Red Devils

11

The motorcycle raced out of Bastogne. Wilkins held onto von Boeselager for dear life. The German struggled to stay focussed, such was the number of horrific sights they witnessed as they sped away from the town and out through the Belgian countryside. A Mark V Panther blocked the road and von Boeselager had to swerve around to avoid its stationary cannon. The tank was as dead as its crew. Just one soldier was moving. White suit, cold flesh… he reached out for the bike as it powered past but could only grab at the warm air it left in its wake.

The dead were somewhat fewer in number out here, though they were never far. Wilkins had naively hoped that because the town had been so heavily clogged by these despicable creatures, the countryside might be relatively clear. How wrong he’d been. Von Boeselager lost control of the bike when the front tyre sank into a pothole which had been hidden by snow, and despite his best efforts, he and Wilkins were sent skidding along the track. Von Boeselager immediately saw to the bike, leaving Wilkins to defend their position because a swarm was already nearing. He used his clasp knife to dispatch several of them until the German had righted the machine and was ready to leave. Wilkins, who was grappling with a particularly noxious foe, put a bullet between the dead man’s eyes then shoved the lifeless corpse away.

‘Behind you!’ von Boeselager shouted, and Wilkins span around to see another hideous cadaver coming at him at speed. The creature was close enough for its outstretched fingertips to brush Wilkins’ tunic. He kicked the monster away and ran for the bike.

‘Just go!’ he shouted, and as the bike began to move, Wilkins looked back over his shoulder, his heart thumping, at the place they’d just been. The dead were crawling out from between the trees in ever-increasing numbers. It was almost as if the forest was alive.

Mile after mile, Von Boeselager struggled to balance speed with safety. If anything, he drove too slowly, not wanting to risk losing control again. Last time they’d been lucky, but they both knew luck was in short supply these days.

A fork in the road.

To the right, the fighting at the front. To the left, everything else. Wilkins still gripped his pistol and wondered whether he’d need to use it or whether von Boeselager would continue to play ball. He was relieved when the German asked, ‘which way?’

‘By my reckoning I need to travel another two miles west.’

‘West? But that’s back towards the fighting.’

‘I know.’

Von Boeselager was distracted. More dead soldiers were approaching. Gnarled faces and twisted bodies. ‘We need to move.’

‘What’s your first name?’

‘What? Now is not the time for this.’

‘I don’t think I’ll see you again, old chap.’

‘Erwin. My name is Erwin.’

‘Pleased to have met you, Erwin. I’m Robert.’

‘And have you gone quite mad, Robert?’

‘Not at all, my friend. I just thought it was important for us to part as men, not soldiers.’

The dead were nearing.

‘You want to part here? We must keep moving.’

‘We need to go our separate ways. We both have important missions ahead of us. Yours is to return to your family and keep them safe. Mine, I’m afraid, is a little more onerous.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘And that’s probably for the best.’

Wilkins dismounted. Von Boeselager looked at him with incredulity. ‘What are you doing?’

‘My duty,’ Wilkins replied, and he stepped to one side and fired a single well-aimed shot which brought down the nearest corpse.

The sound of the motorcycle’s engine was like a call to the faithful. As they’d both expected, the periphery was alive with movement now.

‘Go,’ Wilkins said. ‘I’ll be fine from here. Thank you.’

Von Boeselager paused, clearly unsure. ‘Wait… before we part…’

‘What?’

‘The camp I told you about… the scientists responsible for this nightmare…’

‘What about them?’

‘One was Swedish, the other from the Vaterland.’

‘And?’

‘And I was told that the Swede realised the full implications of the work he was being ordered to do, and he rebelled. That’s why they continue to hold him in Polonezköy.’

‘And the German?’

‘I have already explained. He was taken back to Berlin to complete his work to create a super-soldier with the strength of the monsters we’ve seen, but with more control and consideration.’

‘That doesn’t bear thinking about,’ Wilkins said, and he broke away momentarily to take care of the next nearest cadaver.

‘The Swede was trying to develop something that would stop the condition from progressing…’

‘An inhibitor? That would make sense. It’s the only option, I guess. A cure would be out of the question. How can you cure something that’s already dead?’

‘Quite.’

‘It is not much but I have told you everything I know, I am afraid. Do you believe me?’

Wilkins thought for a moment. ‘I believe I do. We want the same thing, you and I.’

There were seven corpses closing in now. Several were moving with increased speed. Wilkins holstered his pistol.

‘Go,’ he said. ‘Get out of here. Get home and do what you need to do.’

‘But I cannot leave you out here like this…’

‘I’ll be fine. Now go! Find your family!’

And with that Wilkins turned and ran along the road that stretched deeper into the forest. Von Boeselager roared away in the opposite direction.

The dead were everywhere. He could sense them. Feel them. Fortunately, as he’d found previously, by slowing down and mimicking their often clumsy and ponderous movements, he was able temporarily to fool them into thinking he was just another of their number. Mostly. Through bad luck he rounded the broad trunk of an ancient Norwegian Spruce at the exact same time a disfigured Nazi corpse came the other way. The dead soldier’s reactions were guttural, his speed surprising but no match for Wilkins. By the time the creature had opened its jaws, yellowed teeth ready to clamp down and rip the British man’s flesh from his bones, Wilkins had already struck. He plunged the blade of his clasp knife into the dead man’s temple, and his artificially prolonged life was ended instantly. He fell to the ground with the grace of a sack of potatoes. Wilkins wiped his blade on his trousers then moved on.

He checked his map and compass again in the eerie half-light of the forest, taking care not to draw any more unwanted attention than was necessary. The sun was all but hidden behind a layer of impenetrable grey cloud which was, in turn, hidden by the tree canopy overhead. If his calculations were accurate and his bearings were right, he’d reach the road to Liege soon enough, and from there he’d head west to the village. He was moving in the right direction, he was sure he was, but it didn’t take much to ignite his nagging self-doubts today. Here he was, completely alone in a war-torn, foreign land, swarming with an unnatural enemy, with his sweetheart hundreds and hundreds of miles away and what felt like the weight of the world on his shoulders. Things couldn’t get much worse.

Or could they?

He froze when he heard more sounds of movement nearby. More corpses? The noise was initially directionless, confused by the dense mass of trees. The camouflage they provided was welcome, but the way they diffracted the light and sound was not. He pressed himself up against another trunk and peered around, trying to see without being seen, ready to repel the next vicious attack.

A Nazi patrol.

He could tell from the way they were moving that the figures up ahead were human. Constant noises were audible now over the soldiers’ bluster – the engines of several jeeps, weapons being readied, orders being shouted. From the little he could make out, these men seemed to be retreating back from the front. He tried to believe it was the allies forcing them back, but he knew it almost certainly wouldn’t be.

Wilkins held his position – uncomfortably close – and watched as the increasingly frenzied movement continued. He heard voices yelling. ‘Schnell, schnell! Holen sie sich das haubitze in Position!’

It looked like they were the remnants of one of the Volksartilleriekorps. Field reports Wilkins had heard had intimated that they’d proved to be ill-equipped and had been left behind as the German front had advanced as part of Hitler’s surprise offensive across the Ardennes.

‘Schnell! Die monster kommen!’

Wilkins couldn’t risk going backwards or forwards, and instead he went up. He swiftly hauled himself up into the branches of the first tree he found with boughs low enough and strong enough to support his weight. He hugged the trunk of a tired old oak for all he was worth. A distinctly British tree in unfamiliar surroundings. Memories of home gave him the slightest crumb of comfort. And in the same way this lone oak stood proud amongst the spruce, he quickly realised how his survival out here was due in no small part to the fact he was on his own. The old adage of there being safety in numbers usually held true, but not today.

From his precarious perch, Wilkins watched another bloody battle quickly unfold. The Nazis, he deduced, had indeed been retreating, for their actions appeared frantic and uncoordinated; not cold, ruthless and clinical as he’d come to expect from the enemy. The ragtag convoy moved through the forest, but then ground to a halt when a stormtrooper lookout spotted that they were running towards as many ghouls as they were running from. Caught out by the openness of this part of the wood, they had been all but surrounded and their noise was doing nothing to help hide their position.

The Germans began to dig in, ready for the inevitable.

Wilkins was distracted by the movement of more of the dead near the base of the tree in which he was hiding. They were moving in a pack, almost in formation, and for a moment his heart leapt. They were allied troops. Americans, by the looks of things. He felt a momentary surge of relief when he recognised their uniforms, then utter despair.

Dead.

All of them.

But still fighting.

There must have been almost thirty of them all told, maybe half as many again. They came towards the German position with a chilling lack of fear, advancing with almost arrogant slowness.

‘Feuer!’

A howitzer was fired into the advancing undead at close range. Wilkins tasted bile at the back of his throat as bodies were blown to pieces, a smoky haze of gore and dismembered limbs sent flying in all directions. Trees and fauna exploded outwards. A disembodied head landed in the leaf-litter and burst like an over-ripe melon. Wilkins gagged and forced himself to look up, not down.

He peered around the side of his tree – still standing, thankfully – and witnessed several members of the Volksartilleriekorps desperately trying to regroup and reload, but they were far too slow and far too late. They concentrated their fire on the dead coming at them from ahead, but there were twice as many more approaching from behind. The undead army surged through and left no survivors in their wake.

Several of the few remaining Germans began to run, scarpering in all directions. One of them, a young lad with an unruly mop of white-blond hair, tripped and fell over the roots of the tree in which Wilkins was hiding. He rolled onto his back and looked up. Sworn enemies caught sight of each other, but their uniformed distinctions were immediately forgotten. Wilkins felt genuinely sorry for the kraut. His face was streaked with tears. Wide-eyed and helpless, he didn’t look old enough to be fighting. ‘Hilf mir. Bitte . . .’

Before Wilkins could react, two dead Americans grabbed the boy and killed him with brutal savagery. The expressions on the dead soldiers’ faces chilled him to the core. No flicker of emotion. Relentless. Remorseless. One of them dug deep into the German’s exposed torso and pulled out a handful of steaming, bloody innards. The soldier was still alive as he was eviscerated. He screamed with pain as his insides were emptied out like streamers.

The all-conquering wave of dead figures continued through the forest, heading after the handful of Nazis who’d somehow managed to evade them. Wilkins held his breath so as not to make the slightest sound, and prayed they’d pass him by unnoticed.

It was more than an hour before the last of the undead had disappeared from view.

Wilkins crept through the forest as quickly as he dared, balancing speed with the need to stay alive. The dead seemed to always be close: he’d evade one cluster, only to find himself heading straight for another. He was desperate to reach Liege, but still wasn’t completely sure that he was heading in the right direction. The longer he was out here, the more his cancerous self-doubt grew. He was tired, living on his nerves… and now the already dull light in this heavily forested area was beginning to fade.

And then, finally, after hours alone, he saw it. An inconspicuous-looking cottage. Isolated. Unkempt and shabby. Its dilapidation was hidden by a light covering of snow which was continuing to fall. He checked over his shoulder, conscious that his footprints were visible and would lead straight to him. He walked on for a short while longer then doubled-back on himself in a half-hearted attempt to throw anyone who was following him off-guard.

Back at the front of the cottage again now, he knocked the door. She took a long time to answer. Too long. He thought she’d gone and cleared out and that he’d be stuck out here tonight with just the dead for company. She eventually opened the door and scowled at him, the yellow light from her oil lamp making her appear haggard, even older than her clearly advanced years. She screwed up her face to get a better look at him. ‘Quelle?’

‘Madam Van Pruisen?’

‘Quelle?’ she barked at him again.

‘Savez-vous à quelle heure le départ du train du village voisin?’

His French pronunciation was less than perfect, but it was adequate. Wilkins didn’t care what time the train was leaving. Heck, he didn’t even know if there was a train here at all. He wasn’t interested in the next village, and Madam Van Pruisen knew it. At his mention of the designated phrase she roughly grabbed the collar of his tunic and pulled him inside, checking the road in either direction – both for the living and the dead – then shut and bolted the door behind him.

‘Merci madame,’ he started to say, but she wasn’t interested.

‘Il est sous le lit dan la chambre à l’étage. Être rapide. Vous risquez de ma vie en étant ici.’

‘Oui.’

‘Vive le résistance,’ she mumbled, almost sarcastically.

He climbed the creaking staircase she pushed him towards. His translation of her words might not have been expert, but the intent of what she’d said was clear. Madam Van Pruisen was in collusion with British Intelligence, and for that he was eternally grateful. The risks she took were equal to, if not greater than, his own. He knew exactly what Jerry would do to her if they found him here.

Wilkins found the radio exactly where she said it would be, and did what he had to do.

Within minutes he was back out in the freezing cold, exposed and vulnerable again. But it didn’t matter. He knew that soon, God willing, he’d be on his way back to Blighty.