by Jaxon Reed
“I couldn’t figure out how to stop it any faster.”
He carefully picked through the shattered glass on the destroyed clock, and bent the minute hand back so it wouldn’t accidentally touch the detonator rod.
Angela said. “Good idea. I didn’t think of that.”
Rick chuckled and said, “Honestly, I would have shot it up, too.”
They heard a commotion down the hall and MacGraw stepped into the alcove, followed by several other Texans in tuxedos and ball gowns. Everybody carried revolvers like Angela’s.
MacGraw stopped and took in the dead German guard along with all the dynamite lined up along the walls.
“What in tarnation? And good gravy, boy! How many times were you shot? You need a doctor, pronto!”
“I’m alright,” Rick said. “But that bomb is still armed. Angela disabled the clock, but somebody who knows their way around explosives needs to look at it and defuse the thing.”
“Horton! Git over here, boy! You know your way around ordnance.”
One of the men, a young swarthy fellow with dark hair, tucked his gun in a jacket holster and made his way to the console.
MacGraw said, “Everybody else, let’s go back upstairs. The party’s over as far as I’m concerned.”
In the distance, a siren wailed. Slow and low at first, it picked up speed and volume.
Angela said, “What is that?”
Rick said, “An air raid siren. If I had to guess, I’d say the Blitz is starting.”
8
Blam!
“That’s six,” Jason said to himself as another zombie collapsed. He turned and kicked one rushing him, hard in the chest. He swung open the revolver’s cylinder and ejected the shells. He shoved fresh bullets in the chambers, snapped the cylinder shut with a flick of his wrist, and cocked the gun again just as the zombie recovered and lumbered toward him again.
Blam!
He turned to see what else he could shoot. All around the campsite zombies lay still, reduced to fetid mounds of rotting flesh with arrows and gunshot wounds in their heads. Several living Indians held bowstrings taught, arrows ready, also looking for something to shoot.
Little Fox turned toward Jason and lowered his bow. He gave a tentative smile, then his smile faltered as his eyes shifted behind Jason.
Jason turned just in time to see a fallen zombie, arrows sticking out of its neck and chin, reach out for the back of Jason’s shirt.
Kerpow!
Its head popped open like a rotten melon, splattering Jason’s legs with old blood and bits of brain. Jason looked up and saw Eli with the rifle some distance away on higher ground. Eli waved at him. Jason gave him a thumbs up sign.
The Indians, led by Little Fox, gathered around Jason. Everybody turned toward the medicine man’s wigwam on the edge of the campsite.
Jason cocked the revolver and pulled out his iron knife.
He nodded at Little Fox and said, “Call him out. Tell your men to be prepared. He won’t go down as easily as the dead ones.”
Little Fox nodded, and began rattling off orders. The men dispersed, taking positions in a wide arc around the wigwam. A couple of them circled to take up positions covering the back, on either side.
When they were ready, Little Fox nodded at Jason then lifted up his voice and called for the medicine man to come out and face them.
At first, nothing happened. A slight breeze caused the leather flap covering the wigwam’s entrance to rustle slightly, but nothing indicated a presence inside.
Little Fox repeated his challenge, this time adding a lengthy diatribe that grew notably sharper in tone.
When he finished he smiled apologetically at Jason and said, “I insulted his ancestors. And his mother.”
Jason shrugged. “Whatever works.”
Someone inside screamed, a loud guttural roar, and Broken Hand burst through the flap.
Jason’s split second impression was one of an old man who hadn’t bathed in weeks. Wild, unkempt hair above an equally rough beard, stained leather tunic and breeches, with one milky eye roving in rage at the men surrounding him.
Worse, the smell of death emanated from him, enhanced by the recently opened flap. It spread out in a noxious cloud, mixing with the decaying corpses on the ground and smothering everyone’s senses.
Broken Hand mumbled an incantation, and gripped his forearm above the golden bracelet. A band of golden light burst in a circle around his arm just as Jason shot him in the head. The twang of several bowstrings snapped simultaneously.
Broken Hand collapsed, falling backward with arrows in his face, neck, and chest. The circle of golden light died with him.
Jason approached the body, keeping his eyes on the bracelet. He cautiously poked Broken Hand’s forearm with the iron blade, twisting it over so he could see the bottom of the trinket. It appeared to be about two inches thick, with stubby knobs surrounding the bracelet’s outer layer. It connected seamlessly in one solid circle to Broken Hand’s wrist, even in death.
“It is an evil thing,” Little Fox said from behind him.
Jason silently agreed. Out loud he said, “Do you have a tomahawk?”
Little Fox nodded. He handed over the deadly ax, handle first. Jason took it and swung down hard on the medicine man’s forearm. In half a dozen hacks he cut through the bone, separating the lower arm from Broken Hand’s body. Then he held the hand down with the tomahawk and pulled the bracelet off with the point of the iron knife. Careful not to touch it, he picked it up with the blade and dropped it in a leather pouch.
“Will you destroy it?” Little Fox said.
“It cannot be destroyed. But, I will take it someplace where it will do this world no more harm.”
Little Fox nodded, satisfied with the answer.
The Walker straightened and said, “Tell your men to leave their arrows. Do not reuse them.”
-+-
No amount of persuasion could keep the Marines from aiming their rifles at the swirling mass of black light once again floating in the room. Shortly after it reappeared, the usual crowd of guards surrounded the odd phenomenon. They kept their weapons steadfastly trained on it.
Smitty gave up trying to convince them otherwise. Instead, he called for another clipboard and some paper. Taking out a fountain pen from the collection of writing instruments on his pocket protector, he wrote a simple message: “Who are you? Where are you? What do you want?”
He walked as close to the swirling black mass as he dared and flung the clipboard through, as if it were a discus. As expected, it disappeared.
Smitty walked back to the Marines and smiled at the corporal.
The corporal said, “Now what?”
“Now, we wait and see if we get a response.”
The Marines seemed to visibly relax at the suggestion of waiting. Some even lowered their muzzles, aiming at the floor. Smitty stretched, turned and began looking for a chair he could drag into the area.
The clipboard came flying through the breach and hit him in the back. He screamed and jumped straight up in the air.
The Marines tried their best to choke down laughter, but with little success. Red-faced at his outburst and the stifled chuckles, Smitty reached down to the floor and retrieved his clipboard.
He stood up and turned it over. Underneath his words, someone else had written, “I’m a friend of Cait’s. Coming soon.”
-+-
The steady drone of propellers filtered into the basement as German planes soared overhead. Distant explosions thundered as bombs fell throughout London.
“This is a sneak attack!”
Fury engulfed Ambassador MacGraw. His face turned blood red, and a vein in his forehead seemed ready to pop.
Rick nodded, but he responded in even, measured tones in an attempt to calm the man down.
“No doubt this raid is meant to cover the bombing of the embassy.”
Angela said, “Why would they need a cover for that?”
Rick said, �
�If the Germans blow up the city’s diplomatic corps with TNT packed into the basement, they have an international incident on their hands. But if Hitler has declared war against Britain, which I bet he has a few hours ago and we haven’t heard about it yet, then bombing London is acceptable. And if the German embassy were hit ‘by accident’ during the air raid, killing those inside, it’s a regrettable thing occurring during the fog of war. Either way the problem is resolved, but one is far more diplomatically acceptable.”
Angela’s eyebrows shot up. She turned to MacGraw and said, “He’s right. We need to preserve this as evidence.”
Rick said, “One thing you can do is make sure everybody upstairs sees it. They’re not going anywhere during an air raid anyway. That’s what Eisenhower did on our world during the occupation of Germany. He had as many allied troops as possible tour the Nazi death camps. Having more eyewitnesses means a greater chance the truth prevails.”
Angela said, “‘Death camps?’”
Rick said, “Told you I hate Nazis. Totalitarianism, by whatever name it chooses to call itself, always leads to oppression.”
MacGraw rubbed his chin, thinking while staring at the floor. His face slowly returned to its normal color. He looked up and said, “Ah think you’re right. Ah hate to keep them around the dynamite down here, but the alternative . . .” A bomb exploded closer than the others, shaking the mansion slightly.
“The alternative is even less desirable,” Angela said, completing his thought.
MacGraw turned to his group of people and pointed at three of them. “You, you, and you. Stay here with Agent Dorn and Mr. Strickland. If you see a Nazi, feel free to shoot him. Protect the dynamite and don’t let anyone get close to the firing mechanism. Even though it’s broken, they might find a way to rig it. The rest of you, come with me and let’s shepherd everyone who is upstairs down here. They’re more likely to listen to an ambassador, so Ah’ll go with you.”
Minutes later, many of the diplomats walked into the room. Several had already headed for the basement when the sirens went off and the first bombs dropped, so guiding them to the storage area under the great room’s floor proved an easy task.
Invariably, upon entering and seeing the boxes marked “TNT” stacked against the walls, each person either gasped in surprise or cursed in their native language. The breadth of the Nazi’s deception, and what it would have meant for them personally had it been successful, instantly became obvious to all.
Meanwhile bombs continued dropping, some of them closer than others. Another one struck nearby, the sound of its muffled explosion reverberating through the basement. Dust sprinkled down on people and dynamite. Somebody jumped and conversation ground to a halt as party guests stared uneasily at one another.
“Don’t worry,” Rick said to everyone. “They’re not very accurate. Plus, it’s dark and I seriously doubt they have much experience with nighttime bombing runs.”
MacGraw nodded at the logic of the statement. He said, “And if this place is built like ours, the basement should provide good cover, even for a direct hit. That’s why they planted all these explosives here. They wanted to be sure and take us out.”
Men and women from several countries nodded in angry agreement, their Halloween masks either discarded or pushed high up on their heads. They stood together in nervous clumps, glancing at the boxes of dynamite and the trembling ceiling rafters with worried expressions.
Finally the sounds of bombs and the drone of airplane engines faded. The warning sirens stopped, replaced by those of fire trucks.
“Ah think that’s the all clear,” MacGraw said. “Let’s return to our embassies and notify our respective home offices about the situation.”
A general murmur of assent rippled through the crowd. MacGraw directed several of his people to take the lead and keep an eye out for any Nazis. Slowly the crowd filtered out of the room and back down the corridor toward the stairwell. Upstairs, in a daze, people made their way through the front door. No servants or guards or German diplomats were anywhere to be seen.
Outside fires lit up the nighttime sky, casting eerie orange and red reflections on low-hanging clouds. Embassy Row had been largely spared. The bombs that landed close by missed buildings, tearing up streets and groundworks instead.
The diplomats assembled in front of the mansion, looking for their cars and drivers and taking in the flickering night sky.
Movement stirred on the far side of the embassy grounds. A collective gasp went up from the crowd as two dozen Nazi guards approached with their Mausers pointed chest-high.
One gray-haired diplomat stepped out from the crowd. Judging by his accent, Rick decided he was French.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Kerpow!
He collapsed to the ground, a red splotch growing on his chest. Several people screamed. Some bunched together in collective fear while others ducked behind parked cars.
Ribbentrop stepped out from among the guards, holding one restraining hand up for his men and a smoking Luger in the other. He cast a contemptuous glance at the fallen diplomat.
“We’ll accept your country’s surrender later, Ambassador Corbin. For the rest of you, I must admit I’m surprised to see you out here.”
“We’re on to your tricks, Ribbentrop!”
MacGraw shouldered his way to the front of the crowd, followed by all the Texans who aimed their guns back at the Nazis. The guards shifted their Mausers to cover them.
An evil grin crossed Ribbentrop’s face. “Ambassador MacGraw. I should have known the Texans would try and spoil our fun. No matter. My men will finish the job here.”
“You’ll be the first to be shot, Ribbentrop.”
Without taking his eyes off the corpulent Nazi, MacGraw made a motion with his head. All the OSS agents shifted their aim toward Ribbentrop.
The Nazi smirked. He said, “You really think you can stop me with those pathetic revolvers?”
“Ah’m willing to give it a try.”
“Actually, he’s right.” Rick pushed his way to the front and stood next to MacGraw.
He said, “Herr Ribbentrop here is fae. Lead bullets won’t hurt him much. But iron . . .”
Rick made quick snapping motions with both arms and sharp rods shot out from the sleeves of his tux.
He grabbed them in either hand and said, “Iron will hurt him. A lot.”
Ribbentrop’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the spikes. He said to the guards, “Shoot that one first.”
All the Mausers shifted again, this time pointing at Rick.
Now Rick smirked. He said, “Lead’s not going to stop me, either, fae. Nothing will.”
Time seemed to freeze as the two groups faced off. Fire trucks and ambulances wailed throughout the city as the skylight flickered with flames. Smoke and the smell of burning buildings drifted over both groups. Rick and Ribbentrop stared at one another without blinking.
WHUMPF!
A black swirling mass appeared to one side between the two groups, pulling everyone’s attention to it. Refracted dark light spun off as it twirled, with curls of smoke and nothingness flashing like a blacklight sparkler.
Within seconds it firmed up into a large square shape, about ten feet tall and almost as wide. As everybody watched, the blackness gave way to daylight and the swirling stopped. Through the square, a blast of thin mountain air flowed through, chasing away the nighttime smoke and mist.
Slowly, carefully, a cowboy rode out from the square, gently coaxing his horse in calm, reassuring tones. A younger cowboy, who seemed quite awed by the whole experience, followed him.
The first cowboy stopped and looked at everyone. He glanced at the Nazis to his left and the diplomats to his right, noting everyone’s guns. His eyes lit up when they met Rick’s.
He said, “Why hello, Rick! Fancy meeting you here.”
“Jason. Good to see you again.”
The Walker smiled at everybody. The diplomats looked back at him with var
ying degrees of incredulity. He noticed Angela standing next to Rick and he tipped his hat to her.
He glanced over at the Germans with their Mauser rifles, then back to the diplomats. He again took note of the Texans with their revolvers.
Jason said, “Looks like we’ve got a Mexican standoff. Only, with Nazis.”
Rick said, “Yeah. We’re a little bit outnumbered. The fat one in charge over there is a fae.”
“Hmm. Well, I might be able to even the odds a bit.”
Jason whistled and an Indian poked his head out the large square doorway. He looked surprised to see the Nazis and everybody else. He pulled back to the daylight side, disappearing for a moment. When he came out again, he had an arrow nocked in his bow, and 20 more Indians, also carrying bows ready to shoot, followed him.
He walked up to Jason, nodded toward the Nazis and said, “Are they bad men?”
“Yes, Little Fox,” Jason said. “They are very bad men.”
Little Fox nodded and shouted out a command. All of the Indians turned and pulled their bowstrings tight, pointing them at the German side.
Together they said, “Aim for the head!”
The sight of these additional forces, appearing out of an apparently magical doorway, unnerved the Germans and bolstered the diplomats.
Rick heard somebody speaking from the back of the allied crowd in a British accent. They said, “By George! I don’t how the Texans do it! But I always want them on our side in a scrap!”
Jason dismounted, slowly. Some of the Mausers shifted, aiming toward him as the line of Nazi guards grew increasingly nervous. The younger cowboy followed the Walker’s lead, casually slipping a lever action rifle out of a saddle holster as he came down.
Free to wander about on their own, the horses snorted uneasily, then slowly walked out of the line of fire. They headed for grass on the other side of the embassy lawn.
Jason pulled a six-shooter out of his holster, tipped back his cowboy hat and said, “Okay, Rick, here’s the plan. You and I will rush them and draw their fire. Little Fox’s men and your people with the snub nose revolvers will kill the Nazis. When they’re out of the way, we take on fat boy over there.”