Post by ryokowerx on Oct 13, 2010 18:44:24 GMT -5
France 1944
Captain Krestler gripped the back of the front seat as the Horch automobile bounced over the rough paths that substituted for roads out in the country. Hipper was behind the wheel and Krestler was torn between calling the man an exceptional driver or just utterly mad. The young scout, Viktor, was yelling directions over the engine noise but his complexion was no less ghastly than when he had reported to him earlier. The two other men, Eichmann and Traugott, seemed competent enough to die for the fatherland upon his command but all of them held onto their hats are the car jolted again. The French might laud their culture but they sure as hell couldn’t maintain roads.
Not that he was one to speak of insanity and foolhardiness. Here he was chasing a foe in a tank, that had been content enough to leave their town, with a car and a few men with rifles. Everyone looked skyward at the sound of a racing engine to see one of their fighter planes burst from a cloud and streak down behind a grove of tall trees. A few moments later they could hear the staccato rhythm of gunfire and Krestler pointed in that direction for Hipper to follow as they watched the small speck that was the aircraft reappear from behind the tree line and sharply bank back towards them.
“Jemand fand sie zuerst” Traugott mused from the running board.
Krestler hoped that the fighter had indeed found the tank first. He really had no plans himself other than to try to follow where it was going and take the Eye from them somehow once they found it.
The black Focke-Wulf wagged its wings at them as it passed overhead and banked for another pass as Eichmann and Traugott raised their rifles above their heads and cheered.
“Denken Sie den Piloten erhielten sie, Kapitän?” Viktor asked nervously, fingering the trigger guard of his own gun and glancing about.
“I don’t know,” Krestler replied evenly “If he did kill that tank, I’ll hoist a drink to the Luftwaffe tonight but I want to see for myself. If you’ve ever known a pilot before, young man, you know they’re all damned liars. Sometimes just to hear themselves lie. And you keep your woman away from them.” Eichmann was the only one to laugh and the captain made a note that the man was either a veteran or just too stupid to know what kind of danger they faced.
Mademoiselle Marie handed her sabotage bag over to the spirit of Boudica, still not without some trepidation. Despite the weirdness currently surrounding her, she was still acutely aware of being in a enemy camp and liable to be discovered at any moment. Marie pressed herself closer against the dark mass of a German truck.
“Have no fear, child. I will finish your task but make haste as a doom casts its shadow across these lands, one that even my general fails to understand.” The ghostly warrior’s face fell and her image flickered as if to underscore the impending peril.
Marie felt conflicted, confused and still not entirely sure that she wasn’t delirious with some affliction. Her hands unconsciously balled into frustrated fists. “What am I to do? You speak of duty and importance but I know nothing,” she hissed back.
“To the east you will find a madman who herds the iron horses. He has come into possession of a terrible ancient device that, if ill used, will cause untold horrors to your world. It allows one foolish enough to use it to see into what will be but it also weakens the veil between the lands of the living and the dead.
“So the dead would come back to life?” the hairs on Marie’s neck started to stand up on end.
“The dead are dead, child. Their spirits will seek out the husks of your own mortal shells to inhabit.”
“But that would mean you could come back as well right?” Marie asked, clutching to a desire that she wouldn’t have to face her insanity alone even if it was with a figment of her imagination. “You could fight them.”
Boudica looked upon the woman she had chosen and smiled sadly. “My life was one of bloodshed and carnage. I know my curse, my sister. Would you so readily release me once again upon your world?”
Marie’s hope sank and the woman gently touched her shoulder.
“I am a warrior as you are. Even should I prevail, my passions would destroy me and many of the living once again. What is a warrior worth at the end of a war? No, I would end one strife only to begin another. This is a burden that you alone must shoulder.”
“What do I need to do?” Marie asked again.
“You must kill him.” Boudica said, her voice steely.
Blackhawk Island:
The man known to the world as Blackhawk kept his face impassive and his hands firm around the chunk of granite even though he shook inside. He was used to a lot of things, everything from a Nazi pirate parading about in a shark costume to giant spiked wheels laden with cannons, but the supernatural was something that just crept into that little part of the brain that remembered ancestral nights in caves huddled around fires fearing what lurked in the night and just wouldn’t let go of your nerves.
Chuck, hanging from Hans and Stanislau’s supporting shoulders was the first to speak, “For God’s sake, man, get rid of that.”
“No,” he replied thoughtfully. “I think it’s some sort of a message.”
“It’s damned bad luck is what it is!” he fired back.
“Perhaps so but I think he was trying to tell us something.”
Blackhawk thought for a moment and then made up his mind.
“Top me off with gas. I’m going to go visit The Hangman’s grave.”
France:
Jeb pushed his way past Nimue’s limp body, forcing himself not to look at what was sure to be a gruesome sight. He could already feel a sticky wetness under his fingers against the side of the hatch as he scrambled for the turret machine gun and swiveled it to point at the black speck now growing larger by the second. Your fault, his anger battered down the guilt. It should have been you up here instead of her! His grip tightened on the triggers as his hate flowed up at the black winged specter of death that swooped down upon them.
Time seemed to slow as he could see the sparkling flashes on the wingtips and the puffs of soil that erupted around them.
The big gun shuddered in his hand as a brass cascade erupted from its side, tracers seeming to lob slowly through the air towards the machine that meant death to him and his crew. Jeb watched as parts of the airplane disintegrated under his aim. He kept the trigger down and tracked it as it flew over them, wasting ammo but it felt good. It began to climb and turn for another pass. It had already claimed one of them and he’d be damned if they were going to die here and now. The dull thunks and pangs as high caliber bullets hammered his Stuart never reached his ears.
Suddenly, just as quickly as it had started, it was over. The riddled plane’s engine sprouted smoke as black as its skin, wavered in the air, lurched over onto its belly and mortally plunged into the ground, making its own funeral pyre. Jeb watched in grim satisfaction at the fireball reached up to the heavens.
A low moan drew his attention to Nimue’s body, only to see her struggling to rise from the spot where she had fell, her hands gripping her stomach tightly. Jeb watched with equal parts fascination and horror as the gaping wounds he could see through her bloody clutching hands began to close before his eyes. “I think I… prefer… impaling more,” she grunted through clenched teeth and extended her stained hand towards him.
Jeb took her hand and helped raise her up out of instinct but his look was telling. Four heavy fifty caliber slugs fell out of her and clattered across the armor. “Remember what I said about… things above and beyond?” She said, catching her breath, sweat beginning to dampen on her forehead and the first of the pangs of pain to come now having passed.
“How…?” he stammered as his mind raced impotently to comprehend the absurdity of what he was seeing. This couldn’t be real. People just don’t get back up from that. She should be dead!
“I made… a deal,” she smiled wanly and looked down at the ragged holes in her shirt and coverall. She choked back a scream of agony as another wave hit her and she doubled over as her body continued to heal itself from all of the internal trauma..
Nimue caught the conclusion he reached in his mind between trying to fight back the strong urge to vomit. “Not with HIM,” she forced out a weak laugh, “I’m… not… that… kind of girl.”
“Everything alright up there?” Rick’s voice rang up from below.
“Yeah,” Jeb quickly answered and then hesitated, “We’ve got one very… lucky… lady.”
The Creature Commandos:
Doctor Myrra Rhodes crouched in the tall grass and stared with distaste at the heavy Colt in her hands. Her turban squirmed as if to match her agitation. This isn’t fair! She railed against herself, I never asked to be turned into a monster! I was a surgeon! I had my entire life before me! I wanted a husband and kids! What man would want me now?
Her glare over at Lieutenant Shrieve was just as venomous as the vipers that had replaced her hair. I should have left you to die, you son of a bitch. It’s your fault that I got hit with that gas!
Shrieve must have felt the invisible daggers boring into his back. He turned met her eyes and quickly looked away.
And you know it, you rat bastard, she fumed. You only care about your own skin. I’d kill you myself but you’re going to look at me and remember what you did to someone else. You might be in charge of the others but you made me.
Her personal diatribe was interrupted by the sound of a car engine off in the distance and Elliott slid the charging bolt on his BAR with a metallic snap that seemed so loud to her that surely the entire country could hear it.
They were obviously the deafest bunch of Germans ever a motorcar and its motorcycle escorts continued to rumble along the road, the gleam of polished medals flashing in the sun from the back seat. The man riding shotgun, however, kept his submachine gun hoisted and his eyes darted from side to side.
With a cry of released rage, Myrra stood up from the grass, whipping off her head wrap and leveling her pistol at the startled guard, whose expression shifted to one of horror as the writhing mass of sickly green asps drew his attention. Her first bullet shattered the windscreen, the second catching the man in the throat. He gurgled blood as his fingers spasmed on the trigger and he emptied his weapon skyward.
Shrieve cursed loudly as his ambush was sprung too early. “Fire! Fire!”
Krestler watched as the fighter plane met its end with a frown.
“Kapitän?” Eichmann spoke up questioningly.
“We follow them. They will have to stop at some point and we will attack when they are outside and unawares.” he replied, “they may even be wounded or their tank destroyed.”
“Lassen Sie mich schauen,” Viktor spoke up, his voice containing his tremble but his eyes resolute.
The captain stood undecided. If he disallowed the young boy’s offer to scout ahead, he would crush the small spark of courage and insult his manhood but he also could be sending him to certain death.
“Go and be careful. You are only to observe and report. Understand?” Viktor nodded and took off in a stooped run for a distant patch of heavy brush.
Krestler tried to be patient. He glanced over at Eichmann and Traugott who were sharing a cigarette and stories about a few burlesque actresses they professed to know, the death of the pilot forgotten. Have we become so callous? He wondered. The two soldiers were used to the long moments of uncertainty and boredom. It was not to his liking. He glanced at his watch. Viktor had been gone now for over a half hour. They had heard no shots or signs of alarm. He absently touched the gem around his neck and took in a calming breath.
Movement in the tall grass caught Traugott’s attention and he raised his rifle as Eichmann followed. Both held their fire waiting to see if it was Viktor or the enemy.
“Sein ich Viktor!” a quavering voice hissed and the two men lowered their guns. Viktor stood and ran towards the captain and saluted.
Krestler could see his wide grin and the oozing stain of motor oil on his fingers.
Easy Company:
“That’s all fine and dandy, Rock, but how’re we gonna know where to find this guy?” Bulldozer asked.
“Easier’n you think,” he replied and produced a small handful of German letters.
“Never picked you out as one to loot the dead, Sarge.”
He ignored his second-in-command and waved the envelopes in the general direction of Easy. “If you look, you’ll see that all of these letters we found on ‘em all have the same postmark. They had a recent mail call and, trust me, you lunk, the Jerries’re nothing if not sticklers for efficiency. If these guys got mail, they got it close to here and, where there’s mail, there’s a headquarters.”
Bulldozer shrugged. “I dunno. Sounds like a long shot to me.”
“Maybe so but, unless you wanna write those letters to the families of ours and explain to ‘em about how their kids died in a place nobody knew where we should have been at, I’m gonna try. Hell, ‘Dozer, I’m damn tired of this. ‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I regret to inform you that your son died in the line of duty. He was a good man and I was proud to have him under my command.” He said, his voice not asking for acceptance but at least understanding. “I’ve got a goddamned name this time and a lead on the bastard.”
“Sure, Rock. Sure.” Horace gave in easier than usual.
“Alright, boys,” Rock barked to the rest of Easy as they tried to grab what rest they could, “Get ready to move out!”
As the perpetually bedraggled G.I.s of Easy Company formed up and marched away into the gloom of the woods, nobody noticed the stiff pale fingers of Unteroffizier Getman and his men reach for their discarded weapons.
Jeb’s canteen had taken care of the spilt blood on the top of the turret, but nothing could be done about the holes in Nimue’s clothes so she remained up top where the rest of the crew couldn’t ask questions. Jeb had given her his jacket to help somewhat. He was still shaken by the fact that he had seen someone take four slugs and still remain alive if, he questioned, she was even that. His rational mind fought back that there must be some explanation for all this, but it was like having a bantamweight in with a killer prizefighter. Maybe he was just as loco as his crew said behind his back.
Either way, they were once again on the way to the professor’s home, the familiar engine noises giving him some small measure of normality.
“Lieutenant?” Nimue’s voice came from above and Jeb noted guiltily the lack of the use of his name as he went to see what she wanted.
“Is it supposed to do that?” she asked and pointed down behind them at the thin trail of oil that was spattering the ground behind them. She looked as worried as he felt.
Major Hans Kluge hung up the telephone that had been improvised in… he scratched his head in momentary confusion. Huh. He couldn’t remember the name of the dead man whose home he had taken over. No matter. It was with an inner glee that he smirked. He knew everything. The incursions along the front, which were diversions and which were real. The sabotage attempts, commando drops, targets of bombing sorties. It was all clear to him. It was like playing chess against an idiot child.
A feminine laugh drew his attention momentarily to the woman that had been his bed partner for the past few weeks as she inspected one of those hideous African masks the dead man had apparently been fond of. What was her name? I think it started with a “T?” Tallulah? Talia? Hell with it.
“Careful there, Hans Dearest,” she grinned wickedly as she watched blue arcs of power flicker across the surface of the Eye, “You know what they say about the memory being the first to go.”
Sergeant Velcro leapt from the tall grass and tackled one of the motorcycle escorts, the rider screaming in surprise and fear as his machine went down. His last sight was of a pair of gleaming fangs seeking out his throat. A crimson spray washed down Velcro’s mouth and he sighed in satisfaction. He had volunteered to save his own skin after what he had done to that officer but this was the life! Damn Nazis were nothing but cattle, deserving nothing more than to be food. It was his patriotic duty and pleasure to kill as many of them as he wanted.
Lieutenant Shrieve looked around. The Germans had recovered quicker than anticipated from his ambush that had sprung quicker than he had anticipated. Damn that woman! Velcro was… busy. Griffith and Taylor were pinned down and he really could use Taylor’s BAR right now for some heavy fire. He snapped off two shots from his pistol to no effect.
Doctor Rhodes was clambering over the windscreen of the staff car, her face a mask of fury. The driver bolted for his door only to have a barrage of snake bites lacerate his upper body. He staggered forward a few steps only to fall in convulsions as the deadly poisons raced through his body. He died screaming.
“Bleiben Sie weg!” the officer in the back of the car screamed, his luger forgotten as he threw his hands up in a futile attempt to ward off the she-creature that was coming for him.
Myrra’s attack obviously distracted the guards as Taylor’s Browning opened up with deep cracks shattering the air as heavy caliber rounds flowed from it. Grey-clad men fell under its assault as their resistance began to crumble under the withering fire and the horrors that beset them.
Warren Griffith charged out of the brush, his brown furred body making short work of a man who had the misfortune of being in the way. Shots fired by terrified soldiers spattered about him as Sgt. Velcro rose from his victim, mouth smeared in blood.
The Germans broke, leaving the victorious commandos alone with a lone captive officer.
“What do we do with him?” Warren asked as he slowly reverted back to the familiar red-haired farm boy.
“We get his clothes off,” Shrieve said. “And I just got a promotion in the German Army.”
Myrra averted her eyes as the captive was stripped and Shrieve donned the man’s uniform and the others tried to find what they could that wasn’t bloodstained or torn.
“Now what?” Warren asked again once they had replaced most of the previous escorts.
The captive officer’s head exploded in a spray of blood and matter.
“We have a meeting to make.” Shrieve said lowering his gun.
Warren, Myrra and Elliot stared on in horror.
“You just killed a defenseless man!” Warren finally managed to choke out.
“War is hell, private.” Shrieve said, adjusting his new cap.
The Haunted Tank:
“Flyboy got the crankcase,” Bill cursed some time later, his boots sticking out from underneath. Gus passed a wrench to his grimy hand, “It’s a good thing Nimue here noticed when she did. A few more miles and we’d have burned up the engine.” Nimue didn’t reply but drew Jeb’s coat tighter about her. Rick looked at his commander but was pointedly ignored.
“Give me the bad news,” Jeb sighed.
“Five, six hours I’m thinking. Assuming that I can patch it here. Less if we can get a tow back to the depot and a new part,” Bill replied.
Jeb thought hard. At the rate they had been going he guessed that they were about five miles from this home Nimue wanted to go to so badly. On the other hand, their tank wasn’t going anywhere at all for the time being.
“Bill. Gus. Get our tank under cover and go ahead and try to fix it. Rick, call HQ and let them know we’re stuck at the moment. If they ask why, tell them we were pursuing retreating infantry and took it on the chin from a bird, got it?” Rick nodded and he continued, “Nimue and I are gonna go ahead on foot to the safe house. I’ll be back soon.”
“Something queer going on with those two,” Rick remarked once they were out of sight “Why’d Jeb have me say we were chasin’ Germans when he said we were getting our little Frenchie chickadee to a spy?” Gus shrugged. If the lieutenant wanted ‘em to lie there had to be a good reason even if it didn’t make any sense. They’d learned to trust him even if he did seem touched at times.
France. 12000 ft.
Blackhawk glanced down at the map clutched too tightly in his hand. Andre had been less than happy about him making this trip, much less doing it alone but he’d be damned if he was going to endanger the rest of the squadron on something that might be the biggest harebrained idea of his life.
“What were you trying to tell me?” he said aloud to the chunk of granite wedged between his seat and the side of the cockpit. “Other than I’m now talking to a chunk of rock.” He grinned sardonically.
A puff of black lazily erupted off to his right and he glanced at it. Ack-ack. They could hear him below but they couldn’t see him yet. They were firing as blind as he was venturing into the unknown. He looked at the map again. Roughly thirty miles east of the Societe Nationale des Chemins de Fer. He could see the rails even from this high up. He was going to have to break cloud cover pretty soon and find out just how good a shot those gunners were. No sense making it easy for them though.
His Skyrocket dropped out of the brume upside down as Blackhawk watched the green earth rush up to meet him, his altimeter spinning like a wild dervish with a death wish. The firing became more concentrated as the twin Cyclones on his wings shrieked against the wind. He grunted as he snapped the plane into a knife-edge and kicked his ailerons. The plane skidded across the sky on its wing liked a wounded bird, trading speed for energy.
Fire blazed behind him as their aim was thrown off. He yanked back on the yoke and dropped earthward again. By now the Germans had to think that he was drunk as he gyrated across the sky, sinking ever lower. No doubt the gun crews would be on their radios yelling for interceptors. They had no way of knowing that he wasn’t the advanced ship of a bombing sortie. Better they waste their ammo now rather than plug some unlucky Fort or Lancaster later.
Blackhawk could now see details of fields. If I get any lower, I’ll be able to count the potatoes, he thought. Rolling level for the first time in what seemed like forever, he slammed the throttle wide open, racing for a strand of tall trees as the gunners behind him desperately tried to crank their guns down to track him.
Suddenly, a curtain of green sprang up behind him and he let out a sharp breath of relief. The trees would shield him and they would have nowhere of knowing where he went. He chopped his engines and made for a distant field he had spotted during his descent.
“Kurwa mac! Nothing like being target practice is there?” he chuckled.
The woman known to the Resistance as Mademoiselle Marie pedaled along the country road on her bicycle. If you had known her, you would not recognize her with her gray hair and wrinkled face courtesy of dried glue and talcum powder. Her drab dress, a bag of two day old baguettes and a cane balanced across the handlebars completed her ruse. Few men, she hoped, would stop to bother an old woman.
She still didn’t even know where she was going exactly. The only consolation is that Boudica said “east” and that was where Frank and his men had been headed. “Iron horses” could mean anything from a locomotive to a car. Maybe if all else failed she could find Easy Company and get their help. Right now though, she wasn’t thrilled with the idea. They’d think she was crazy and Marie wasn’t entirely sure that she wasn’t.
Here, in the bright light of day, the idea seemed preposterous. The dead coming back. Dead was dead. She had killed her share in the last year and none had ever moved again. Marie had almost convinced herself to turn around when a movement in the woods caught her attention. Her hand strayed slowly towards the bag of bread but she slowly kept pedaling as if nothing was wrong.
Soldiers began emerging from the forest. None of them seemed to be in any rush as they leisurely made their way towards the road. Details emerged and Marie tried to fight back the scream that clawed its way up her throat. She failed.
Soldiers, mostly Germans but with some Americans as well, ambled towards her, bloodstained uniforms and the fatal wounds to their bodies easily visible. Here and there, limbs missing or partially connected. Others with burns and organs exposed.
The old fowling piece concealed within one of her baguettes shot once, twice before it ran out of bullets. Marie didn’t even remember grabbing it or the bullets sinking ineffectually in dead flesh as her mind fled this world into one of stark terror and madness.
Limbo:
Alexander the Great stared at his reflection in the golden helm that stood across the war table in front of him. His champion had failed and so had he. They had not stopped the events that Nabu had foretold. For one of the few times in his life and un-life he felt unsure of what to do. He did not like the feeling.
“Do not despair, General.” the sorcerer intoned. “As a comrade of mine, Carter Hall, often has said we may have lost the battle but not the war.”
“That is cold comfort, Doctor,” the Macedonian replied.
“True but our pieces have yet to fully enter play. We shall abide a bit longer before admitting defeat.”
“This is a game to you?” Alexander said, his voice taking on an edge.
“War is always a game, Alexander. There is a victor. A vanquished. Yet this is a game of the highest stakes above and beyond mortal ken. Let us hope that, should we lose, there will be a rematch.”
***
France:
Jeb prowled ahead with his tommy gun from the tank. It was never comfortable being on foot and without a steel shell to protect you. He wasn’t infantry thank God. Every snapping twig and crunching leaf underfoot sounded like they were loud enough for every German in miles to hear. Nimue, to his annoyance, moved noiselessly.
The woods were just beginning to turn their shades of autumn and cool breezes gently wafted through the trees as sunlight filtered downward, giving everything an ethereal glow. It was as if nature itself cared less if there was a war on or did so in spite of it. Jeb stomped ahead, the fear and uncertainty about the French girl eating at him mentally as his boots picked their own clumsy way through the undergrowth.
“Jeb, wait!” she cried and he realized that he had moved far ahead of her. Nimue ran with a satisfying grinding of leaves and touched his arm. He recoiled from her touch and the look of confusion that changed to pain in her eyes was unmistakable before she looked away.
It was like getting sucker punched in the gut Jeb thought. He hadn’t meant it. She should be dead. It wasn’t natural and yet he talked to the ghost of a man dead for almost a hundred years. What was wrong with him? He had found her exotic because of her differences at their first meeting and now he was acting like she was a leper. Jeb awkwardly staggered away trying desperately to apologize but his mouth failing him and Nimue rooted to the spot.
“He really didn’t mean it, m’am,” the ghostly general said as he appeared behind her and watched his young charge disappear into the woods “He still doesn’t know his life can never be normal ever again. You of all folk should know his fate.”
“Fate can change,” she protested halfheartedly.
General Stuart looked at her forlornly, “If only it were so, m’am. Ah’m asking you to not get involved. I agreed to help because this Eye endangers Alexander n’ the spirit world. Jeb is mortal as I once was. It’ll not end well for either of ya’ll if you persist.”
Nimue ran after Jeb, torn between worlds.
To be continued!
Captain Krestler gripped the back of the front seat as the Horch automobile bounced over the rough paths that substituted for roads out in the country. Hipper was behind the wheel and Krestler was torn between calling the man an exceptional driver or just utterly mad. The young scout, Viktor, was yelling directions over the engine noise but his complexion was no less ghastly than when he had reported to him earlier. The two other men, Eichmann and Traugott, seemed competent enough to die for the fatherland upon his command but all of them held onto their hats are the car jolted again. The French might laud their culture but they sure as hell couldn’t maintain roads.
Not that he was one to speak of insanity and foolhardiness. Here he was chasing a foe in a tank, that had been content enough to leave their town, with a car and a few men with rifles. Everyone looked skyward at the sound of a racing engine to see one of their fighter planes burst from a cloud and streak down behind a grove of tall trees. A few moments later they could hear the staccato rhythm of gunfire and Krestler pointed in that direction for Hipper to follow as they watched the small speck that was the aircraft reappear from behind the tree line and sharply bank back towards them.
“Jemand fand sie zuerst” Traugott mused from the running board.
Krestler hoped that the fighter had indeed found the tank first. He really had no plans himself other than to try to follow where it was going and take the Eye from them somehow once they found it.
The black Focke-Wulf wagged its wings at them as it passed overhead and banked for another pass as Eichmann and Traugott raised their rifles above their heads and cheered.
“Denken Sie den Piloten erhielten sie, Kapitän?” Viktor asked nervously, fingering the trigger guard of his own gun and glancing about.
“I don’t know,” Krestler replied evenly “If he did kill that tank, I’ll hoist a drink to the Luftwaffe tonight but I want to see for myself. If you’ve ever known a pilot before, young man, you know they’re all damned liars. Sometimes just to hear themselves lie. And you keep your woman away from them.” Eichmann was the only one to laugh and the captain made a note that the man was either a veteran or just too stupid to know what kind of danger they faced.
Weird War Tales: Stare Not Into the Abyss
Part Three of Five
by James Stubbs
Part Three of Five
by James Stubbs
Mademoiselle Marie handed her sabotage bag over to the spirit of Boudica, still not without some trepidation. Despite the weirdness currently surrounding her, she was still acutely aware of being in a enemy camp and liable to be discovered at any moment. Marie pressed herself closer against the dark mass of a German truck.
“Have no fear, child. I will finish your task but make haste as a doom casts its shadow across these lands, one that even my general fails to understand.” The ghostly warrior’s face fell and her image flickered as if to underscore the impending peril.
Marie felt conflicted, confused and still not entirely sure that she wasn’t delirious with some affliction. Her hands unconsciously balled into frustrated fists. “What am I to do? You speak of duty and importance but I know nothing,” she hissed back.
“To the east you will find a madman who herds the iron horses. He has come into possession of a terrible ancient device that, if ill used, will cause untold horrors to your world. It allows one foolish enough to use it to see into what will be but it also weakens the veil between the lands of the living and the dead.
“So the dead would come back to life?” the hairs on Marie’s neck started to stand up on end.
“The dead are dead, child. Their spirits will seek out the husks of your own mortal shells to inhabit.”
“But that would mean you could come back as well right?” Marie asked, clutching to a desire that she wouldn’t have to face her insanity alone even if it was with a figment of her imagination. “You could fight them.”
Boudica looked upon the woman she had chosen and smiled sadly. “My life was one of bloodshed and carnage. I know my curse, my sister. Would you so readily release me once again upon your world?”
Marie’s hope sank and the woman gently touched her shoulder.
“I am a warrior as you are. Even should I prevail, my passions would destroy me and many of the living once again. What is a warrior worth at the end of a war? No, I would end one strife only to begin another. This is a burden that you alone must shoulder.”
“What do I need to do?” Marie asked again.
“You must kill him.” Boudica said, her voice steely.
***
Blackhawk Island:
The man known to the world as Blackhawk kept his face impassive and his hands firm around the chunk of granite even though he shook inside. He was used to a lot of things, everything from a Nazi pirate parading about in a shark costume to giant spiked wheels laden with cannons, but the supernatural was something that just crept into that little part of the brain that remembered ancestral nights in caves huddled around fires fearing what lurked in the night and just wouldn’t let go of your nerves.
Chuck, hanging from Hans and Stanislau’s supporting shoulders was the first to speak, “For God’s sake, man, get rid of that.”
“No,” he replied thoughtfully. “I think it’s some sort of a message.”
“It’s damned bad luck is what it is!” he fired back.
“Perhaps so but I think he was trying to tell us something.”
Blackhawk thought for a moment and then made up his mind.
“Top me off with gas. I’m going to go visit The Hangman’s grave.”
***
France:
Jeb pushed his way past Nimue’s limp body, forcing himself not to look at what was sure to be a gruesome sight. He could already feel a sticky wetness under his fingers against the side of the hatch as he scrambled for the turret machine gun and swiveled it to point at the black speck now growing larger by the second. Your fault, his anger battered down the guilt. It should have been you up here instead of her! His grip tightened on the triggers as his hate flowed up at the black winged specter of death that swooped down upon them.
Time seemed to slow as he could see the sparkling flashes on the wingtips and the puffs of soil that erupted around them.
The big gun shuddered in his hand as a brass cascade erupted from its side, tracers seeming to lob slowly through the air towards the machine that meant death to him and his crew. Jeb watched as parts of the airplane disintegrated under his aim. He kept the trigger down and tracked it as it flew over them, wasting ammo but it felt good. It began to climb and turn for another pass. It had already claimed one of them and he’d be damned if they were going to die here and now. The dull thunks and pangs as high caliber bullets hammered his Stuart never reached his ears.
Suddenly, just as quickly as it had started, it was over. The riddled plane’s engine sprouted smoke as black as its skin, wavered in the air, lurched over onto its belly and mortally plunged into the ground, making its own funeral pyre. Jeb watched in grim satisfaction at the fireball reached up to the heavens.
A low moan drew his attention to Nimue’s body, only to see her struggling to rise from the spot where she had fell, her hands gripping her stomach tightly. Jeb watched with equal parts fascination and horror as the gaping wounds he could see through her bloody clutching hands began to close before his eyes. “I think I… prefer… impaling more,” she grunted through clenched teeth and extended her stained hand towards him.
Jeb took her hand and helped raise her up out of instinct but his look was telling. Four heavy fifty caliber slugs fell out of her and clattered across the armor. “Remember what I said about… things above and beyond?” She said, catching her breath, sweat beginning to dampen on her forehead and the first of the pangs of pain to come now having passed.
“How…?” he stammered as his mind raced impotently to comprehend the absurdity of what he was seeing. This couldn’t be real. People just don’t get back up from that. She should be dead!
“I made… a deal,” she smiled wanly and looked down at the ragged holes in her shirt and coverall. She choked back a scream of agony as another wave hit her and she doubled over as her body continued to heal itself from all of the internal trauma..
Nimue caught the conclusion he reached in his mind between trying to fight back the strong urge to vomit. “Not with HIM,” she forced out a weak laugh, “I’m… not… that… kind of girl.”
“Everything alright up there?” Rick’s voice rang up from below.
“Yeah,” Jeb quickly answered and then hesitated, “We’ve got one very… lucky… lady.”
***
The Creature Commandos:
Doctor Myrra Rhodes crouched in the tall grass and stared with distaste at the heavy Colt in her hands. Her turban squirmed as if to match her agitation. This isn’t fair! She railed against herself, I never asked to be turned into a monster! I was a surgeon! I had my entire life before me! I wanted a husband and kids! What man would want me now?
Her glare over at Lieutenant Shrieve was just as venomous as the vipers that had replaced her hair. I should have left you to die, you son of a bitch. It’s your fault that I got hit with that gas!
Shrieve must have felt the invisible daggers boring into his back. He turned met her eyes and quickly looked away.
And you know it, you rat bastard, she fumed. You only care about your own skin. I’d kill you myself but you’re going to look at me and remember what you did to someone else. You might be in charge of the others but you made me.
Her personal diatribe was interrupted by the sound of a car engine off in the distance and Elliott slid the charging bolt on his BAR with a metallic snap that seemed so loud to her that surely the entire country could hear it.
They were obviously the deafest bunch of Germans ever a motorcar and its motorcycle escorts continued to rumble along the road, the gleam of polished medals flashing in the sun from the back seat. The man riding shotgun, however, kept his submachine gun hoisted and his eyes darted from side to side.
With a cry of released rage, Myrra stood up from the grass, whipping off her head wrap and leveling her pistol at the startled guard, whose expression shifted to one of horror as the writhing mass of sickly green asps drew his attention. Her first bullet shattered the windscreen, the second catching the man in the throat. He gurgled blood as his fingers spasmed on the trigger and he emptied his weapon skyward.
Shrieve cursed loudly as his ambush was sprung too early. “Fire! Fire!”
***
Krestler watched as the fighter plane met its end with a frown.
“Kapitän?” Eichmann spoke up questioningly.
“We follow them. They will have to stop at some point and we will attack when they are outside and unawares.” he replied, “they may even be wounded or their tank destroyed.”
“Lassen Sie mich schauen,” Viktor spoke up, his voice containing his tremble but his eyes resolute.
The captain stood undecided. If he disallowed the young boy’s offer to scout ahead, he would crush the small spark of courage and insult his manhood but he also could be sending him to certain death.
“Go and be careful. You are only to observe and report. Understand?” Viktor nodded and took off in a stooped run for a distant patch of heavy brush.
Krestler tried to be patient. He glanced over at Eichmann and Traugott who were sharing a cigarette and stories about a few burlesque actresses they professed to know, the death of the pilot forgotten. Have we become so callous? He wondered. The two soldiers were used to the long moments of uncertainty and boredom. It was not to his liking. He glanced at his watch. Viktor had been gone now for over a half hour. They had heard no shots or signs of alarm. He absently touched the gem around his neck and took in a calming breath.
Movement in the tall grass caught Traugott’s attention and he raised his rifle as Eichmann followed. Both held their fire waiting to see if it was Viktor or the enemy.
“Sein ich Viktor!” a quavering voice hissed and the two men lowered their guns. Viktor stood and ran towards the captain and saluted.
Krestler could see his wide grin and the oozing stain of motor oil on his fingers.
***
Easy Company:
“That’s all fine and dandy, Rock, but how’re we gonna know where to find this guy?” Bulldozer asked.
“Easier’n you think,” he replied and produced a small handful of German letters.
“Never picked you out as one to loot the dead, Sarge.”
He ignored his second-in-command and waved the envelopes in the general direction of Easy. “If you look, you’ll see that all of these letters we found on ‘em all have the same postmark. They had a recent mail call and, trust me, you lunk, the Jerries’re nothing if not sticklers for efficiency. If these guys got mail, they got it close to here and, where there’s mail, there’s a headquarters.”
Bulldozer shrugged. “I dunno. Sounds like a long shot to me.”
“Maybe so but, unless you wanna write those letters to the families of ours and explain to ‘em about how their kids died in a place nobody knew where we should have been at, I’m gonna try. Hell, ‘Dozer, I’m damn tired of this. ‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I regret to inform you that your son died in the line of duty. He was a good man and I was proud to have him under my command.” He said, his voice not asking for acceptance but at least understanding. “I’ve got a goddamned name this time and a lead on the bastard.”
“Sure, Rock. Sure.” Horace gave in easier than usual.
“Alright, boys,” Rock barked to the rest of Easy as they tried to grab what rest they could, “Get ready to move out!”
As the perpetually bedraggled G.I.s of Easy Company formed up and marched away into the gloom of the woods, nobody noticed the stiff pale fingers of Unteroffizier Getman and his men reach for their discarded weapons.
***
Jeb’s canteen had taken care of the spilt blood on the top of the turret, but nothing could be done about the holes in Nimue’s clothes so she remained up top where the rest of the crew couldn’t ask questions. Jeb had given her his jacket to help somewhat. He was still shaken by the fact that he had seen someone take four slugs and still remain alive if, he questioned, she was even that. His rational mind fought back that there must be some explanation for all this, but it was like having a bantamweight in with a killer prizefighter. Maybe he was just as loco as his crew said behind his back.
Either way, they were once again on the way to the professor’s home, the familiar engine noises giving him some small measure of normality.
“Lieutenant?” Nimue’s voice came from above and Jeb noted guiltily the lack of the use of his name as he went to see what she wanted.
“Is it supposed to do that?” she asked and pointed down behind them at the thin trail of oil that was spattering the ground behind them. She looked as worried as he felt.
***
Major Hans Kluge hung up the telephone that had been improvised in… he scratched his head in momentary confusion. Huh. He couldn’t remember the name of the dead man whose home he had taken over. No matter. It was with an inner glee that he smirked. He knew everything. The incursions along the front, which were diversions and which were real. The sabotage attempts, commando drops, targets of bombing sorties. It was all clear to him. It was like playing chess against an idiot child.
A feminine laugh drew his attention momentarily to the woman that had been his bed partner for the past few weeks as she inspected one of those hideous African masks the dead man had apparently been fond of. What was her name? I think it started with a “T?” Tallulah? Talia? Hell with it.
“Careful there, Hans Dearest,” she grinned wickedly as she watched blue arcs of power flicker across the surface of the Eye, “You know what they say about the memory being the first to go.”
***
Sergeant Velcro leapt from the tall grass and tackled one of the motorcycle escorts, the rider screaming in surprise and fear as his machine went down. His last sight was of a pair of gleaming fangs seeking out his throat. A crimson spray washed down Velcro’s mouth and he sighed in satisfaction. He had volunteered to save his own skin after what he had done to that officer but this was the life! Damn Nazis were nothing but cattle, deserving nothing more than to be food. It was his patriotic duty and pleasure to kill as many of them as he wanted.
Lieutenant Shrieve looked around. The Germans had recovered quicker than anticipated from his ambush that had sprung quicker than he had anticipated. Damn that woman! Velcro was… busy. Griffith and Taylor were pinned down and he really could use Taylor’s BAR right now for some heavy fire. He snapped off two shots from his pistol to no effect.
Doctor Rhodes was clambering over the windscreen of the staff car, her face a mask of fury. The driver bolted for his door only to have a barrage of snake bites lacerate his upper body. He staggered forward a few steps only to fall in convulsions as the deadly poisons raced through his body. He died screaming.
“Bleiben Sie weg!” the officer in the back of the car screamed, his luger forgotten as he threw his hands up in a futile attempt to ward off the she-creature that was coming for him.
Myrra’s attack obviously distracted the guards as Taylor’s Browning opened up with deep cracks shattering the air as heavy caliber rounds flowed from it. Grey-clad men fell under its assault as their resistance began to crumble under the withering fire and the horrors that beset them.
Warren Griffith charged out of the brush, his brown furred body making short work of a man who had the misfortune of being in the way. Shots fired by terrified soldiers spattered about him as Sgt. Velcro rose from his victim, mouth smeared in blood.
The Germans broke, leaving the victorious commandos alone with a lone captive officer.
“What do we do with him?” Warren asked as he slowly reverted back to the familiar red-haired farm boy.
“We get his clothes off,” Shrieve said. “And I just got a promotion in the German Army.”
Myrra averted her eyes as the captive was stripped and Shrieve donned the man’s uniform and the others tried to find what they could that wasn’t bloodstained or torn.
“Now what?” Warren asked again once they had replaced most of the previous escorts.
The captive officer’s head exploded in a spray of blood and matter.
“We have a meeting to make.” Shrieve said lowering his gun.
Warren, Myrra and Elliot stared on in horror.
“You just killed a defenseless man!” Warren finally managed to choke out.
“War is hell, private.” Shrieve said, adjusting his new cap.
***
The Haunted Tank:
“Flyboy got the crankcase,” Bill cursed some time later, his boots sticking out from underneath. Gus passed a wrench to his grimy hand, “It’s a good thing Nimue here noticed when she did. A few more miles and we’d have burned up the engine.” Nimue didn’t reply but drew Jeb’s coat tighter about her. Rick looked at his commander but was pointedly ignored.
“Give me the bad news,” Jeb sighed.
“Five, six hours I’m thinking. Assuming that I can patch it here. Less if we can get a tow back to the depot and a new part,” Bill replied.
Jeb thought hard. At the rate they had been going he guessed that they were about five miles from this home Nimue wanted to go to so badly. On the other hand, their tank wasn’t going anywhere at all for the time being.
“Bill. Gus. Get our tank under cover and go ahead and try to fix it. Rick, call HQ and let them know we’re stuck at the moment. If they ask why, tell them we were pursuing retreating infantry and took it on the chin from a bird, got it?” Rick nodded and he continued, “Nimue and I are gonna go ahead on foot to the safe house. I’ll be back soon.”
“Something queer going on with those two,” Rick remarked once they were out of sight “Why’d Jeb have me say we were chasin’ Germans when he said we were getting our little Frenchie chickadee to a spy?” Gus shrugged. If the lieutenant wanted ‘em to lie there had to be a good reason even if it didn’t make any sense. They’d learned to trust him even if he did seem touched at times.
***
France. 12000 ft.
Blackhawk glanced down at the map clutched too tightly in his hand. Andre had been less than happy about him making this trip, much less doing it alone but he’d be damned if he was going to endanger the rest of the squadron on something that might be the biggest harebrained idea of his life.
“What were you trying to tell me?” he said aloud to the chunk of granite wedged between his seat and the side of the cockpit. “Other than I’m now talking to a chunk of rock.” He grinned sardonically.
A puff of black lazily erupted off to his right and he glanced at it. Ack-ack. They could hear him below but they couldn’t see him yet. They were firing as blind as he was venturing into the unknown. He looked at the map again. Roughly thirty miles east of the Societe Nationale des Chemins de Fer. He could see the rails even from this high up. He was going to have to break cloud cover pretty soon and find out just how good a shot those gunners were. No sense making it easy for them though.
His Skyrocket dropped out of the brume upside down as Blackhawk watched the green earth rush up to meet him, his altimeter spinning like a wild dervish with a death wish. The firing became more concentrated as the twin Cyclones on his wings shrieked against the wind. He grunted as he snapped the plane into a knife-edge and kicked his ailerons. The plane skidded across the sky on its wing liked a wounded bird, trading speed for energy.
Fire blazed behind him as their aim was thrown off. He yanked back on the yoke and dropped earthward again. By now the Germans had to think that he was drunk as he gyrated across the sky, sinking ever lower. No doubt the gun crews would be on their radios yelling for interceptors. They had no way of knowing that he wasn’t the advanced ship of a bombing sortie. Better they waste their ammo now rather than plug some unlucky Fort or Lancaster later.
Blackhawk could now see details of fields. If I get any lower, I’ll be able to count the potatoes, he thought. Rolling level for the first time in what seemed like forever, he slammed the throttle wide open, racing for a strand of tall trees as the gunners behind him desperately tried to crank their guns down to track him.
Suddenly, a curtain of green sprang up behind him and he let out a sharp breath of relief. The trees would shield him and they would have nowhere of knowing where he went. He chopped his engines and made for a distant field he had spotted during his descent.
“Kurwa mac! Nothing like being target practice is there?” he chuckled.
***
The woman known to the Resistance as Mademoiselle Marie pedaled along the country road on her bicycle. If you had known her, you would not recognize her with her gray hair and wrinkled face courtesy of dried glue and talcum powder. Her drab dress, a bag of two day old baguettes and a cane balanced across the handlebars completed her ruse. Few men, she hoped, would stop to bother an old woman.
She still didn’t even know where she was going exactly. The only consolation is that Boudica said “east” and that was where Frank and his men had been headed. “Iron horses” could mean anything from a locomotive to a car. Maybe if all else failed she could find Easy Company and get their help. Right now though, she wasn’t thrilled with the idea. They’d think she was crazy and Marie wasn’t entirely sure that she wasn’t.
Here, in the bright light of day, the idea seemed preposterous. The dead coming back. Dead was dead. She had killed her share in the last year and none had ever moved again. Marie had almost convinced herself to turn around when a movement in the woods caught her attention. Her hand strayed slowly towards the bag of bread but she slowly kept pedaling as if nothing was wrong.
Soldiers began emerging from the forest. None of them seemed to be in any rush as they leisurely made their way towards the road. Details emerged and Marie tried to fight back the scream that clawed its way up her throat. She failed.
Soldiers, mostly Germans but with some Americans as well, ambled towards her, bloodstained uniforms and the fatal wounds to their bodies easily visible. Here and there, limbs missing or partially connected. Others with burns and organs exposed.
The old fowling piece concealed within one of her baguettes shot once, twice before it ran out of bullets. Marie didn’t even remember grabbing it or the bullets sinking ineffectually in dead flesh as her mind fled this world into one of stark terror and madness.
***
Limbo:
Alexander the Great stared at his reflection in the golden helm that stood across the war table in front of him. His champion had failed and so had he. They had not stopped the events that Nabu had foretold. For one of the few times in his life and un-life he felt unsure of what to do. He did not like the feeling.
“Do not despair, General.” the sorcerer intoned. “As a comrade of mine, Carter Hall, often has said we may have lost the battle but not the war.”
“That is cold comfort, Doctor,” the Macedonian replied.
“True but our pieces have yet to fully enter play. We shall abide a bit longer before admitting defeat.”
“This is a game to you?” Alexander said, his voice taking on an edge.
“War is always a game, Alexander. There is a victor. A vanquished. Yet this is a game of the highest stakes above and beyond mortal ken. Let us hope that, should we lose, there will be a rematch.”
***
France:
Jeb prowled ahead with his tommy gun from the tank. It was never comfortable being on foot and without a steel shell to protect you. He wasn’t infantry thank God. Every snapping twig and crunching leaf underfoot sounded like they were loud enough for every German in miles to hear. Nimue, to his annoyance, moved noiselessly.
The woods were just beginning to turn their shades of autumn and cool breezes gently wafted through the trees as sunlight filtered downward, giving everything an ethereal glow. It was as if nature itself cared less if there was a war on or did so in spite of it. Jeb stomped ahead, the fear and uncertainty about the French girl eating at him mentally as his boots picked their own clumsy way through the undergrowth.
“Jeb, wait!” she cried and he realized that he had moved far ahead of her. Nimue ran with a satisfying grinding of leaves and touched his arm. He recoiled from her touch and the look of confusion that changed to pain in her eyes was unmistakable before she looked away.
It was like getting sucker punched in the gut Jeb thought. He hadn’t meant it. She should be dead. It wasn’t natural and yet he talked to the ghost of a man dead for almost a hundred years. What was wrong with him? He had found her exotic because of her differences at their first meeting and now he was acting like she was a leper. Jeb awkwardly staggered away trying desperately to apologize but his mouth failing him and Nimue rooted to the spot.
“He really didn’t mean it, m’am,” the ghostly general said as he appeared behind her and watched his young charge disappear into the woods “He still doesn’t know his life can never be normal ever again. You of all folk should know his fate.”
“Fate can change,” she protested halfheartedly.
General Stuart looked at her forlornly, “If only it were so, m’am. Ah’m asking you to not get involved. I agreed to help because this Eye endangers Alexander n’ the spirit world. Jeb is mortal as I once was. It’ll not end well for either of ya’ll if you persist.”
Nimue ran after Jeb, torn between worlds.
To be continued!