Two Graves

82

PENDERGAST WATCHED ALBAN RUN, AND HE UNDERSTOOD why. Alban’s own gift had allowed him to see far enough ahead to—in essence—defeat himself. His genetically enhanced ability to sense just far enough into the future to carry out the Hotel Killings with such success, to elude his father’s pursuit with ease, to kidnap his brother from the Riverside Drive redoubt, to survive and prevail in almost any imaginable confrontation—this gift had now turned against him. Knowledge of the future—even a brief, ten- or fifteen-second glimpse—turned out to be a double-edged sword with the keenest blade.

Meanwhile the standoff continued. Tensions were escalating to the breaking point: the defective twins were lined up on one side, furious, disorganized, raging; and on the other side was the Twins Brigade, lined up in disciplined ranks, silent but deeply rattled. And in the middle, the small cadre of Nazi officers who were only now realizing their dilemma as the two sets of twins, each about a hundred strong, faced each other in a standoff.

“Submit!” screamed Scheermann at the defectives. “Go back to your camp!” He pointed at Pendergast. “Take that man into custody!”

Tristram, at the front of the crowd, cried out: “Touch my father, and we attack!”

A murmur of assent. The Oberführer hesitated. Pendergast waited. And then he saw the moment had arrived.

Without warning he strode toward the lines of twin soldiers and seized one by the collar of his uniform, as a teacher might seize a truant schoolboy.

“Stop him!” screeched Scheermann, removing his own sidearm, but in the standoff he seemed paralyzed to act, obviously surprised by the sudden, unexpected flight of Alban. Pendergast ignored him and dragged the astonished, passive soldier across the gap while with his other arm he snatched one of the defectives—the soldier’s twin—by his ragged shirt, yanking him out, bringing the two men together.

“Meet your brother!” he cried at the soldier. “Your own brother!” He turned to the groups of twins facing each other. “All of you, right now—seek out your brothers and sisters! Your own flesh and blood!”

And he could see the eyes of the twins roving despite themselves, locking one after another on their opposites. There was a restless muttering, and the orderly lines of twin soldiers began to slacken, grow loose.

“That’s enough,” Scheermann said, raising his pistol toward Pendergast.

“Lower your pistol or we attack!” cried Tristram.

“You, attack? With hoes? You’ll be slaughtered,” Scheermann said contemptuously.

“Slaughter us—and there ends your grand experiment!”

Scheermann hesitated, his eyes darting along the line of ragged twins.

“These men—” Pendergast pointed at the Nazi minders—“they’re your real enemy. Dividing brother from brother, sister from sister. They’ve turned you all into guinea pigs. But not them. They haven’t participated. And they remain in charge. Why is that?”

The Oberführer’s pistol hand was shaking ever so slightly. The seething crowd moved toward him. “Fire and you die!” came a voice, and another.

“Go back to your brigade, soldier,” Scheermann said contemptuously.

The soldier did not move.

“Obey or face discipline!” Scheermann screamed, swiveling the pistol from Pendergast’s head to point at the soldier.

“Lower your weapon,” the soldier said slowly, “or we’ll kill you all.”

The commander’s face was white. After a moment, he dropped his arm.

“Step back.”

The Oberführer took a careful step back. Then another. Suddenly his arm flew up again, and he fired into the soldier’s chest. “Attack the weak twins!” Scheermann screamed to the Nazi minders. “Fire at will! Destroy them!”

A roar of anger and dismay rose from the twins on both sides of the battle lines. There was a moment of terrible stasis. And then it was as if a dam had burst. The disorderly crowd of twins rushed the Nazi officers, their crude weapons raised.

Scheermann backed up, firing into the crowd, but he was immediately mobbed by the crowd of defectives, surging forward at a roar. There was a fusillade of shots from the soldiers and their commanding officers as the battle was joined, hand-to-hand, the Nazi officers firing every which way into the crowd at point-blank range, causing a dreadful slaughter. All was confusion, a fearful firefight erupting in the open field, soldiers struggling with the ragged defectives, the roar of automatic weapons, the clang of shovel and scythe against rifle, the screams of the wounded coming out of the fury of dust and blood.

“Brothers and sisters!” Tristram’s voice rose up. “Don’t murder your own kin!”

Something was happening. Many of the Twins Brigade were breaking ranks, changing sides, some throwing down their weapons and embracing their siblings—others turning their weapons on their officers. But a small cadre of latest-iteration twins remained with the Nazi officers, defending them furiously.

The chaos began to resolve itself and two sides emerged, fighting each other. The small group of loyalist twin soldiers and their Nazi officers were now outgunned and being forced to retreat, slowly, firing all the while, exacting a huge toll. The rest of the Twins Brigade who had turned were fighting alongside the defectives, more organized now, mounting a stronger attack and putting an end to the initial slaughter. The Nazis fell back into the cover of the cornfield, pursued by the main body of reunited twins. The battle raged on in the cornfield and a fire soon started, the flames leaping out of the dry stalks, a pall of smoke blanketing the scene, creating still more confusion.

Pendergast relieved a dead soldier of his sidearm, knife, and flashlight and headed into the corn toward the fiercest nucleus of fighting, battering his way through shattered cornstalks and heavy columns of smoke, looking for Tristram. He could hear the boy’s voice in the thickest part of the action, calling, exhorting, urging his fellows forward—and it struck him to the core how much he had underestimated his son.

Now he circled fast around the Nazi officers and their rump of loyalist troops, retreating toward the lake. He swung around in a flanking maneuver and came up behind them, in their line of travel, crouching and waiting for them to come to him. As they did, Pendergast raised his gun, aimed at the Oberführer in the rear, as he anticipated, and brought him down with a single shot. He immediately came under heavy fire, the automatic weapons mowing down the corn around him; but the loss of their commander demoralized the retreating group, and after a moment of panic and confusion they broke and ran toward the lake, pursued by the others.

Continuing his one-man flanking maneuver, Pendergast moved eastward through the cornfields and into the forest. He bushwhacked his way to the top of the crater rim, where he stopped to reconnoiter. The retreating soldiers had arrived at the boats, and from his vantage point he could see what was happening: a group of them were hunkering down, making a stand while the rest loaded onto the vessels, scuttling the extras so they couldn’t be followed. Another furious fight broke out as the vanguard of the pursuers, led by Tristram, reached the shore. But the Nazis and their remaining twin allies managed to cast off their boats and speed away from shore, leaving behind half a dozen wrecked and burning vessels.

The gunfire fell off and finally ceased as the vessels headed away from land, smoke drifting across the scene. The Nazis had gotten away and were now headed back across the lake to the fortress—to make their final stand.