"The Shadow of Omaha" by David Lapage, Jr.

The Shadow of Omaha

by David Lapage, Jr.

The papa boat, groaned, a sound of steel on sand, as it beached with an unsteady lurch. Saltwater slapped my face. The bow ramp slammed down, a metallic shriek, and my comrades surged forward, a tide of green against the gray. Immediately, the German guns spat fire, ripping through the air with an unseen, deadly precision. Men around me buckled, chests erupting in crimson mist, their lives extinguished in a horrific spray. The sergeant’s voice was a guttural roar lost in the explosions and gunfire. I saw a man in a blur of desperation, vault over the side of the boat, and a primal instinct took over. I followed him over the side and plunged into the churning water, a cold embrace that filled my mouth and nose, choking me, stealing my breath.

I broke the surface, gasping, every fiber of my being screaming for air. With desperate strokes, I clawed my way towards the shore, my feet eventually finding purchase on the sand. Hunkered low, a pathetic attempt at invisibility, I shuffled onto the beach, every inch of me screaming exposure and vulnerability. I braced myself, a knot of icy dread in my stomach, expecting the searing impact of a bullet at any moment. Explosions hammered the air around me, a relentless drumbeat of devastation. The cries of men, some yelling orders, others screaming in agony, mingled with the percussive violence. In a daze, I raised my head, the horrors of the scene searing themselves into my memory: men firing their M1s, others collapsing, lifeless forms scattered like discarded toys. Sweat stung my eyes, my hands trembled uncontrollably. This was terror, raw and absolute, unlike anything I had ever known.

"Nobody leaves the beach," Sarge bellowed, his voice issuing a desperate challenge, "until every one of these krauts are dead!" I turned to him, my gaze meeting his just as a sudden, burst of MG42 fire tore into him. His face, contorted in a final, agonizing snarl, simply…exploded. I screamed, a sound of pure horror, and crumpled to my knees. Wiping the sweat and tears from my eyes, I forced myself to look around.

It was then, amidst the muted gloom of the overcast day, the lingering dampness from the morning's rain adding to the desolate atmosphere, that I saw it. The world was all grays, removed of color, yet a deeper, darker shadow raced across the sand. It was not a shadow cast by the sunlight; this was something else entirely. It paused, placing an almost imperceptible touch on a man's leg, and a second later, his limb was an unrecognizable mess, shredded by machine gun fire. The shadow moved on, gliding further down the beach. It touched another man, this time on the chest, just as an explosion ripped through the air nearby. Shrapnel, unseen and deadly, tore into his lungs, and he collapsed, a burbling sound escaping his lips.

This dark, vaguely humanoid figure, taller and more sinuous than any man, continued its dance across the beach, moving from soldier to soldier. I stood frozen in place; certain I was the only one who could see it. No one else seemed to notice, their observations fixed on the immediate, tangible threats. I stood there a silent witness to its grim ballet. The shadow figure drifted off to my left, perhaps fifty yards away, and paused before another soldier. 

The shadow lifted a spectral hand, and just as it touched the soldier’s helmet, a mortar round shrieked down from the sky, detonating directly overhead. The soldier vanished in a flash of light and a cloud of pulverized sand. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones, a terrifying realization blooming in my mind. This wasn’t just chaos; this was something else.

This shadow was not just moving with the death; it was guiding it. It was a ghostly conductor of obliteration, orchestrating the demise of my comrades. And then, slowly, inexorably, it began to turn its gaze towards me. Its formless head tilted, and for the first time, I felt not just fear, but a bone-chilling certainty that it had seen me. The sounds of the battlefield faded, replaced by the deafening thrum of my own heart. The air grew heavy, thick with an unseen presence. I knew then, with absolute clarity, that my struggle wasn't against the Germans anymore. It was against this thing, this entity of pure, unadulterated death, and I was next on its list.

I felt warm urine flow down my already wet trouser leg. The shadow sailed across the beach stopping just before me. As it reached towards me, I took a step backwards. My rifle, heavy and useless in my shaking hands, slipped from my grasp and clattered to the sand. Panic threatened to overwhelm me, to swallow me whole. My lungs burned, demanding air I could not seem to draw. This wasn’t a nightmare; it was real. And it was here for me. I squeezed my eyes shut, a pathetic, desperate attempt to make it disappear. When I opened them again, the shadow was closer, looming over me.

Then, from the corner of my eye, there was a flash of movement. Another soldier, young, his face grimed with dirt and fear. He wasn't looking at the shadow; he was looking up at the Germans firing down. As the shadow reached for me again, I grabbed the young soldier and thrust him forward, the motion making me fall backwards as the shadows hand passed into the soldier. Bullets ripped through the air scarcely missing me, but punching holes in the soldier. I fell to the ground as his blood rained down upon me and his body collapsed. The shadow had already drifted away. 

I was alive. For now. But I knew, with a certainty that chilled me more than any bullet, that I had done something truly terrible. And I was left with the horrifying question: Would it come back for me?