The Hunt

39

As Kammler stepped out of the lab’s front entrance, he caught sight of an arresting scene. To one side of the building a diminutive figure had been lashed to a post. A giant of a man pivoted this way and that, administering a punishment beating.

Even from a distance Kammler could hear the distinctive crunch as a blow from a massive fist shattered bone, though the victim was tightly gagged and thus unable to scream. Kammler smiled his approval. He didn’t want any cries of agony to unsettle the professor and his team. To disturb their vital work. But at the same time, he wanted the beatings carried out in public as a warning to any who might consider stepping out of line.

The facility was basically a prison camp. No one got in or out without Kammler’s say-so. And for those local workers – Korean or Chinese – who did try to escape, there had to be consequences. A deterrent.

There was none better than Steve Jones.

Kammler watched as the tattooed bulk of the man danced on his feet and hammered home the blows. To Jones, violence was an art form. Brutality a religion. No beating was the same, or so it seemed to Kammler. Jones used each as a chance to experiment with another technique designed to deliver maximum pain and damage.

He was breathing hard and pouring with sweat. But what struck Kammler most was the man’s obvious enjoyment of what he was doing. No doubt about it, Jones was an animal, which made him the ideal enforcer. He never seemed happier than when doing as he was now – beating the living daylights out of a woman.

Amongst the Chinese they had enslaved here were several dozen women, kept for menial cooking and cleaning duties. One of them had clearly stepped out of line. A group of local workers was being forced to watch the savage punishment. That way, Kammler was confident that word would quickly spread.

Jones came to a halt and wiped sweat from his forehead. The bound figure slumped from the post, more dead than alive. Kammler nodded his approval.

No doubt about it, Steve Jones’s methods were crude but effective.

He strolled past the scene. He didn’t feel the slightest sympathy for the victim or the watchers. Non-Aryans, they were subhumans as far as he was concerned. Racially and intellectually his inferiors. Fit only to be workers and slaves. The sheer audacity of any who might object or resist took his breath away.

‘Well done,’ he remarked, as Jones stepped back from his bloodied handiwork. ‘Nothing quite like it pour décourager les autres.’

‘What?’ Jones scowled. ‘That French? I don’t do French. As a rule. Bunch of cheese-eating surrender monkeys in my book.’

‘To discourage the others,’ Kammler translated. ‘I was commenting on what a fine example you’ve set.’ He nodded in the direction of the workers, dressed in stained and ragged overalls. His lip curled. ‘For them. The scum. The expendables.’

Jones shrugged. ‘Plenty more where they came from. A billion of the fuckers, or so I’m told.’

Kammler gave a thin smile. Though he heartily approved of the sentiments, Jones’s way of expressing himself was hardly refined. Yet what should he expect of an Englishman?

‘There will be a few billion less after we’re finished,’ Kammler remarked. He couldn’t resist the quip. ‘Something to look forward to other than your next punishment beating. I have a fancy Kangjon is going to need similar treatment fairly soon…’

Jones nodded darkly. ‘Can’t wait.’

Kammler walked on, making for his quarters. There he would have the benefit of an altogether different kind of companion from Steve Jones. One who was intellectual. Educated. Cultured. As convinced as he was that the world could only be saved if the vast majority of humankind were to be exterminated.

He strode into his study. ‘My dear, I have good and bad news. Which would you prefer first?’

‘The bad,’ a female voice answered from an adjoining room.

‘The power-station busters – they need to be forty-kilo devices to achieve our goal.’

‘And the good?’

‘I think we have enough raw material. In fact, I’m sure we do.’

‘So where does that leave us?’

‘In a nutshell, in pretty good shape. We’ll need a little luck on our side, but when did good fortune ever desert the faithful, the constant, the brave?’

‘So we cull the human population to something a little more sustainable?’

‘We do. We remove a plague from the earth. And not a moment too soon in my book.’

‘And my family? Or at least those I still care for. What about them?’

‘You’ll have plenty of warning, as will we all. We’ll get our loved ones – the chosen – to safety.’

‘I have your word on that?’

‘You have my word.’ Kammler paused. ‘Now, Falkenhagen. Tell me again what you learnt about its defences.’