of war had been for naught.
A young idealistic scientist had inadvertently come to the rescue.
Now twenty years after Madsen had enlisted he and Mitchell still patrolled the streets. No additional troops had been pulled from the bosoms of their family for the past eighteen years, yet the war hadn’t ceased. Casualties continued to mount, but there was no outrage. There were no longer rallies, angry editorials or demands to disengage. They had been forgotten.
Turning the corner a mortar shell landed and exploded. Shrapnel tore into Madsen’s body. He lay on the ground, his arms and legs scattered among the carnage. Mitchell had fared no better. His eyes were now sightless sockets, his jaw was blown away and he held his intestines in hands that were no longer attached to his arms.
Madsen lay in the street patiently. Soon he grew new arms and legs. Likewise, Mitchell soon sprouted a new set of eyeballs, a jaw and then hands. He stuffed his intestines back into his body as his wounds healed.
Spare parts, Mitchell had told Madsen the first time he’d been dismembered only to grow new limbs.
Within twenty minutes both soldiers were able to rise unsteadily and continue their patrol.
Twenty years before the one hundred thousand troops deployed, including Madsen, had been given an injection which had been inadvertently discovered by the idealistic young scientist. The soldiers could be killed, but they wouldn’t die. The next morning Madsen would be sore but fit for duty. He’d been killed, so to speak, at least a dozen times. Sadly, he’d long ago lost count. His family had long ago grieved his loss, unaware that while dead he still lived. Spare parts—new limbs and organs—allowed him to remain a mean, lean fighting machine.
The war now fought with no new casualties on his side. As a result the media had long ago lost interest in a war where only the enemy perished.
* * * *
The next morning Madsen, Mitchell , Washington and Stevens—all buddies for
over twenty years—played poker, awaiting the afternoon’s deployment.
With a pair of tens Madsen bluffed, but Stevens knew him too well. Steven called with two pair and won the hand.
Madsen shrugged and looked at the cloudless sky. “A good day to die,” he said.
“Again,” Mitchell added and all four laughed.
The End
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