Red Devils

9

Escobedo had hoped that the night might have brought some relief. He’d thought the setting of the sun and the plunging of the outside world into darkness would render the undead masses all but invisible. Out of sight, he’d thought, and out of mind. But nothing could have been further from the truth. Though he’d initially been glad to lose sight of the sea of evil, twisted faces below, now it was what he couldn’t see that scared him more. Where were they? Had they managed to get into the building? Was that really Gunderson lying next to him, or one of them? His mind was playing tricks. Cruel and vicious tricks.

They’d stripped some timber from the walls and put a blockade across the open window frame as best they could, and that allowed them to light a small fire in the darkest corner of the rubble-filled room in which they continued to shelter. The already low temperature had plummeted like a stone. The wind cut through them like knives. Worst of all, there was no respite from the noise. It travelled unopposed through the vacuum which was the centre of Bastogne: the relentless muffled thumps and crashes of their colleagues at the front doing all they could to defend themselves and the locals against the undead hordes.

Earlier, Wilkins had crept down to a lower floor with Lieutenant Parker to try and better assess their situation. It hadn’t taken long. ‘That’s us screwed,’ had been the lieutenant’s brief but succinct assessment, and Wilkins had been hard pushed not to completely agree.

The dead still filled the square outside. Whereas earlier there had been some room for manoeuvre, now the sheer mass of them converging on this central point had begun to cause real problems. With the rest of Bastogne so desolate, they continued to be drawn to this place and now there were too many coming in for any to get out. Occasional flashes of light from distant exploding munitions revealed the full extent of the horrific scene. It reminded Wilkins of the vast crowds of revellers he’d seen in Trafalgar Square back home in London, the last New Year’s Eve before the war. It chilled him to the bone to imagine this vile infection crossing the channel and spreading amongst his fellow countrymen. Being an island had frequently been to the United Kingdom’s advantage. Should the Nazi germ reach British shores, however, he knew his country’s geography would become a curse. Millions of diseased people trapped in a relatively confined space, transmitting the scourge to millions more until none were left untainted. It didn’t bear thinking about. ‘We have to do absolutely everything in our power to stop this awful disease from spreading,’ he’d whispered to Lieutenant Parker.

‘You ain’t wrong,’ Parker had replied without hesitation. ‘But how can any of us expect to make a difference, man? There are thousands of these damn monsters already, and if the things you and the kraut were saying earlier are true, then it ain’t gonna be long before thousands become hundreds of thousands… then millions.’

‘I know, but we have to remain positive, don’t we? We have to believe we can make a difference. Each one of us.’

‘Granted, but if you believe you alone can change the direction of something like this, then I reckon you must have your head firmly wedged up your ass. No offence.’

‘None taken, Lieutenant,’ Wilkins said wryly, resolutely polite. ‘But you have to remember, it’s likely that one man started this whole nightmare, and I’ll wager our German friend upstairs could name a particular individual who has had the most dramatic effect on world events recently, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘You talkin’ about Adolf?’

‘The one and only, thank goodness.’

The two men crept back inside and began to climb. ‘I reckon we just hunker down here ’til something happens to distract them, don’t you?’

‘I think you’re probably right. Our choices are frustratingly limited this evening.’

They soon reached the top floor, and found everyone just as they’d left them. Sitting around waiting like this didn’t sit well with any soldier, irrespective of rank or side. Henri Mercel, in contrast, seemed content to do as little as possible. He’d barely spoken. Barely even moved in an age. ‘What d’you reckon to that one?’ Parker asked, gesturing at the overweight Belgian. He was slumped in the corner of the room, occasionally moaning and licking his lips, swallowing hard. ‘Looks like he’s coming down with something.’

‘We should keep an eye on him,’ Wilkins suggested.

‘We should ditch him. Seems to me he’s a dead weight. We’ll have more than enough to do when we get out of this place. Don’t need a no-good nobody like him slowing us down.’

Rations were pooled. Food was distributed.

The night was long and largely without rest. Wilkins and the Americans took turns watching von Boeselager and Mercel as well as keeping an eye on what was happening outside.

The first light of day was nervously beginning to creep over the shattered landscape of Bastogne when all hell broke loose on the top floor of the dilapidated building.

Henri Mercel groaned in pain. His skin was clammy, blanched white, and he was sweating profusely.

His breathing became shallow and laboured.

Then stopped.

‘He dead?’ Gunderson asked with his now customary lack of tact, and he prodded his belly with the barrel of his rifle.

All awake now, all watching intently. The group of soldiers became hushed. The silence was almost reverent.

Escobedo was about to get closer to the obese Belgian to check for a pulse, when Mercel opened his eyes wide and lunged at him. Escobedo instinctively grabbed the civilian’s shoulders and locked his elbows to keep him at a distance, but he lost his balance and was forced down onto his back. The weight of the writhing Belgian was hard to support, but he knew he couldn’t allow his snapping jaws anywhere near him. Blood-tinged drool spilled freely from his mouth, soaking and staining Escobedo’s already grubby kit. ‘Get this crazy bastard off me!’ he hissed.

Von Boeselager obliged. He grabbed Mercel’s shoulders and slammed him over onto his back, leaving Escobedo free to roll away. Mercel’s gross size was an advantage to the soldiers; he was like a turtle on its shell, struggling to right his considerable bulk, thrashing his dumpy arms and legs. In the sudden melee, the madness of movement in the half-light of dawn, von Boeselager picked up a pistol that Escobedo had dropped, held it against Mercel’s forehead, and fired.

‘You must destroy the brain. It’s the only way to be certain.’

‘Thank you,’ Lieutenant Parker said. He held his hand out and von Boeselager gave up the pistol. Parker gestured for him to move. ‘Back over there. Keep an eye on him, Gunderson.’

Both the German and Gunderson did as ordered.

Wilkins and Coley studied the Belgian’s chubby corpse for a few moments longer. Wilkins reached out to touch the dead man’s face, but stopped when von Boeselager called out. ‘No! Please, do not touch it. The germ is easily transmitted.’

Wilkins nodded appreciatively and then dragged the bulky body by its feet to the open window. The lighting was slightly better there. He cautiously peeled back the dead man’s trouser leg to reveal a gangrenous wound near his left ankle. There were uniform, semi-circular marks around the tear in his flesh. ‘Bugger me, this selfish sod had been bitten. Look! He came up here knowing full well he was already infected.’

‘Get rid of him then, Lieutenant,’ Lieutenant Coley said, and Wilkins obliged. He lifted Mercel’s feet and flipped him out over the ledge. He watched him complete almost a full somersault before landing on his back in the crowd below with a nauseating thud.

Lieutenant Parker stared at von Boeselager. ‘I still reckon he knows more than he’s letting on.’

Von Boeselager remained silent. Tight-lipped. No eye contact. Staring straight ahead.

‘We should beat it out of him,’ Gunderson said.

No flicker of emotion from the Nazi.

‘Let’s not,’ Wilkins suggested.

‘You a sympathiser all of a sudden, ’cause he stepped up just now?’ Parker asked, a surprising amount of venom in his voice.

‘No, Lieutenant, I’m most definitely not.’

‘What then?’

‘It’s clear Mr von Boeselager here wants to get out of Bastogne as much as the rest of us. We can use that to our advantage.’

‘How so?’

‘He can create a diversion and draw the dead away, allowing you good folks to leave in the opposite direction.’

‘What makes you think he’ll play ball?’ Escobedo asked.

‘I was about to ask the same question,’ von Boeselager said.

‘Because I’ll go with him.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. Von Boeselager and I will leave here and make enough noise to distract the dead. It makes sense if you think about it… he’s certainly helped you Lieutenant Coley, and both Mr Escobedo and I were very grateful for his interjection just now. Surely he deserves better than to be frog-marched off to a POW camp?’

‘You want to let a kraut walk free?’ Gunderson said, not quite able to believe what he was hearing.

‘No, I want to use him to let you gents walk free. How does that sound?’

‘Sounds like a dumbass plan to me, sir.’

‘Gotta admit, it doesn’t sound like the best of deals,’ Coley agreed.

‘What’s happened here has changed everything,’ Wilkins said. ‘The battle lines have been re-drawn. Our priorities have changed, both as soldiers and as men. As husbands, fathers, brothers…’

Von Boeselager took them all by surprise. ‘I will do it,’ he announced suddenly. ‘My commanding officers, they do not understand what they have done. The Fuhrer regards what is happening here as another step towards victory. He cannot see what he has unleashed.’

‘You can’t make deals with a kraut,’ Parker warned. ‘He’ll double-cross us.’

‘Not us,’ Wilkins corrected him. ‘Me. I’m not asking you to take any chances.’

‘Why would I double-cross anyone?’ von Boeselager asked. ‘You men are from the United States, thousands of miles from here. Lieutenant Wilkins, your home is safe from this disease for the moment. My family, however, is close. My wife and daughter are in Mannheim. If, as Lieutenant Wilkins and I both believe, the power and reach of the undead will continue to increase, then my family will inevitably soon pay the ultimate price. We are trained soldiers, they are not. Gertrud is barely four years old. If men like us cannot beat these creatures, what hope is there for my little girl?’

He stopped talking momentarily, his eyes damp with tears, and looked around at the faces which watched him intently.

‘Yeah, I got a kid too,’ Escobedo said. ‘Name’s Joey. About the same age as your kid by the sounds of things. Cuts me up not knowing where he is or even if he’s safe.’

Lieutenant Coley moved closer to the German and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘I trust this guy,’ he announced. He looked straight at him. ‘Talk, Erwin. If you know anything you haven’t told us yet, talk.’

Von Boeselager took a deep breath. ‘The serum was created by scientists at the Polonezköy camp in Poland. Their brief was to create an unstoppable super-soldier, but they were only partially successful. There were two strands to their research, as I understand: prolonging life and increasing strength and ferocity. As you can see from the crowd outside this building, they succeeded to an extent, but at the expense of control.’

‘You’re not telling us nothing we don’t already know,’ Lieutenant Parker said.

Von Boeselager ignored him. ‘With the surprise attack in this region already being planned, our leaders ignored the scientists’ concerns and deployed the serum in its current unstable form while their research continued. In fact, I understand that one of the scientist’s reservations resulted in him being removed from the project altogether. He is being held at the concentration camp.’

‘What reservations did he express?’ Wilkins asked.

‘The contagious aspect of the condition. He warned that it would inevitably get out of control if the infection was released into the wild.’

‘And it has.’

‘That has certainly proved to be the case.’

‘Wait, wait, wait…’ Gunderson interrupted. ‘Let’s slow down a second here. This guy’s doing a heck of a lot of talking, but he ain’t saying much. You’re making it sound like there’s nothing can be done about this whole damn mess you’ve made, Fritz.’

‘I didn’t say that. There is…’

Von Boeselager stopped himself.

‘What?’ Parker said, aiming a pistol directly into the German’s face.

‘I’ve said enough.’

Parker was ready to fire. Wilkins positioned himself between the two of them. ‘Wait.’

‘He’s stringing us along…’

‘I don’t believe so. Herr von Boeselager is a clever man.’

‘We should feed him to the dead,’ Gunderson suggested.

‘And what would that achieve exactly? No, gentlemen, our German friend is giving us a master-class in negotiation. His knowledge is his bargaining chip.’

‘If he even has any knowledge. Who says he ain’t just stringing us along?’

‘That’s a chance I have to take.’

‘Lieutenant Wilkins is right. If I told you everything I know now, there would be no reason for you to keep me alive.’

‘I can’t see there’s much reason to do that anyway,’ Gunderson said.

‘I just want to get out of here and go home,’ von Boeselager said. ‘I want to get back to my family and see them before it is too late.’

‘And if we agree and you and I leave here today?’ Wilkins asked.

‘Then I’ll tell you everything I know. I swear.’