The Exhumation of Commandant De Alvarado by Richard L. Rubin

A chill crawled down his spine as Captain Julian Escobar led his small militia detail through the empty streets of the old village. A heavy rain had fallen a few hours earlier; the ground was wet, and the late-night air was clammy and cold. The irregular assignment was not to Escobar’s liking; this was not a good night for removing a body from its tomb—as if any night was. At this late hour he would much rather be home in bed with his young wife. Yet under the light of the full moon, he and three other soldiers walked along the narrow cobblestone streets, while a fifth followed close behind in a small horse-drawn cart.

Escobar moved closer to Lieutenant Maria Bazan, so the two of them could converse in low voices over the steady clomp of the horse’s hooves.

“This is a bad business, Maria,” said Escobar, shaking his head. “I don’t like disturbing the dead, although I agree in principle with what we’ve been ordered to do.”

“I don’t like it, either, Julian,” replied Bazan. “The old Commandant has been dead for three decades. He’s interred here because this idiotic, backwater village was his ancestral home. I don’t see why we can’t just leave him to rot where he is.”

“Because last month, that university professor discovered that archive from the old regime. Commandant de Alvarado wasn’t just a soldier who fought for an unworthy cause, he was a war criminal, the dictator’s best friend and closest advisor. He doesn’t deserve to rest in this fancy mausoleum that his rich family bought, this place of honor. That’s why we’ve been ordered to remove his body and reinter it in an unmarked grave in the old paupers’ cemetery. We act in the dead of night to avoid any political outcry from the far right. After tonight only the five of us—sworn to secrecy—will know where that son of a bitch is buried.”

“Sure, the Commandant was a diabolical bastard. It’s rumored that prisoners taken by his death commandos were employed for some sinister purpose, never to be seen or heard from again. But the civil war was long ago,” said Bazan. “The fascist regime is gone. We should let the dead—even the war criminals—rest in peace.”

Escobar was surprised at her attitude. He and Maria Bazan had grown up together, attended the same college. He hadn’t expected any educated person to disagree on this point, let alone for Maria to be so adamant.

“Justice must be done,” he said with conviction. “Even as regards the dead.”

Bazan shrugged, putting an end to the conversation, and they continued on in silence. As they made their way past the ancient stone apartments and tiny shops, Escobar reflected that in these villages little had changed over the decades. A person who walked down this street sixty years ago might have looked out upon much the same scene as he did now. The group rounded a corner, and the mausoleum—a grim and imposing granite cube—loomed into view a short block away.

The next moment a bent, wizened figure stepped out of the shadows to take a position in the center of the narrow street, blocking their path. In the dim moonlight, Escobar made out a thin, pale old man with shoulder-length white hair and a shaggy beard. He appeared to be little more than a homeless beggar—or, perhaps, a demented lunatic.

Escobar approached the ancient and said in a harsh tone, “Step aside. We need to pass with our cart.”

“No, I know what you intend to do,” the man replied in a thin, raspy voice. “I cannot let you disturb this place. The Commandant must remain with his family, entombed in this mausoleum.”

“Who are you, a fascist sympathizer?” Escobar snapped back. “Get out of our way, you crazy old fool!”

Just then there was a burst of lightning, and the driving rain returned. Escobar cursed inwardly as cold water leaked through the back of his poncho.

“No! What is in that tomb must remain undisturbed,” said the old man. “I was one of the attendants who placed the Commandant in that mausoleum, in this graveyard, thirty years ago. The companions who were with me that day are all dead, but I have kept a close watch on that tomb since the Commandant was laid there. The day after he was entombed I rented an apartment overlooking the entrance to this cemetery, because I knew someone like you would show up someday. Now I tell you to turn back and go home to your beds.”

“One more chance. Move!” said Escobar, as the heavy rain soaked through his clothing.

“You don’t understand!” the man protested, his withered hands grabbing the lapel of Escobar’s jacket. “What’s in that mausoleum isn’t—”

Lieutenant Bazan shouted, “We’ve wasted enough time. We’re not going to stand in the damn rain all night arguing with this clown!”

With that, she drew the semiautomatic pistol from her hip, raised it above her shoulder, then cracked the gun butt down hard on the side of the old man’s skull. With a dull thump, the man’s knees buckled and he collapsed, senseless, to the ground.

Captain Escobar nodded his approval. He wasn’t fond of violence when it could be avoided, but that old fool had been insufferable. Wet and miserable, he was anxious to complete this unpleasant, macabre assignment and return to his wife and home. He ordered Privates Leon and Diaz to pick up the old man’s limp form and deposit it on the side of the street so the cart could get through.

A few minutes later, they reached the mausoleum, which stood on an elevated plot of land in a small, middle-class cemetery at the end of a narrow dead-end street. Illuminating the area with flashlights, they beheld a grim, moss-covered stone structure bearing the likeness of a double-headed eagle: the symbol of the old fascist government. An old rusted padlock secured the heavy steel door, but that wouldn’t be a problem.

Escobar went back to the cart and picked up a large sledgehammer he had brought for just this purpose. Returning to the tomb, he delivered a solid hammer blow to the rusted padlock and gave a nod of satisfaction as the lock broke off and clattered to the ground. He shoved the hammer head against the door. The steel door resisted for a moment, then slowly opened with a creak. Escobar and Bazan aimed their flashlights within. Eight or nine wood and metal coffins were arranged on dusty low shelves. Leaving Corporal Armenta behind with the cart, Escobar cautiously led the rest of his small party inside. He felt something soft and silky brush his forehead. He stumbled back with an exclamation of “Christ!” Bazan grabbed him by the shoulders and steadied him so he wouldn’t fall.

“It’s just a cobweb, sir,” she said.

Escobar, feeling somewhat sheepish, thanked her, and began examining the coffins with his flashlight. Each bore a bronze plaque with a name engraved upon it. Escobar soon found the one he was looking for, labeled “Commandant Hernando de Alvarado.” Inscribed below were the words “Beloved Husband, Father, and Patriot.”

“This is it,” Escobar announced. “Let’s take this coffin to the cart.”

Bazan placed her flashlight on a high shelf to illuminate the room. They slid the coffin off its shelf and, each of the four taking a corner, began carrying it toward the door. The casket was much heavier than Escobar thought it would be; he staggered under his share of its weight. It was dark inside the mausoleum, and rainwater had made its way in through a crack in the roof. Escobar cursed as his foot met a patch of slick stone, and he slipped in a pool of water just inside the door. As he fell down, Escobar’s chest slammed against the coffin, making his companions lose their grip. The casket crashed to the floor, striking hard on its top edge, so that the lid sheared off. Escobar’s fellow soldiers rushed over and helped him get back up on his feet.

At that moment a shrill, evil laugh filled the chamber. Then came the shrieking words, “Free, free!” Escobar flashed his light on where the coffin had fallen, and his blood froze. There lay de Alvarado’s desiccated, decomposed corpse, clothed in the tattered uniform of a military officer of the fascist regime. But this corpse was animated, wildly flailing its hands and speaking aloud. As Escobar continued to stare transfixed, de Alvarado’s form slowly dissipated into a black mass of smoke, and after that, into a swirling cluster of wraiths. Escobar counted three—no, four—of the pale phantasmas, before being swept off his feet by an overwhelming rush of blackened, foul-smelling air. As the chamber erupted in screams, Escobar rolled over on his belly and directed his flashlight, still in his hand, at the unfolding chaos. Escobar saw one of the wraiths leap onto and completely engulf Private Diaz, and a second rush toward the open entrance to the mausoleum. As the screams grew louder, someone started firing a pistol in the confined space. The shots ricocheted wildly against the stone walls, but seemed to have no effect on the ghostly threats. Escobar’s mind spun in shock. What they had exhumed wasn’t the remains of a man—they had freed a horde of demons.

He had to get out of here! Choking and gagging, fighting off nausea, he slowly crawled toward the exit, desperately seeking to escape the turbulence and cries of horror. But in a few moments, he was overwhelmed and blacked out.

He awoke in daylight; the rain had stopped. From the position of the sun, it was about noon. Escobar staggered to his feet and looked about him, but he was alone, standing a few feet in front of the mausoleum. In a quivering voice he called out for his four soldiers, but there was only silence. There was no trace of Maria or the others. The horse cart was gone. Escobar felt a sharp pain in his ankle and realized that he had twisted his foot when he fell inside the chamber.

Staggering and still in shock, he slowly made his way toward the center of town. It was less than a mile away; perhaps the officers at the police station could aid him. Maria Bazan was his friend, but the well-being of all four of the soldiers was his responsibility; he was their commander. Were they dead? Was there any hope for them? He felt as if he moved in a dream—or rather, in a nightmare. How would he explain this to his commanding officers—the ones who had sent him on this mission at the behest of the federal government? He was a college-educated man, but what he had just seen was not supposed to take place in the modern age.

As he continued walking he made out approaching cadenced footsteps and a constant drumbeat. There was something sinister in the beating of that drum. With each stroke a cold chill of fear coursed through his spine. He advanced toward the sound, and then he saw them. In the center of the street came a small cluster of marching men and women, some dressed in drab olive green, others in street clothes. A man in front beat their pace on the drum. As they neared, Escobar recognized the face of the drummer: it was Corporal Armenta. Behind him marched Privates Leon and Diaz, along with a handful of others who Escobar didn’t recognize. All marched in perfect formation and time, backs straight and eyes fixed forward. And there, bringing up the rear, was Lieutenant Maria Bazan. She wore a flag carrier strap over her shoulder, supporting a familiar standard within it. Above the marchers fluttered the flag of the double-headed eagle, the fascist nation, flying once again.

—

Richard L. Rubin has been writing science fiction and fantasy since 2008. His short story sci-fi thriller Robbery on Antares VI is available on Amazon. Science fiction stories written by him also appear in Broadswords and Blasters magazine, The Weird and Whatnot magazine, Theme of Absence web-zine, the Aurora Wolf journal of science fiction, and Eastern Iowa Review. In a previous life he worked as an appellate lawyer, defending several clients facing the death penalty in California. Richard is an Associate Member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. He lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife, Susanne. Richard’s website is at:richardlrubin.com.