Willie Pete


The white-washed hallway stank of antiseptic. Despite the overpowering stench, Owen could also smell the metallic odor of blood beneath the facade of cleanliness.

Ahead of him was a double door, and Owen had an idea of the sort of horror he might find beyond it. When he reached the door and opened it, he was not surprised.

The trio gathered around a patient strapped to an operating table, a light illuminating their surgery. It took them a moment to realize Owen was there, and it took him less time to see the patient was a distorted version of himself.

Owen fired his revolver.

The doctor went spinning back, half his head missing as blood, brains, and bone sprayed on the nurse closest to him. She collapsed in a heap as a slug caught her in the throat, partially decapitated her.

The other nurse escaped through a side door.

Owen’s gun continued to bark, and within moments, he alone. He pulled the ring free of the old M34 white phosphorus grenade and stuffed it carefully in the mouth of his growling doppelganger.

The smell of burning flesh, mingled with the “willie pete,” filled the air, driving Owen from the room.

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