THE REMAINS

The body was fresh. Its juices still flowed onto the grass. So fresh that even flies and other scavengers had not realized it was theirs for the taking.

They discovered the corpse in the afternoon. This Monday is typical for August. The temperature, a sticky ninety-nine degrees in this central Texas town. Even grackles panted in the humidity.

They approached the body slowly as though it could rise and do them harm. After an advance of a few paces they would freeze and stand like statues facing a throng of unknown tourists. They began their final approach still expecting the corpse to spring up like a grotesque jack in the box.

They were close enough to reach out and touch the corpse. It was at this point they realized the body was lacking something. It was headless. In a panic only members of the feathered kingdom can display, the grackles flew off.

They had not eaten since the chemical and biological attack. As any one of them could remember, that was almost a week now. They had seen no other signs of life for three days.

The landscape, a burnt straw colored brown from the heat of the sun and the burn of the chemicals lay upon the earth like a possessive lover after the height of orgasm.

This small band of a dozen was the advance hunting party. There was not one Caucasian in their group. It was comical watching their shadows upon the ground. The angle of the shadows seemed to bob and weave without purpose. Purpose was not lacking as their prime motivator. To the last warrior, they were starving.

As they made their approach to the headless corpse you could hear their stomachs rumbling like those of hungry vagrants waiting in a soup line. Suddenly they froze. They heard sounds of movement approaching the right flank of their column.

There was panic born from fear of the unknown, causing them to scatter like newly raked leaves disturbed by a breeze. The leader, somewhat larger and darker than the others, took command and the column regrouped for combat.

They waited for the appearance of the unseen enemy. The wait was shorter than they preferred it to be. Out of the growth appeared another hunting party.

This was not simply another hunting party. In front of them, their life-long enemy! Ancestors farther back than anyone could remember fought and killed each other. The red warriors desperately needed the corpse for food distribution.

Food was scarce after the recent attack. Survivors turned against each other. The victor and his associates dined on the prize. Their entire world reverted to primitive times.

The two groups of warriors rushed each other. The only noise being the rustle of dry landscape beneath their feet. The negroids always referred to this enemy as the red warriors. The red warriors wore no face paint or feathers. They were vicious. So much so, that the sacredness of the eagle feather meant nothing to them unless flesh was attached so they could pacify their need.

They hurled their bodies one at the other with such force that some combatants were thrown off balance and fell to the ground. The two leaders of the hunting parties locked in deadly combat. The first black soldier to meet one of the enemy thought he had bested his foe. The enemy twisted his body and rolled free of the dark warrior's grasp. The huge black male found himself in a choke hold he knew was terminal. He could not free himself from the death grip of his enemy.

A few minutes had passed since the clash began. Bodies were strewn over the battle site like blades of grass amputated and cast aside by a lawn mower. Some soldiers were still alive. Their enemy would make a final charge to finish them off.

The black soldier kept trying to escape from the death grip his enemy had on his throat. It seemed the more he struggled, the tighter the pressure on his neck. Seconds later he grew weak. The pain was insufferable. Still he did not utter a sound.

It was believed that the black and red soldiers were immune to pain. Maybe it had something to do with genetic programming. Perhaps it was just misinformation. The black adversary definitely felt pain. He definitely feared death. He felt his neck snap as his head rolled to face the late afternoon sun. His last sight was of beautiful white clouds slowly herding themselves across the vast central Texas sky.

The victor released his grip on the dead soldier's neck. Searching for another soldier, he was imprisoned in the vice grip by the leader of the black troops. This one was unnaturally strong. Vicious like a caved she-cat protecting her young. The black team leader broke his opponent's back. Not satisfied with that, ripped his abdomen open and tore loose one of his enemy's legs.

As suddenly as the battle started so it seemed to end. The black leader noticed a wound on his chest. He realized his head rested at an inelegant angle. He took two unsteady steps and fell lifeless. The battle was over.

The hungry and emaciated black scouts had been soundly defeated by a superior enemy. They killed the wounded and gathered around the corpse. They had completed their mission. The soldiers picked up the corpse and the others formed a phalanx about them.

Without celebration or ceremony the weary combatants began to move up the trail in the direction of their camp. They filed into camp; the place came alive with much activity. The anticipation was substantial.

Relief teams formed and prepared the corpse for distribution. While there was jubilation in their camp this afternoon, tomorrow would be a different story.

How could they know that the chemical and biological poisons were ingested by the corpse just brief moments before he died? You could hear the sounds of gastric delight as they dined on the corpse. Within a few minutes the entire colony of fire ants expired. Poisoned by the praying mantis they had fervently devoured.

The End